Zombie Elementary

by Howard Whitehouse

  Celeste’s dad was driving like a crazy person and almost ran a white van off the road. The driver had to swerve to avoid crashing, and almost hit Jermaine and me. The van screeched to a stop. The driver wound down his window.

  “Hey, guys, you okay? Oh—it’s you!”

  The van had a sign that said “Dictionary Emporium” on the side. It was Mr. O’Hara. He looked frazzled.

  I started to tell him about the cheerleaders.

  “I know,” he said. He pointed to a scanner on his dashboard. “I’ve got this device that tells me when the zombies are gathering. Worth more than the van. Worth even more than my house.”

  “I think we, like, broke some of the zombies,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to fix them anymore.”

  He grinned at me. “Heck, I don’t know either. All I do is gather all the parts and take ’em to my storage facility. My son Garrett’s helping me after school and on weekends. There’s a medical team to put them back together and cure the virus. It’s all experimental, so we’ll just have to see if it works.”

  “But it’s possible?” asked Jermaine. I noticed he was as freaked out as I was.

  “I guess, if they say so,” said Mr. O’Hara. “I just try and get all the right body parts into each bag. I got a thousand bags here.”

  A thousand bags.

  “Gotta go and handle this,” he said. “Can I just pull into the driveway at the Phalens’ house? I hate street parking when I’m carrying out zombies.”

  A teenage boy was in the passenger seat. He waved at us. Garrett, I guess. Some kids work at McDonald’s after school, and some kids gather zombie parts.

  24

  We reached the corner of my street, and I saw my mom running toward us.

  “Larry! Thank God!”

  I had to be in trouble. “Uh. We went to the park to hit a few balls.” I hated to lie to Mom, but I figured she wouldn’t want to hear I’d been slugging the cheerleading squad. I held up my bat. I thought I’d gotten it clean.

  “No, it’s Honor. She took Mr. Snuffles out for a walk an hour ago. I thought you might have seen her.”

  I shook my head.

  “So, you didn’t see her over at the park?” asked Mom.

  “Nuh-uh,” I replied, although I’m pretty sure my face was red. Could she tell?

  Jermaine stepped in. “We didn’t see her, Mrs. Mullet, but we came back down Yew Street. I guess we might have missed her. We could go back and look for her right now.”

  My mom patted Jermaine on the head. She’s always liked him. I guess she doesn’t know how sneaky he can be. Which was good, right then. “Larry, go right there and come back if you don’t find her. No more baseball practice today. I’ll get the car and drive down toward the school in case she went off in that direction.”

  We headed for the park.

  I wasn’t sure if Mom would worry so much about Honor being gone so long if we hadn’t had all that stuff about Mr. Phalen in church. I mean, for a moment, when she passed the hymn book to me to throw, she understood about the zombies, even if it was like she’d forgotten all about it now. But an hour was a long time for an eight-year-old kid to be gone, even if there were no zombies in our town. Which, of course, there were.

  It was a pretty cloudy day, and it looked like rain coming on. So we didn’t see a lot of people as we walked to the park.

  And then we did.

  A small figure was standing by the swings, yelling at a dog that was barking at a bunch of people. Mr. Snuffles does that sometimes. He’s not the smartest dog in the world.

  I just hoped no one would complain to my folks about Snuffy. Most people in our neighborhood know where we live. It’s a small town.

  “Quit that!” I shouted. The dog kept barking. Then the people started moving, in a bunch. They were walking toward the swings, real slow.

  “Honor!” I screamed.

  She turned toward me and waved. Not waved like she was happy to see me. More like she was one of those drowning swimmers in the movies. You’ve seen them.

  I ran forward. Jermaine did too. The group of zombies advanced. Mr. Snuffles was still barking at them. Dumb dog. But he’s our dog, and I had to make sure he was okay.

  Plus, I didn’t want to own a zombie dog.

  I couldn’t whistle ’cause I was running (you try it!), but as soon as I got to the playground, I stopped a moment and let out a real good whistle. Jermaine shouted, “Here, boy!” although Mr. Snuffles never comes for Jermaine, ever. He always comes for me, though.

