The Zombie Stone

by K. G. Campbell

  * * *

  * * *

  If previously it had felt to August that the entire nation was filling up the streets of Croissant City, it now seemed as if the entire population of the world had arrived there. Even a couple of days in the bustling Old Quarter had not prepared him for the deafening, overwhelming press of people that had gathered for the Carnival Grand Parade.

  Champagne Fontaine, however, seemed entirely undaunted, and barreled through the dense, boisterous mob like an Arctic icebreaker.

  August desperately propelled the zombies in the wake of the woman’s robust frame.

  “No entry!” protested a police officer. “This is the staging area.”

  “Champagne Fontaine,” responded Champagne. “Primary sponsor of the Weepy Widows’ float!” She barged past the woman and ushered August, the zombies, and her fellow weepy widows through an opening in the steel barricades.

  Here the crowd thinned out, and August discovered himself on an avenue far wider than the cramped thoroughfares of the Old Quarter and lined by stately palm trees and grand old buildings: department stores, hotels, movie theaters. Shining tracks ran down the center of the street, but the scarlet streetcars that they guided sat silent and still, retired for the duration of the parade.

  August ogled openmouthed as Champagne bustled the group down a line of Carnival floats, each more elaborate than the last. The giant head of a jester—the size of a candy store—protruded from a cloud of balloons and flowers. An enormous golden crown was suspended over two velvet thrones in which sat the king and queen of Carnival, robed in white feathers. A girl dressed like a shrimp danced to pop music in the open jaws of a forty-foot alligator, its translucent silver hide lit with neon bulbs from within.

  The only indication that these towering, fantastical creations were in fact designed for transit lay in the chunky tires peeking from beneath foil fringing near the asphalt, and in the pervasive vibrato of idling engines.

  “Here we are,” announced Champagne. “All aboard!”

  They had arrived at the largest, most elaborate, and, indeed, most beautiful float that August could see.

  Silhouetted against the fading sunlight, an old-world schooner, resting at a distressed angle, was wrecked upon a hand-crafted coral reef encrusted with starfish. A large skull and crossbones drifted from one of the two towering masts. Papier-mâché sea creatures bobbed about on stiff wire supports, and gauzy fabric, ragged and green like seaweed, fluttered around the rigging, all to suggest that the tableau was an underwater one: a sunken pirate ship.

  Gaston and Langley were already engaged in a sword fight on the main deck.

  Beauregard, clambering awkwardly up the rigging, glanced down nervously. But upon spying the DuPonts, the boy’s expression twisted into one of revulsion.

  The female Malveaus stood near the float’s mounting steps. At the sight of August’s undead entourage, Belladonna grimaced sympathetically, and Orchid’s eyebrows arched with something between disdain and amusement.

  “Well, nephew,” said Orchid coolly. “You’ve clearly been busy, but have you found me the—”

  But Orchid was interrupted by the abrupt and unexpected appearance of Cyril Saint-Cyr, who you will by now have gathered was prone to abrupt and unexpected appearances.

  “At last,” he cried, although logically, he himself must have only shortly ago arrived, “the guests of honor! And your theatrical friends from Lapland. Madame Fontaine tells me that she must have you all on board. And who can blame her? Such impressive costuming. Severed arms. Exposed bones. Butterflies. You have it all!

  “Come, come. Hurry along now. Up the steps. Excuse me, Madame Malveau.” Saint-Cyr nodded, smiling busily at the lady while bustling the zombies onto the float. “We must get the competition winners in place.

  “Now, you two, do you remember the instructions regarding the grand marshal? Please do focus,” he added as Claudette gazed around absently, enchanted by a cluster of soapy globules descending around them from above. August looked up to see Beauregard’s elbow working hard as he operated the crank of a bubble machine installed in the crow’s nest.

  “Um.” August nudged the zombie to restore her attention. “Yes, sir. Call him Mr. Claw. Don’t talk about dogs or llamas. And…um…” He twisted his mouth, searching his memory.

  “No sudden movements!” said Saint-Cyr categorically. “Got that?”

  August nodded.

  “Good,” said Saint-Cyr. “Because you’ll be sitting right beside him.”

