A Small Zombie Problem

by K. G. Campbell

  Until recently.

  “There you are!” exclaimed August with relief. A pile of empty Mudd Pie wrappers (August had a particular fondness for the cookie snacks) lay discarded near the wastebasket. Beneath these, August retrieved the object of his search: a telescope. He snatched it up, dashed to the rear window, opened it, and placed the smaller end of the instrument to his eye.

  Through the age-speckled lens he first scanned the field behind the house: a sorry, spartan stretch of dirt sprouting withered, wilting pepper plants. At its far end he located the crooked frame of the ruined gazebo, where long-ago DuPonts had dined alfresco on long-ago balmy evenings.

  Beyond that lay the narrow canal. And there in the muddy water, rocking gently, was the most recent addition to August’s small world. It had arrived without notice a few weeks prior, moored by someone in the dead of night. It was a houseboat.

  Although, houseboat might be a generous description. It was, in fact, little more than a large shed roped to a wooden pallet, buoyed up by a pontoon formed from old oil drums. A rusting contraption with pipes and dials sat on “deck.” This, August concluded, must be the generator by which the floating home was lit and powered.

  The houseboat seemed perilously pitched, one end weighted down beneath a tired-looking outboard motor. August did not believe the ramshackle vessel looked seaworthy.

  He was, however, greatly intrigued by a crudely painted sign nailed to its wall. Garish colors had faded to shadows, but August could just make out the words “Madame Marvell, Ball Gazing, Magic + More.”

  He wasn’t exactly sure who Madame Marvell was. In the days since the houseboat’s mysterious arrival, August had observed only one crew member with his telescope: a scrawny barefoot girl with a tangle of unbrushed hair. She spent her days grubbing about the canal bank collecting frogs in a colander, filling the generator from a spouted can, and dozing facedown, limbs loose like an unstrung puppet in the branches of nearby trees.

  The girl seemed so entirely at ease in the untamed landscape, so like a creature of nature, that August had begun to think of her as an untamed thing. Wild. He suspected that this wild child was not the Madame Marvell mentioned on the sign. But without another person around to claim the name, he had attached it to the girl, and somehow it seemed to fit.

  At that moment, August spotted her scrambling onto her floating home, one arm cradling her colander, the other a bunch of freshly plucked iris.

  “We’re both running late, Madame,” August muttered. “Hurry now; it started five minutes ago!” He swiveled his telescope just a tad, following the girl as she passed inside. “No! NO!” he cried in anguish as the flowers were dumped into a pitcher at the houseboat’s window, blocking his view.

  But a sigh of relief followed as the flower arrangement was moved, revealing beyond it a small, boxy, old-fashioned television. And, as the screen flooded with static, then color and life, the hairs on August’s arm tingled, and his heart jolted with the thrill of excitement.

  You see, while the houseboat and its inhabitant had enlivened August’s sleepy landscape, this scuffed-up TV, with its plastic knobs and crooked rabbit-ear antenna, had changed August’s life!

  Every Monday and Thursday at four o’clock, Madame Marvell’s dusty television screen opened a window into another world, a world that, previously, August had no idea existed.

  It was a colorful, exciting, intoxicating world. It was the world of Stella Starz (in Her Own Life), a twice-weekly TV show surrounding the madcap misadventures of a California teen. Madame Marvell—and now August—were regular viewers.

  Now, it’s not that August had never watched TV. In fact, in the kitchen there was a half-decent plasma screen Hydrangea had ordered from a catalog and would often turn on after dinner. But August’s aunt was very particular about their viewing choices, being easily agitated by shows containing heated confrontations, loud noises, and outdoor settings, where one might encounter butterflies and other “dreadful things.”

  Hydrangea preferred programming with more predictable events, static, indoor environments, and, preferably, “educational content.”

  “I have a responsibility, sugar,” she would explain defensively, “to your homeschooling.”

  Game shows, with their routine format, familiar sets, and informative content, checked all the boxes. And indeed, his exposure to Are You a Dummy?, Win It or Lick It, and Word or Number? had left August well versed on world capitals, breeds of fancy chickens, notorious outlaws, and many other fascinating facts about the world beyond Locust Hole.

  His aunt would certainly never have permitted August to watch a show like Stella Starz. She would have been highly alarmed by the way the heroine careened through the world with carefree enthusiasm (Hydrangea would have called it reckless abandon), recovering stolen penguins, forming rock bands, unmasking school librarians as spies, and generally placing herself in overwrought situations where she had no business being.

  Madame Marvell’s window was generally left ajar, so the voices of the actors and the dramatic soundtrack often drifted faintly across the parched field to reach August’s ears. But even when the vessel was shut up, or when the breeze carried the television’s sound away from Locust Hole, it wasn’t that difficult for the boy to decipher what was going on.

  And he loved the zany, sometimes gripping exploits of Stella and her friends. He got that Stella’s surname was a play on words that could subtly alter the meaning of the show’s title. Stella Starz (in Her Own Life) was a show about a girl with the surname Starz and the life she leads. Stella Stars in Her Own Life was a show about a girl who shows up, to live her life to the fullest.

