The Zombie Next Door

by Nadia Higgins

  That day, Chad scrubbed egg goo and veggie slime off the house. Leo painted over the graffiti on the chicken coop.

  Over the next couple of days, they picked up all the litter in the yard and hauled it away to the trash cans in the alley. They revived what plants they could in the garden and tied the limp vines onto stakes. Leo rode his bike to the hardware store to pick up a new pane of glass for Mr. Smith’s window.

  Mr. Smith barely helped at all. He seemed to be either dozing on his porch or playing his squeaky violin. Leo tried to look on the bright side. The screeching music made it easier not to think about zombie sounds.

  On Friday, the boys started to move the boulders back into the stone wall. Chad figured out that he and Leo could move the heavy rocks if they both pressed their backs against one side and pushed hard with their legs.

  “One, two, three, heave!” Chad yelled. The boys grunted all the way to the wall. Then they stared at the wall for a long time trying to figure out which gap the rock fit into.

  The boys were rolling an egg-shaped boulder when Chad stepped on something that cracked a little. “Hey, Leo, check this out,” Chad said. He pulled a silver chain from beneath his foot. The chain had a heart-shaped charm dangling from one end. The charm had swirls around it and bumpy edges, like a valentine.

  “It looks old,” Leo said.

  “It’s a locket.” Chad popped it open with one grubby fingernail. Inside was a brownish photo of a man’s face. He looked stern, the way people always did in really old photos. He had a beard and was wearing a top hat.

  “I’m glad I didn’t live back then,” Chad said. “People always look so mad.”

  “He wasn’t mad,” Leo said. “It’s because he had to sit still so long for the camera.”

  “Are you sure?” Chad held out the photo for a closer look. “He looks like he’d like to bite my head off.”

  Leo smiled. “Okay, maybe he was a little mad,” he admitted. “Look, there’s writing on the inside.” Leo peered at the fancy cursive inside the silver heart. “I think it says, ‘My darling Abigail, never forget me. Love, Archibald.”

  “Abigail and Archibald could be Mr. Smith’s ancestors,” Chad guessed. “The locket is probably valuable.”

  The boys decided to return it right away. They found Mr. Smith standing on the porch with his violin. Mr. Smith’s eyes grew wide for just a second as Leo handed the locket over to him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  As he held out the chain to Mr. Smith, Leo noticed something he hadn’t before. The holes of the chain were clogged on one side. As he handed the locket over, some of the spongy green stuff came off in Leo’s hand. Could be moss, he tried to tell himself. But Leo had done enough operations on Roger to recognize flakes of rotted green flesh when he saw them. Could be zombie skin too.

  The boys went back to rolling stones. They were glad when dusk came. “I hurt all over!” Chad said as he stretched his arms over his head.

  Before heading home, the boys looked toward Mr. Smith’s house. A single light was on in an upstairs window. They could see the top of his head moving slightly from side to side. “Is he . . . dancing?” Chad asked, snorting a little at the idea. “C’mon.” The boys walked closer for a better view.

  “No way!” Chad hissed. “Leo? Leo? Do you hear that?” Leo just nodded. He stood there, openmouthed. For Mr. Smith wasn’t dancing. He was playing the violin. But it wasn’t the usual terrible squeakiness. No, it was . . . Leo searched his brain for the right word. It was both sad and happy at once. It had smooth, deep notes and soaring high ones. It put all kinds of pictures in Leo’s head of waterfalls and mountains and birds. It was . . . beautiful.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE ADAMS PARTY

  That’s when Leo realized he didn’t really know anything at all about his next-door neighbor. He didn’t even know Mr. Smith’s first name. But that was no problem for a super, half-zombie researcher like Roger. In just a few clicks on his laptop, Roger had located Mr. Smith’s full name (Edgar P. Smith). He also knew the date he bought his house (1961) and how much he paid for it ($12,000).

  “Interesting.” Roger tapped his fingers on his chin. “The deed to the house mentions a Mrs. Joline Smith as well.” Roger clicked some more. “Hmmmmmm. Ooooh. Wow. Now, that’s unexpected.”

