Fifth-Grade Zombies

by R. L. Stine

  It took a lot of time to fall asleep. And when I did, I had an unpleasant dream.

  It started out okay. I dreamed I was back home in New York. I was in my room, and Mom and Dad were in the apartment, too.

  Then I went out, and I walked along the street, past shops and restaurants. It all seemed normal at first. But then I realized that the street was empty. No one in sight.

  I gazed up and down the sidewalk. And then people came into view.

  People walked toward me, and their eyes were wide and solid white. I cried out because I realized they were staggering and lurching and stumbling. They stretched their hands out, their arms stiff, as if reaching for me, grabbing for me.

  Zombies.

  I woke up with a silent scream. My face was drenched in a cold sweat.

  I gazed all around the room, making sure it was just a dream. Then I slid out from under the covers and walked on shaky legs to the window.

  A red sun was just coming up. I could tell there was no breeze. The dry brown cornstalks stood straight up at attention.

  I stepped out of my room and listened. Silence. Everyone was still asleep.

  I woke up with one idea in my head. I wanted to find proof. I needed to make everyone believe me.

  And I had to know the truth.

  I pulled on jeans and a hoodie and quietly tiptoed down the stairs. I carefully clicked the front door closed behind me.

  The air still carried a chill from the night before. The grass leading up to the cornfield sparkled in the morning dew, and my shoes sank into the wet ground.

  I stopped at the edge of the field. The stalks rose above me, like a wall.

  What exactly did I hope to find?

  I didn’t know.

  But I knew there had to be some clue. Footprints, maybe. Or something those strange, frightening kids had dropped.

  I took a deep breath and prepared to step into the rows of stalks. I jumped back when a fat brown squirrel darted out and leaped over my shoes. Its tail raised high, it ran along the edge of the field. Then disappeared back into the stalks.

  I silently scolded myself. It isn’t helpful to be afraid of a squirrel, Todd.

  But, of course, I was afraid.

  Were those zombie kids back in the cornfield? Had they seen me? Were they waiting for me?

  Todd—you’re a New Yorker, I told myself. You’re not afraid of a cornfield. You’re not afraid of anything!

  I shoved two stalks out of my way and stepped into the field. I made my way down one row, then turned and walked the next. I kept my eyes on the ground. My shoes crunched over the dead leaves and husks.

  The sun rose higher in the morning sky, and the air grew warmer. I mopped my forehead with the sleeve of my hoodie.

  I kept the sun in front of me. That way, I couldn’t get lost again. If I wanted to leave the cornfield, all I had to do was turn my back to the sun.

  I told myself I was too clever to be afraid. But why was my heart pounding like a bass drum?

  I tapped the plastic lighter in my jeans pocket. Luck. Good luck.

  I thought it might take a while to find the proof I was searching for. But it didn’t take long at all.

  I stopped and squinted at the ground between stalks. I bent down to get a closer look.

  Yes. Yes. I had definitely found something.

  Large openings in the ground.

  I squatted down and could see that the dirt had been shoved aside around them.

  How many were there?

  Keeping low to the ground, I pressed myself between the stalks. “Whew.” I counted at least a dozen openings in the dirt.

  A dozen graves?

  I stared at the dirt piled up at the edge of each hole.

  Had those kids climbed up from under the dirt? Pushed up from their graves? And then staggered out of the cornfield?

  It was insane. The whole idea. Impossible.

  But here I was, staring at the piles of dirt, the open graves.

  Hey, I’m a horror fan. I love scary stuff.

  But this felt very different. It wasn’t fun. It was too real.

  At least now I had my proof.

  The family couldn’t laugh at me now. They couldn’t say I had a bad nightmare last night.

  They had to believe me.

  Brushing dirt off the knees of my jeans, I went running back to the house. “Hey—!” I called as I burst into the kitchen.

  Uncle Jake already had a skillet of pancake batter on the stove. Skipper and Mila sat at the table in their pajamas. Aunt Clara stood by the sink, a mug of coffee between her hands.

