A Small Zombie Problem

by K. G. Campbell

  Hydrangea spun to face August, her finger pointing accusingly.

  “Instead, he stole it!” she hissed. “Maxim Malveau stole the recipe for DuPont’s Peppy Pepper Sauce. He opened his own factory, selling his own hot sauce, claiming it was his own concoction and renaming it Malveau’s Devil Sauce.”

  Hydrangea stopped pacing. “His one original idea,” she reflected bitterly, “was to devise a gimmick: that hideous bottle with demonic horns. And people liked it. They like it still. It certainly sells.” She opened her palms, as if baffled.

  “But, Aunt,” said August, shrugging, a little confused, “all of that happened so long ago. How can you still—”

  “The Malveaus,” said Hydrangea, now quiet and deadly serious, “have been our bitter rivals ever since. They have been bent on the destruction of DuPont’s Peppy Pepper Sauce, and indeed of the DuPonts in general. And it seems”—she glanced around their ragged surroundings—“they are nearing success.”

  The lady returned to the mantel and studied the headless goatherd.

  “When my sister,” she continued, “chose to marry a Malveau—to embrace our mortal enemies—it broke our papa’s heart. He barred Orchid from Locust Hole and disowned her. We all did. I’ve seen nothing of her for over thirty years.”

  “That seems,” said August, frowning, “…rather harsh.”

  Hydrangea ran her finger around the goatherd’s jagged neck.

  “You haven’t met your aunt Orchid,” she said with a small, sour smile.

  “Were you never friends?” asked August.

  Hydrangea considered this.

  “When we were children, I suppose,” she admitted begrudgingly. “Long before your dear mama, our baby sister was born. We spent many a stifling, summer’s day escaping the heat, hunting for family treasures in the forgotten corners of Locust Hole.”

  Hydrangea’s face clouded.

  “But as the family’s fortunes dwindled, Orchid changed. She yearned for the parties and pretty things of the old days. She became selfish and greedy, always striving to be the best, have the most.

  “You know”—Hydrangea turned to August with an expression of indignation—“Orchid actually entered the Chili Pepper Princess pageant…to compete against me! My own sister betrayed me, just as Maxim betrayed Pierre. Orchid was well qualified to become a Malveau.”

  August wasn’t entirely sure that the two offenses were of equal gravity. But his aunt clearly thought they were, so he kept the sentiment to himself.

  The parlor fell silent, other than the clock’s soft ticking. Dust twinkled in the meager light that penetrated the barricades. Hydrangea, her fury spent, shot a sideways look at her nephew. He was glumly staring at the invitation in his hands.

  Their eyes met.

  “I want to join the world, Aunt,” said August. “I want to see things, and do stuff, and meet people.”

  “But, child,” protested Hydrangea, sweeping to the couch beside the boy. “The world is such a hazardous place. So many dangers. Remember the mighty alligator of which Mr. LaPoste spoke.”

  August thought of the tire-sized footprint in the mud.

  “It might at this very minute,” Hydrangea hissed, “be lurking beyond our own gate, with dripping teeth and an empty belly.” They both glanced toward the front door in the foyer. “And even if it isn’t, what of the hordes of dreadful butterflies; there’s your…your condition to consider!”

  August said nothing for a moment, thinking.

  “I’ll take the necessary precautions,” he assured his aunt.

  Hydrangea abruptly sat back, her eyes wide with surprise at this quiet but forceful resistance. Something important was happening between them, some fundamental shift in power.

  “I’m lonely, Aunt Hydrangea,” said August simply.

  Hydrangea stared at the invitation, now clutched to August’s chest like a life preserver. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening.

  “My dear boy. I swore to your mama on her sickbed that I’d protect you. I haven’t kept you cooped up here in Locust Hole for any reason other than—”

  “I know, ma’am. But it’s time for me to…to show up to my own life. I’m sorry if Maxim betrayed Pierre. I’m sorry if Aunt Orchid betrayed you. But it was all a very long time ago. Maybe she’s different now.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I am going to Château Malveau.”

  Hydrangea’s shoulders slumped, and they both understood that things had changed forever. August would no longer be contained. The aunt nodded sadly, patting her nephew’s arm.

  “Do as you must,” she said. “But heed my warning, August. Orchids are exotic and very lovely. But some of them are deadly poisonous.”

  At three o’clock on Thursday, August passed through the gate into the lane. He paused to unfold the tattered driving map that Hydrangea had handed him at the front door. The wrapped box under his arm—a gift for Aunt Orchid—made the process rather awkward, and he was further hampered by the bulky beekeeper’s gloves and netted helmet his aunt had insisted that he wear.

  “To safeguard you from those tiny monsters,” Hydrangea had said, delivering an enthusiastic grin that did little to conceal her terror.

  And indeed, the “protective” clothing seemed to mask August’s unique scent sufficiently that his entourage of butterflies was reduced to two or three.

  The boy waved the insects away so he might locate Château Malveau on the map. Having established the route, he lifted his head and, for the first time, got a good look at Locust Hole from the outside.

  At some point, largely from watching television, August had come to understand that his home was unusually shabby and worn. But it was only upon regarding the building’s exterior from a distance that August came to appreciate its true level of decay.

