by Scott Craven
I squeezed the bag as hard as I could.
Nothing. But I felt something very wet down my side.
Luke laughed and pointed.
“Oh no, the saw-blade came off and cut you from your armpit to your waist,” he said. “Oh, the humanity.”
I looked to the right and saw a huge and very uncomfortable red stain spreading down my side. Luke reached up and pulled out the bag, which had opened along the zipper.
I could tell Anna was stifling a laugh. “Plan B?” she said.
I knew a balloon wouldn’t work because each of the fifty or so I’d tested busted as soon as pressure was put on. Rubber gloves didn’t work either. Too awkward. And by the time you cut heavy duty garbage bags down to fit into an armpit, there was no way to attach the tubing without blood leaking everywhere.
“A bulb?” Anna said.
I thought she was talking about a light bulb, the kind that goes off when you get a good idea. This was not, however, a good idea. How do you fill a light bulb with blood?
She saw my doubt. “You know, those plastic bulbs that come on those things you use to keep a turkey moist?”
“Baster?”
“What did you call me?”
“No, no, I’m sorry, I—”
“Jed, relax, I’m kidding. Yes, a baster. A turkey baster. They look like big syringes.”
“Right, that’s what I said. You baster.”
We laughed.
“You look even cuter when you smile,” Anna said. “You get less gray when you blush.”
Luke looked at the two of us. “All very adorable, but can we get back to business?”
We went to Phase Two, taking fifteen minutes to steal a few basters from our kitchens. Luke taped four bulbs together, and Anna inserted the tubing. There was more taping, and we put it in place.
“OK, here goes nothing,” I said.
I squeezed with my upper arm, pushing on the bulbs. A beautiful arc of fake blood streamed out, going at least ten feet. I was so happy; it never occurred to me how hard it was going to be to clean up.
“Dude, that was awesome,” Luke said. “Robbie is going to be a zombie in seconds. He’ll be a Rombie!”
“A Rombie, awesome,” Anna said.
I placed the zombifier—no, the Rombifier—on the work table.
I was feeling better about this. There was no way I’d be able to beat Robbie in a fight. But by playing to my strengths, I might have a chance at surviving seventh grade.
And even for a guy who spends every day in flat-line, survival hadn’t been so easy lately.
“This is going to show Robbie once and for all,” I said. “He’s been picking on the wrong zombie.”
“But,” Luke said, “you’re the only zombie.”
“Yeah,” I said. “For now.”
Chapter Fourteen
Anna and Luke helped me practice with the Ooze-a-Pult (as we called it) most of that day in the garage. We got it to a point where it fired every time. Perfectly. Accurately. So of course, as I stepped into Woodshop with the device stapled in place—another advantage of not being quite alive—I had no idea if it was going to work.
The Twitter campaign seemed to have been a success. I’d gotten used to bored looks of sevvies and eighth graders as I walked across campus. Brief eye contact, then looking down to say, “You are so not cool enough for me to look at.” Now their eyes wouldn’t meet mine at all. Some even gave me a wide berth.
The real clincher was a conversation I overheard in the boys’ room. I was in my usual stall at the usual time (third one back, right at the end of lunch) when the main door opened.
“He said it was crap,” one voice said. “The only way to make a zombie is some sort of government experiment, or some weird poison was released.”
“What suddenly makes him the expert?” a second voice said. “Just because his mom lets him stay up way too late watching horror movies doesn’t make him knowledgeable in all things zombie.”
“I don’t know anyone else who can recite lines to Night of the Living Dead. Hell, I don’t even know anyone else who’s seen that movie. Did you know it’s in black and white? Lame.”
“This may sound crazy, but I think this time maybe the movies got it wrong.” A third voice.
“You better shut up now, or I’ll make you shut up. The movies are never wrong.” First voice again.
The kid who didn’t trust movies spoke again. “You’ve seen the Wikipedia page. We all have. You want him bleeding on you? Do you trust movies enough that you wouldn’t go nuts if a few drops of zombie juice got on you?”