  “Where’ve you been?” Uncle Jake asked.

  “I found my proof,” I said. “Come with me. Hurry. You have to believe me now.”

  “Not now,” my uncle said. “You see I have pancakes on the stove.”

  Skipper and Mila groaned. “Give it a rest, Todd. It’s too early for that zombie stuff.”

  “But—but—” I sputtered. “I have to show you what I found. I—”

  “Why don’t you just tell us?” Aunt Clara said. She took a long sip of coffee. “You don’t have to show us right now. Just tell us what you found.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. I took a breath. “I found all these holes in the cornfield. Lots of holes in the ground. With dirt piled up on the sides.”

  Uncle Jake shook his head. “Todd, listen—”

  “They weren’t old,” I said. “The holes are fresh. They have to be open graves. There are so many of them, you won’t believe it.”

  Uncle Jake lifted the pan off the stove and flipped the pancakes. “Perfect,” he muttered.

  “Did you hear what I said?” I cried. My voice burst out high and shrill.

  “Raccoons,” Skipper said. He rubbed his fork and knife together.

  Mila nodded. “Raccoons,” she echoed. “There are more and more of them every year.”

  “Excuse me?” I cried. I took a few steps toward the table.

  “Mila is right,” Aunt Clara said. “The raccoons are a real problem here, Todd. Their population grows every year.”

  “But—” I started.

  “When fall comes,” Uncle Jake said, “gangs of them overrun the cornfields. They are looking for any scraps of food they can find.”

  He turned off the stove burner and slid the stack of pancakes onto a big platter. “And they dig themselves beds to sleep in,” he said.

  I swallowed. “Beds? You mean—”

  Uncle Jake nodded. “Those holes you saw … they’re raccoon beds.”

  I shut my eyes. My brain was spinning.

  Were they telling the truth? I’d never heard of raccoon beds.

  Aunt Clara slid a chair out from the table. “Take that stunned look off your face, Todd, and sit down,” she said. “You don’t want your pancakes to get cold.”

  I dropped into the chair and scraped it up to the table. “You’re probably all starting to think I’m seriously weird,” I said.

  “Yes, we do,” Skipper said. “Seriously weird.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Everyone but me.

  I knew what I saw the night before.

  And I knew I had to prove it to them.

  But how?

  Aunt Clara drove Mila and me to Mila’s friend’s house. We passed more empty cornfields, some narrow creeks, and vast stretches of woods. Shameka lived in the nearest farmhouse, about five miles away.

  She was waiting for us on the back porch as our truck crackled up the gravel driveway. She had short black hair and light brown skin. She waved and came trotting toward us. I laughed at her T-shirt. It had an arrow pointing up at her face that read I’m with ME.

  Grinning, she swung open the truck door, grabbed my hand, and yanked me to the ground so hard I nearly fell over. “Hi, City Kid!” she exclaimed. “Was that your first time in a truck?” She raised her phone. “Shall we take a selfie to send to Mom?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you going to give me a tough time, too?” I asked.


  She laughed. She was nearly a foot shorter than me. But she had a deep-throated laugh that rang in the air. “No way, Todd. I won’t make fun of you for being a city kid. Actually, I’m from Brooklyn.”

  “You’re joking,” I said. “Where?”

  “Flatbush.”

  “My grandmother was born in Flatbush,” I said.

  Mila gave Shameka a push toward the house. “This is a thrilling conversation,” she said. “I may die from the excitement.”

  Shameka winked at me. “She’s totally jealous.”

  “How did you end up out here in Moose Hollow?” I asked.

  “My dad made a wrong turn in Kenosha!” she exclaimed.

  We both laughed.

  “You and Todd have the same sense of humor,” Mila said. “Bad.”

  Shameka led us through the back door. The air was warm in the kitchen and smelled sweet. “We had cinnamon rolls for breakfast,” Shameka said. “Sorry I forgot to save you one.”

