by R. McGeddon
How to Fool a Zombie
• Torn clothes
• Mud on face
• Hair like a bird’s nest
• Walk like you’ve wet yourself
• Intestines hanging out (not recommended)
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
When Sam, Arty, and Phoebe reached the Town Hall, they were delighted to discover everything was fine. All the zombies had been taken care of and there were bunnies sliding down rainbows having a rare old time for themselves.
Actually, that’s a total lie. I just said that because what they actually found was pretty worrying, and I wasn’t sure if your nerves could handle any more.
You see, what they really found were zombies. Lots of zombies. More zombies than they had ever seen, in fact, all lumbering about looking hungry and moaning about brains the way zombies do.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” whispered Arty. “I was hoping for some bunnies sliding down rainbows or something. What now?”
“There’s a back door,” Sam said. “Let’s try that.”
“Ew,” said Phoebe, crinkling her nose in disgust. “What is that smell?”
Arty pointed toward the zombies. “All the dead people. Just a guess.”
“Being dead is no excuse not to wear deodorant, you know,” Phoebe announced. All around them, zombies turned slowly in their direction.
“Oh, well done,” Arty hissed.
“Well someone had to tell them,” Phoebe replied. She let out a little yelp of shock when Sam grabbed her by the arm and yanked her toward the back entrance of the Town Hall.
“Hand signals,” Arty reminded her. “That was why we were using hand signals, so the zombies wouldn’t hear us.”
“Well, I didn’t know the hand signal for ‘Ew, these guys stink,’ did I?”
Arty pinched his nose. Phoebe tutted. “Okay, yes, I suppose that one makes sense,” she admitted.
The back door of the building was half-open. Sam popped his head through the gap, had a quick look around, then pressed on inside. When the others were safely in, he pushed the door closed and slid across a heavy iron bolt to lock it.
“That should keep them out,” he said.
Arty shivered. “Unless they’re already in.”
A narrow passageway led away from the door. Shadows hung like dark, heavy curtains at the far end. It was only when Sam and the others got closer that they discovered they really were curtains, and very nice they were, too. Sam pulled them aside and was immediately confronted by the red-nosed face of Mayor Sozzle.
“Wuargh! More zombies,” the mayor gasped. He threw himself to his knees in front of them. “Don’t eat me! Please! I’m too rich and important to die!”
“We’re not zombies,” Sam pointed out.
“Aren’t you?” said the mayor. He stood up and let out a sigh of relief. A waft of brandy breath hit Sam in the face. “Well … good for you,” he said before launching into a fresh wave of sobbing hysterics. “Not that it matters, because we’re all doomed anyway. Doomed, I tell you!”
He careered off with his arms flailing dramatically, managing to knock over a radio, six plastic cups, and a young secretary who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Town Hall had been turned into an emergency command center, filled with people staring at computer screens, listening to radios, and nibbling on sandwiches. Sleeping bags were stacked up in the corner and several kettles were boiling away, because if there’s one way to see out a crisis, it’s with a nice cup of tea and a nap.
Several aides in serious suits followed the mayor around, trying to keep him calm but failing miserably.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad, sir,” said one.
“Help will be here at any moment,” said another.
“We’re all going to die!” sobbed the mayor. He threw open one of the windows and leaned out. “Air! I need air! I can’t breathe in here!”
Before the mayor could be grabbed by the zombies roaming about outside (which is even more painful than it sounds), one of the aides caught him by the waistband of his trousers and pulled him back in. The aide sighed with relief as the mayor flounced away from the window, then quickly came to regret getting involved when a zombie dragged him out through the window and fastened its teeth to his head.
Sam rushed over and closed the window, blocking out the sound of chewing and chomping and the snapping of bone.
Mayor Sozzle didn’t seem to notice any of this. He just stumbled around, muttering about Sitting Duck’s emergency zombie protocol, which he was pretty sure he’d seen lying around somewhere quite recently, and if everyone would just shut up and stop dying for five minutes he could remember where he put it.