  August’s zombies were uncooperative when it came to being distributed across the sunken galleon, returning repeatedly to hover in August’s orbit.

  “The whole theater group,” August explained apologetically to Cyril Saint-Cyr, “is from Lapland. They are thrilled, of course, to be here for Carnival, but none of them speak English, so they’d rather stick close to me.”

  “Well,” muttered Saint-Cyr with some small level of irritation, “there isn’t much room up front. But I suppose they can be accommodated here.”

  Saint-Cyr indicated an area on the foredeck behind three silver-framed chairs upholstered in aqua velvet. Although the ship was angled slightly forward and to one side to suggest its resting position on the sea floor, the seating had been installed on a level platform, for the sitters’ comfort.

  In the portside chair sat a stocky man with a rather squished-down face, not entirely unlike Officer Claw’s.

  “That’s Claw’s handler,” Saint-Cyr whispered to August. “Farfel Katz.”

  On the central chair, raised several inches above the others to indicate his distinction, sat a large but stocky cat with a rather squished-down face, not entirely unlike Farfel Katz’s.

  Between his ears was perched a tiny tricorn hat secured by an elastic chin strap. Around his rotund torso was wrapped a broad belt fitted with a cat-sized cutlass. He did not look impressed at having to wear a costume.

  “That’s him,” hissed August, gripping Claudette’s dismembered arm with unrestrained excitement. “Stella Starz,” he babbled, “has groomed that fuzzy tail with her stepmother’s toothbrush!”

  “Now you, as the competition winner”—Saint-Cyr ushered Claudette into the empty third chair—“sit here.”

  Officer Claw and Farfel Katz both turned their heads to regard the zombie with something between curiosity and alarm. Officer Claw drew slightly back, his eyes grew enormously round, and his expression resembled that of someone who had just been presented with a bowl of writhing snakes.

  August squeezed into position between Claudette’s chair and Jacques LeSalt’s obstructive undead body.

  Immediately in front of Officer Claw’s chair lay a square hole in the float’s decorative shell. Inside the skeletal cavity just below them, August could see a bald head and meaty knuckles gripping a steering wheel. A friendly face glanced up and smiled. A fleshy hand waved.

  “I guess,” August whispered in Claudette’s ear, “that’s the float’s driver.”

  “Congratulations again on your win,” said Saint-Cyr, taking his leave. “Enjoy it. Watch out for me on Dolphin Street; I’m commentating for CCTV. I’ll be in the balcony with all the lights and cameras, opposite the Yuko Yukiyama stage. And remember…”

  “No sudden movements,” said August.

  One after another, the floats in front of them began to move. And, with a small lurch, the sunken pirate ship was off.

  Through the flurry of bubbles, August eyed Officer Claw’s ample back and rakishly tilted pirate hat with awe. The cat had edged to the left side of his chair and was casting uneasy looks at Claudette on his right. August could scarcely believe that he and Stella Starz’s cat were breathing the same Croissant City air.

  How, he wondered, might he express his admiration to the grand marshal? He might congratulate him for throwing up in Hedwig’s favorite bunny sl
ippers. He could applaud him for rolling in flour and posing as a ghost cat to frighten off a burglar.

  Probably, he should thank him for his ability to make his owner, Stella Starz, smile even in her darkest hours.

  The boy leaned over Claudette’s shoulder.

  “Mr. Claw?” August, heart racing, was surprised to hear the words come out of his own mouth.

  There was no reaction.

  “Mr. Claw?”

  The cat’s right ear turned slightly in August’s direction.

  “I just wanted to say, Mr. Claw, sir.” August gulped. “That I think you’re a shining example to feline-kind across the universe.”

  At this generous compliment, Officer Claw turned his head just a little, enough to catch a glimpse of the fluttering carousel of butterflies, and suddenly August had his full attention.

  The cat’s saucer-like eyes swiveled from left to right and up and down as he observed the twitchy, quivery, mouthwatering buffet of butterflies circling August’s helmet.

  Officer Claw began to purr.

  “He’s purring,” August hissed in Claudette’s ear. “That’s a good thing, right? With cats? Oh, my Lord, Claudette; I made Officer Claw purr. Stella Starz’s cat likes me.”

