Could he have been the one to loosen the screws on the chandelier, hoping to kill Mrs. MacGillicuddie, plus the Swanson twins and who knows how many more people, if Ernestine hadn’t been there? Could he have staged the fight, drawn the crowd to the right spot, and then used the fishing wire to yank the chandelier down? Could he have disguised himself as a zombie, broken into Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s suite, and slipped the poison into her bourbon?
Would he kill the two of them if he suspected them of suspecting him? Would there be another unfortunate “accident” at MacGillicuddie House, this one successful?
Before Mr. Talmadge could wonder at her unusual silence, Charleston solved her dilemma for her. Hopping from one foot to the other, he pointed down the alleyway and stuttered, “Z-Z-Z-Z-ZOMBIEEEE!”
“We followed it from MacGillicuddie House.” Ernestine crossed her arms, stuck her nose up in the air, and glared at him disapprovingly as though he had just interrupted some Very Important Work. Which he actually had. “We would have been able to apprehend it, too, if you hadn’t stopped us just now.”
Squinting off down the alleyway in the direction the zombie had disappeared, Mr. Talmadge said, “Wasn’t it just a chap looking for clothes? When have you ever met a zombie who cared about the way he was dressed?”
“When has anyone ever met a zombie doing anything?” Ernestine countered. Then she marched off down the alleyway, dragging Charleston along behind her.
“But I don’t want to get eaten!” he protested.
“And I don’t want to get murdered.”
“Aw, Mr. Talmadge wouldn’t murder us!”
“Someone we’re friends with is trying to murder someone else we’re friends with,” Ernestine pointed out as they reached the end of the alleyway, where it spilled out onto the next street over. There wasn’t a zombie in sight. Unless you counted several dozen people who looked like they were probably shuffling their way over to Mitzy’s for a mocha or frappucino.
“Unless it’s someone in Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s family who is trying to murder her. Mr. Sangfroid did say he knew things about them that would turn her hair white. Given all the dye she pours on it, whatever their secrets are, they’ve got to be pretty impressive.”
“Hm, maybe.” Right now, Ernestine didn’t know what to think, also an unusual experience for her, and one she didn’t at all like.
A search of the street didn’t turn up any zombies. They tried asking a few passersby if they had seen anything, but all they got for answers were weird looks. Giving up, they headed off to school on foot, arriving late. This was one more first in a day of many for Ernestine.
When she reached science class, Ernestine discovered Mrs. Hawthorne temporarily outside of the classroom due to Riccardo Chapa having thrown up as soon as the day’s lab assignment called for them to prick their fingers to do a simple blood test. Boy, if he thought that was bad, wait until he saw arms and jaws and ears falling off the undead hordes.
Deciding she’d better take advantage of the situation to apprise her classmates of the fact they were about to be eaten, Ernestine hopped up on Mrs. Hawthorne’s desk.
“All right, listen up, people,” she shouted. “The end is at hand. And I don’t mean the end of the semester. I mean the end of the world. The zombie apocalypse is upon us and only the smart, the strong, and those with a plan will survive. Fortunately for you, I have a plan.”
Ernestine handed out the photocopies she always kept on hand for the day she’d need them. One side had a neatly typed survival strategy, while the other displayed a close-up still from a movie depicting someone getting rather graphically eaten by several half-decayed corpses. Nothing like a little shock value to get people to grasp the gravity of the situation. If you wanted people to panic, then by golly, sometimes you had to give them something to panic about.
The entire class was in the process of securing the perimeter by barricading the windows with their chairs when Mrs. Hawthorne came back in. Possibly, she might have been open to hearing what Ernestine had to say had Rainbow LeBoux not swung a chair at her head while screaming, “ZOMMMBIEEEE!”
Possibly, but even Ernestine had to admit the odds had never been good.
Ten minutes later, she found herself back in Mr. Price’s office, another cup of hot chocolate in her hands.
“So, Ernestine…” For a moment, Mr. Price seemed to be at a loss for words. He fixed himself a cup of hot chocolate and began again. “I hear you had an interesting night last night.”