“I’m not saying it’s a total lie. It’s just that it’s a lot easier to explain zombie-to-person infections through a bite. Hollywood didn’t just make that up. It’s common sense.”
“Common sense? Really? Did any of you ever think you’d see a zombie going to school? And get pretty decent grades at that? Things are messed up. I’m keeping my distance, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You know who I don’t want to keep my distance from? Rachel Zemhoff. Did you see what she was wearing? I swear I could see—”
I heard the door open and the voices disappeared.
If all went as planned in Woodshop today, everyone was going to believe in the power of zombie blood.
Luke and I took our seats, and I glanced under my arm to make sure the Ooze-a-Pult was not glowing red, because that’s how it felt. Next I glanced at Robbie, two aisles over, just to make sure he was there. It was hard to know, because he considered Woodshop optional. Then again, he considered every class optional. That’s what made him Pine Hollow’s only professional student.
“Hey, aren’t you on the bandsaw today?” Chris said as I twirled the combination lock to my project locker. “I’m pretty far ahead. I can give you a hand.”
Chris had no idea he’d already given me a hand. I suppressed a smile.
“No, that’s OK, that’s something I’ve got to do myself. Otherwise I’m never going to learn.”
“Nothing against you, but you seem all thumbs.”
Oh geez. Was he just trying to be funny? Did he know about the “accident,” the Ooze-a-Pult? Had Luke let it slip?
“Jed, dude, hey, just kidding,” Chris said. “You’re not the worst I’ve seen. Nothing personal.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that,” I stammered. Had to come up with an explanation. My nerves were getting the best of me. “It’s just that, well, Robbie is on the bandsaw right after me.”
“Yeah, he’s a douche,” Chris said. “I know how he treats you … well, he treats a lot of people like that. The guy’s just a total bag.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got a lot of cutting to do, and I don’t need him breathing down my back.”
“All the more reason I can help you. No need to let Robbie get to you.”
“Thanks, but at some point I’ve got to make the cut myself.”
Literally.
Chapter Fifteen
I lugged the plastic box with my bookshelf parts to the band saw, tucked into the corner of the shop. At the start of the year Mr. Anderson gave a demonstration, manipulating a block of wood next to the blade in a spray of sawdust. Within seconds he had a perfect circle of wood about six inches in diameter.
“You will not be this good,” he said. “I do not expect you to be this good. But I do expect you to respect this machine. You will clean it when you are done. You will make sure it is off before you leave. You will depress the red safety button before turning the machine over to the next person in line. Any questions. No. Good.”
As usual, if there were any questions, Mr. Anderson made sure there was no time to ask them.
I approached the bandsaw, putting the remains of my bookshelf on the table next to it. If you don’t know what a bandsaw is, it’s probably the coolest machine in the shop. The long, very narrow, and extremely sharp blade is wrapped around two metal wheels like a pulley. When those two wheels get cranked up, the blade travels at about 100 mph and rips right through
wood. Not that I’d ever quite gotten to this stage personally, but it’s supposed to be excellent for detail work because you can work the wood in almost any direction. Sometimes you don’t even feel any drag as you push the wood into the blade.
Ever since Chris told me about it, I’d done quite a bit of research. He was right. It cut through wood like butter. Imagine what it could do to a finger. And a dead finger at that.
I took two four-by-six-inch planks out of the basket. On each I’d drawn a design in light pencil, a delicate curve with some fluting on the top that I thought would look nice, not caring that it was way beyond my bandsaw skills. I had no intention of actually following the designs since woodwork was still about as familiar to me as a pulse. It was all just part of the game.
I turned the first board one way, then the other, then flipped it around again. I stepped back as if unsure where to start.
“Maybe sometime today, DJ?”
Robbie stared over my shoulder. Perfect.
“Nice. Totally gay design, meatstick,” he said. “Your boyfriend help you with that?”