  The dog picked up something and bounded toward the swings. The zombies picked up speed. They were staggering forward, arms flailing about. I could hear them. What I heard was: “NGAAAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!! BRAINSSSSS!!!!”

  Honor was rooted to the spot, one hand tight around the, um, that bit that stands up to support the swing part. The upright, yeah.

  Holding on like it would keep her safe.

  “Honor!” I yelled out. “Run for it!”

  It was like my shout broke a spell or something. My sister ran toward us. Her face was real pale. She was crying.

  “Larry! Help!”

  The zombies were still a ways off—like about as far as home plate to the outfield fence. I could run it in maybe ten seconds. Okay, twenty.

  Mr. Snuffles waddled closer. He’s one of those short-legged dogs. A basset hound. Not real fast, even when he’s running. His tail was wagging.

  What did he have in his mouth?

  A bone? But it was green and had a black-and-white tennis shoe on one end. Converse, I think.

  Zombies fall apart easily.

  “Drop the bone, Snuffy!” I called out, real low. He usually listens when I use that voice. “Good dog. Drop it now.”

  Mr. Snuffles dropped it.

  “It’s a severed leg,” announced Jermaine. I could tell he was impressed. “It’s like the whole leg from the knee down.”

  Well, sure. You don’t think a basset could carry a whole leg, do you? You’d need a German shepherd or a Great Dane for that.

  The zombies were getting closer. Zombies don’t move real fast, either. It’s a good thing for us. One of them had only one leg. He fell down and sorta wriggled about on his butt trying to get up again. He was wearing a black-and-white tennis shoe.

  One of the zeds was way ahead of the others, a tall guy in a basketball uniform. I guess even if you are a shambling creature, having long legs makes you go faster.

  ZOMBIE TIP

  While zombie movement is slow and spasmodic (except when prey is within reach), evidence suggests that a recently zombified athlete or a ghoul with unusually long legs will shamble at a faster rate than one who had been less mobile in life. This may be why no reports of zombie outbreaks beginning in nursing homes have ever been recorded.

  Jermaine pulled out his BB gun and fired. Missed, I guess. No reaction from Basketball Zombie.

  He was, like, from home plate to the pitcher’s mound now. Fifty feet, tops. Real close.

  “Jermaine! Take Honor and the dog and get out of here!” I yelled.

  I was the big brother. I was the one with the bat. I had to do this.

  But what was I supposed to do when my target was about two feet taller than me?

  I ran toward the swings, waving the bat. The zombie changed direction. He was following me. Good. Jermaine ushered Honor toward home. Mr. Snuffles picked up the severed leg and went with them. (I guess it was dinnertime in doggy world.) Maybe I should have just ran to stay ahead of the zombies and then made for home as soon as Jermaine could get Honor and the dog out of the park and away.

  Basketball Zombie was pretty fast now he had the scent. He must have been twice as fast as the regular zombies. This wasn’t good.

  He cornered me over by the swings. I didn’t have a lot of room. I jumped up onto a swing. It made me taller, sure, but have you ever tried to use a baseball bat from the seat of a swing? The hanging chains were in the way, and I couldn’t get my balance. Dang, this was a b
ad idea!

  Basketball Zombie stretched out to grab me. He had real long arms as well as legs.

  Oh boy. I was in all kinds of trouble now.

  25

  I sprinted away from the swings. I knew I could zig left toward the slide or zag right toward the merry-go-round.

  The slide wasn’t going to help. The merry-go-round was a big favorite of mine ever since I moved here. It’s a heavy, old-fashioned one that looks like a big wheel, the kind you have to really push to start it turning before you can jump on top. It’s not like those little ones with the seats. It goes real fast and you have to hold on in case you fly off onto the concrete. My mom says it’s too dangerous and kids could break their necks. Pretty cool, huh? I jumped for it and shoved real hard to get it started.