“I know, right?” Ernestine sat up straighter, pleased someone finally understood the gravity of the situation. “I mean, who knows how many people our zombie has infected by now? It’s probably a full-scale epidemic, and I can’t get anyone at the CDC to take my call!”
“Zombie… CDC…” Mr. Price repeated, looking completely flummoxed. Then he shook his head and said, “I meant Eduardo and Mrs. MacGillicuddie. Your mother called the school this morning. She thought we should know in case you were having trouble coping.”
“Oh.” Ernestine slumped back in her chair. “That.”
“It seems like that might stir up some bad memories,” Mr. Price said gingerly, “of Rocco.”
Right. Rocco. Also known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Or at the very least, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-If-You-Didn’t-Want-Ernestine-to-Add-You-to-Her-Zombie-Hit-List. Which was actually quite extensive. And which Mr. Price totally knew.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t say that name, thank you kindly,” Ernestine replied coldly. “I thought we’d agreed on that.”
“I know, Ernestine. But given the events of last night… and this morning…”
Ernestine sat up very straight, really quite angry. So angry, in fact, that she had to hold her hot chocolate very carefully to keep from slopping it because her hands were shaking so badly. “For the record, I saved Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s life. Three times. Once from the chandelier, once from the zombie, and once from whoever was trying to poison her. I would think that would garner me some sort of respect. But, oh no, everyone thinks that makes me deranged. And all because I also had to save myself from Rocco, who you seem so keen to talk about. If you find him so fascinating, why don’t you go talk to him? I’m sure he’s got plenty of free time up in the state penitentiary! For my own part, I’ve got a zombie apocalypse to stop, and I can’t get anyone to take me seriously, including you! I bet you don’t even believe in zombies, do you, Mr. Price?”
Ha! Take that! Ernestine set down the hot chocolate and crossed her arms defiantly.
In response, Mr. Price loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt to show her the t-shirt he wore underneath. It read: Brains: It’s What’s for Dinner with a funny cartoon zombie drooling over a brain-burger beneath the words.
Well! Ernestine certainly hadn’t expected that.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.
“Welcome to my world,” Mr. Price replied dryly. “Ernestine, I’ll admit that I don’t think the zombie apocalypse is upon us, but I also think it makes the world a lot more interesting to believe in zombies. However, I also know from your file that Rocco is a big fan of zombies. He even used to dress up as them and go to conventions.”
Mr. Price seemed determined not to drop the subject of Rocco. Stupid Rocco. A charming snake-in-the-grass Maya had dated for a few months when Ernestine was in kindergarten. It hadn’t been long, but that had still been enough time for Ernestine to decide that Rocco deserved to be eaten by one of the zombies he loved so much. “I don’t know what Rocco does with his time these days, and I really don’t care. But when I finally do start the zombie apocalypse, he’s going to be in for a really, really big surprise from his favorite creatures.”
“So that’s why you’re so focused on the apocalypse.” Mr. Price nodded like it all made sense. “You want Rocco to feel betrayed in the same way you felt betrayed.”
Not liking the implication that he finally had her pegged, Ernestine said, “Just think about how much better everyth
ing is going to be when zombies attack! Having a common goal brings people together. You want world peace? Then what you need is a zombie apocalypse. Having the undead swarm all over really forces you to put your priorities in the right place. No one will have time for wars or polluting the environment or dating really horrible creeps who do mean things to their kids. Or—or—or putting their stupid art careers ahead of their kids! They won’t forget that it’s your birthday on Saturday, and all because some dumb gallery opening is the same night! It’ll make families come together and be real families because nothing is going to make you have an epiphany like a zombie munching on your brain.”
Finished, Ernestine sat back smugly and sipped her hot chocolate. Let Mr. Price try and peg her now. She knew enough about psychology to know that there were multiple layers of dysfunction there. Ha! No one was ever going to accuse her of being easy to understand.
Nonplussed, Mr. Price stuttered various nonsensical things, trying to wrap things up unsuccessfully. Eventually, he decided she probably wasn’t a threat to society, added some more notes to her file, and sent her back to class.
