A Small Zombie Problem

by K. G. Campbell

  August’s jaw fell. His mind spun.

  It couldn’t be.

  Could it?

  “A large, vivid amber marble,” he repeated, “with a swirl of black at the center?”

  “That’s right, bro.” Buford nodded. “They look so like them that in the business, they’re known as alligator eyes.”

  August broke the news to his aunt before breakfast the following morning.

  “It was just rolling around in a dusty drawer,” sputtered Hydrangea as she paced the kitchen, ruffled robe swirling, “unidentified for all these years? Why, we’ve been sitting on a fortune—a fortune, I tell you! We might have been rich. We might have rescued dear old Locust Hole from its sorry state.”

  She spun around to face August, who perched on a stool by the iron range. The boy thought the long-suffering handkerchief twisted in his aunt’s fists might finally be torn in two.

  “And you taped it to a model that you gave to…to Orchid? Orchid?” The lady’s cheeks were flushed with horrified rage.

  “I didn’t know,” pleaded August, with deep regret. “How could I know? It was in a bag of marbles, and it looked just like…well…a marble!”

  Hydrangea relented. She knew her nephew bore no blame.

  “Orfeo must have camouflaged it,” she said more calmly, shaking her head, “to conceal it from his creditors. He had that skull-shaped fossil sanded down into a sphere, polished up like glass, and then hid it in plain sight, right beneath our noses.”

  “I had it with me: the Zombie Stone,” hissed August. “In the cemetery, when…” He nodded toward Claudette, who was nibbling at the planks blockading the window. “It must have drawn her spirit from the other place, back into the unfortunate, moldy body she left behind.”

  He placed his hands on his head.

  “That’s why she’s here!”

  His expression was one of mortified revelation.

  “The Zombie Stone made her!”

  “The Zombie Stone made her,” repeated Hydrangea with wide eyes.

  They faced each other in silent horror.

  “At the party today”—August was suddenly filled with refreshed determination—“I have to fetch back that model. I need to send Claudette away. She’s ruining my life. I must have the Zombie Stone!”

  There was a fractured snapping from the other side of the room. Nephew and aunt watched as Claudette effortlessly wrenched a rusted nail from its board, dropped it onto her tongue, contemplated its flavor, then swallowed it.

  “Things would be so much easier,” whispered August confidentially, “if I were alone. But it’s like she can sense where I am. It’s impossible to shake her. And no door will hold her.” He regarded the zombie with a sigh. “If, at least, she wasn’t just so…dead-looking.”

  Hydrangea nodded sympathetically, gazing at the little zombie.

  “I still have some of my gowns,” she said thoughtfully, “from the old days.” She drifted over to lift a lock of the girl’s limp hair in her fingers. “A little hair spray, perhaps?” Claudette’s eyes widened in alarm. “Now, don’t you concern yourself, sugar,” Hydrangea reassured her. “I am a Hurricane County Chili Pepper Princess title holder.”

  Taking the child’s chin in her hand, the Chili Pepper Princess gently tilted Claudette’s head this way and that. “And a little rouge? It’s a challenge, to be sure.” She glanced at August and shrugged. “But I think it might be done.” She lit up with a wave of sudden enthusiasm. “A makeover, sugar; don’t you think? It is, after all, long overdue!”

  * * *

  * * *

  August and Claudette approached Château Malveau, funneled with many other arriving guests along the grand oak alley, toward the mansion’s entrance.

  The boy began to suspect that Hydrangea’s makeover had failed to render Claudette less conspicuous, and worse, that it might have made her more so. For as they proceeded, heads were turning, and eyes were bulging. There were even a couple of stifled shrieks.

  To be fair, the attention was not only directed toward Claudette. It’s not every day, after all, one sees a diminutive beekeeper trailing twelve butterflies, accompanied by a lurching pageant princess in turquoise taffeta, with poufy bouffant hair and a grayish complexion emerging through makeup melting in the heat.

  An aloof, long-nosed housemaid was greeting newcomers at the front door.