He was halfway through searching a desk drawer for the fifth time when someone decided to turn on the big TV that sat in the corner. Everyone cheered when the words “Sitting Duck” flashed up on screen, because everyone likes to see their hometown on the television, don’t they?
The cheering stopped quite quickly, though, as the rest of the report played out.
“… deadly zombie virus,” said the news anchor, “which has left government officials no option but to declare the town a quarantine zone. Military forces are on their way, and until such time as the zombie infection is contained, anyone attempting to leave Sitting Duck will be shot on sight.…”
“Why would they do that?” gasped Mayor Sozzle.
“… So the infection doesn’t spread any further, obviously,” said the news anchor, and with that, someone hit the TV’s mute button. The only sound in the room was the mayor sobbing uncontrollably. It didn’t exactly fill Sam with confidence.
“I don’t think Mayor Sozzle’s going to be much help,” Sam said, watching the mayor lie down on the carpet and start sucking his thumb. “So until the army gets here, we’re going to have to look after ourselves.”
Arty nodded in agreement. Even Phoebe didn’t argue. Sam glanced around the crowded room. “Now,” he said, “where’s Emmie?”
* * *
At that precise moment, Emmie was milling around outside, her arms outstretched, her mouth hanging open, and her feet shuffling her closer and closer to the Town Hall. She was slap bang in the middle of a group of zombies. Bits kept dropping off the one next to her. He had lost both arms and was down to just the one leg, although for a dead guy he was really quite good at hopping.
Scabby faces leered from the crowd as rotting bodies brushed by. Her heart pounded, her skin crawled, and her nostrils spasmed as the stink of the zombies swirled up them like nobody’s business.
But it was working! Her plan was working! The zombies weren’t even glancing her way, and the entrance to the Town Hall was only a dozen or so yards ahead. It had been surprisingly easy to sneak up behind them and shuffle her way into their ranks. They hadn’t batted a rotting eyelid as she’d joined in, lurching and staggering with the best of them. She didn’t want to sound bigheaded or anything, but she was clearly a genius. The plan was brilliant. Nothing could possibly go wrong now.
And then, quite out of the blue, Emmie sneezed. It was one of those sneezes that creeps up on you like a snot-filled ninja and explodes out of your nose with no warning whatsoever. Unfortunately for Emmie, zombies don’t sneeze. Aside from the fact that they don’t catch colds (they are technically dead after all, and you can’t get sicker than that), a strong sneeze would probably blow their heads off.
The zombies beside her stopped shuffling. Those ahead turned to face her. A hundred sets of jaws began gnashing hungrily in her direction as the undead horde spotted the impostor in their midst.…
* * *
Sitting Duck Zombie Protocol
In the (sadly) all too likely event that zombies invade the town of Sitting Duck, this official protocol will help ensure the number of people being eaten alive is kept to an absolute minimum. Follow these steps to ensure the safety of all Sitting Duck residents.
1. Avoid the Town Hall! You
might be thinking it seems like an easy place to fortify, but trust us: It’ll never keep zombies out. Going here spells almost certain death. If you are reading this official protocol inside the Town Hall, then make no mistake about it, you’re dead. You might as well lie down now and wait for it.
2. Don’t panic! Unless you’re in the Town Hall. Because then you’re doomed.
3. If there are zombies outside your location, do not open the window to get fresh air. I mean come on, that’s just common sense.
4. Do not put your arm in a zombie’s mouth because you think it’ll make a fun photo to laugh at later. It might, but you won’t be around to appreciate the joke.
5. Do not allow the town to be “cured” of zombies by a nuclear missile. That’s good advice anytime.
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
Everyone in the Town Hall heard the scream, but most of them pretended that they hadn’t, because people are like that sometimes. Especially when there’s a chance they’ll get their brains munched.
