Memoirs of a Neurotic Zombie

by Jeff Norton

  ‘Whoa, Nesto.’ I stopped him, looking at my mostly empty water bottle beside me. ‘How much time did you spend thinking that?’

  ‘Don’t worry, not too long. And a good thing too, because … I’m in love.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so I thought that peeing in your bottle would kind of upset you—’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘That’s why I crept out as quietly as I could. But instead of going to the outhouses—’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been avoiding those,’ I confessed.

  ‘You’re gonna burst sooner or later,’ Nesto said.

  I knew he was right – I couldn’t avoid nature calling, even up here in the middle of nature.

  ‘So I marked my territory along the fence line and feeling free, changed into chupa mode. I ran around on all fours feeling … well, like me. And that’s when I heard it. It was like a low, loud bullhorn sound. It came from the trees beyond the fence, and I howled back.

  ‘Then it blew again. It made me think of music lessons at school, but you know, more melodic. It was definitely an animal. Except it wasn’t. Through the trees walked a … girl. A really, really pretty, like magazine cover or Disney Channel, girl.

  ‘I’d totally forgotten I was still in chupa mode and she came up to the fence and waved. Then she let out that sound again, like she had a trombone stuck in her throat.’

  I’d worried that I’d nodded off and was actually dreaming. ‘Wait a sec, Nest. Did you say you met a girl tonight?’

  ‘Crazy, I know!’ he said. ‘But it gets crazier. She’s not just a girl.’

  I got it. ‘That’s cool, man. I used to have an imaginary friend when I was younger too.’

  ‘Adam, she’s real, she’s beautiful, and guess what?’

  ‘Um, what?’ I asked, still unsure if I was dreaming this.

  ‘She’s a moose.’

  Now I was confused. ‘A real, beautiful …’

  ‘Moose. A weremoose,’ he said. ‘She lives in the woods with her herd, and just like me, she switches between animal and normal kid.’

  ‘Nesto,’ I said, stopping him in his tracks, ‘you’re not a normal kid.’

  ‘And neither is she. She’s awesome! Her name is Melissa. She likes frolicking in the forest, drinking from streams, and, get this, she likes to poo outside too!’

  ‘Sounds like your soulmate.’

  ‘I know, right!’ he squealed. ‘As if this place could get any better.’

  ‘So are you going to see Melissa the moose again?’

  ‘Oh yeah. After campfire, tonight, when she can sneak away from her herd.’

  ‘That’s great, Nesto. I’m really pleased for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Adam. I’ve never been happier.’

  I turned over, not quite sure what to believe, and finally dozed back asleep.

  13

  In Which I Become a Happy Camper

  The thing about sleeping in a tent, besides the fact that you’re on the ground, which should be the sole domain of worms and insects, is that rise and shine comes early.

  Nobody told me to bring an eyemask, so when the sun rose, so did I. Nesto was still snoring beside me when the morning rays acted as a natural, if annoying, alarm clock. I unzipped the tent and stretched my limbs. Slowly, a few of the other newbie campers were rousing and I spotted Amanda, holding her phone like a divining rod.

  My sister was famous, at least within the Meltzer extended family, for sleeping through just about anything. So I walked over to see what was up, since she was up.

  ‘What are you doing awake so early?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s too bright, and I can’t get a signal here.’

  ‘I don’t think the camp is big on mobile phones,’ I said.

  ‘Then it needs to get with the programme. How can I Instagram anything? I mean, how will anyone know what I’m doing?’

  I must admit, I did fancy calling Mom and Dad to let them know we’d arrived safely and to check in on their big road trip.

  ‘We could write postcards,’ I said.

  ‘Or smoke signals,’ she teased.

  Suddenly, I heard a rapid zip. ‘YOU MELTZERS ARE TOO LOUD.’

  It was Corina, crawling out of her and Amanda’s tent.

  ‘Hey, roomie!’ chirped Amanda. ‘Sun get you up too?’

  ‘No, I came prepared for light, but not for noise,’ she said, peeling back the tent flap, revealing her all-black sleeping bag that zipped up and over her head … like a portable coffin.