  “WHAT?” Leo reached to grab the screen from Roger.

  “Ah-ah-aaaah.” Roger wagged a finger at Leo. “No screens, remember?”

  “C’mon, Roger, tell us,” Chad begged.

  “Well,” Roger began, “I’m not seeing a death record for Mrs. Joline Smith.”

  “Yeah, but—” Leo began.

  “AND,” Roger gave Leo a don’t-interrupt-me look, “I’m not seeing any record of divorce either. In fact . . .” Roger tapped some more. “Joline seems to have mysteriously disappeared on July 8, 1961—just two days after the Smiths moved in next door. Look at this article I found in the Rotfield Sentinel archives.”

  October 17, 1961

  Smith to Step Down as Lead Violinist

  In a move that both stunned and dismayed the Rotfield arts community, Mr. Edgar P. Smith announced today that he will not be returning to Rotfield Orchestra this fall, or ever again.

  Mr. Smith has been on a leave of absence since the tragic disappearance of his wife, Joline, last summer. Music enthusiasts were hopeful that the lead violinist would return after a short period of grieving. Unfortunately, that will not be the case.

  Mr. Smith currently lives in a rather large property on Stench Avenue. Neighbors report that he has recently planted several apple trees and has erected what appears to be a chicken coop. Instead of music, Mr. Smith seems to be pursuing a life of quiet farming.

  Mayor Anderson F. Maroon expressed the sentiments of the entire community when he remarked, “What a waste of a life. What a waste of talent.”

  If Leo was confused before, he was even more confused now. Except about one thing—why Mr. Smith always looked so sad.

  By now, Chad and Leo had almost completely finished cleaning up Mr. Smith’s yard. They had only one day’s worth of work left, to roll the last few stones back into the wall.

  “C’mon!” Chad was already in position against a pear-shaped boulder. “One, two, three, heave!” The boys shoved the rock into its gap. Then they moved on to a giant round one and another shaped like a torpedo. Soon it started to get dark. Leo shivered. His sweaty shirt felt cold against his skin.

  “Just one left,” Chad said. He pointed to the last rock. It was on the far side of the chicken coop.

  “Do you hear anything?” Leo whispered. They were walking into the part of the yard where they’d heard the moaning noises last week. The boys stood silently for a minute.

  “Nada,” Chad said.

  “Me neither,” Leo said.

  As they got closer, their boots sank into the ground, leaving deep footprints. “Why is it so muddy here?” Chad wondered aloud.

  Leo peered down. The soil was all torn up under their feet. “I guess Mr. Smith is putting in a new garden. C’mon, let’s walk around.”

  “How did the vandals even roll this one out here?” Leo asked as they approached the last rock. It was dome shaped, with one flat side. He ran his hand along the bottom, looking for a place to grip. “Wait a minute.”

  Leo scanned the ground around the rock. Beside the rock was a large, muddy oval crawling with bugs. But there was no mud trail leading from the wall. “This one didn’t come from the wall,” Leo said. “It wasn’t dragged here. It was pushed over.”

  “I think it goes this way, flat side down,” Chad said. “Ready? One, two, three, heave!” The stone slammed back in place with a satisfying thud.

  The boys stood back for a second to admire their work. They could barely make out more than the shape of the stone against the sky. But something golden caught the last rays of slanted sunlight.

  “Check it out.” Chad leaned forward. He brushed dirt off the front of the rock with one hand. “Ther
e’s some kind of old bronze plaque here.”

  Leo leaned in. He could just make out the raised letters:

  Here lie the members of the Adams party,

  twelve brave souls

  who sought their fortune

  and found naught but misery.

  May they always be remembered

  for their great courage

  in the face of utter tragedy.

  Leo scanned down. There was another plaque below the first. “This one’s hard to read,” he said. “Looks like the vandals spray-painted it before they tipped it over.”

  Chad opened his cell phone and shone it on the brass rectangle. “DIE, ZOMBIE,” it read in sloppy red letters. Under the letters was what looked to be a list of the twelve dead members of the Adams party.

