Zombie Bums from Uranus

by Andy Griffiths

‘I’m not making excuses,’ said Zack, who was getting flustered. ‘I’m trying to explain . . .’

  The Kicker stepped in close towards Zack and bent down so his face was only a few centimetres from Zack’s. Zack shuddered. The Kicker was frightening enough at the best of times, but up this close, he was terrifying.

  ‘Listen, boy,’ said the Kicker, ‘I’m not here to listen to excuses OR explanations. I’m here to teach you how to fight bums. Understand?’

  Zack bit his lip and nodded.

  ‘It was my fault,’ said Zack’s bum.

  ‘Shut up!’ said the Kicker. ‘I sure didn’t give up my summer holidays to argue with a bum. If it was up to me you wouldn’t even be here. I ought to kick you from here to the Moon!’

  ‘Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Zack?’ asked Zack’s bum.

  Zack trembled.

  ‘Well?’ said his bum.

  ‘Don’t talk to my bum like that,’ Zack said in a barely audible whisper.

  The Kicker pushed his head even closer to Zack’s. So close that their noses were practically touching.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,’ said the Kicker. ‘Don’t forget who you are. When you’ve kicked as many bums as I have then maybe I’ll listen to you, but for now you’re not even a bum-kicker’s bootstrap. And the way you’re going, you’ll never amount to much more. Oh, sure, you might think that because you fired a harpoon into the Great White Bum and you’ve been nominated for the Bum Hunters’ Hall of Fame that you know it all, but your performance in the simulator suggests to me that you don’t know anything! You’ve been gassed, pummelled, putrefied, ambushed and sat on more times than I have ever seen any trainee bum-fighter gassed, pummelled, putrefied, ambushed and sat on in my entire life. Bum-fighting is no joking matter. You’d better get serious!’

  ‘I AM serious!’ replied Zack, surprised at the loudness of his voice. ‘If you’d maybe encourage me once in a while instead of picking on me all the time . . .’

  ‘Oh!’ said the Kicker. ‘So it’s my fault!’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ said Zack.

  ‘Then what are you saying?’ asked the Kicker.

  Before Zack could respond, the door opened to reveal the Smacker and Silas Sterne. Their enormous bodies seemed to fill the classroom.

  Great, thought Zack. Just great. The only thing worse than being yelled at by the Kicker was being yelled at by the Kicker in front of other people. And not just other people, but two of the bravest and best bum-fighting warriors in the world.

  ‘What’s all the shouting about?’ said the Smacker, placing her large hands on her hips. ‘We could hear you from the other hill. And I’ve got a terrible headache.’

  The Kicker rolled his eyes. ‘I’m just trying to explain to Zack the difference between a bumcano and a mountain.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said the Smacker. ‘One is filled with rock and the other is filled with—’

  ‘I think we’re all well aware of what bumcanos are filled with,’ said Silas Sterne, ‘especially Zack!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zack. ‘I just didn’t realise that a bumcano could look so much like a mountain.’

  ‘Well it’s about time you did,’ said the Kicker.

  ‘Take it easy, Kicker,’ said the Smacker. ‘Don’t forget, you were a beginner once too.’

  ‘Sure I was,’ the Kicker replied. ‘And so was Zack, but he’s been here for three whole weeks now and he’s failed the simulator every single time he’s been in it.’

  Zack looked at the floor.

  Silas frowned, stroked his chin and studied Zack intently. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘You showed such potential out in the field. The simulator should be a walk in the park for you.’

  The Kicker snorted.

  Zack shrugged. He was sick of the Kicker. He was sick of the simulator. He was sick of the Academy. He was sick of being called dumb. He was sick of feeling dumb. And he was sick of bum-fighting.

  He looked around the classroom. The blackboard was covered with masses of complicated pictures of bums being kicked and smacked, along with hundreds of complex mathematical equations relating to the precise force with which the kicks and smacks should be delivered, and the most effective angles to deliver them from. On the bench at the side of the classroom there was a plastic model of a bum with cutaways showing its substructure and internal workings. The walls were covered with various charts on topics such as bum-fighting safety, responsible bum ownership, appropriate bum-fighting clothing and protective gear, bum-fighting weaponry, and bum recognition charts. There was also a class set of The Bumper Book of Bums—the official bum-fighters’ encyclopaedia—and at the front of the room, a bust of the greatest bum hunter who ever lived: Silas Sterne.