  The boy’s heart felt warm. August DuPont, a nobody from Locust Hole, was liked by Stella Starz’s cat.

  It was the happiest thought that August had had in months.

  Until he had another.

  “What if…no…but what if Stella Starz is here, watching the parade? What if I meet her? It’s possible; I never imagined I’d meet Officer Claw. I never thought he might like me. And anyone that Claw likes, Stella likes too.”

  August beamed ear to ear, giddy with imagined possibilities. Might he really meet Stella Starz? Might she shake his hand, maybe even like him?

  The float lurched, forced to briefly mount the sidewalk in order to maneuver its masts around the horizontal arm of a traffic light as it turned left onto Dolphin Street.

  It was here that the parade proper began, and suddenly August was surrounded by kaleidoscopic turmoil. This was a narrower passageway, where the sidewalks were lost beneath the colorful crowds jammed between the buildings and the control barriers on either side of the moving floats. Wide-eyed, August regarded a bustling sea of yelling, drinking, laughing painted and masked faces.

  Many of the revelers wore skeleton costumes, elaborate hats, bizarre wigs, or giant heads, and almost all were heavily festooned by string after string after string of the ever-present rainbow-hued beads. Bobbing above the throng were numerous parasols, plastic whirligigs, and fluffy batons resembling feather dusters. August was not sure if the Grand Parade felt like heaven or hell, or a bit of both.

  Up ahead, the procession was disappearing into the blinding, blue-white glare of event lighting and August could hear a fuzzy, electronic voice projected through giant speakers. It grew louder as the float progressed.

  “…to the Carnival Grand Parade,” Cyril Saint-Cyr was saying, “brought to you, as always, by Malveau’s Devil Sauce; if you can’t stand the heat, it must be Malveau’s! And I’m joined by star of TV’s popular Absurdly Opulent Homes of the Very Rich and Even Richer, Dixie Lispings. Well, Dixie, it’s a fine night for the Grand Parade, is it not?”

  “Indeed, it is, Cyril,” Dixie Lispings simpered through the speaker. “Positively balmy. If it weren’t so early in the year, I’d call this hurricane weather.”

  “Why, hush your mouth, Dixie. What a thought. Hurricanes indeed! Let’s stick to more pleasant topics, such as this next float.”

  “Well, Cyril, it’s just gorgeous. My notes here say that the pelican before us is an impressive fifteen feet tall. Its feathers are crafted entirely from recycled diapers, and its egg…”

  “Egg?” interrupted Saint-Cyr, bewildered. “I don’t see an…Oh, my Lord, why there it is! Just popped right out there, didn’t it, Dixie? And what’s this? It appears to be cracking. And someone’s inside! Who is…oh my! Why, I do believe it’s our very own Governor Gateau, hatched from a pelican egg!”

  Music—a familiar, virtuoso plink-plonking—was also now audible, and increasing in volume. The buildings on the right gave way to open space, where a hundred yards away or so, on the opposite side of a parking lot, August could see the Old Quarter pier and the mighty hulk of the riverboat, the Delta Duchess.

  Much closer, on the parade route, another—smaller—temporary stage had been constructed, and was occupied by Yuko Yukiyama. She wore a luminous starfish eye patch, a dress that appeared to be nothing more than a white plastic trash bag, and a shallow-domed hat with foil tendrils that resembled a giant jellyfish perched upon her head. Hammers twirling, the celebrated xylophonist was delivering another crowd-rousing performance.

  Opposite Yuko, on the left, Cyril Saint-Cyr and Dixie Lispings had slipped into view, perched behind a console and flanked by studio lights, the camera crew, and a makeup artist. All were crammed onto an iron balcony that, at second-story level, hovered just a few feet above August, Claudette, and Officer Claw.

  Beneath the gallery, a tourist shop was doing a brisk trade in Croissant City sweatshirts and Jacques LeSalt saltshakers.

  “And now,” Saint-Cyr pronounced, “the highlight of the parade. This sunken pirate ship, sponsored by the Guild of Weepy Widows, is captained by this year’s grand marshal. You know and love him from television’s Stella Starz, whiskered celebrity and global feline phenomenon…Officer Claw!”