  Basketball Zombie was right behind me as I worked to get the merry-go-round moving. I could feel him grabbing at my shirt. Also, yelling, “NNNGAARRRGGH!!” in my ear. That got me pushing harder, I can tell you. Nothing like a zombie howling over your shoulder to get the legs pumping, right?

  It was spinning pretty fast. I jumped on and tried to get my balance. Where was he? Where was BBZ? Had he jumped on? Was he—behind me?

  Cold sweat dripped down my neck. I was scared. Heck, I was terrified.

  Then I spotted him as the merry-go-round came around. He was crouched down, looking for me underneath the merry-go-round, like I’d crawled under it or something.

  I got an idea. Hey, it’s allowed. I get ideas sometimes.

  I took up a batter’s stance and called out. “Hey! Doo-doo head!”

  Okay, I know that was kinda kindergarten as far as insults go. But it did the job. BBZ stood right up as the merry-go-round came all the way round again and I swiped at his head. I couldn’t explain all the scientific stuff, but swinging in the same direction as the merry-go-round turns gives more power to the bat. I mean a LOT more power to the bat.

  I guess I expected to smash BBZ’s head like a melon. I know that’s what Mr. O’Hara said not to do, but I was having a real bad day. Instead, I sent it flying across the playground, over the tops of the swings. It bounced once and hit another zombie who was coming my way.

  The rest of BBZ just sorta crumpled and twitched on the concrete.

  I was stunned, and I guess it’s lucky I didn’t do what I’ve been trained to do, which is take off running for first base. There was no first base. I was riding on top of the merry-go-round (exactly like my mom told me never to do in case I broke my neck) and the rest of the brain-munchers were gathering around me.

  Well, all except the one who had picked up BBZ’s head to examine it, like it was a suspicious object.

  The zombies all came forward at once, surrounding the merry-go-round. I stepped down quickly to give an extra kick to keep it spinning fast. One of the zeds reached for me, but I twisted around with my right arm and swung at its arm. It wasn’t a real hard swing—one-handed, right?—but the bat caught the zombie just at the wrist. There was a snap. The outstretched hand went up like a fly ball.

  I jumped back onto the merry-go-round.

  The zombie I had just hit looked up. I guess if I’d just had my hand swiped off with a bat, I might have looked to see where it went too. I hit him while his big, bloodshot eyes were off me. He went down in a heap.

  Another zombie—some old guy in jogging pants—caught the hand and did this weird celebration dance, from one foot to the other and making a weird happy-ghoul noise. Then he started gnawing on the hand.

  I gulped. The zombies were one step from the merry-go-round, trying to grab it. Grab me, really. I was glad it spun fast. I took my batter’s stance and struck as the merry-go-round turned. Wham. Another one down.

  The follow through hit a second zombie and knocked it backward. I pulled back the bat, then balanced and struck a second time. I hit hard, and another zed head rolled across the playground. Another zombie turned into the strike and fell down. I guess that was almost a bunt. I spun around again and got a clean strike on the old guy in the jogging pants. Home run!

  I finished off with the zombie who caught Basketball Zombie’s head. I have to say it was getting easy by now. Coach Chicka would tell me it’s all about keeping a positive attitude.

  I jumped down and made sure I was fresh outta zeds to take out.

  The playground was kind of a mess, but what was I supposed to do about it? I don’t think I’m a litterer. My mom’s real down on littering. I figured Mr. O’Hara would be along in his van to handle it. Besides, the trash can by the swings was jam-packed. The parks department would have to tidy up.

  KYLE: So, that was, what, seven zombies you destroyed?

  LARRY: Maybe eight. Nine even. I figured you might be getting bored, what with all the baseball stuff.

  KYLE: Good work!

  LARRY: I was in my mid-season stride. Lotta batting practice at the cages.

  26

  I didn’t feel bad this time. What Celeste said about zombies being monsters really made sense. They weren’t people anymore. I had to remember what Mr. O’Hara had told me, and try just to bonk them on the head, no bashing. Maybe they could be fixed up good and made human again. I dunno.

  Still, I made sure I cleaned off my bat pretty darn good. My mom would see it and ask questions.