  ‘Well, you’re up now. Are you hungry?’ Corina shot me an are-you-kidding look, and I clarified. ‘Ready for breakfast?’

  ‘You know they have fifteen flavours of liquorice here,’ said Amanda. ‘They have a liquorice bar. It’s even open at breakfast!’

  ‘Someone say breakfast?’ growled Ernesto, clambering out of our tent on all fours. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘No,’ said Corina, ‘you’re hardly starving after how you stuffed your face yesterday!’

  ‘Did you get dressed in the dark?’ Nesto asked. ‘Because you’ve got your grumpy pants on.’

  I got dressed (in perfectly normal tracksuit trousers), expertly applied my zombie-concealing make-up, and joined the others on their breakfast pilgrimage.

  Despite the absence of the campers that left last night, the dining hall was just as buzzy and the food was piled just as high.

  ‘Hey, my man Adam,’ called Crow. ‘Your meatball pizza’s on the menu tonight!’

  ‘I didn’t know they did requests,’ said Nesto. ‘I’m going to ask for my favourite, squirrel tacos.’

  After downing orange juice, three pancakes, two waffles and a flight of bacon strips that were drizzled in honey, I was feeling ready to go outside and face the day.

  ‘Arts and crafts this morning campers,’ announced Growl. ‘We’ll stay in here while you create your masterpieces.’

  *

  Arts and crafts took on a surprisingly competitive bent when Growl explained that our creations would be judged by the camp’s owner.

  ‘This is a chance to show off your creativity,’ he said. ‘The challenge today is to build the best gingerbread building you can. It could be a house, a monument, anything you want. The bigger, bolder and more creative, the better. And tonight, before dinner, the camp’s owner is going to come to inspect you – I mean your creations – and hand out a prize for the best one. And then after dinner, the best part, you can eat them!’

  The camp counsellors unveiled trays of baked gingerbread in all shapes and sizes, and buckets of sweets for decorations, and handed each of us a piping bag filled with icing. I’d dabbled in cake decoration on rainy Saturday mornings with Mom, so I felt that I had a built-in advantage.

  Nesto, Corina, and I collected our materials and claimed a table to get building.

  ‘What are you guys going to build?’ I asked my friends.

  ‘This mess hall, I think,’ said Nesto. ‘It’s my new favourite place in the world.’

  ‘Transylvania Castle,’ said Corina, leaning in to whisper. ‘It’s the one building every vampire knows by heart.’

  ‘How ’bout you, Adam?’ nudged Nesto.

  I thought of my Broadway dreams and figured if I couldn’t bring Adam Meltzer to the Great White Way, I could bring Broadway to me. ‘I’m going to build a replica of the Radio City Music Hall in New York City.’

  We spent the morning building our masterpieces, and I must admit (and I’m biased here) that my shrine was stunning. Corina’s was pretty great too. She’d covered it in dark grey icing and made little skulls out of white marshmallows.

  ‘Of course in real life, those are actual human skulls,’ she explained, ‘pulled off the spines of the Count’s enemies.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed.

  Before I knew it, Growl was calling, ‘Time for lunch!’

  Instead of keeping us in the dining hall, he led us down to the lakefront where smoke rose from b
ehind the trees. The smell of grilling meat wafted onshore and we discovered that a big BBQ had been set up.

  I still felt full from breakfast, but the sizzling hot dogs and burgers smelled too good to pass up.

  Corina looked glum, and hungry, until Petal showed her a separate BBQ covered in grilled vegetables.

  ‘You made a special one just for me?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘We want everyone to feel welcome here,’ said Petal, ‘and be well fed.’

  ‘Hey, can we go swimming this afternoon?’ asked Nesto.

  I preferred my bodies of water to be highly chlorinated, but the hot midday sun sparkled on the lake, making it look as inviting as untreated water could possibly be.

  ‘Baseball after the BBQ, and then swimming before the judging,’ said Growl.

  ‘Um, Growl,’ I said. ‘Are the sports optional?’

  ‘Adam’s not really the physical type,’ said Corina.