  “Good day, madame, sir. Please come in.”

  But as she laid eyes on August and Claudette, her voice failed, her mouth opening and closing silently, like a goldfish.

  “The festivities,” she finally managed, “may be found on the rear lawn.”

  “My friend here,” said August, leaning in confidentially, “has had a bit of a shock.”

  The housemaid leaned in too, painted-on eyebrows arched.

  “An electric shock, sir?” she inquired without a shadow of a smile. “A faulty outlet, perhaps?”

  “Um, yes. Something like that. Is there a quiet place where she might take a moment to recover?”

  “You’ll find the doors to the salon unlocked, sir. Just a short way down the hall, on the right. Everyone else is gathering out back.”

  She turned away, to welcome the following guest with equal disdain, and August slipped right past the salon where he had met the twins, instead pulling Claudette into the shadows of the staircase. The salty smell of boiling crawfish wafted through the passageway, accompanied by waves of raucous outdoor revelry: music, chatter, and laughter.

  Behind them, the snooty housemaid was wrestling with an elderly lady’s parasol and feather boa. Before them, the previous arrivals were passing onto the back veranda to wave at, greet, and join those guests thronging a broad, gracious lawn that swept down to the riverbank.

  August roughly bundled Claudette across the wide, momentarily vacant hallway, to the chamber of jewels. He gripped a door lever.

  “Please,” he whispered, eyes closed, “don’t be locked!”

  It wasn’t.

  “Follow me,” he hissed at Claudette. “The Zombie Stone is in here.”

  He quickly and quietly closed the door behind them. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim, eerie museum lighting. When they did, he confirmed that they were alone, then started immediately for the mantel.

  But halfway across the room, August stopped in his tracks.

  The potted fern had been returned to its original position. Of the skeleton boy and his balloon, there was no sign.

  The Zombie Stone was gone.

  August stood frozen. What to do next?

  “Let’s try the salon,” he whispered, “then search the other…”

  He spun back to Claudette to find a familiar, neckless silhouette in the doorway.

  “Mister August?” said the butler’s snooty voice. “Did you lose yourself?”

  It was perfectly obvious that August had not.

  “Bernice informs me,” continued Escargot, “that the young lady arrived feeling out of sorts. Has she…been revived?”

  August, embarrassed by the discovered trespass, nodded meekly.

  “Then I must inform you that Mister Beauregard impatiently awaits you to commence an activity he describes as…paintball.”

  Escargot indicated the proposed route with a gloved hand.

  “The party, sir, is this way.”

  It was two hours later, and the entire world had changed.

  Or at least August DuPont’s had.

  The boy sat at one of the long trestle tables set up on the riverbank, surrounded by Beauregard’s friends and a gaggle of other boisterous, laughing young people. Traces of dried yellow paint crusted the netting of his protective helmet. His sleeve was torn, and a nasty bruise was darkening his elbow. He remained daunted by the rowdy, pressing mass of bodies, and his throat was raw from yel
ling over the din.

  But in his entire life, August had never been so happy.

  He would have ventured to guess that even the season winner of Word or Number? (who had walked away with a three-day hot-air balloon tour of active volcanoes) could not have felt such perfect contentment. Indeed, the universe itself seemed to sense August’s soaring joy, for everything around him was celebration.

  On a makeshift stage beneath a flapping marquee, a live band was making wild, infectious, foot-tapping music, with fiddles and a squeezebox and a strange, corrugated metal vest that the wearer strummed with laughing abandon.

  And as the evening air finally cooled, and the sky turned orange behind the mansion, the assembly had responded to the festive rhythms by taking to the dance floor. Cowboy hats were bobbing, skirts were swirling, and boots were stomping, all with energetic zeal.

  But no dancer was more enthused than Claudette the zombie.

  Jerking her stiff little limbs, she reeled recklessly about, an ecstatic grin from ear to ear, narrowly avoiding collision at every turn.