  The kitchen looked modern and bright. Little spotlights shone down from the ceiling. The floor was red tile, and the cabinets were all painted bright yellow. “Mom is an artist, and she likes bright colors,” Shameka explained.

  “The whole house is pretty awesome,” Mila said. “And wait till you see their chicken coop. It’s state-of-the-art.”

  “You’ll want to live in it,” Shameka said.

  “I like my attic room at Mila’s,” I said. “It’s like my own little world.”

  “Mila told me you were weird,” Shameka said.

  “I did not!” Mila protested.

  Shameka led us into a large den with bright green leather couches, a red leather armchair, and throw pillows of all colors scattered everywhere. “We’re having brats for lunch,” she said. “Todd needs the whole Wisconsin thing, right?”

  Mila pulled two guitars from behind one of the couches. She handed one to Shameka. They sat down across from each other and started to tune them.

  I dropped down onto a big throw pillow and leaned my back against the wall. A gray cat with bright green eyes appeared from out of nowhere and rubbed its back against my leg.

  “She’s very friendly,” Shameka said. “But she’ll bite you if she decides she doesn’t like you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. The cat purred and rubbed its back some more.

  Mila and Shameka began to play their guitars. A fast country rhythm. “Mila and I have a band,” Shameka said.

  I pulled out my harmonica and joined in.

  They both stopped playing at once.

  I lowered the harmonica to my lap. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you ever take lessons on that thing?” Shameka asked.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “I thought so,” she said.

  “Maybe you should have it tuned,” Mila chimed in.

  “You don’t tune a harmonica,” I said. “There’s nothing to tune.”

  “Maybe you should try the saxophone,” Shameka said. And they both laughed.

  I slapped the harmonica against my palm. “Okay. I get it,” I murmured. “You don’t like my playing.”

  “You probably have other talents,” Shameka said.

  “I can rehearse,” I said. “Really. I’m not that bad. Can’t I be in your band? If I work at it?”

  They stared at me.

  “That’s my dream,” I said. “To be in a band.”

  “Keep dreaming,” Shameka said. And they both laughed again.

  I let out a growl and jammed the harmonica back into my pocket. “You two are a riot,” I muttered.

  They ignored me and played some more. I tried to pet the cat, but she spun away and strutted out of the den with her tail in the air.

  I shifted my weight on the big pillow. “What is your band called?” I asked.

  “Canned Meat,” Mila said.

  I blinked. “Huh? Canned Meat? Why Canned Meat?”

  Both girls giggled in reply.

  “No. Seriously,” I said. “Why Canned Meat?”

  They giggled again. Then Shameka said, “Maybe you’ll soon find out.”

  Shameka’s chicken coop was as amazing as the girls had said. It was white and bright and clean. I was ready to hold my nose. But the air was fresh and sweet.

  Shameka pointed to what looked like a tunnel beneath the chicken roosts. “See? It’s a built-in conveyor belt,” she explained. “The eggs roll down to the end of each row. We don’t need anyone to pick them up.”

  “What are those fluffy white chickens?” I asked.

  “Those are Silkies,” Shameka said. “Aren’t they the cutest? We have a few of them. But most of these chickens are New Hampshire Reds.”

  “You’d be amazed how much personality a chicken has,” Mila said.

  “Yes, I would,” I replied. “The only chickens I’ve ever met were fried or roasted.”

  They both rolled their eyes.

  We walked up and down the rows. Chickens clucked and pecked seed and strutted. I guess that’s what they mostly do.

  At the end of a row, Shameka suddenly stopped and turned to Mila. A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Hey, Mila,” she said. “Did you tell Todd about what happened to that fifth-grade class from Ann Arbor?”

  To my surprise, Mila gasped. Her expression turned angry. “Shameka—shut up!” she cried. “I mean it. Shut up!”

  I followed them out of the chicken coop. The afternoon sun was high in a pale blue sky. Puffy white clouds floated low over the roof of the farmhouse.

  “You really should tell Todd,” Shameka insisted.

