Zombies Don’t Read: 25 YA Short Stories

by Rusty Fischer

  I steer my little brother’s bike through the silent streets of downtown, splashing through orange pools cast by the flickering streetlights of tiny Mystic, North Carolina.

  My brother is 11, by the way, so the bike is a rusty neon green mongoose, completely lame, but… what else was I going to do?

  I couldn’t very well start up my own car in the driveway at 1 a.m. and not alert the entire house to my ongoing insomnia (two weeks and counting, folks), so… it was either take the lame-oid bike or walk.

  I pedal furiously, because that’s the only way to ride a mongoose, and my knobby knees nearly keep hitting my nose with every turn of the bike chain.

  There is a chill in the air and the early birds already have smatterings of carved pumpkins on their porches, even though Halloween is still nearly three weeks away.

  There is one of those canned iced coffees in the bike’s basket, wedged next to a few items of clothing that aren’t really dirty but… if I didn’t bring something to wash, then what excuse would I have for showing up at the Suds ‘N Spuds Laundromat for the third time this week?

  I feel my heart beating the closer and closer I get to Sycamore Street and 5th, and it’s not because I’m pedaling all that fast or anything.

  In fact, now that I’m almost there, I’m taking it kind of… slow.

  Not because I can’t wait to see him, but because the longer I take, the less predictable I seem.

  Soon the brightly lit shopping center is in view as I trundle over Mystic’s sidewalks and curbs.

  I see his big white van out front, thumping my heart into overdrive, and steer my bike next to the concrete bench between the Laundromat and the sub shop next door.

  I can feel his eyes on me through the plate glass window, soft and dark, but take my time locking up my bike just the same.

  I even force myself to whistle; you know, to cap off that whole, fake casual, fake accidental “Oh, fancy meeting you here again” effect I’m going for.

  The place smells like soap suds and soda pop as I walk in, the bright lights hurting my eyes after the 20-minute bike ride from our house on Culver Lane.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he croaks, leaning rakishly on a tumbling washing machine.

  He’s in his usual; faded blue jeans, white T-shirt, battered sneakers, cocky grin.

  “Yeah,” I mutter because… dude just stole my line.

  Under the lights his skin is pavement gray, his black hair cut short and close to his skull.

  “Don’t you have school in the morning?” he asks as I walk to the washing machine next to his and dump in four new pairs of socks and a baby doll T-shirt I outgrew three years ago (but he doesn’t need to know that).

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but then… I’m not failing AP History, either.”

  “I’m not failing, Scar; I’m just… not passing.”

  Scar shakes his head, scratching behind his ear; you know, where the scar starts.

  The one that travels down the side of his neck and into the top of his snuggly white T-shirt.

  “Do you have change?” I ask, holding out three crumpled ones.

  “Again?”

  “I can’t sneak out of the house if I’ve got quarters jingling all in my pockets,” I explain.

  “You only need two for the washer and dryer,” he points out.

  “Yeah, but I skipped dinner and am jonesing for some chips right about now.”

  “You’re lucky I got extra,” he says, handing over twelve quarters from his snug jeans pocket. “Just in case.”

  “Just in case… what?” I flirt, though I’m not really very good at it.

  He shrugs and avoids my eyes.

  “You know…” he kind of mumbles, eyeing his shoes.

  I nod because, yeah; I kind of do.

  I slide four quarters in to get the washing machine going, then saunter away to the back wall, which is covered with eight separate vending machines, each one featuring just about every known variety of potato chips on the planet.

  That’s it; just… chips.

  No candy or gum or mints or nuts or even trail mix; just row after row of chips, glorious chips.

  (Hey, the dude didn’t name it Suds ‘N Spuds for nothing!)

  I buy two bags, per usual, hoping tonight Scar will finally take one; he doesn’t.

  “Are you on some kind of special diet or something?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “I never see you eat; here, at school, at the mall, whatever. Most guys I know eat like pigs 24/7.”

  He holds up a can of Sunshine Soda and says, “This is all I need at this time of night.”

  “Speaking of this time of night… why are you still up and… doing laundry?”

  “You first,” he smirks.

  “Me? That’s easy; I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two weeks. What’s your excuse?”

  “My excuse is I work the graveyard shift at the Traffic Town Convenience store on 18th and Main, and I’m too wired after work to go home and sleep.”

  “So… you do laundry?”

  “Hey,” he grins. “Look who’s talking!”

  “Okay, okay, so we’re not exactly the coolest cats at Mystic High.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he grunts, switching over his laundry just as mine starts spinning.