  It had been a finely built, handsome old house, with a broad, shady porch. Typical of that low-lying region, it was built on raised foundations, to spare the main floor from flooding and provide a half basement for storing the pepper barrels.

  But the roof was balding, and it sagged where one of the slender posts supporting it had splintered. Shutters that weren’t nailed closed hung at crazy angles from one hinge. Most of the pretty blue paint had peeled away, and the clapboards beneath had been bleached to pale gray. Unchecked vines snaked through the railings, and the squat basement doors beneath the porch were rotting and green with moss.

  Another decade, and Locust Hole would likely qualify as an actual ruin.

  Aunt Hydrangea stood outside the front door. August knew she would venture no farther. From the gate she looked much smaller. Vulnerable. She raised her arm and weakly waved her handkerchief.

  August returned her salute with a confident thumbs-up, turned, and walked away.

  * * *

  * * *

  It didn’t take very long for the heat to catch up with him.

  The boy had been too absorbed with his map and giddy with adrenaline to notice it immediately. But as he crossed the rusty local bridge that spanned Black River, August found his breathing labored and rivulets of sweat trickling across his ribs. You see, in summer months, towering banks of air from the Pirates’ Sea would roll across that place, smothering it with a blanket of thick, salty humidity.

  Locust Hole, punctured as it was by patched-up holes, still largely sheltered those within from the sultry climate without. Now beyond its thick old walls, August felt like he was wading through a vapor of hot broth.

  He pressed onward, to the main road (such as it was, for as mentioned, this was an out-of-the-way sort of place, and passing vehicles were few). The Old French Highway led into Pepperville, hugging the river’s winding passage. But any view of the water was obscured by the fields of blazing pepper plants that flanked the narrow ribbon of asphalt.

  Field followed field. Nailed to the fences, sign followed s
ign, each informing passersby that all they observed belonged to Malveau Industries. How many signs had August passed? How much land did the Malveaus own? How long had he been walking?

  He began to feel dizzy. It was too much. Too much at once. The heat. The bombardment of unfamiliar smells, sounds, and sensations. The boy felt overcome and limply slumped onto a large rock at the side of the road, knees weak, head spinning.

  He lifted the net of his helmet and covered his ears. He closed his eyes and spent a minute inside himself, recovering in the darkly glowing nothingness.

  When he was ready, August took a deep breath. He focused on the faint, flowery fragrance of water hyacinths and the earthy, dank smell of the roadside ditch they sprang from.

  Slowly he unplugged his ears, gradually admitting the chorus of the cicadas. Time slowed, and within the insects’ buzzing, he heard something rhythmic and melodic, almost like a chant.

  He heard the feather-soft flapping of a low-flying ibis headed toward the swamp. He heard the rustling clusters of flame-colored chilis, a million crimson fingers clutching at the tropical breeze.

  The warmth of the yellow dirt penetrated the soles of his shoes. The ground seemed to press itself against his feet. Or was gravity pressing him into the ground? Could he feel a dull, distant throb, perhaps the very heartbeat of the earth?

  Suddenly someone whispered in August’s ear.

  His eyes snapped open, and he leaped up in alarm, spinning around to confront…whomever he was about to confront.

  But there was no one there.

  He was alone.

  He was, however, facing a sizable clearing, some leafy interruption to the lengthy string of Malveau pepper fields; he could glimpse the twinkling river at the far end. A strange stillness hung about the place, where a cluster of large white stone boxes hunkered in the weeds and unkempt shrubbery. August had been sitting not on a rock but on the broken remnants of a tomb.

  He was standing at the edge of a small cemetery.

  Hurricane County, and all those counties surrounding it, existed in a particularly soggy part of the nation.

  This was a region where the land and sea met, not abruptly as they might at a beach or a seaside cliff, but gradually, insidiously, over many wet, low-lying miles, one morphing imperceptibly into the other. This was a place of elusive islands that might vanish for hours within the mist, or for months beneath the tide. This was a place of deltas and swamps, hurricanes and storm surges. This was a place where water reigned, and nothing could truly be called solid ground.

  Any hole you might have cause to dig would certainly flood. And so it was, that those who died there were laid to rest above the ground, in boxy crypts of creamy stone.

  * * *

  * * *

  The words had been unclear, but August was certain he had heard a voice.

  “Hello?” he called out cautiously. “Is someone there?”

  He heard it again. Whispering. It had an insubstantial quality, almost like he was hearing the echo of a sound, rather than the sound itself. But it was close by. Very close. For a second, August wondered if it might even be inside his own head. Was his mind addled by the heat?

  He stepped into the tall grass.

  “Hello?” August called again. “Where are you?”

  The graveyard was forgotten and untended. The tombs sat all higgledy-piggledy, slumping dramatically this way and that into the soft, sodden ground. Many of them bore his own surname, DuPont. Many others contained the remains of deceased Malveaus.

  Whisper, whisper.

  It was a small voice, perhaps a child’s. It was so close. Right beside him, but muffled, as if a wall lay between them.

  It was coming from inside a crypt.