  Had August shown up to live his own life? He didn’t think so.

  Stella’s crazy, roller-coaster existence could not have been more different from his own, and it enthralled him. So captivated was he that August always remained glued to the show through the closing credits, which rolled over the same series of stills: snapshots of Stella and her friends engaging in familiar, spirited high jinks. The very last frame lingered longer than the rest. It had etched itself into August’s memory, and the image would often float into his mind before sleep.

  This time was no different. Stella and her friends were gathered at a lunch table. Behind them milled an out-of-focus throng of students with trays. In the foreground, two boys were thumb-wrestling. One girl peered into her phone, giggling. Another tossed kettle corn into her own mouth. Stella herself was facing her best friend, Kevin (yes, that’s right, Kevin!), her hand raised to meet his, in an exuberant high five.

  There was something in the scene that made August feel warm inside. The group at that table seemed so happy. So complete.

  They belonged.

  August wanted—really wanted—someone to high-five.

  August wanted to belong.

  When Madame Marvell’s screen returned to a dull, opaque green, August’s room seemed even quieter than it had before. Emptier.

  “Hey,” August said over his shoulder, to his own Kevin. “You want to share a Mudd Pie?” But the noseless, lifeless clown didn’t answer. No one answered. August was alone. As ever.

  And why, you ask, was this boy always alone? Well, as you may have begun to suspect, August DuPont had never passed through his own front door.

  At almost twelve years old, August DuPont had never left his house.

  August would normally have hung out a little longer to see what Madame Marvell did next. After the show, the wild child often sat on her deck, enjoying a supper of fried frogs’ legs (don’t make that face; it remains a very popular dish in some parts), or holding animated conversations with a large cloth doll that appeared to serve as her only companion.

  But Monday was an eventful day (at least by Locust Hole standards), and there were other things to observe. A butterfly had perched on his telescope, so August swatted it outside, clos
ed the window, and promptly crossed the garret. The front-facing window was set into a fanciful little tower, roomy enough for a small bench with cushions, which permitted August to settle more comfortably and peer out.

  The front yard was much smaller than the back. Only forty feet or so from the front porch, a weathered picket fence was collapsing beneath an overgrown, shrubby hedgerow, and beyond it lay the dirt road. Pressing his forehead against the windowpane and squinting to the right, August could see the steep slope of the embankment built to contain the fickle, unpredictable waters of Lost Souls’ Swamp. Beyond the grassy ridge, from the tops of the cypress trees, a snowy-chested osprey rose from its smudge of a nest and squealed shrilly as it soared over Locust Hole.

  Quickly reversing his position, and squinting to the left, August watched the bird flap across the glinting waters of Black River, then the distant steeple and power lines of Pepperville. The osprey shrank, increasingly difficult to distinguish against the brownish clouds towering over the horizon, where August knew the Withering Wetlands gave way to the Pirates’ Sea.

  The approaching sound of wheels on wet dirt abruptly returned August’s attentions to the lane. He dropped the spyglass and glanced down to see a tousled head of ginger curls gliding unsteadily above the shrubs.

  “Grosbeak’s!” announced August with satisfaction.

  The grocer’s delivery represented Locust Hole’s second big event of the day. You will appreciate that to a boy who never went anywhere, even the most routine occurrences held enormous interest. Prior to Madame Marvell’s arrival, the Monday delivery from Grosbeak’s General Store & Soda Shop had been the highlight of August’s week. The boys (and one girl) who regularly deposited paper bags on the front porch represented August’s only real-life glimpse of people his own age.

  In recent months, the battered black bicycle with the Grosbeak’s sign had been ridden by a sturdy, freckle-faced youth with a blunt nose and sleepy eyes. August watched him dismount by the gate and struggle to release the kickstand. The large, heavy basket above the front wheel was unwieldy, and an awkward skirmish between boy and bike ensued.

  Lugging a brown bag in each arm, the boy headed through what was left of the Italian garden: a flat, gray shadow of the geometric pattern once formed by paths, hedges, and flower beds. He glanced apprehensively up at the house—more specifically, toward the roof.

  The garret window was small, grimy, and cobwebbed. It seemed unlikely to August that an outside spectator could have seen through it. Nonetheless, he shrank back into the gloom.

  Having deposited his delivery, the redheaded boy descended the porch steps, and August observed a rip in the seat of his pants. It was likely, August concluded, the result of some violent tumble, for the boy was an appalling cyclist. Not that August (never having ridden a bicycle himself) was an expert. But Stella and her gang were forever tearing about on flashy beach cruisers and mountain bikes, so he had some idea of how it should go. He watched the boy depart, weaving and wobbling down the lane, like a drunken june bug. August grimaced, silently wishing the boy a casualty-free journey.

  And with that, the day’s activities were over.

  August sighed and was turning away when he noticed something amiss. On the ground near the gate lay a small box, printed in navy and yellow. It must have fallen from the overloaded grocery bags. August knew exactly what was in that box. Indeed, it was all too familiar, for such boxes contained his weekly supply of Mudd Pies.

  In fact, while watching Stella Starz minutes before, he had absently devoured the last of the addictive, chocolate-covered, marshmallow-filled cookies from the prior week’s delivery.