  ‘I just don’t like games with balls. Or bats. Or balls being thrown at bats that then get hit into the air at high speeds. Maybe we could play curling instead? That’s a Canadian sport and is kind of like sweeping up vigorously on ice.’

  ‘Curling’s a winter sport, Adam. But you’re American, and baseball’s the great American game, isn’t it?’

  ‘Great.’ I sighed. I knew I couldn’t hit, throw, or field, and it was just a matter of time before I made a complete fool of myself on the diamond. Of course, I had no idea this would be the very least of my worries.

  14

  In Which I Get Taken Out of the Ball Game

  We were split up into two teams and given pre-worn red and blue vests to wear over our clothes. I raised my hand in protest.

  ‘Do you have anything, um, factory fresh?’ I asked.

  ‘You crack me up, Adam,’ said Growl.

  That really wasn’t my intention, but since everybody else had donned their colours, I didn’t want to hold up their fun. I slithered into the used red vest, trying not to let it touch my skin. Nesto and I were on the same team, and Corina was blue, along with Jake and my sister.

  Fortunately, Growl had a bag of brand-new Camp Nowannakidda baseball caps.

  ‘Pick your positions kids. Reds in the field first and blues at bat,’ said Growl.

  In baseball, the field is separated into an infield where all the action is, and an outfield where a batter may occasionally hit a ball – and I wasn’t looking for action.

  ‘I prefer to be as far away from the ball as possible,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, Adam’s in the outfield,’ said Growl.

  ‘Is there such a thing as out-outfield?’ I asked.

  ‘If there’s a fly ball, it’s all you!’

  ‘Lucky duck,’ said Nesto, who volunteered for shortstop, the fielder between second and third base, which I thought was wholly appropriate given his height. ‘I love fresh flies.’

  I was in left field, furthest from the bench and hopefully furthest from the ball.

  Amanda was up first and struck out. We Meltzers, clearly, were not a sporty bunch.

  Second up to bat was Corina and she ended up slamming the ball into the sky. It soared over the infield like a comet as it rushed down towards me at terminal velocity. I faintly heard my team cheering me on to catch it, but it was moving too fast. My hand sweated in my glove and I couldn’t raise it on time.

  Thwop!

  The ball dented the grass beside me. I heard a collective groan from the reds as Corina glided around the bases and comfortably hopped onto home plate, doing a little victory dance. She high-fived her teammates as the next batter stepped up to the plate.

  When it was our turn at bat, Corina volunteered to pitch. She got two players out by the time I was called to the plate.

  I grabbed the bat, very aware that the last time I had swung at anything, it was the robot-shaped piñata on my birth/death day. I still couldn’t believe my life had ended that day, now well over four months ago, and then had started anew with a rebirth from the grave.

  I was lost in thought when Corina taunted me on my way to the plate. ‘Batter up,’ she called. ‘I’m throwin’ cannons.’

  I didn’t want to embarrass myself like I did in the field, so I reluctantly stepped forward, gripped the bat and prepared to meet Corina’s pitch.

  Corina swung her leg into the air like they do on TV and unleashed the fury of her immortal power. I swung as hard as I could but, instead of hitting the ball, the ball hit me.

  Corina’s curve ball pounded me in the head, knocking me down and out. The sunshine quickly faded and all went dark as I blacked out.

  *

  I was back in my coffin, in my grave. It was dark and hot. And then too hot. The coffin lit up with a red glow: a heating element. The inside of my coffin was like the inside of an oven. I was being cooked. I pounded and thrashed at the wooden box but couldn’t get out. Finally, the heat was too much and I passed out – baked in my own coffin.

  *

  I came to and opened my eyes, which was a mistake. The afternoon sun was strong and I squinted until Corina leaned over me, blocking out the sun – a vampire eclipse.

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ she asked.

  ‘None,’ I said, noticing her hands were by her sides.

  ‘What’s your favourite brand of antibac soap?’

  It was a trick question. ‘GermOff for efficacy, Flower Shower for aroma.’

  She pulled me up. ‘You’ll be fine, slugger.’