  This structure was not low and coffin-shaped like the others, but upright and roofed, like a mini Roman temple. There were square columns at the four corners, and perched on top, a precious stone cherub wept into its hands. A large slab was screwed into what would otherwise have been a doorway, engraved with an epitaph that read “Forever our angel, Claudette.”

  August mounted the single step and pressed his ear to the cold marble. Could a child be somehow trapped in this place?

  “Is someone in there?” he called. Nothing.

  “Can I help you?” August raised his voice, although it was apprehensive, hoarse.

  He sensed a presence. Someone was close by, August was certain, and in need of assistance. He heard a movement, a scraping. Maybe a grunt. Something heavy smashed to the floor.

  “Are you all right?” yelled August with great concern. “Are you stuck?”

  Were those footsteps? They sounded sluggish and dragging. Uneven.

  Suddenly some powerful thing struck the slab from inside with such force that August was knocked to the ground, his helmet tumbling into the grass.

  Another massive blow caused a large jagged crack to appear in the stone.

  And then the pounding became continuous, violently smashing the marble again and again and again. More cracks scattered across the stone’s surface and it began to crumble around the bouncing screws, small chunks of stone landing at August’s feet.

  Whatever was in there was about to get out.

  And August felt confident that it wasn’t a child!

  He had run more than a mile. Panting and dripping, August clutched his side and turned around. An empty road was all that lay behind him. He had not been followed.

  He regretted panicking so blindly. In the face of encountering…whatever that was, his wits had left him. Had he kept his head about him, he might well have fled back to Locust Hole to breathlessly reassure Hydrangea that she’d been right all along: the outside world was far too dangerous a place to explore. But he had bolted without destination or strategy, gift and helmet clutched to his chest, until he found himself at the high metal gates that bore the Malveau family crest: the chili pepper impaled on a fancy-handled dagger.

  For obvious reasons, August hadn’t had much experience with distance running. He slumped against a smart iron fence, taking a few moments to gulp air, while studying a large, brown metal sign that confirmed his arrival at Château Malveau, a state historical landmark.

  Guided tours of the mansion and Malveau Industries’ hot sauce factory were offered on Fridays at 11:00 a.m. August rather wished he’d been invited the following day so he might have taken such a tour.

  His heart rate slowing, August straightened and checked his watch: 3:35 p.m. At this time last week, August realized, he had been posted at his rear bedroom window, eagerly anticipating the opening titles of the Stella Starz show. He could never have imagined that seven days later, he would be out of doors, embroiled in his own melodrama, recovering from an alarming graveyard encounter and minutes from meeting some mysterious aunt.

  Despite the weakness in his knees and the pounding in his chest, August smiled.

  But the second hand was ticking and the butterflies were gathering, so with a final swipe at his hot, wet brow, the boy replaced his helmet, tidied up his package, and passed through the open gates.

  * * *

  * * *

  It took August almost as long to travel the dirt driveway as it had to reach the entrance in the first place. The entire route was flanked by towering oak trees, whose arching branches met above him to form a cool and leafy cathedral. The colossal girth of their trunks suggested they had stood here for centuries, long before any house had been built.

  Great sheets of Spanish moss drifted from the gnarled tree limbs, curtain after curtain obscuring the view ahead. But eventually, wispy gray tendrils parted to reveal the driveway’s destination: Château Malveau.

  On catching sight of the mansion, a thrilling shiver raised the hairs on August’s arms and neck. He had never seen anything so magnificent. Stella Starz had once located a small, misplaced prince, and even the
castle where his royal parents had hosted a thank-you banquet seemed modest by comparison.

  Slender Greek columns supported generous wraparound verandas. Graceful French doors opened onto airy balconies. The steep roofs were crisply shingled, and soaring turrets reached for the sky as if it were actually within their grasp. All seemed freshly painted in creamy white. Imagine a fairy-tale palace spun from the sparkling icing of a wedding cake, and you’ll get the idea.

  But for all its ambitious beauty, there was a sadness to the place. The drapes beyond those graceful French doors were closed up, obscuring any peekaboo view of the interior. Everything was utterly and completely still, as if time did not exist here. No sound. No breeze. A peacock, unusually jet-black, strutted stiffly across the path. Upon spotting August, it opened up its splendid tail, lifted its head, and emitted its piercing cry, strange and filled with sorrow.

  * * *

  * * *

  The front door was opened by a toad-like man in a snowy-white jacket. If a neck supported his flat, widemouthed face, it was concealed by his starched collar and black bow tie. Although he was barely taller than August, he somehow contrived to regard him down the length of his squat nose. He eyed the circling butterflies with a raised bushy eyebrow.

  “Um, good afternoon?” said August uncertainly.

  “Excuse me, sir?” replied the man, leaning in with a hairy, pink ear. “I can scarcely hear you.”

  “I am here,” bellowed August so loudly that the man jumped. Then, more meekly, he added, “To have tea with my aunt, Orchid Malveau. Who are you? I’m August DuPont. Are we also related?”

  “Related?” The man recoiled, staring at August’s outstretched hand in horror. “I am Escargot, sir. The butler! May I take your gloves and…um…hat?”