“Why?”
I guess I never thought why, so I said, “You use a nickname when you like someone.”
Sanjay turned the stuffed dog over and over in his hands. “Poopy Puppy knows nicknames.”
Okay, I had him talking. Babysitting an autistic kid wasn’t so hard.
“Really? Like what?”
Sanjay Patel held the stuffed dog up to his ear and knitted his brow. He sucked on his lip for a second and said, “Willy Foo Foo, Mr. Magnificent, Sparky, Mister Googlehead, Dollface, Tons of Fun, Johnny Fanny Gina Head, Captain Awesome, Mr. Fabulous, Porkchop, Emma Bemma Bum Smella, Pissy Missy, Miracle Boy, Danger Dan, Sister Boom Boom, J. Fo, Squirt, Mr. Wonderful, Fatty Fatty Bom Bom, Awesome McAwesome . . .”
My mouth dropped open for a second time as the information poured out of Sanjay’s mouth. He kept talking as Prianka rushed back into the living room with a bag in her hand. She scooped her brother up in her arms, stared at the ruined front door, and yelled to Trina.
“We’re going out the back. We still clear?”
“For just about a minute,” Trina yelled back after checking the area behind her. Then she disappeared from the window.
I followed Prianka through the torched kitchen and out the back door while Sanjay Patel kept rattling away.
“Joe Kickass, Snaggletooth, Pissy Baby, Fingers, Spunky, Ross the Boss, Retarded Jimmy . . .”
“Don’t use that word,” she snapped as we ran around the side of the house.
“Spanky, Weirdo . . .”
“Or that one,” she snapped again.
I made a mental note. Retarded and weirdo were off the table.
“Okay, okay,” I said to Sanjay. “You know nicknames.”
“Poopy Puppy knows nicknames,” he corrected.
Maybe he did. Who knows?
We got to Chuck Peterson’s bright yellow Hummer and piled inside. A few hundred yards away a group of poxers were advancing on the house—bloody, frightening, horrible things that were probably living very average lives up until they got infected. They were approaching speedy, or a necropoxer’s version of speedy. If I had to clock them, I’d say they weren’t going to win any metals at the Special Olympics, but I could really see how someone would have to be going at a pretty brisk walk to stay ahead of them.
We all slipped on our seat belts, because, well, safety first. I started the Hummer and backed out of the driveway. The roof on the Patel’s house was really starting to burn.
As we pulled away, Sanjay peered out the window and watched his home light up.
“Bye-bye,” he said as we passed by the staggering horde.
I didn’t know what we were doing or where we were going, but Sanjay’s words seemed pretty fitting.
“Yeah. Bye-bye,” I echoed. “Bye-bye.”
9
I LOOKED AT THE Hummer’s clock. The glowing display read just 10:52 in the morning. How so much could have happened in such a little amount of time was surreal. Still, there was one thing I knew—I was beat. Trina had packed a bunch of food in the duffel bags she had brought from our house, and we all took turns eating out of a box of Frosted Flakes. The sugar did us good, but I think we all still needed sleep, except for probably Sanjay who I guessed slept like a baby all night long in his big green submarine.
“Does anyone know how to get to the highway?” I said. “Those of us of the non-licensed variety don’t know directions.”
Prianka stared out the window, and Trina said nothing.
“No, really. I’m serious. I don’t ever watch where we’re going when Mom and Dad are driving. I don’t know where to go.”
Prianka blew air out through her nose. “When we . . . when we used to go to the movies we went down Main Street all the way to the end and took a left. I think the highway is out that way.”
“It’s a start,” I said and took a left off of Dwight and plowed down Main. Trina reached over, turned on the radio, and dialed to Jimmy James’s station.
“ . . . bookstores, libraries, and schools,” he said in an increasingly more raspy voice. “I repeat—this isn’t a movie. It’s imperative that you get as much material as you can get your hands on regarding survival skills. The best places to find this information is in bookstores, libraries, or schools. From what we’re hearing, it’s not pretty out there folks. Be prepared.”