  Mila turned to face her. “No way! Why should I tell him?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe you’re doing this. Why did you even bring it up?”

  I stepped between them. “Stop shouting at each other,” I said. “You really have no choice now. You have to tell me whatever it is.”

  Mila balled up her fists and shook them at Shameka. Shameka stood her ground, staring back at her.

  “Why don’t you want to tell me?” I asked.

  I followed them to the back porch. Two wooden porch swings faced each other. I sat down. They took the one across from me.

  “I didn’t want to tell you,” Mila said, “because you just got here. I didn’t want to scare you, that’s all.”

  I laughed. “Are you kidding me? Everyone has been trying to scare me nonstop!”

  “This is serious,” Mila insisted.

  Shameka tucked her legs beneath her. “I think Todd needs to know,” she said softly. “He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

  “Just shut up,” Mila snapped. “I mean it—”

  “Stop arguing,” I said. I turned to Shameka. “You started it. So go ahead. Tell me. What’s the big secret?”

  They glared at each other. Mila was definitely angry. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Here goes. A true story, Todd.”

  I leaned forward and swung gently back and forth. The swing made a soft squeaking sound with each move.

  “It took place a few years back,” Mila started. “A class of fifth graders from Michigan were on a bus, and they came through here. Some kind of field trip, I guess.”

  “Their bus stopped at Mila’s farm,” Shameka said. “It parked in front of the cornfield. The kids thought it would be fun to explore it. I don’t think they were farm kids.”

  “It was summer, and the corn was high and thick,” Mila said. “The whole class went into the cornfield with their teacher, and …”

  She hesitated. She glanced at Shameka.

  “And they were never seen again!” Shameka said breathlessly.

  Both girls stared wide-eyed at me. No one moved. They were waiting to see my reaction.

  I gazed at one, then the other.

  Then I burst out laughing.

  Mila grabbed my arm. “Todd, what’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear what we just said? The kids were never seen again.”

  Shameka squinted hard
at me. “How can you laugh at that?”

  “Easy,” I said. “You farm people will do anything to try to scare a city dude.”

  “You’re wrong. We’re telling the truth,” Shameka insisted.

  “Ha,” I said. “Sorry, but it’s not going to work on me. I know exactly what happened here.”

  They both crossed their arms in front of them and frowned at me.

  “Mila knew I saw something weird out in the cornfield,” I explained. “I thought it was kids crawling out from the corn. But maybe I was wrong. It was my first night, and I was really tired. Maybe I did dream it. Maybe my imagination went berserk …”

  They didn’t move, listening to my explanation. I continued, “So Mila called you up, Shameka, and she said, ‘Here’s a trick we can play on Todd. He thinks he saw kids in the cornfield. So let’s make up a story and tell him a class of fifth graders disappeared in the field and never came out. Todd will be shaking. It will totally creep him out.’ ”

  “That’s not true!” both girls screamed at once.

  I laughed again. “I don’t scare so easy. I’m a New Yorker. We have rats bigger than those chickens!”

  Mila gritted her teeth. “Listen to us, Todd. There’s more. We haven’t finished the story.”

  “There’s something else you need to know,” Shameka said. “Something terrible. You see—”

  “Lunchtime!” a voice interrupted.

  Shameka’s mom appeared on the porch. “Come on. Come get your lunch before it gets cold.”

  I jumped up and followed the two girls into the kitchen. What did they want to tell me? What was the rest of their made-up story? They never finished, so I knew I was right. They were just trying to scare me.

  * * *

  Later that day, an hour before dinner, Skipper took me for a ride on the back of his electric bike. We rode down the gravel driveway, away from the farm, and onto the county road.

  There were no cars in sight. Skipper gunned it, and it felt like we were zooming at one hundred miles an hour.

  The strangest thing about the bike? It was completely silent.

  The cool air whipped my cheeks as the lateafternoon sun lowered behind the trees. Leaves had started to turn yellow and brown. It didn’t feel like summer anymore.