  “Sorry,” I grin. “I guess your hundreds of friends just left.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he smiles. “They just did.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I watch him move while he shoves his clothes in the dryer; his arms aren’t big but they’re all muscle.

  Muscle and sinew and veins squirming beneath his marble pale skin.

  His shirt is short and lifts up in the back, revealing the same gravestone pallor and fat free skin.

  He turns too quickly for me to look up fast enough and asks, “See anything you like?”

  Luckily, he’s as clumsy as he is hot.

  “You dropped a sock,” I manage to bluff.

  He looks down, thinking I’m joking.

  “Oh,” he grumbles, mildly embarrassed. “I guess I did.”

  The night stretches on as we fluff and fold, joke and laugh, flirt and blush.

  Well, I blush; in two years at Mystic High I’ve never seen the dude blush, sweat or bleed – three things most guys do 12 times a day.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” he asks as he folds his clothes and I run mine through the last cycle in the dryer.

  “I dunno,” I say. “I just… can’t.”

  “Have you ever had this problem before?”

  “No. I’ve always slept like a rock until last Tuesday night.”

  “Anything special happen Tuesday day?”

  “No, and I’ve racked my brain, too. I’m not stressing about school, I don’t have any guy troubles, I’m not cheering this year so I can eat what I want… life is good. Except, you know, for the whole ‘not sleeping’ part.”

  “Yeah, you’re looking pretty draggy in Home Ec lately.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Just saying, sleep isn’t a lifestyle choice, Cleo; you actually need it.”

  “The doctor said I’ll get sleepy when I get sleepy.”

  “Okay,” he harrumphs, the last of his laundry folded and stowed away in his wicker hamper. “Sounds about right.”

  “The weird thing is, it feels like the middle of the day, you know?”

  He nods knowingly; almost… sadly.

  “Yeah, actually; I do.”

  “Like, I could run three miles and still not be sleepy. Like I could watch six monster movies and not be sleepy.”

  “Depends on the monster movie, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, you’re right!” I say, hiding my mouth as I do that laugh-snort thing everybody makes fun of; he barely seems to notice.

  He stands next to his hamper, in no rush; it’s like that every night.

  “It’s okay,” I say, quietly, as if maybe he won’t hea
r. “I’ll be all right if you have somewhere to go.”

  “I’m not leaving you in this Laundromat alone, Cleo. It’s not the greatest neighborhood, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  I nod and in a few minutes the dryer dings and I fold my fake clothes; it takes less than two minutes, and that’s really, really stretching things.

  When I’m ready, when my chip bags are thrown away and he’s tossed his empty soda can in the trash and I’ve got my pitiful excuse for a trip to the Laundromat under one arm, he picks up his wicker hamper and follows me outside.

  It’s chillier now, and I zip up my pink camouflage hoodie just a smidge.

  And still, as the night races on, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

  I look up, at the sky, and see a half-full moon covered in spotty clouds.

  I expect to hear his driver’s side door slam, his engine race, like every other night.

  When I look up, he’s just standing there, moon-kissed and smirking.

  “So,” he asks, leaning casually against the broad side of his van. “How long have you known?”

  “Known… what?” I hem, because I was hoping to play this game for at least another few nights before letting him know, you know, that… I know.

  “About me, Cleo? About… what I am?”

  I sigh; guess the cat’s out of the bag.

  Not that I can blame him for figuring it out.

  I mean… obvious, much?

  “Since that first night last week,” I confess, looking down at my shoes, afraid he’s about to crack open my skull and swallow my brain – whole.

  When he doesn’t, I brave a quick look at his face; he’s… smiling.

  “How?” he asks simply; not mad, not scared, just… curious.

  I bite my lip before confessing, “Well, when I got home that night, I still couldn’t sleep, so I started an internet search for scars and boys with scars and… well… cute guys with scars.”

  “Cute guys with scars?” he mocks, leering at me with those dark, penetrating eyes. “There’s a category for that?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I admit, still blushing.

  “But why?” he presses, still leaning. “Why search for that stuff in the first place?”

  “I dunno,” I sigh; and it’s the truth. “I was still restless, and bored I guess, and you’re so… mysterious… at school. You just show up out of nowhere last year, in the middle of the semester, no history, no baggage, no friends, nobody knows anything about you, you don’t date anybody, aren’t in any clubs. I guess, I dunno, I just wanted to know more about you, I guess.”

  He’s just leaning there, smiling; I can’t tell if he believes me or not.

  “Anywhatever, your picture came up; three times, in three different yearbooks.”