I pressed redial on my cell. His phone rang on air, and he answered.
“This is WHZZ, and I’m Jimmy . . . just Jimmy. I could sure use some good news.”
“Tripp Light to the rescue,” I said.
“Tripp, my man. How did you guys make out?”
“We got her,” I said, looking in the rearview mirror at Prianka. Sanjay was huddled up against her, and she was stroking his head.
“Way to go, Dude,” said Jimmy James. There wasn’t a lot of gusto in his voice. “Where are you now?”
“Still in Littleham,” I said.
“Listen up, folks,” said Jimmy. “We have to help each other. Tripp here is a first rate example of what we need to do. If we don’t help each other, we’re no better than . . .” He stopped for a moment. When he started talking again he was slow and purposeful.
“Human beings are odd creatures,” he said. “We create weapons to destroy each other by the millions, yet we risk our lives to save just one. So be it. If each one of you out there can save just one, we’re twice as strong. If those two each save two, we’re four times as strong.” He coughed and was silent for a long moment. Finally he said, “It’s up to you, folks, because I’m not going to be here much longer.”
I remembered what he had said about where he was—in a sound booth, surrounded by Necropoxers.
I looked at Trina, and she looked at me. We didn’t need words to know what each other was thinking.
“Hey, Jimmy,” I said. “Can you take this call off the air for a sec?”
“No problem,” he said. “Be right back y’all. Meanwhile, here’s a little tune from our favorite local band, Little Gray Men.”
The music started, and I turned down the volume and pressed the speaker button on my phone.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Are you still surrounded by poxers?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Seven of them and a little boy. Is it really true out there? I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“It’s really true,” said my sister. “I’m Trina, Tripp’s prettier sib. We have Prianka with us and her little brother, Sanjay.”
“Unreal,” he said. I had to agree. “Listen, I’m in Amherst—only about a half hour from Littleham. Do you . . . do you think maybe you could come and get me?”
“No one has tried to get you?” gasped Prianka. “Unreal is right.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m just the voice inside the box. No one cares. I guess they figure they’ll listen until I just go off. I got to tell you, I’m pretty scared. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this sound booth and past all of them. Have you noticed that they seem to be getting faster?”
We noticed.
“Jimmy, how old are you?” I’m not sure why I asked.
“Nineteen,” he said, and we all exchanged glances. “This is my first gig as a D.J. I was getting some work-study credit at the University.”
We drove by the Mug N’Muffin where we saved Prianka. The glass on the door had been smashed. A few poxers sat on the front stoop and tilted their heads as we passed. Prianka gave them the finger, which was both weird and funny at the same time.
“You’re really just thirty minutes from Littleham?” said Trina.
“Yeah,” he said. “Would you really come for me?”
“We need someone older than us who knows things,” I said. “My parents texted us right after everything happened and told us t
o meet them at our aunt’s house, but we don’t know how to get there.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Someplace off the Mohawk Trail.”
Prianka leaned forward and dropped something between the two of us on the front seat. It was a road atlas of Massachusetts. “I found this in the door pocket,” she said.
“We have a road map. What’s your address?”
“I’m not broadcasting from campus,” said Jimmy. “I’m on Pleasant Street right next to the sub shop. The number is 610.”
“So we come get you, then we go to my aunt’s house to get my parents,” I said. “You game?”
“I’m sure as hell not playing any other,” he said. “But how are you going to get by all the dead people?”
“You leave that one up to us. Keep the lines open. We’re on our way.”
Prianka took the map back and gave it to Sanjay. He plopped Poopy Puppy down on his lap and opened up the atlas. Then quickly and methodically, he flipped through page after page until he had gone through the whole thing. By the time he was done I was at the end of Main Street and just starting to turn left.
“Right,” he said.
“But the highway’s left.”