  A few short weeks ago Zack had been excited by all of this, but now it just filled him with an overwhelming sense of tiredness. The truth, Zack realised, was that he didn’t belong here. He never had. He’d been lucky, that’s all, but now it was time to go home.

  The realisation hit Zack with the force of a nuclear bum.

  Of course! It was so obvious! Why had it taken him until now to realise it?

  It was time to settle down and forget all about runaway bums and bum-fighting. Sure, bum-fighting had its share of highs, but it seemed to Zack that it was mostly lows. Being gassed, pummelled, putrefied, ambushed and sat on wasn’t exactly his idea of fun. How could I have been so dumb? he wondered, breaking into a broad grin.

  The Kicker frowned.

  ‘Something funny?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ replied Zack. ‘I’m just happy.’

  The Kicker was flabbergasted.

  ‘Well you’d better get UNhappy and get you and your bum back into the simulator. We’re going to do this until you get it right.’

  ‘No,’ said Zack. ‘I don’t think we’ll be doing that.’

  ‘And why not?’ said the Kicker, trembling with rage.

  ‘Because I QUIT!’ said Zack. He unbuckled his bum-fighter’s utility belt and threw it down on the floor at the Kicker’s enormous black-booted feet.

  Everybody in the room stared at the belt—with its load of toilet rolls, clothespegs, corks and deodorant cans—lying limply on the ground.

  ‘But Zack,’ said the Smacker, breaking the silence, ‘you can’t quit!’

  ‘Nobody quits the Academy!’ said the Kicker.

  ‘I just did,’ Zack told them, heading for the door, trying hard not to make eye contact with Silas.

  ‘You know what you need?’ said the Kicker, stepping forward to block Zack’s path. ‘A good kicking! That’s what!’

  ‘No, Kicker,’ said the Smacker, stepping forward to hold him back. ‘That won’t change his mind.’

  ‘I just want to kick a little bit of sense into him, that’s all,’ said the Kicker.

  Zack ignored them both.

  But as his fingers touched the door handle, he felt the strong grip of a hand on his shoulder. Zack turned around. The hand belonged to Silas. Zack studied the cracked skin. It was burnt, scarred and—in spite of constant handwashing—stained brown from decades of raw hand-to-bum combat.

  Silas crouched down in front of Zack.

  ‘Zack,’ said Silas. ‘Look at me.’

  Zack looked up and met his gaze.

  ‘I know it’s hard, Zack,’ Silas continued. ‘But you’ve got to hang in there. Without a proper understanding of the basics, you’ll never be able to reach your full potential. The best you’ll ever be is a bum-catcher. Sure, you’ll be able to smack a few bums here and kick a few bums there—maybe you’ll even wipe a few out—but bumcatchers don’t live for long in this business. I know it’s hard to believe, but sooner or later you’ll meet the wrong bum. A bum with your name on it. Or maybe you’ll make a simple mistake. To avoid that you need to know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.’

  Zack nodded, but for the first time in his life he knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it. H
e’d been flattered by Silas Sterne’s invitation to attend the Academy, and he’d given it his best shot, but the life of a bum-fighter was clearly not for him.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Zack. ‘Thanks for everything. But the Kicker’s right. I’m not a bum-fighter. I never was and I never will be. I just want to go home.’

  ‘Believe me, I know what you’re feeling, Zack,’ said Silas, taking his hand off Zack’s shoulder and standing up. He rubbed his temples and sighed. ‘It’s not an easy life for any of us, but you can’t escape your destiny.’

  ‘But that’s just it!’ Zack told him. ‘I don’t have a destiny. I got lucky, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Zack,’ said Silas, staring into Zack’s eyes. ‘You can go if you wish, but you’ll be back.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Zack, tearing his eyes away from the Bum Hunter’s stare. He turned and opened the door.

  ‘Come back here!’ yelled the Kicker from the other end of the room. ‘That’s an order!’

  Zack didn’t reply.