I turned around quickly and, wait, did Robbie flinch? Pull back for no reason, as if startled? Yes, he did. My setup with Wikipedia and Twitter really did seem to have worked. But I had to know for sure.
“Little jumpy there, Robbie?”
“Not at all, Zom-boy. Is that music I hear, or are you just de-composing? Get it?”
“Good one, Robbie. But zombies don’t decompose. It’s all part of being a zombie. You know nothing about zombies, do you?”
“You’d be surprised what I know, carrion bait. You know what carrion is, right? Roadkill. Which is what you’re going to be at some point.”
He pulled back his arm, his fist primed for my shoulder, and stopped. He lowered his hand. “You gonna be done here soon? I actually know what I’m doing.”
Why didn’t he punch me? Perhaps he was afraid of contact.
“Studies have shown zombies are better with their hands than breathers,” I said. “Look it up. It’s out there.”
“That’s bull and you know it,” Robbie said. “Only studies done on meatbags like you is on how dangerous you can be. It’s on Wikipedia. I’d send you the link but your computer is probably as dead as you are.”
That sealed it. Game on.
I turned back to the task at hand. I knew exactly where to start the cut, on the edge where my design slowly curled around in a gentle curve. It was the easiest cut to make, and the only one where the blade was likely to follow the line.
The buzz of other saws now filled the room, the scent of sawdust in the air. I hit the red safety button and flipped the switch to “On.” The low hum of the motor was comforting.
I put my foot on the pedal and pressed hard a few times, like revving a car. The table vibrated with each rev, the buzz going all the way up my arms. Calmness overtook me. If I’d had a heartbeat, I was sure it would have been pretty slow right then.
“In case you might not have noticed, I’m waiting,” Robbie said. “Move it, you undead douche. Unless, of course, you want to spend some quality time in a trash can of my choice. I was thinking the one next to Biology, where they dump the dissected stuff. That way you’d be with your own kind.”
The whirring blade bit cleanly into the wood—birch? Oak? Didn’t know, didn’t care. Applying slight pressure, I maneuvered the plank perfectly, the saw following the line as if laser-guided. Even along the more intricate areas, my hands were oddly unfailing. Calmness settled over me. A zig here, a zag there, a curve this way. When finished, I held the bracket in front of me, blowing the sawdust away and brushing it.
It was perfect. Definitely “A” work.
A shame it would go to waste.
“Great, what a wonderful job, now let me in,” Robbie said, his elbow jabbing my side. “You’ll see how a man does it. A man with active brain waves.”
I squelched the urge to say, “Are you sure about that?” Instead, I stood my ground and said, “Just one more, it’ll be a minute.”
“You better start now because I’m timing you,” he said. “If you’re one second late, you will be in pieces because I will run you through that saw myself.”
I had to laugh at that one.
“Really, that funny to you? We’ll see if you’re laughing after school, brain-dead.”
I put my foot on the pedal and pressed, the saw roaring to life. The blade was mesmerizing, and though I lost myself in it, I moved the board as perfectly as I had the first time.
When I was about halfway done, hitting the tricky zigzag area, I leaned over slightly and inched my right middle finger closer to the whirring blade. If I could take a big breath, it would have been right here.
The blade slipped through flesh so cleanly I hardly knew it was over. Until a sharp pain shot up my right arm, reminding me that even the undead can hurt. The pain quickly disappeared, allowing me to marvel at my cleanly severed finger. There was a dull throb at the spot of the injury, with a small drip of blood and Ooze smeared on the wood.
It was time.
“Yaaaagggghhhhhh!” I shouted, putting my severed finger next to the still spinning saw as I lifted my foot from the pedal, gripping my hand. “Help me, help me, oh God, my finger.”
I spun, feigning immense pain as best I could. No Oscar, but not bad.
Robbie stepped back, his mouth in a perfect circle of surprise. I flexed my right shoulder and squeezed. I could feel the bulbs press inward.