“You know, Ernestine, none of our other top students have ever had a file half as thick as yours,” Mr. Price sighed, making Ernestine glow with pride. She liked being the best at things.
Rather than heading directly to her next class, Ernestine marched back to Mrs. Hawthorne’s classroom. Her science teacher had done a bang-up job of getting the room back in order. You’d never know it had been ready to withstand a zombie invasion. Mrs. Hawthorne definitely needed to be on Ernestine’s post-apocalypse clean-up crew.
“I’m really sorry about Rainbow almost hitting you with a chair. I told him to wait until he could see the whites of their eyes, but I guess he got a little carried away.” Ernestine set a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate down in front of her science teacher. “I wanted to bring you a cup of coffee since I know that’s what you normally drink, but Mr. Price thought you might already be feeling a little jittery.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Mrs. Hawthorne said dryly, accepting the cup and taking a sip.
“Well, yes. Everyone should feel a bit skittish with zombies around.” Ernestine pulled out the Ziploc bag containing last night’s zombie body part and plunked it onto the lab table. “Speaking of the undead, would you mind taking a look at this and telling me if zombie molecular structure is any different from that of a not-dead person, please. I’m sort of curious.”
“Good lord. Where on earth did you get that?” Mrs. Hawthorne picked the bag up with a pair of tweezers and looked at it like it might try to tear her head off. Which it might.
“Got it off of a dead guy.” Ernestine hopped up onto a stool and folded her hands on the table, patiently waiting for her answer.
Mrs. Hawthorne unzipped the bag and used her tweezers to pull out the disgusting hunk of decaying flesh. She poked at it a couple of times and it wiggled gelatinously. Then she popped it under a microscope and studied it for a while, making very intelligent hmmmm-ing sounds as she did so.
“Well?” Ernestine asked eagerly. “Is it different?”
“It’s latex,” Mrs. Hawthorne said flatly, dumping the zombie part back in its bag and handing it to Ernestine.
“What?” Ernestine was taken aback.
“I have no idea what on earth it is, but it’s made up of latex rubber.”
“Since when do zombies turn into latex?” Ernestine asked incredulously.
“Never, as far as I know.” Mrs. Hawthorne picked up her cup of hot chocolate and turned back to her stack of grading.
“Huh.” Scowling, Ernestine skulked off to her next class.
So last night’s zombie was a fake. But what about that homeless-looking guy this morning? There had definitely been something funky about his skin. But was he rotting or just in need of a good dermatologist? And had he been the one to break into the house the other night? Or was Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s would-be murderer disguising himself or herself as a zombie?
It looked like Ernestine had a zombie that definitely wasn’t and a zombie that maybe was.
Plus a houseful of geriatric suspects and a suspiciously greedy family, though thankfully that last one was not her own.
Finally, she needed to remind her mother of the real reason why February fourteenth was important, while also getting everyone to stop talking about Rocco forever.
The apocalypse was turning out to be far harder to start than Ernestine had thought.
Chapter Eight
Lost: One Zombie
WEDNESDAY, 3:20 PM
“How’d the math test go?” Ernestine asked Charleston on the bus ride home.
“Piece of cake,” Charleston said. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose we have any, do we?”
“No, and we don’t have time for that, anyhow.” Ernestine handed him a thick stack of papers. She’d placed a picture of a half-decayed zombie at the top of the sheet. Beneath it, in seventy-two-point capitalized font, she’d typed, MISSING ZOMBIE! Then, in smaller letters, she’d added: Zombie lost from St. Millicent Cemetery on Tuesday, February 10th. If found, please return promptly to grave marked Herbert Edward McGovern, plot 982. Shovels available upon request at MacGillicuddie House for Elderly and Retired Artists, Both Performing and Otherwise. “What do you think?”
“I think I hope that no one shows up at our door with it on a leash,” Charleston sighed.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Ernestine waved a hand unconcernedly. Charleston did tend to get hung up on inconsequential details.
They plastered the neighborhood with the signs, including the boarded-up mansions that no one lived in anymore. If you were a zombie taking a break from your murderous rampage, where else would you hang out?