“Poopy Puppy says the way to 610 Pleasant Street in Amherst, Massachusetts is right.”
There was that Poopy Puppy thing again. Trina flipped down her visor and looked at Sanjay through the mirror.
“Listen to him Tripp,” said Prianka. “He knows.”
“What do you mean, he knows?” said Trina.
“He just read the map,” she said. “So now he knows.”
Her words were so matter-of-fact that there was really no room for debate. I shrugged, and without even questioning, I turned right because Prianka Patel’s autistic kid brother’s creepy stuffed dog told us to.
Hey, good enough for me.
10
“SANJAY’S A SAVANT,” said Prianka as we drove down Three Rivers Road and over a green, metal bridge.
“A what?” I said.
“Savant,” said Sanjay. “Poopy Puppy says savant syndrome, sometimes referred to as savantism, is a rare condition in which people with developmental disorders have one or more areas of expertise, ability, or brilliance that are in contrast with the individual’s overall limitations. Although not a recognized medical diagnosis, researchers say the condition may be either genetic or acquired based on the epidemiology of the disorder.”
Mouth drop number three.
“He has both an auditory and a photographic memory,” said Prianka. “If he sees it, reads it, or hears it, he remembers.”
“So where did he just get that weird little definition from?” I asked. Trina was still staring at him through her mirror visor. I think I would have been, too, if I didn’t need my eyes on the road.
“Internet,” said Sanjay. “Poopy Puppy likes the Internet.”
“And the doctors say that his stuffed animal is like his microphone,” said Prianka. “For some reason everything has to come through Poopy Puppy.”
“Because Poopy Puppy’s smart,” said Sanjay.
“Yes he is,” I agreed. Creepy, creepy.
Three Rivers Road ended at a stop sign at the bottom of a long, wooded hill. There was a log cabin on the corner. Three necropoxers were wandering on the lawn. When they saw the Hummer, they immediately started moving toward us.
“Which way?”
Sanjay just stared into space. The poxers were half way across the lawn.
“You have to ask him what you want,” said Prianka as she eyed the poxers while testing the electric locks on the door. They clicked and clicked again.
“I did,” I said.
“Exactly. You have to say what you want—exactly.”
“Sanjay,” I said with just a teensy bit of hysteria rising in my voice. “There are zombies coming. Which way to 610 Pleasant Street in Amherst, Massachusetts?”
Sanjay took the ratty dog and held him to his ear. We waited. The poxers were ten feet from the car. He nodded and closed his eyes. The poxers were at the windows. God, they were ugly. Their skin was mottled and smeared with dried black gunk. Their eyes were dead eyes, filled with fog.
They started to bang on the windows with their fists. Now was not the time to see how well built a Hummer really was.
I slowly backed the car up, and they followed.
“I know one of them,” said Prianka. “That’s Ms. Whipple. She’s my karate teacher.” So Prianka really did have a belt of undetermined color. Knowing her, the belt was black, or at least some sort of dark, dark gray.
“Do you . . . did you like her?” I asked.
“Like in a ‘should-you-run-her-over-for-me-in-Chuck-Peterson’s- Hummer’ kind of way?” she said. “No, I’m good. But thanks for the thought. It was . . . it’s nice.”
Sure. Murder can be nice—just like wrapping up a bunch of body parts in a bouquet.
The poxers followed the car as I continued to back up the hill.
Finally, Sanjay spoke up. “Poopy Puppy says take a right, go 1.2 miles, then take a left on East Street.” He opened his eyes and saw the Necropoxers and started to scream that high-pitched scream of his. I pressed the gas and spun the wheel around the poxers, narrowly missing Ms. Whipple. When I got to the stop sign, I palmed the wheel right.
“You didn’t stop,” said Trina, mostly out of habit.
Oops. Guess I won’t be passing my driving test.
Prianka put a protective arm around Sanjay and began humming the same tune to him that she used back at the house. He stopped screaming pretty quickly.
