Zombie Elementary
Page 11
I knew these zombies. I saw Coach Chicka, so I guessed we wouldn’t be practicing this week. I saw Nick Wasileski, whose brother Jeff was the one who got away dressed in his catcher’s armor. Behind him was—huh, guess Jeff didn’t get away after all. Luke and Jonathan Torres were shambling along behind them. There was Hunter Jordan and Will Naylor, and all the Pirates except Eric, who’d run away. There were a couple of cheerleaders hopping along, trying to wave pom-poms. There was Miss Scoffle. “Come up to the blackboard, Donny Muller!” she croaked.
And Alex Bates, who started all of this by eating The Meatloaf That No Kid Should Eat.
Most of them were on fire, of course. I guess if you’re a zombie, being on fire is no big deal.
Chucky was working the chainsaw like a circus acrobat now, and the zombies all clutched the sides of their heads and backed away from him. I guess the noise hurts their ears even when they’re on fire. I was distracted by the chainsaw, so I didn’t notice Alex Bates had snuck up behind me. I felt his fingers touch me—and the remains of a cafeteria cheeseburger drip down my neck.
I guess at that point I should have said something cool, like “Not today, sucker!” or “This time it’s personal!” like they do in movies, but I had nothing.
“NO GRABBING!” I yelled.
I knew what I needed to do. It was a grudge match. I wriggled free just as he was about to chow down on my ear. I had the Louisville Slugger, hickory wood, thirty-two inches long, weighing twenty-four ounces, possibly once touched by Cal Ripken, Jr. It was a bit too big for me.
I swung the Slugger as hard as I could and his head flew clean off. THWUNKK!!! It bounced against the side of the dumpster. The rest of him, still on fire, flapped around and fell down.
Francine grabbed my arm and hauled me into the back of the truck. Chucky leaped in as well, and Jermaine gunned the engine. But just then a van raced in front of us. It read “Dictionary Emporium” on the side. A second vehicle pulled in behind it, then a third and a fourth. They were identical vans except they all said different things, like “Whale Blubber Treats” and “Pet Literacy Service.” You know, stuff nobody’s interested in. Smart.
People in orange hazmat suits—that’s what they call ’em, right?—jumped out and started hosing the zombies with some sort of green goop from big tanks in the backs of the vehicles. The zombies stopped, quivered and fell down.
The goop put out the ones who were on fire too.
One big guy was yelling orders and directing the hazmat team. Some of them were spraying down the zombies. Others were dragging the zeds into a huge truck marked “Bouncy Castles for Senior Citizens.” I guess it was a hospital on wheels. Two of them carried Nick Walker. He was still trying to bite them.
Pretty soon they’d hauled all the zombies I could see into the truck.
The big guy pulled off his helmet and grinned at me. “Hey, Larry! Good work!”
“Hey, Mr. O’Hara!” I answered.
“Sorry to be late. The traveling BURP team”—he indicated all around—“just got in from saving Pleasantville and Sunnydale. And we got all this goop to cure the zombies. One day I have a thimbleful of the stuff in a syringe, next day I’ve got a hundred barrels full. That’s how it is when you work for the government.”
One lady in an orange suit came up, carrying Alex Bates. His head, I mean. Another two people dragged the rest of him. “Patient Zero, boss,” said the hazmat lady. “First one to eat the meatloaf.”
“Good work, Quach, McGuire, Gibson,” said Mr. O’Hara.
“You can put him back together, right?” I asked.
Mr. O’Hara gave me the look my dad had given Honor after her gerbil had gone to the vet and didn’t come back. “Well, Larry, sometimes in life things don’t—”
There was a huge explosion behind us.
Our school needed a whole new cafeteria building.
48
Anyhow, that’s about it, I guess. All the kids and most of the teachers had barricaded themselves in the library. Ms. Ostertag thought it was the best meeting of the reading club ever. The BURP folks cleared the scene of zombies, stuck ’em all in the giant truck and headed out. No muss, no fuss, as Mr. O’Hara said at the time. He told us he figured the zombies all followed Alex back to the school because Alex wanted a cafeteria cheeseburger. Seemed like a reasonable explanation to me.