Sam, Arty, and Phoebe rushed to the window and looked out. At first they weren’t sure what they were looking at—it seemed as if the zombies were turning on one another. Then they realized the zombie they were turning on wasn’t a zombie at all.
“Emmie!” said Sam.
“She needs help!” said Arty.
“She needs a makeover,” said Phoebe. “I mean, like, OMG. What happened to her?”
“Will you forget about that stuff for one minute?” Arty snapped. “She’s going to die out there!”
The word echoed around inside Phoebe’s mostly empty head. Die. Die. Die. She realized then that she didn’t want Emmie to die. Emmie was the only girl she knew in Sitting Duck, and if Emmie got eaten, then Phoebe’s social circle would decrease considerably.
That just would not do.
With a bansheelike screech, and in a move so characteristically out of character it was terrifying in itself, Phoebe threw open the window and held a hand out to Emmie. “Quick, in here!” she cried, wishing she had worn gloves because Emmie looked even dirtier up close.
Emmie reached out a hand. Her fingers brushed against Phoebe’s. Then she saw one of the zombies lunge forward, teeth snapping.
“Like, ow!” Phoebe gasped, pulling her arm away. “That was harsh,” she muttered. Then she spotted the back of her hand and her face went pale. A half-moon shaped set of teeth marks was imprinted on her skin. As she stared, a trickle of blood crept along her fingers and dripped onto the floor.
“You’ve been bitten,” Arty gasped.
Phoebe glanced at him. “That’s … Is that bad?”
“You’ll turn into a zombie,” Sam said, which wasn’t exactly the most tactful way of breaking the news. A card would have been nicer. One with Sorry. You’ve Joined the Legions of the Living Dead written on it, and a picture of a cute zombie with a goofy face underneath.
Phoebe nodded slowly. “Right,” she said. “A zombie.”
Then she dropped her little handbag and ran, screaming, back along the passageway and off into the dark twisting corridors of the Town Hall.
“Don’t mean to be a pain,” said Emmie sharply, “but I’m about to be eaten out here!”
Sam and Arty yelped in fright and grabbed her. Emmie kicked and scrambled her way in through the window, booting a few zombies square in the face as she did.
As Emmie slid down onto the floor, Sam hurriedly closed the window behind her. For a long time, Emmie just lay on her back, breathing heavily and staring up at them.
“All right?” Sam asked, at last.
“Yeah, not bad, not bad,” Emmie replied. “How did you get here?”
“Walked. You?”
“Watched my neighbor get eaten, attacked Jesse with a baseball bat, pretended to be a zombie, and almost died.”
“Oh,” said Sam, fighting back a grin. “Our way was quicker.”
“Is Jesse okay?” asked Arty, adding Please say no, please say no, please say no, silently in his head.
“As okay as he ever is.” Emmie shrugged.
Arty tried to hide the disappointment on his face. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his brother; it was just that life would be so much easier if he got eaten. Also, it would mean that Arty would get his bedroom, and he’d always wanted that bedroom.
Emmie looked around. “Where did Phoebe go?”
“She ran off,” Sam said. “She’s been bitten. We should find her.”
Emmie nodded. “I can’t believe she did that. She risked her life to save me.”
“And after you were so horrible to her, too.…” Arty said. Emmie shot him a glare and he decided it was in his best interest to stop talking.
“Let’s go,” said Sam, but the mayor was suddenly blocking their path, his eyes as red as his nose. He wiped them on his sleeve, then pointed over to the TV just as someone turned the volume up.
Silence fell across the room. Everyone stared in horror at the news report.
News reports aren’t very cheerful at the best of times. Unless you catch the bits at the end when they talk about skateboarding cats or babies who’ve learned to burp the alphabet or something. Normally, though, the news is pretty depressing viewing.
This news report was the worst of the lot. It went something like this:
The news anchor said there was a zombie plague sweeping through the town of Sitting Duck.
Everyone cheered when they heard their town’s name on the television.