  He rolls his eyes and says, “Is that all, Cleo? I told you my Dad moves us around a lot, so…”

  “Does he move you through time, too Scar? One of the yearbooks was from 1967!”

  “You… saw… that?” he gulps.

  “Yeah, and the one from 1978 and another from 1994. It was you, Scar; in every one. Not your twin brother, not your doppelganger, not some look-alike, not some optical illusion. Then it all clicked for me; the gray skin, the never sleeping, never eating human food, only drinking those sugary drinks... it all fits.”

  I look around and whisper, “You’re a zombie, Scar!”

  (Wow, I can’t believe I just said that out loud!)

  “What if I am?” he smirks. “What does that make you?”

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “You, Cleo. You coming around here every night, riding your little brother’s bike so your folks won’t hear your engine start up in the driveway, coming clear across town to wash brand new socks and T-shirts you probably haven’t worn in years, bumming quarters from me and noshing on stale potato chips? What does that make you? Some kind of… of… zombie groupie?”

  “Just curious!” I snort. “I mean, flip the script; if you knew I was a zombie, wouldn’t you be curious and stalk me for awhile until you found out.”

  “Only if you… looked like… you,” he stammers, avoiding my eyes.

  “I don’t even know what that means, Scar.”

  “It means I’d stalk you anyway, is what it means. Zombie, human, cheerleader, brainiac, whatever.”

  Then, a beat later, he adds: “What now?”

  “What… what now? Waddya mean?”

  “I mean, you know my secret; you found it out. So… what now, Cleo?”

  I stomp one foot and look around. “Oh, well… I dunno. I mean, I haven’t really thought it out that far.”

  “They never do,” he grumbles.

  “They?”

  He sighs and looks me up and down. “Do you think you’re the first girl to figure it out, Cleo?”

  “Yeah, actually,” I bluff, because, actually – yeah, I kind of did.

  “Well, you’re not.”

  “So, what? You’re saying you’re some kind of zombie stud or something?”

  This, he laughs at.

  “No, not by a long shot. It’s just that, some girls have a… thing… for the undead, is all.”

  “Gross.”

  “I’m gross, now? That’s why you’ve been up here every night this week? And all last week?”

  “No, Scar, you’re not gross; that’s… gross.”

  He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then says it anyway: “You mean, you’re not a zombie groupie?”

  “How can I be a groupie?” I ask. “You’re the first zombie I’ve ever met!”

  “Then, what is this all about?”

  “Are you that stupid?”

  He looks befuddled and I inch closer, eager to feel what those cold, full lips might taste like.

  “I don’t get it, Cleo.”

  “I’m here for you, dummy; just… you.”

  He cocks his head slightly to the left, casting a dark shadow across his gaunt, right cheek. “Just… me? You don’t want to know voodoo or George Romero’s address or what brains taste like?”

  “Uh uh,” I say, licking my lips. “I just want to know what… this… tastes like.”

  And I kiss him, just like that; inching up on my sneakers, putting my hands on his cold chest, pressing my warm lips against his cold ones; feeling a shiver, but not like when you step outside on the first day of winter.

  More like when you see a really good scene in a really good movie.

  He opens his lips, but just slightly; the way I like it.

  I mean, I’m no expert or anything but two of the three guys I’ve kissed did it that way.

  Maybe I’m just spoiled, I dunno.

  And he stops, just in time, pushing me away, but only to look at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “N-n-nothing,” he says and, for once, he’s not smirking. “It’ just, well, no one’s ever stalked me just… for me... before.”

  For some reason, that sounds funny; I laugh.

  He laughs, too; and I know, that’s when I know – Scar was worth stalking, all the while.

  “You want a ride home?” he asks, opening up the back of the van and showing me there’s room enough for my little brother’s mongoose.

  “Not really,” I say, unlocking my bike. “Now I’m all restless again. I think the ride might do me good.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” he suggests, shutting the door and pocket his keys.

  “But… how will you get back? Back here, I mean?”

  “I’ll walk back,” he explains simply as I climb on the bike.

  “It’s nearly 3 a.m., Scar. What if you get sleepy on your way back?”

  “Cleo,” he chuckles, matching me step for step as I pedal, slowly, into the darkness behind the Suds ‘N Spuds. “Don’t you know? Zombies never sleep.”

  I look up at him, face pale in the moonlight.

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  He nods, bending down to pick up a branch and s
wiping it in the air like a sword for a little while before dropping it again.

  “Doesn’t that get really boring?”

  He looks down at me and grins. “Not anymore.”

  * * * * *

  Story # 3:

  Zombies Don’t Study