No zombies since then, anywhere. Trust me, I’ve kept a lookout this whole time.
School was out for the rest of the year. It was almost the end of the school year anyway.
None of the adults ever said a thing about it, far as I know. The local news said there was a grease fire at the cafeteria that got out of control.
My dad took over coaching the Tigers. He never did ask why I had the Louisville Slugger. He’s pretty hard on me as coach, though, ’cause nobody likes it when the coach’s kid gets treated better than the other players. (Even when he is better than the other players.)
The Pirates sorta dropped out of the league, what with nearly all their players being zombies and all.
A few days after school got out, I saw the Wasileski boys and Nick Walker at the mall. Last time I’d seen ’em they’d been zombies. Zombies on fire, covered in green goop. They looked okay now. I guess the government goop really did work like Mr. O’Hara said. I think maybe I was the only one who thought it would. I know Jermaine didn’t. Not sure even Mr. O’ Hara ever really did.
“ ’Sup?” I said. (It’s not really a question.)
“Not much, dude,” said Jeff. His brother nodded. I looked to see if his head was on right. It was, but he wasn’t one of the ones I hit with a bat. Nick Walker smiled. Nice guy. Maybe he’ll be back with the Pirates next season.
My family took a long vacation over the summer. After we got home, I saw Alex Bates. I was shocked. I thought—well, you know what I thought. He was wearing a cone around his neck, like Mr. Snuffles had to wear that time when he kept biting at his stitches. “I got a neck injury,” he said, normal voice and no “BRAIINNNSS” at all. And he pointed to stitches of his own, where I guess they’d sewn his head back on.
“What happened?” I said. (Like I don’t remember, right?)
“Can’t recall a thing about it, Larry,” he said. “Last thing I remember was some really great meatloaf.”
KYLE: So, that’s it, right?
LARRY: I guess. Mom saw Miss Scoffle at the hair salon and she still didn’t recall my name. So that’s good. I saw a guy with one of those artificial legs and I wondered if he was the one who—you know.
KYLE: I’ll type up all you told me and edit it for the Official History—you know, the true story. Kids need to know about what took place here in Acorn Falls.
LARRY: What happens when the adults read it? I mean, they act like nothing happened at all.
KYLE: Trust me, Larry. Adults never take any notice of what kids tell them.
Larry and Kyle’s Acknowledgments
Hey, um, yeah. No. Anyway I want to mention Jermaine for all the stuff he knows, and Francine for being really kick—[end deleted]—can I say that? Plus Chainsaw Chucky and Grandma for believing us about the zombies ’cause nobody else did. Also Mr. O’Hara, but maybe we shouldn’t mention him at all. So, forget that bit. And Kyle, for writing this stuff down. Can I get a sandwich?
—Larry
I’d like to thank Tundra Books for being brave enough to publish this true account of what happened at Acorn Falls. I just hope copies of the book are not stopped at the border by the US authorities. I think it’s possible.
—Kyle
Howard’s Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my friends in the Rockland Writers’ Group and the Westchester Children’s Writers for their willingness to listen to all kinds of nonsense as I wrote and revised this book. I’ll also mention all the young people who’ve been in my ‘Lern to Rite Gud’ classes, especially Susan, Peter and Karen Zollinger. I’ve added a lot of my friends (and their own kids) into the book, mostly as names—
Alex Bates is a 6’6” bar bouncer in Alaska, not a ten year old zombie. In particular, federal agent Walt O’Hara stars as himself, although his actual job doesn’t involve fighting zombies; of course, he couldn’t say if it did.
I want to thank Tara Walker at Tundra for taking on this book after another publisher said that zombies were a passing fad (“The Walking Dead” appeared on TV shortly after this comment) and Samantha Swenson, for wrangling my manuscript into something that ten year olds would still enjoy without their parents being horrified at all the blood, gore, decapitations (etc). Last of all, I thank my wife Lori (Pastor Linda—you’ll meet her in the book) for putting up with me for more than thirty years now.
HJW