  I ran home. Mom and Dad were waiting for me. They looked happy, but not “you just saved your little sis from zombies” happy. Jermaine was there as well, rubbing Mr. Snuffles behind the ears.

  “Jermaine brought Honor home,” said Dad.

  “Yeah,” said Jermaine. “I told your folks we split up to look for her, and you went around the long way by the railroad tracks in case she’d gone that direction.”

  Jermaine’s smart. I could never think up a fib that good.

  “Right!” I answered. “And, uh, she didn’t, I guess.”

  My parents smiled at me. My dad patted me on the head. Then he went back to weeding the rosebushes, or whatever it was he was doing.

  “Where’s Honor?” I asked Mom.

  “She went to her room.”

  I went and looked for her. She was on her bed, crying.

  “Larry! I can’t believe there were so many zombies!”

  “Um, yeah,” I answered. “Lots of zombies. All over town.”

  “I thought there might be one or two, and I’d just run away from them. They walk really slow.”

  They do. Mostly, if it’s just one zombie, you can get away by walking faster. Easy-peasy, right?

  ZOMBIE TIP

  This is exactly right. A person in good health can expect to walk faster than a single zombie. It’s just that if you meet one ghoul, there are probably a lot more around.

  “But there was a bunch of them. And Mr. Snuffles wanted to play with them,” sobbed Honor. “He got away from me. I was so scared!”

  “Yeah, when I saw him he had a—”

  He had a leg.

  “Oh my gosh, Honor! Where is he now?”

  “He was in the yard a few minutes ago,” Honor replied.

  Yes, he was there when I came in. Only he didn’t have the severed zombie leg. The one with the Converse tennis shoe. “What happened to the leg, Honor? Did you throw it away before you got home?”

  Maybe I could save it for Mr. O’Hara. If his BURP science people can really cure the zombies, it would be tough for one to be without a leg ’cause my dog ran off with it.

  “Uh, he dropped it in the bushes across the street. I think. Maybe.”

  I ran downstairs. I had to find the leg and save it for BURP. Wrap it in foil and hide it in the freezer, maybe? But I could never explain that to Dad when he went looking for leftovers.

  I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just leave it in the neighbor’s yard. See, I didn’t think I had knocked out the zombie who owned the leg. When I was, uh, dealing with the zeds, I don’t think he was among them. Did zombies come looking for their own body parts?

  Jermaine would know, but he’d gone home. No time to call him. />
  I went through the front door. Dad was working in the flower beds. I looked across the street. Nothing to see. I mean, there were bushes and stuff, but no leg sticking out of them.

  I could have gone poking around with a stick. If I had a stick, which I didn’t.

  Plus my dad would have asked what I was up to. The neighbors would come out and yell at me.

  Sorry, Mr. Zollinger, I’m looking for a zombie leg! I think I lost it over here!

  Didn’t think so.

  Then I heard muffled barking. It was the sound Snuffles makes when he’s got something in his mouth.

  Oh.

  27

  He was at the side of our house, where Dad couldn’t see him. I could. I walked over to him, real slow. The severed leg was stuck between his jaws, the tennis shoe facing down. I guess that’s the sensible way to hold it, I dunno.

  “Give it here, boy!”

  He dropped the leg. “Good boy!”

  I didn’t want to pick it up.

  I picked it up anyway. Just with one finger and my thumb.

  Eeeeewwwww!!!!!!!

  So, what was I gonna do with it now? I panicked.

  I ran to the far end of the yard, where our house backs up to a wooded lot. I threw the leg as far as I could. It was a real good throw, and I got some distance on it. Snuffy took off like a shot into the woods.

  About thirty seconds later, I had the severed leg again. My dog had dropped it right at my feet. Dang.

  I wondered if I could bury it in the yard.

  KYLE: But you figured out not to, right?

  LARRY: Right.

  KYLE: Good thinking. So you saved it for Mr. O’Hara?

  LARRY: I was pretty shaken up and Honor was crying and I couldn’t say anything to Mom and Dad. I forgot all about taking it to Mr. O’Hara, I guess that would have been the right thing to do.