  Leo’s mom was calling him home now. She must have called him several times already, because she was starting to sound frantic. But Leo couldn’t move. Fear grabbed his legs and held them in place. For there, in the bluish glow from Chad’s phone, were the names Archibald and Abigail Miller.

  “Archibald and Abigail,” Chad whispered.

  Leo filled in the rest in his head: the names on the locket.

  CHAPTER 7

  ZOMBIES FOR REAL

  Dinner that night felt like the longest half hour in the history of time. At least Leo’s mom had said yes to Chad staying for dinner and spending the night.

  Back in the lab, Leo and Chad told Roger everything.

  “My word!” Roger exclaimed. “The Adams party perished right next door?”

  “If that means died, then yeah,” Chad said.

  “Such a sad story.” Roger shook his head a little. “If I’m remembering correctly, the Adams party was a group of pioneers. They were traveling west by carriage in . . .” He opened his laptop and started clicking. “Aha, yes, of course, 1870. There were thirteen of them—five men, four women, and four children. Walter Adams was their leader, which is why they are called the Adams party. Walter was the one who decided to take a shortcut through these parts. Such a tragic move.

  “You see,” Roger continued, “the group got caught in an October blizzard. Totally unexpected. They wandered through the swirling snow for three full days. When the snow stopped, half of them were dead. The rest had no idea where they were. They’d lost their supplies—food, horses, everything.”

  “Well, that explains the ‘misery’ part of the plaque,” Leo said.

  “Oh, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Roger said. “After that came the cannibalism.”

  “You mean humans eating humans?” Chad asked. “No way!”

  “I’m afraid so,” Roger said. “The surviving members were starving. Eating their dead was the only chance they had. It was that or die. What would you do in that situation?”

  “Uhhhh.” Leo shivered a little.

  “But of course, the rest of the party died that winter anyway, except for one man.” Roger scrolled down on his laptop. “Aha, yes. The sole survivor, Jonas Reed. He was the only one who made it to California. He refused to talk about what had happened. He likely kept a journal, though it’s never been found.”

  Whoa. Leo felt like his head was about to spin off. Twelve dead pioneers buried next door. Cannibal pioneers. Some of them, anyway. Plus Mrs. Smith was still who knows where. And what about the creepy sounds they’d heard under the ground? And the green stuff in the locket chain? And Mr. Smith pretending he couldn’t play violin? And how did Mr. Smith know about his post on Zombie—

  “What’s that?” Roger was up in as close to a second as his half-zombie body would allow, his ear against the door. Leo and Chad heard it too. A rapping sound was coming from Leo’s room. Not regular knocking, but sharper, faster.

  The three boys ran into Leo’s room.

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  A face was pressed against Leo’s window. A gray face with sunken eyes under a shock of gray hair.

  “Mr. Smith?” Leo whispered.

  The old man must have climbed the gutter under Leo’s window. He traced one knobby gray finger over the glass. He was writing something. In blood. It said, “HELP ME.”

  “Don’t get too close,” the old man warned as the trio pulled him into Leo’s room. He pointed to a dark red stain spreading across the sleeve of his gray sweater. “I’ve been bitten,” he said. “I only have an hour, maybe less. We must hurry. . . . I have so much to tell you.”

  The boys didn’t have to ask. They just knew. Mr. Smith had been attacked by the zombies in his yard. Of course. The undead members of the Adams party. He had only an hour or so until he became one of them. Until he became a zombie for real.

  “Is it safe to talk here?” Mr. Smith glanced at Leo’s closed bedroom door.

  “There’s a better place,” Roger said. With a swoosh, he opened the door to the lab, and Mr. Smith followed the boys through Leo’s closet and into the secret room. He leaned against a stack of boxes and drew in a long breath.

  “Mr. Smith, I’m so—” Leo began. What did he want to say? Sorry? That seemed so lame.

  “Thank you, son.” Mr. Smith smiled weakly at Leo. “I came here because I trust you. I’ve been a fan of your site from the beginning. It’s one of the best,” he said. “And I’ve been researching zombies for a long, long time. Ever since my darling Joline was bitten back in 1961.”

  “Your wife’s a zombie?” Roger said. “A full zombie?”