  But I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t shake the awful feeling of my daymare.

  15

  In Which I Win A Prize

  My head had recovered, but I wasn’t sure my pride had.

  I wasn’t built for baseball. It was nothing like choreographed dance where you could rehearse and rehearse to refine every step until it was perfect. With baseball you just had to wing it and that felt unnatural to me.

  After the game (Reds 5, Blues 2), we filed back into the mess hall and stood behind our gingerbread masterpieces. I was pretty proud of my Radio City Music Hall and I thought that at least biscuit-based construction was one activity I was built for.

  ‘Ahoy, campers,’ said Growl, calling us to attention. ‘We are very honoured to have the owner of the camp, Mrs Lebkuchen, with us today to welcome you all to Camp Nowannakidda.’

  He started clapping and an old woman, hunched over with a cane and wearing a black shawl pulled up over her hair, stepped through the kitchen door.

  ‘My dear, dear children,’ she said in a foreign accent I couldn’t quite place. ‘This camp has been in my family for many years. And we have welcomed thousands and thousands of children, like yourselves, through our gates to have a once in a lifetime experience.’

  She spoke slowly and sounded much older than she looked. I wasn’t sure she was even human. My first instinct was vampire, and I looked over to Corina and mouthed, ‘Your kind?’

  She shook her head, as if to say I’m not like her. But there was something unreal about Mrs Lebkuchen. If not vampire, maybe she was a zombie? But whilst her skin was certainly old and crinkly, it didn’t look decayed.

  Her accent was definitely not American. She sounded a bit like the European or Russian villains in the NinjaMan movies, but not Spanish or Latin American, so I ruled out chupacabra.

  ‘I was not so lucky as a young girl,’ she continued in slow, stuttering speech. ‘I grew up very poor in Bavaria, and we didn’t have such things as summer camp. But I believe children should have fun before they—’

  ‘Go back to school in the fall,’ added Growl, helping her along.

  ‘And before you do, I should like to meet each of you,’ she said, lowering the shawl off her head and laying it on her hunched shoulders. Mrs Lebkuchen had wiry black hair with coils of white running through it.

  Growl led her down the opposite line of tables and she stopped and said hello to each eager competitor. As she examined each creation, I tried to see if I had any real competition. I spotted her chatting
to Jake, and she seemed to really like the look of his NinjaCave because she reached out and pinched his chubby cheek. ‘Just the way I like it,’ I heard her say across the room.

  His opus was a near-perfect replica of NinjaMan’s secret HQ, and while I didn’t take Mrs Lebkuchen for a comic-book fan, she certainly had an eye for art.

  Finally, she made her way over to our tables.

  ‘You’re too skinny and pale,’ said the old woman, turning to Corina. ‘In my youth, food was scarce and we nearly starved, but here I put out so much food for you children. A feast every night like I never had.’

  ‘I’m a vegan,’ Corina said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t eat anything that comes from an animal.’

  Suddenly, Mrs Lebkuchen slapped her cane on the table. The towers of Transylvania trembled but didn’t topple. ‘But animals are here to be eaten.’

  ‘I don’t see it that way,’ replied Corina, calmly.

  ‘It is the only way!’ cried the camp owner. ‘Hunger must be sated.’

  ‘Um,’ began Growl, ‘perhaps we should—’

  ‘I try to control my hunger,’ Corina added. ‘I try really hard and it isn’t easy, believe me, but I think I’m a better … person because of it.’

  The old woman was shaking. ‘Better than me?’

  Growl escorted the incensed old woman to my creation. She took one look at me and her dark eyes widened.

  ‘Another vegan?’ she asked.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t live without meatballs.’

  ‘Then why so thin? And this colour on your face, it’s not natural is it?’

  She stared intently at me, looking me up and down the way Mom might pick out a fish at the market.

  ‘So this is Radio City Music Hall,’ I said, trying to shift the subject away from my irreversible skin condition. ‘I’ve always wanted to perform there but—’

  ‘So you’re a singer?’ she asked. ‘Sing an old lady a song?’