“Far out,” said the young shaggy guy working the cash register at the army surplus store near where the zombie had been clothes hunting that morning. “Like, yeah! Zombie revolution, man!”
“No, no. Not revolution. Apocalypse,” Ernestine corrected. Quite frankly, she didn’t think much of this guy’s odds should either one occur. Judging by his outfit, he had yet to figure out how to wield an iron against his shirt and pants, let alone a weapon against a zombie’s cranium.
“Zombies? Zombies?” demanded the old guy in fatigues who owned the store. He had long hair that would never pass any kind of military inspection and eyes that popped so far out of their sockets Ernestine privately wondered if they were attached by retractable strings. “The undead have arisen?”
“Not all of them.” Charleston handed him a flyer. “Just one.”
The pop-eyed guy took one look at it, and went, “AAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!”
Then he ran screaming from the store, waving the flyer wildly in the air. Ernestine, Charleston, and the shaggy guy stared after him.
“Finally, a sensible reaction,” Ernestine said with satisfaction.
“He’s kinda paranoid,” the shaggy guy explained.
“Just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean there aren’t zombies coming to eat your brain,” Ernestine warned ominously. The shaggy guy gulped and nodded, looking nervously around in case they had already arrived.
Finished putting up their signs, Ernestine and Charleston returned home, stopping by Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s apartment to see how Eduardo was doing. Walking in, they found all Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s family plus the psychiatrist cringing together on the settee while Mrs. MacGillicuddie attempted to load a shotgun. The doctor scribbled furiously in his notebook, but everyone else pretty much seemed frozen in terror. Ripe for zombie-picking, Ernestine thought, shaking her head.
For once, Eduardo was the one lying on the fainting couch in a quilted silk robe and slippers. One hand lay limply against his forehead, and he looked quite ill. That could have been because he’d been poisoned only the night before. Or it could be because Mrs. MacGillicuddie was brandishing a shotgun.
“Come to finish him off, have you?” Mrs. MacGillicuddie demanded of her
nephew, son, and granddaughter. She wore a red sequined gown, her tiara smashed onto her bouffant black hair. In her agitation, she’d gotten her false eyelashes askew but had otherwise done an admirable job of shoveling on her makeup without Eduardo’s help. Diamonds and rubies cascaded about her ears, throat, and fingers. “Well, you’ll have to get through me first! Tried to crush me, and that didn’t work! Tried to break my neck, and that didn’t work! Tried to poison me, and that didn’t work! How many different ways do you plan on killing me?”
“Well, that depends on how many times they’re planning on bringing you back from the dead,” Ernestine pointed out as she ducked behind a curio cabinet when the shotgun barrel swung in her direction. Charleston took coverage in the forest of potted ferns she had hidden in the other night.
“Bah!” Mrs. MacGillicuddie snapped the gun shut with so much force that it went off and decapitated the bust of her former husband’s great-great-grandfather-in-law. Everyone dove for cover.
“Mother!” Rodney gasped from underneath Eduardo’s fainting couch, while Eduardo simply closed his eyes.
“Never did like him!” Mrs. MacGillicuddie said cheerfully, surveying her handiwork.
Since Mrs. MacGillicuddie really didn’t like them either, Aurora Borealis joined Rodney in scurrying under the couch, while Lyndon and the psychiatrist shot out of the room, the former trying to interest the doctor in his latest business scheme for drive-through psychiatric services in old fast-food buildings.
“I’m confused,” a potted fern said to Mrs. MacGillicuddie in Charleston’s voice. “Does this mean you’re doing good or bad after last night?”
“Bad,” her son and granddaughter said in unison just as Mrs. MacGillicuddie said, “Good.”
“Uh, Mrs. MacGillicuddie?” Coming out from behind the curio cabinet, Ernestine went over and gingerly moved the box of ammunition out of the reach of Mrs. MacGillicuddie’s lacquered red nails. “How about if Charleston fixes you some hot chocolate?”
Ernestine, Catastrophe Queen Page 10