  His bum, however, did.

  But not in English.

  Zack’s eyes began to water. He slammed the door behind him and ran down the steps.

  He wasn’t sure how the Kicker might react to a provocation like that, and he didn’t want to be around to find out.

  He heard the door open behind him.

  ‘You should have got rid of that bum when you had the chance, boy!’ yelled the Kicker.

  Zack just kept running.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to his bum. ‘We’re going home.’

  After a while, when he was a safe distance from the Kicker, Zack slowed down.

  He was hot.

  He wiped his brow and shielded his eyes against the midday sun.

  The Academy was deserted. Normally at this time of day the place would have been teeming with rookie bum-fighters—the crème de la crème of the Junior Bum-fighters’ League—but it was summer and they had all gone home for the holidays, leaving only the Kicker, the Smacker, Silas Sterne and his daughter Eleanor on duty.

  The Academy was spread across two hills and boasted a commanding view of the surrounding countryside, making it virtually impregnable against surprise bum attacks. Silas Sterne had started the Academy—which he liked to call his ‘ranch’—with the small fortune he’d amassed from the many bum-hunting bounties he’d collected over his long career. He lived in a two-storey mansion on top of one of the hills. On the other hill there was a small open-air chapel and cemetery where some of the finest bum-fighters in the history of bum-fighting were buried, including Silas Sterne’s wife.

  Zack walked on, between the two hills and past the yard where they broke in the dangerous wild bums that Silas would often bring back from his travels. Past the rodeo ring where the best and bravest of the recruits would try to ride them without getting bucked off, blasted off or, worst of all, sat upon. Past the Smackatorium and the Kickatorium, the two enclosed gymnasiums where the finer points of smacking and kicking bums were taught. Past the Kissatorium, which, since they’d been unable to secure a replacement for the Kisser, was in the process of being demolished to make way for a bank of high-powered handwashing units.

  Zack smiled as he remembered the first and most important rule of bum-fighting: always wash your hands afterwards. At least he’d learnt something, he thought.

  He walked past the laboratory where Eleanor conducted her research and created the silicon replacement bums which were standard issue for all bum-fighting trainees, except for Zack who had a special exemption to retain his own bum in recognition of the fact that they were a team. On he went, past the dining hall and finally across to the little rows of domed cabins that housed the trainees.

  Just as Zack was about to walk up the steps to his cabin, he heard Eleanor calling out behind him.

  He turned to see her running across the yard, his utility belt in her hands. She reached the bottom of the stairs, breathless from her run, and held the belt out towards him.

  ‘I found your belt,’ she said. ‘It was in the bin outside the classroom.’

  Zack nodded, but made no attempt to take it from her. ‘Thanks, Eleanor,’ he said, ‘but I won’t be needing it anymore.’

  Eleanor frowned. ‘What do you mean you won’t be needing it?’

  ‘It’s just a kid’s toy,’ said Zack, avoiding the question. ‘You said so yourself.’

  Eleanor looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, when I first saw it,’ she admitted. ‘But that was before I saw how well it worked. Even I wear one now. Look!’

  Eleanor lifted her shirt slightly to reveal an identical bum-fighter’s utility belt complete with wooden clothespegs, a roll of toilet paper, a fluffy pink toilet seat cover, a small rolled-up net, a row of corks, a set of sewing needles, a box of matches, a tennis racquet, a cake of soap and a large gold buckle inscribed with the words ‘BE BOLD. BE BRAVE. BE FREE.’

  Zack smiled. I’ll soon be free all right, he thought. Free of all this bum-fighting nonsense.

  Eleanor smiled back at Zack and held out Zack’s belt. When he didn’t take it, she frowned. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘do you want it or not?’

  Zack shook his head. ‘Not,’ he said. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Home?’ said Eleanor. ‘For the holidays?’

  ‘No,’ said Zack. ‘For good. I’ve quit.’

  ‘What did you say?’ said Eleanor, looking shocked.

  ‘I quit!’ said Zack.

  ‘Quit?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘Quit!’ said Zack.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘No,’ Zack said. ‘I’m not joking. I’m quitting.’

  ‘But you’re a bum-fighter!’ said Eleanor. ‘Bum-fighters don’t quit!’