  The “activity described as paintball,” as it transpired, had saved the day.

  Splashed and splotched with multicolored pigment from head to foot, Claudette had been inadvertently camouflaged, indistinguishable from the other spattered paintball participants. And while many had since cleaned themselves up a bit, the zombie’s appearance was still far less remarkable than it had been upon her arrival.

  August stifled a mischievous smile. It was hard to imagine…but they were getting away with it.

  He was jolted by a hearty slap on the back.

  “How’s your elbow, Cousin?” inquired Beauregard. Unlike his sweaty guests, Beauregard had changed into fresh clothes. Other than a faint pink stain in his hair, he was restored to his pristine, gentlemanly self.

  August assured him that his elbow and general well-being were never better.

  “Jeez!” Beauregard exclaimed. “That Laplander sure has some constitution.”

  They watched Claudette careening through the other dancers’ legs.

  “She didn’t even seem to feel those pellets. Just kept charging through them, like they were snowflakes. I saw one go right in her mouth. She didn’t even spit it out!”

  Beauregard waved Claudette toward them, and as she staggered over, he patted the space on the bench beside him.

  “You fancy yourself some crawfish, Miz Claudette? How about some gumbo?”

  “Oh!” blurted August hastily, anxious to avoid any further display of Claudette’s unusual table manners. “She only eats whale blubber. And frozen turnips.”

  “And spoons occasionally,” said Beauregard with an arched brow but a good-natured smile.

  Claudette giggled and shrugged.

  “Give it here,” said August. “I’ll have her gumbo.”

  As the spicy stew warmed his throat, August happily absorbed the party around him. And then there was a moment—a single, incredible moment—when something magical happened.

  Behind August, dancers scooted and jigged in a blur of motion. Before him, Gaston and Langley were thumb-wrestling. Belladonna peered into her phone, scowling. Claudette tossed empty peanut shells into her own mouth.

  The closing scene, his favorite scene, the scene that meant everything from the Stella Starz credits, was unfolding in real life—and August was in it. A warm feeling formed in the boy’s toes, ran up his legs, and coursed through his entire being.

  It was elation. This was it. Like Stella, August was at last—at long, long last—starring in his own life. Finally, he’d arrived at that yearned-for place, a place with friends, friends who accepted him as one of their own.

  At last, August belonged.

  In what shenanigans would his gang participate? Would they deliver the school bully her just rewards? Reveal that the cafeteria ghost was in fact a disgruntled cook? Or perhaps they’d craftily orchestrate the unlikely but perfect romantic pairing of soccer coach to drama teacher.

  He felt that twitch in his right hand.

  It was time.

  Buoyant with happiness, August faced Beauregard, swung his hand into the air, and opened his palm.

  But Beauregard didn’t see him.

  Beauregard was leaning over his plate, attracting the attention of his fellow diners.

  “Guys. Guys! Listen up!”

  With some shushing and nudging, the immediate company fell silent.

  “So,” announced Beauregard with a conspiratorial grin as Gaston, Langley, Claudette, and several other young people leaned in to better hear the charismatic boy speak. “I have some news. Juicy gossip.”

  August experienced an inexplicable shiver of apprehension. Something was wrong. He glanced up at the mansion, recalling his mission to locate the Zombie Stone.

  “Claudette here”—Beauregard eyed the girl beside him—“has herself a little secret.”

  August’s heart skipped a beat.

  “She’s not a Laplander at all. Isn’t that so, Miz Claudette?”

  Beauregard gripped Claudette’s shoulder and gave it an affable shake. Between the paintball and the dancing, the undead girl’s parts had become a little, let’s say…loosened. Beauregard’s jovial jostling was the last straw.

  With a wet plop!, Claudette’s loose eyeball shot from its socket, fell to the table, rolled across the checkered cloth, and came to rest against a bottle of Malveau’s Devil Sauce.

  Startled by the disturbance, a two-inch centipede scuttled out of her right nostril.

  There was stunned silence.

  But it was momentary.