  “Yes, and still as beautiful as the day I set eyes on her,” Mr. Smith said, patting Roger on his arm.

  “Mr. Smith—” That was all Leo could seem to get out.

  “Here, take this.” Mr. Smith reached into his pocket with his good arm and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook. “Jonas Reed’s lost journal,” he said, wincing a little. He looked up as if to explain but stopped when he saw the boys nodding. “It’s full of answers,” he said. “Been like a friend to me these past decades.

  “As Reed explains, the Adams party started eating their dead,” he continued, his voice softer than ever. “And then, well, the dead ate them back.” Mr. Smith shook his head a little. “This created a most peculiar breed of zombie. Vengeful, and proud. Very possessive of their burial grounds, as Joline discovered. If we’d only known. Joline was planting rosebushes. She wanted to brighten up the new house, you know?” Mr. Smith was in his own world now. “She dug too close to one of their graves, and the zombie bit her on the ankle. Just a nip, but it was enough.

  “I knew the zombies were mad about the vandals,” Mr. Smith went on. “They were getting restless. You heard them moaning and scratching in their graves.” He looked up at Chad and Leo. “I managed to tame them with my violin that night,” he said, smiling sadly.

  “Oh yes, Jonas Reed discovered that trick quite by accident.” He patted the book by his side. “These odd zombies like high, squeaky sounds. Makes them tame. Reed had a theory about that—something to do with high-frequency waves. Neutralizes the biting impulse. Just a few minutes of bad violin used to keep them happy for days. But not anymore. It’s getting harder.”

  Leo felt like the speed round of some creepy game show was being hosted in his head. All his questions were being answered so fast.

  Solved: How Mr. Smith knew about his Z-News post.

  Solved: The squeaky violin.

  Solved: The noises under the ground.

  Mr. Smith’s eyes rolled back in his head for a second. “You’d better get me to my basement,” he said. “That’s where the zombies are now. Got the twelve of them locked up there. Dear Joline has been so gracious about sharing her little home.”

  Solved: The whereabouts of Joline Smith.

  “It became too dangerous to keep the Adams party out in the open. When I realized they were getting too angry to control, I started digging them up. I’ve been working from dusk to dawn every night this week to get them all out of their graves,” Mr. Smith went on. “Been so tired. Almost broke my back too, and poor Abigail’s locket fell off. She was quite upset. You
saved the day by finding that for me.” He smiled at Chad and Leo.

  Solved: The green stuff in the locket chain.

  “Well, we’d better get going. Promise me.” Mr. Smith grabbed Leo by both shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Promise me you’ll find a way to keep me tame. Me and Joline. Please.” Mr. Smith’s eyes were starting to look glassy now. “And don’t let me bite you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ZOMBIES ON THE LOOSE

  Mr. Smith, Chad, Leo, and even Roger left the lab and climbed out of Leo’s bedroom window. They shimmied down a gutter and dropped onto the ground. Mr. Smith’s violin was there, leaning against the house. The old man handed the instrument to Leo. “I don’t know if it will help anymore, but take it just in case,” he said. Then the four of them headed to Mr. Smith’s house.

  “Hurry!” Mr. Smith said as they crossed into his yard. His right sleeve was completely soaked now. Blood was dripping off the end, making glossy black splatters on the grass. “I can’t—” Mr. Smith stopped. His arms flew in the air and he arched his back. Then he fell forward onto his knees. “Nooooo!”

  Mr. Smith shoved his own fist into his mouth and gagged. He made gurgling, smacking sounds as his hand twisted deeper into his throat. Half his forearm disappeared into his drooling mouth.

  For a while, it looked like he was eating his own hand. Leo half expected to see an oozing stump when Mr. Smith yanked his arm out of his mouth. Instead, he held out his glistening, dripping fingers.

  “AAaaaaaaaaargh,” he said, and the wet fingers clenched around Leo’s elbow. Leo shook his arm hard and slid out of Mr. Smith’s slobbery grip.

  “He’s gone over!” Roger said.

  “Run!” Chad yelled.

  The boys took off across Mr. Smith’s yard, up the stairs to his porch, and into his house.