  There were no more.

  Except those resting in a puddle outside.

  Outside, where his aunt Hydrangea would not venture.

  No more Mudd Pies for a week.

  August stood deathly still, staring at the box for a full minute. And in that very short time, the box evolved into something more than a box, something more important. It became…a mission!

  “Someone,” he said quietly, to no one, to everyone, “needs to rescue that box.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The front-door barricade was devised to be easily removed, at least partly. Two of the lower planks could be lifted from their brackets, permitting one of the double doors to be opened. Squeezing through the resulting space, Hydrangea could retrieve the groceries or infrequent letters that were left on the porch, with minimal exposure to butterflies and such.

  Now, August slipped his fingers beneath the lower plank and lifted, causing a significant scraping noise. He paused, listening. The muted tinkle of broken glass and sounds of sweeping from the kitchen assured him that his aunt was still busy cleaning up the hot sauce wreckage.

  August lifted the second, waist-height plank.

  The key moved, with some resistance. Over the course of a hundred years, how many DuPont hands had turned it? As his sweaty palm gripped the cold, smooth doorknob, August gasped for air and realized that he’d been unconsciously holding his breath. He wondered if his heartbeat might have sounded as loud to a bystander as it did to himself.

  The knob twisted.

  The latch released.

  The door cracked open with a plaintive, unsettling creak.

  He paused again. Aunt Hydrangea was singing now, some melancholy ditty from bygone days, her thin, shrill voice wavering in volume. “After the ball is over, after the break of morn, after the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone…”

  August opened the door.

  He was engulfed by a waft of warm, damp, earthy air. Through the opening, not ten yards away, he could see the navy-and-yellow box of Mudd Pies. It would take only moments to retrieve it.

  Did his aunt need to know? It might even be better if she did. Sure, she’d be horrified at first. But a successful mission might help to convince her that her many fears were unfounded.

  Right?

  August crouched in the doorway, his heart pounding. It seemed so vast out there. So endless. With no ceilings to contain him, would he just float off into space? Were there truly as many dangers as his aunt insisted?

  He decided he didn’t care. He needed to know for himself.

  And just like that, for the first time in his life, August DuPont stepped outside.

  The sky above remained heavy with storm clouds, but standing at the foot of the porch steps, August was still blinded by the unfamiliar outdoor glare. He covered his face with his hands and slowly separated his fingers, letting his eyes gradually adjust to the outdoor light.

  Finally, by shielding them with his open hand, August’s sight began to return. He was immediately confronted by some twitching, fairy-like thing near his nose, and it took the boy a moment to identify the creature as…you guessed it, a butterfly! The insect bobbed around his head with a lazy, contented air. It was shortly joined by another. And another.

  Wincing in the light, August lifted his head to watch them. Far above, beyond the gathering butterflies, brilliant against the gray heavens, a colored dot caught his eye. It was a balloon, bright orange like a nearly ripe chili pepper, adrift on a tropical current.

  For her birthday party, Stella Starz’s father had filled the house with so many colorful balloons, the guests could scarcely see each other. Things began to go noisily awry when festive sparklers met with the fragile air-filled orbs, causing many of the balloons to explode. The drama escalated even further when her father’s girlfriend, Hedwig, accused Stella of stealing her cell phone.

  Stella (and August) were deeply offended by the charge, and it seemed that the celebratory event might have ended abruptly in bitterness and disaster, until a muffled ringtone revealed Hedwig’s phone to have been inexplicably baked into the birthday cake.

  “Stupid Hedwig,” Stella and August had both muttered.

  Au
gust wondered if the orange balloon above him had floated away from such a party. He imagined himself grabbing its string and being carried off, back to the place it had come from, a place with sparklers and friends who high-fived and shared each other’s Mudd Pies.

  Mudd Pies! August’s mind returned to the task at hand. He located the navy-and-yellow box, boldly leaped across several puddles, and was bending to retrieve it when something unexpected caught his eye.

  In the squelchy rain-drenched dirt, a distinct and deep impression had been left. It was a footprint. A footprint of something nonhuman. A footprint with five clawlike toes.

  “Scary Reptiles” had once formed a category on Win It or Lick It. From what he had learned on that episode, August recognized the print as that of an alligator. But what alligator had a foot the size of a car tire? How enormous would such a creature be?

  A sudden sound frightened August half to death. But he instantly realized it was not that of some monstrous animal; it was, rather, distinctly human. It was the sound of someone gasping. Urgent whispering followed.

  August straightened to be confronted by a face peering at him through the tangle of swamp rose and sumac that arched above the yard gate. Beyond it lay two more faces, one smothered with freckles and framed by a mass of ginger curls.

  All three wore openmouthed expressions of utter astonishment, as if observing a polka-dotted zebra.

  But in fact, this is what they saw.

  * * *

  * * *

  August DuPont was a wiry young fellow but a little small for his age. He was not particularly remarkable in any feature, other than his eyes. They were unusually large and round and rendered even larger and rounder by large, round eyeglasses. Even more memorable was their singular color: the palest gold, like late-summer marsh grass.