Precisely 1.2 miles further down the road I took a left on East Street. I tried not to notice the little park we passed with dozens of dead things walking around the seesaws. I kept my eyes on the road. Driving was easier that way.
When I turned, Trina spoke up. “Sanjay,” she said. “Which way to 610 Pleasant Street in Amherst, Massachusetts?”
“Straight,” he said without skipping a beat. I guess Poopy Puppy must have told him that during their last conversation.
“Straight it is,” she said. We went over another bridge and through a neighborhood of older homes. Gradually, the houses faded away to rolling fields. I remembered this road. This was the way that Mom and Dad used to take us when we went pumpkin picking at Jolly O’s Fruit Farm.
The sun was shining. The sky was that crisp, blue color that you see in postcards. We had ourselves a perfect day, except for all the incredible imperfectness of it all.
Five minutes further down the road I saw something in front of us.
“What’s that?” said Trina.
Prianka leaned forward and squinted.
“Moo,” said Sanjay.
Moo was right. There was a herd of dairy cows in the middle of the road. I guess someone forgot to shut the barn door—or they were spooked.
I slowed down until we were about a hundred feet away from them.
“Why aren’t they crossing the road?” said Prianka.
“I guess they aren’t too anxious to get to the other side,” I said. I couldn’t resist, but it earned me a punch in the arm from Trina.
“Moo, moo,” Sanjay cried out. “Moo, moo.” He pointed over to our right and into the field where the cows had probably come from.
There was a crowd of poxers circling a dead cow like vultures. I’m not quite sure what they had in their hands, but I’d lay bets that whatever grossness they were fondling was from poor Bessie. The poxers were all in sturdy work clothes. I guessed this was their farm. Now that meat was number one on the priority list, they’d hit the zombie equivalent of the lottery.
“Don’t look, Sanjay,” said Prianka and put her hands over his face. “Can we just get out of here?”
Th
e poxers swarmed the poor cow like locusts. I admit, the whole scene was pretty gross, and I had seen my fair share of pretty gross things in the past twenty-four hours.
I gently pressed on the gas and the Hummer crept forward, just enough so that the cows begrudgingly parted for us as we waded through them.
“It reeks,” I said as the ripe smell of cow patty hit us.
“It masks the smell of the poxers,” said Trina. “And I bet they smell worse.”
When we finally got through the cows, I sped up again, and we were on our way. For future reference, when that little arrow on the dashboard is pointing squarely on E, that means E for empty.
No one ever told me that before.
11
“IT’S NOT MY FAULT,” sniped Trina.
“Well who was the one who had to date the big, stupid jock with the gas guzzler?” I shot back.
“The Hummer’s a bummer,” said Sanjay. “The top five reasons not to buy a Hummer are—the gas mileage will kill you, the Hummer receives more complaints than any other car, oil addiction leads to war, soldiers are dying in them, and other people will hate you.”
“My dad likes cars,” mumbled Prianka, avoiding our glares. “He reads a lot of online stuff to Sanjay.”
“That’s just great,” I said. “Can the walking Internet tell us how to get some gas?”
WE WERE A few miles further down East Street when Chuck’s banana-mobile sputtered and stalled. There were a couple of houses around, but not many. They looked a little like someone from the Ozarks had put them together with duct tape.
No poxers anywhere so that was good.
“I know this,” said Trina.
“Know what?” I said.
“I know how to get gas.” She opened the door and stepped out of the car. “How many stupid, apocalyptic horror movies do you have to watch before you know what to do?” she said and tramped off to the closest house.
“Coming?” I said to Prianka as I opened the door. She rolled her eyes, took Sanjay’s hand who, in turn, tightened his grip on Poopy Puppy, and they both got out of the car, too. The whole situation did have lame horror movie written all over it. All we needed was some banjo music, a movie cut-away shot of someone watching us through the trees, and a heavy breathing soundtrack.
Dead (A Lot) Page 4
