Zombies Don't Need Bodyguards: A YA Short Story
Page 3
even try to run, or bite off my ear to suck my brains through the hole.
I told him he’d be stupid to attack me, anyway. That if he behaved, if he did what I wanted, this one little thing, he could live in my cooler forever. That he could eat all the lamb’s brains he wanted until the end of time. And I meant it, too. Maybe that’s why he finally agreed, because he knew I wasn’t trying to trick him anymore.
Suddenly he grunts, kicking sand onto my shoe and bringing me back to the present. As if reading my mind, he says, “Lamb’s brains aren’t enough, you know?”
I nod. “Somehow, I knew they never would be.”
“I did what you wanted,” he sighs. “I did what you asked.”
“Thanks?” It comes out like a question because, no, not really. What I’d asked him was to “rough” Booger and Skeeter and Jimbo up, not tear them apart and feast on their rubbery cerebellums. Now I’ve got two missing kids on my hands, and one with a mouthful of sod, and everyone knows they’ve been bullying me since the third grade.
“You’re welcome.”
I snort. “That’s called sarcasm, by the way.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t think zombies get sarcasm.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re smarter than these three combined.”
He grunts. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“No, not really. So, now what?”
“Now you have a choice.”
Now it’s my turn to grunt. “Oh, so now you’re calling the shots?”
“Not really, I just know I can’t spend the rest of my afterlife in your cooler.”
I look at his bloody chin, the new fire in his eyes, the way his skin seems fleshier now, his torso filled out as well. It’s like he’s a water balloon and the faucet’s still on, plumping him up by degrees. “No, I guess not. I mean, what do I do now?”
He smiles, and I think I see a piece of flesh between his teeth. “You can go back to your Dad’s butcher shop, wait for the cops to come, or the Sentinels, or you can come with me.”
“That’s not really much of a choice, is it Brody?”
When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Where are you going?”
“Away from here. Wherever my kind went.”
“Your kind? The Sentinels, the cops, they got all your kind.”
“They didn’t get me. I can smell the others, not too far away. I can’t stay here anymore. You shouldn’t, either.”
“Me? Why? You did what I asked. You took care of my problem.”
“Did I? Look at how hard it was to handle Jimbo on your own. What about tomorrow, at school? You think this is the end of being bullied? You think it stops with two bullies, even three?”
“Yeah, actually, I do.”
He shakes his head. “Bullies aren’t your problem, Rex. You’re your problem. You get bullied because you think you should get bullied. I don’t know why, and we don’t have time to find out. All I know is, if you come with me, I can promise you a life without fear. I can promise you a life where you’re the strong one, you’re the hunter, not the prey. You’re the—”
“Zombie?” I gulp. I do, I literally gulp. As scared as I’ve been in my life, and I’ve been pretty scared, I’ve never actually “gulped” before. “You mean, where I’m the zombie?”
He shrugs. Gets up, dusts his pajama pants off. “Come with me, Rex. It’s not so bad.”
“No thanks.” I’ve seen Brody up close, smelled him, fed him. It is bad, actually. Pretty darn bad. “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He turns and starts away.
“Hey, what about Jimbo?”
At the sound of his name, as if suddenly remembering where he is and what’s been done to him, Jimbo struggles, rolling over, getting to his knees.
Brody almost smiles. “Take care of him yourself.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Consider this… a new deal.”
I turn. Brody is there, only a few steps away. He looks strong now, alive, in charge. I know he’s right, about being zombie strong, but I can’t do that to myself.
Can I?
“Help me,” I beg. “Just help me get rid of him and I’ll never ask you anything else again.”
He shuffles back, nods. I smile, and turn away from him so I don’t see him coming. His bite is like hot power in my shoulder, like an electric knife buzzing through my skin. I smell his breath and my blood and fall to my knees, jerking like my finger’s in an electric socket and there’s no way to pull it out.
“No,” I hear myself gurgle, blood in my mouth, as my eyes close. I feel dizzy, open them again, find that I’ve fallen down. No, wait, I’m sitting up. Suddenly it’s dark, the moon is out, and high. I go to rub sand out of my eyes and smear blood across my face. It smells good; real good.
I look down and see a foot at my feet, gnarled and naked, bite marks on the toes. Brody sits on the swing set, patiently, rocking back and fro like little kids do, his thrift shop sneakers scratching the sand.
“What… what happened?”
“I helped you, Rex. Just like you asked. You’ll thank me one day.”
“I?” I look down, see not much left of Jimbo, see my stomach bloated, blood all over my Star Wars shirt. “I did this?”
“All by yourself.” He stands, helps me up. His skin doesn’t feel so cold anymore. Is that because mine is, too?
My head feels light and I can hear the sand cascade off the knees of my pants. He holds my hand and leads me off the playground. It’s hard to walk, and now I know why he shuffles so. It’s like the signals from my brain don’t quite reach my feet.
We’re a sad lot, but I’m not actually sad. Or mad. Or glad. I’m none of those things, but I am this: fearless. I don’t care if the cops come, or the Sentinels, or the ghosts of Jimbo and Booger and Skeeter or even another zombie.
For the first time in my life, I feel no fear. The shadows don’t haunt me, the moonlight doesn’t make me reach for the nightlight in my room and my shoulders aren’t permanently hunched, wondering who’s going to give me a wedgie next.
We head through the trees, slowly, until I get my bearings. I see the plastics factory on the edge of town, silent now, and beyond that another forest, and beyond that… who knows. I’ve never left Nightshade before, never had any reason to before.
“I can smell them,” I say, my voice hoarse, like his. My throat is as dry as the blood caked on my lips and chin. Jimbo’s blood.
Brody cracks that crooked smile. “Who, your friends back there? Wipe your lip.”
“No, your friends, out there.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Sorry, shuffles. Then, “They’re your friends now, too, Rex.”
I follow him, and feel the dried blood on my face crack with my smile. What would that be like, I wonder, to have friends?
“Is that your real name?” I ask him. I figure, if this is it now, if it’s me and him and the zombies against the world, I should know his real name. “Brody, I mean?”
“Naw, it was Phillip.”
“Phillip? You don’t look like a Phillip.”
He pauses, near a tree. I lean against it, just to stay balanced.
“Not anymore I don’t.”
“So why would you only answer to Brody, in the beginning?”
“I guess I wanted a new start.”
That sounds good. “Me too.”
“Yeah, like what? What’s a new start name?”
I smile, cracking more dried blood. “Thor.”
He snorts, covering his yellow teeth. Oh God, will mine look like that, too? “Thor? Really?”
“Yeah, Thor.”
He walks a bit and I follow. A few trees later I punch him, in the shoulder.
He rolls his eyes. “What was that for?”
“I’m Thor, that’s my hammer of justice.”
“I don’t think that’s what it’s called.”
“Yeah, what’s it called then?”
“I don’t know, but i
t’s not ‘hammer of justice,’ I know that.”
“How does a zombie know that?”
He turns, frowning. “I wasn’t always a zombie Rex. I mean, Thor. In a lot of ways, before all this, I was just like you.”
I nod and start to walk, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Just remember, later, if you can, who you were. Just remember who you were.”
I nod, but I already know I won’t do that. That I don’t want to do that. I’m too busy walking forward now, even if that means shuffling, to look back on who I was…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer specializes in seasonal short stories for the YA paranormal audience. Read more of Rusty’s FREE stories at www.rushingtheseason.com. Happy Holidays!!!