  The crowd erupted. Officer Claw sat very erect, haughtily acknowledging the applause by swishing his tail from side to side. August winced; the cacophony of sound agitated the quiet boy. From the left came Saint-Cyr’s amplified commentary. From the right came Yuko Yukiyama’s xylophonic symphony. From all around came the clamorous cheering and clapping of four thousand Carnival goers, hopped up on party spirit. They surged against the barricades, foreheads shining, long arms reaching for Officer Claw, palms open. Palm after palm, like a field of fleshy flowers.

  “Throw!” they chanted. “Throw! Throw! Throw!”

  “In the box,” came a deep voice from below.

  The driver was looking up through the square hole and pointing upward.

  “The throws are in there. That’s what they want.”

  August realized suddenly that from all the floats, hundreds of small objects were arcing through the air to be greedily snatched up by grabby fingers: plastic coconuts, plush toys, sparkly masks.

  “It’s a Carnival tradition,” said the driver, and then repeated, “In the box!”

  August noticed that generous storage boxes had been wedged between Officer Claw’s chair and those on either side. Through the cloudy white plastic, he could detect something shiny inside. He unsnapped the lid of the box beside Claudette and lifted it off to reveal a treasure trove of glittering colored beads and familiar foil-wrapped chocolate doubloons.

  Suddenly an ear-splitting howl, drowning out even the surrounding din, originated from somewhere behind August’s left shoulder, and Jacques LeSalt lunged violently toward the trove of gleaming coins, knocking aside August, Claudette’s chair, and, naturally, Claudette.

  And I’m sure we can all agree that a large, bellowing, tattered pirate hurling his undead self through one’s immediate airspace would fail to meet anyone’s definition of “no sudden movements.”

  Given all the dire warnings, what happened next may not entirely surprise you.

  Officer Claw did not appreciate the sudden—and to be fair, quite alarming—incident. Despite his barrel-like proportions, for a moment he resembled the kind of cat one sees perched on a witch’s broomstick at Halloween: back stiffly arched, fur vertical, ears flattened, and an expression of general feline outrage.

  An unstoppable Jacques LeSalt plundered the plastic coffer, coins and beads flying in all directions like missiles, smacking agains
t anything and everything nearby, such as cats.

  Officer Claw, horrified, made for safety with claws extended, taking the most obvious route; the open hatch beneath him.

  The scream of a bald-headed driver, shriller than that of a horror movie heroine, was followed by an abrupt and violent swerve of the float to the left and a sickening crunch as its front corner collided with a fire hydrant on the curb.

  Now, let us not forget that parade floats proceed at a pedestrian sort of pace, so this was in no way a life-threatening collision. It was, however, forceful enough to produce some undesirable results.

  The float’s heavy steel undercarriage dislodged the aforementioned hydrant, releasing a geyser of water that in turn blasted off the float’s front wheel. The entire assemblage, reef and ship, slumped correspondingly to the front and left, sending August, zombies, and a cat handler sliding into the rail of the foredeck.

  Utterly lost in a tangle of chair legs and zombie arms, August could not see what was happening, but he could hear Cyril Saint-Cyr’s vivid reportage broadcasting through the loudspeakers.

  “Dixie Lispings,” he cried, “the Weepy Widows’ float has come to grief, right below this very balcony. Why, the riders are tumbling left and right. There’s water shooting into the sky. There’s a man with a cat on his head.

  “Oh, my Lord, Dixie, I believe the mainmast is collapsing. That poor boy in the crow’s nest. He’s falling right toward the Yuko Yukiyama stage. There sure is a lot of that bubble fluid; it’s drenching everyone in sight. At least the xylophone broke that young man’s fall.

  “Oh, and now the foremast is going. It’s falling right toward us! Oh, my Lord! Aaaaaargh!”

  Dazed, August found himself on the sidewalk, surrounded by chocolate doubloons and general chaos.

  Revelers were whooping and dancing in the torrent of hydrant water falling from the sky. Above their heads kicked Langley’s feet; he was dangling from the foremast that had fallen against the CCTV balcony. The surrounding loudspeakers emitted only the fizzing and popping of shorting electronics, all commentary and music having ceased.