And … nothing. I pushed down again with my bicep, felt the bulbs contracting. Still, nothing. I did the only thing I could do. I screamed some more, bending over as I did.
With my other hand, I felt along my arm, following the tube. There, a kink in the hose. The staple had gone in too far.
“Zomboy, you need to get that thing covered and get out of my way, or so help me—”
With the staple pulled out, we had blood flow. I straightened, giving one last scream for effect, and squeezed again.
This time, toxic zombie “blood” shot from my severed finger. It was like a gorgeous red rainbow, and Robbie’s face was the pot of gold.
Until he ducked to the left, the blood going harmlessly over his shoulder. It was almost as if he’d expected it. He moved so fast he lost his footing, kicking out his right foot, which caught me in the ankle, buckling it. We both went down, and I fell squarely on my right side.
Right on top of the Ooze-a-Pult. Which gave one last gasp of blood before dying.
I watched as that stream arced toward Robbie. Everything slowed as the crimson liquid spattered Robbie’s neck, chin, and cheek, blooming like sapphire roses.
Robbie leaped to his feet, frantically wiping at his face, which served only to work it in more.
“No no no no no, get it off get it off GET IT OOOOFFFFFFFF.”
The workshop was eerily quiet, save for Robbie’s screams that bounced off the walls. Every machine had stopped, every face was turned my way. Those at nearby workspaces ran over to Robbie, eyes darting between him and the red streaks on the floor that ran between him and me. Those who did see the blood on Robbie’s face were quick to react. I could pick up a few voices in between Robbie’s shouts.
“Is that zombie blood?”
“Did you swallow any?”
“Robbie’s gonna be a zombie.”
“Robbie zombie.”
“Cool.”
Robbie fought through the crowd, trying to get to the exit, bouncing from one person to another until he was clear to run for the door.
Chris appeared at my side.
“Dude, what, why is your, did you … ?” Chris said. “Is that your finger on the saw table?”
“Yeah, it sure is.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“Zombie pinball.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Could I please borrow your stapler?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your stapler. Just for a second.”
Principal B
uckley let out a little “hmph” and nodded toward the stapler perched on the edge of his desk. I reached into my left pocket and took out my right middle finger, which I’d wrapped and taped tightly in a paper towel. I picked at the tape, but to no avail, since my longest fingernail was rolled up inside.
“Scissors?” I said.
“What?”
“Scissors? Just for a second.”
Principal Buckley leaned over, disappearing for a moment behind his immense desk (if I stood and bent over it, I still wouldn’t be able to touch him, no doubt its intention). I heard some scraping sounds, a soft thump, and then he popped up with scissors in hand—the blunt-tipped kind for preschoolers.
“Uh, thanks.”
The scissors were useless, but I managed to pull away the tape, unroll the paper towel, and reveal my finger, which looked no worse for the wear. Putting the scissors and towel on the desk (and ignoring Principal Buckley’s scowl, since that was how his face looked all the time), I slipped the severed finger under the business end of the stapler, lined it up carefully with the stump, and then slammed a staple home with a metallic ka-CHUNK. I turned my hand over and stapled the finger together on the other side.
A gentle tug revealed it would hold for now, but would need sturdier staples and duct tape to heal completely, probably in a week or so.
Principal Buckley’s face had softened a bit, and he seemed a little pale. He kept looking at my finger, so I put it on my lap.
After ten seconds of silence, he cleared his throat.
“You know why you’re here.” It wasn’t a question.
Yeah, I pretty much knew why. But I didn’t want to come out and confess. That was like asking for the maximum sentence. One time Dad was pulled over after going probably 80mph on the highway. The whole time Mom was telling him to slow down, but when the cop came to the window and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Dad looked him in the eye and said, “No idea, officer. I’m pretty sure I was adhering to all applicable traffic laws.” He got off with a warning.
Besides, I was the one with the severed finger. And I was not afraid to play the undead card.