  Suddenly Langley emitted a shrill, hysterical, ear-piercing sound.

  “It’s a zombie!” he screamed.

  August experienced the next several seconds almost as if he were watching a slow-motion playback. And in times to come, when he remembered the events, it would always play out in his mind the same way.

  Limbs flailed lazily, and hair drifted through the air, like it might in water. The bench beneath him slowly tilted and fell, as diners lunged gracefully away from the table. The sounds of panic blended into one long, groaning yawn.

  But then his mind and the moment resynced, and everything around him was fast and loud and terrible. He picked himself off the ground and saw his helmet nearby, crushed in the stampede.

  He was surrounded by gaping faces. Those who had sought to gain distance had collided with those who had drawn closer to observe, and all were now collected in a circle, some fifteen feet in radius. At its center were August and Claudette.

  The dancing and music had ceased. Beyond the crowd, August spotted the band members standing on tiptoe, attempting to catch a glimpse of the drama.

  And there was a voice, speaking loudly. It was a voice he knew, and yet it sounded altered and strange. It was Beauregard’s voice.

  “I knew it the moment I shook its hand,” he was crowing, turning full circle to address the entire audience, “and felt that cold and lifeless grip. It’s not an exchange student.” He pointed at Claudette with a righteous index finger. “It’s a filthy dirty zombie!”

  Who was this person? He looked like Beauregard. He shared his perfect oval face and broad, embracing smile. His eyes were wide-set, of dark, translucent brown like tea. And yet there was something unfamiliar in them. They twinkled not with mischievous humor, but with…yes, with malice.

  Had they changed? Or had August simply misread them all along?

  Beauregard snatched up Claudette’s eyeball from the table and grimaced at its slippery texture. He darted over to the wall of spectators and waved the dripping sphere in their faces, eliciting shrieks of horror that made his grin broaden, a grin that, once devilish, suddenly seemed demonic.

  Claudette lunged at the boy, intent on retrieving her organ. But Beauregard, far taller th
an she, simply held it out of reach, laughing as the small zombie awkwardly lurched and jumped, grunting in frustration.

  “Langley!” cried Beauregard. “Heads up!” The eyeball sailed through the air.

  “Ew!” squealed Langley, tossing it on to Gaston.

  “Gaston, to me!” Beauregard raised his open hand.

  And thus, a cruel game of catch ensued.

  Langley and Gaston were not entirely heartless young men, but sadly, they were the sort who were too lazy to think for themselves. It was far easier and more comfortable to leave the decisions to Beauregard, and to do his bidding, for which they received his praise and friendship, which gave them a sense of security.

  To give him some credit, Gaston frowned as if experiencing a pang of guilt at the sight of the lumbering zombie. But on catching a glimpse of Beauregard’s thunderous expression…he tossed the eyeball.

  August watched the scene, an entirely new emotion mounting within him. He realized what it must be; he’d seen Stella Starz exhibit it only once, when her father had dropped to one knee and proposed to the surly, scheming Hedwig.

  It was anger.

  Claudette was increasingly distressed, tripping over her own feet and wailing mournfully as the eyeball repeatedly arced across her head.

  August’s anger combusted into fury.

  He put an end to the whole thing quickly and simply, by stepping forward and reaching up to intercept the small globe in midflight. There was silence as Beauregard contemplated him with narrow eyes…then lifted his open palm.

  “Throw it!” he said quietly with a slight sneer.

  August knew in an instant that the words represented both an offer and a threat: participate in the callous teasing, and remain in Beauregard’s good graces. Or…

  August looked at Claudette. Her eye socket looked particularly vacant, framed as it was by the green and orange paint streaking her face. Spittle was foaming at the corners of her panting mouth. She was a disaster.

  Next he looked at Beauregard: all symmetry, cleanliness, and dashing smile. He thought of the future lunchtime gatherings. He thought of the back slapping and arm punching. He thought of the potential adventures: the undoing of bullies, the exposing of spies, the recovery of penguins.