The presenter said the military had decided to take some decisive action.
A map of Sitting Duck appeared on screen.
Everyone cheered.
An artist’s impression of a thermonuclear explosion wiping out the town of Sitting Duck appeared.
Everyone sort of mumbled a bit and looked uneasy.
The presenter explained that if they couldn’t find a way to stop the zombies in the next twenty-four hours, the army would have no choice but to blow the town of Sitting Duck off the map with a massive bomb, to avoid the devastating zombie infection spreading.
The television was clicked off. Sam and the others exchanged a worried look. The mayor ducked under a desk.
“Twenty-four hours,” said Sam. He looked around the Town Hall. “This lot aren’t going to do anything, are they? It’s up to us. We need to find a way to fix this—after all, if we could find the town’s zombie protocol, I’m pretty sure it’d specifically say to avoid nuclear explosions!”
Emmie blinked. There was something she’d forgotten. Something important.
“I’ve got it!” cried Arty. “I know how we can stop them!”
“How?” asked Sam, excited.
“Hypnosis.”
Sam’s excitement faded quite a lot. “Hypnosis?”
“We can hypnotize them into forgetting they’re zombies!”
Emmie scratched her head. There was something she’d forgotten. There was definitely something …
“I’m not sure that’ll work,” said Sam.
“Of course it will!” yelped Arty, bouncing from foot to foot.
“Do you know how to hypnotize someone?” Sam asked.
Arty stopped bouncing. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
It was right then that Emmie remembered the thing she’d been trying to remember for the past minute or so. It was her turn to start hopping from foot to foot.
“Oooh!” she said. “Oooh, wait, I think I found something that’ll help us!”
“Hypnosis for Beginners?” asked Arty.
“No, it’s this.…” Emmie thrust a hand into her backpack and pulled out the little liquid-filled test tubes she had found in Professor Pamplemousse’s pocket. She handed them to Arty and he held them up to the light. “I got them off Professor Pamplemousse.”
“Really? Did you see him?” Sam asked.
Emmie nodded. “Bits of him, yeah.”
“This could be important,” Arty gasped. “Professor Pamplemousse was trying to tell us something before Mr. Grist
le came along. This must be it. It could be a cure!”
“So we could fix Phoebe?” Emmie asked.
Sam and Arty looked at her strangely. “If it works, it’ll fix everyone,” Arty said.
“Why so worried about Phoebe all of a sudden?” Sam asked. “I thought you didn’t like her?”
“I don’t,” Emmie said with a shrug. “But she did try to save me, and now she might be a zombie. Which might be an improvement, actually. But if she’s stuck as a zombie, she’ll only hold it over me—you know what she’s like.”
“Even if it is a cure, how do we get them to swallow it?” Arty wondered. “We don’t have a way of injecting them, so we need them to ingest it in some way.”
Emmie reached down and picked up Phoebe’s bag. Rummaging inside, she found a pink lip gloss that was all glossy and glittery, and smelled faintly of strawberries. “What if we put some of the cure in this?” she suggested. “Flesh-eating monster or not, I bet Phoebe won’t be able to resist slapping some of this on if she sees it.”
“Good plan,” said Sam. Outside, the streets were darkening as night crept sneakily overhead. “But we should get some rest now and look for her in the morning. If we’re going to save Sitting Duck from being blown to bits, we’re going to need to get some rest.”
Emmie’s brain wanted to disagree with this idea, but her body had already been completely sold on it and was slumping down onto a chair even as her brain was trying to come up with a sensible argument. It had been a long, exhausting day, but even as she rested her head on the arm of the chair, she knew the sounds of the zombies outside meant there was no way she’d manage to fall asleep.
Emmie fell asleep.
A moment later, Arty fell asleep, too, and with the clawing fingers of the living dead scraping against the windows, Sam settled down for the long, lonely wait until morning.
* * *
The Stages of a Zombie Transformation
1. “Hey, that crazy guy just bit me!”