  ‘I’m not a bum-fighter,’ said Zack quietly, ‘and I never will be.’

  He turned and entered his sparsely furnished cabin. There was a bed and a locker and, apart from a pair of standard-issue bum-fighter’s boots, that was all. He reached up on top of his locker, pulled down his bum-fighter’s backpack and dropped it onto his bed.

  ‘You can run, but you can’t hide,’ Eleanor said, coming into the cabin.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Zack, unzipping his backpack.

  ‘You know what it means,’ said Eleanor. ‘You’re a bum-fighter, Zack, whether you like it or not.’

  Zack shook his head. ‘I’m no bum-fighter,’ he said, ‘and you know it. And so does the Kicker. I get killed in the bum-fighting simulator every time!’

  ‘Well what did you expect?’ said Eleanor, losing patience with Zack. ‘You think you can just waltz in here, pick up a few fancy tricks and waltz out again? Bum-fighting is hard, Zack. You’re going to make mistakes. We all did! Even the Kicker!’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t know it, the way he carries on!’ said Zack. He opened his locker and pulled out his pyjamas. ‘He makes me feel like an idiot.’

  ‘It’s just his manner,’ said Eleanor. ‘And I know he’s been even more irritable than usual the last couple of weeks. But don’t take it so personally.’

  ‘How else can I take it?’ said Zack, shoving his pyjamas into his pack. ‘He told me I should have gotten rid of my bum.’

  ‘Well, he’s wrong,’ Eleanor said. ‘I had doubts about your bum at first too, but you make a good team. You’ve got a great advantage over the rest of us.’

  ‘Not that great,’ said Zack. ‘We can’t even complete a single simulated E-mission!’

  ‘But you defeated the Great White Bum,’ said Eleanor. ‘How do you explain that?’

  Zack swung his backpack onto his back and turned to Eleanor. ‘Luck,’ he said. ‘Just dumb luck. That’s all. Anyway, if having your own bum is such an advantage, why don’t you get yours back?’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Eleanor sadly. ‘After the Great White Bum killed my mother I vowed revenge. As soon as I was old enough I took the sacred bum-fighter’s oath, cut my bum loose and replaced it with a false one.
That was years ago, Zack. I’ve got no idea where it is now.’

  There was an awkward silence as Eleanor stared at Zack.

  Zack, feeling very uncomfortable, stuffed a couple of anti-bum energy bars and a bottle of water into his pack and then shut his locker door. ‘Well,’ he said, zipping up his jacket. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you.’

  Eleanor didn’t respond.

  Zack shrugged, stepped around her and headed towards the door, but Eleanor spun around and blocked his exit.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Don’t throw it all away.’

  ‘I have to go,’ said Zack. ‘It’s obvious I haven’t got what it takes.’

  ‘You’ve got exactly what it takes, Zack,’ said Eleanor, getting mad. ‘But you give up too easily! You’re a quitter, Zack Freeman!’

  ‘Well that’s a relief!’ said Zack. ‘At least I’m good at something. I don’t suppose you could give me a lift to my gran’s house?’

  Eleanor stared at him, her eyes burning. ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ she hissed.

  ‘Fine,’ said Zack. ‘Then I’ll walk!’ He pushed past her and stomped down the steps of the cabin, willing himself not to look back.

  ‘I never did like this place, to tell you the truth,’ said his bum as they passed through the front gates. ‘Good riddance, I say.’

  ‘You know,’ Zack said, ‘for once I agree with you.’

  * For those of you who are not familiar with the troubled history of Zack and his bum, check the glossary at the end of the book under the relevant entry i.e. ‘Zack’s bum’.

  Meanwhile, many millions of kilometres away from Earth on the other side of the solar system, a tiny yellow spark flew through the freezing depths of space.

  But it wasn’t a spark.

  It just looked like that from Earth.

  If you’d been close enough, you would have seen it was a bum.

  An enormous bum.

  An enormous white bum.

  An enormous white bum with most of the skin on its right cheek missing and its many deep layers of blubber on fire.

  This was no ordinary bum.

  This was the Great White Bum.

  And it wasn’t happy.