The Zombies: Volumes One to Six Box Set

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  Her eyelids heavy, she hung the gift bags from the hooks in the ceiling of the playhouse. It was long past time for bed. Still, this felt like a task that had to be done right now. The inexplicable sense of urgency won out over her exhaustion. Now. You never knew when your last chance was. There was nothing important going on in school tomorrow that couldn’t be made up, and she was scared to go anyway.

  That made her pause. Elania was scared to go to school. Bang.

  Fifty Sombra C infections among the student body was a tiny but decent minority, although it failed to bring them together. Dropping out one after another, the suicide, a runaway . . . the others had no intention of attending Welcome Mat when it was a Welcome Mat party at which they received their infections. They ate lunch in banishment at the office, or alone in their cars. None reached out in friendship and Elania’s attempts were rebuffed. When they passed each other in the auto shop restroom, the girls just looked away in shame and tightened their scarves.

  Shepherd patches didn’t pass muster in the dress code, but that didn’t mean they weren’t present. Elania caught sight of them sewn to the underside of backpack flaps, on the inner lining of jackets. A boy in her trigonometry class had a Shepherd emblem on his calculator, and one of the coaches had that as a bumper sticker on his car. It was outrageous after Black Monday for anyone to have a patch.

  So she was frightened, and with good reason. She was also humiliated. A field trip for science had left Elania behind at school, forbidden to set foot in the planetarium and relegated to the office listening to a guidance counselor and the secretary figure out where to put her for the morning. In the teachers’ lounge? No, we don’t want her in there. In the copy room? No, not there either. The storage room! They use it for lunch anyway. They. The zombie kids.

  That had been so embarrassing. She wrapped the Magic Marley books in red tissue paper with silver ribbons, thinking of just how much she was afraid to be at school. Mr. Tran locked the door during club meetings, and outside students went by through the lunch period shouting die, zombies, die. Get out of our school! Angrily, Mr. Tran dialed the proctors. They never came in time to catch the people yelling. With school starting late, the calendar had been adjusted to shorten both semesters and finish up at the end of June. Less than five months to go until graduation and Elania was through with this place. It was scant weeks to the first round of finals now.

  So much could happen in five months. So much could happen in the split second pull of a finger to a trigger. Bang. This could all be borrowed time they were living on. Elania was fretting over trigonometry when tomorrow there might be no need for trigonometry whatsoever. Tomorrow she might need to know how to start a fire.

  Dear God, I am afraid.

  Her rabbi liked to say that God was the ultimate listener. He did not interrupt or chastise, give silly advice or slyly check His cell phone while you unloaded. He listened, and once you got out every last facet of your problem, usually you could see the way through it. It might not be the easy way or the one you wanted to hear, but the solution was there should you be ready to take it.

  And sometimes the solution was that there was no solution. Percy’s cerebral palsy couldn’t be cured, and neither could Elania’s Sombra C. They could bring these problems to God, not for an answer but for listening. It was unlikely that Percy was ever going to be a cop like he dreamed. He had no chance of even winning a backyard footrace against Cormac and Conor. God could listen though not solve. The solution was that there was no solution, and Percy had to find some other path for his life. God could hold the hurt with him, and his family, too.

  God could hold her fear as well, that tomorrow someone might burst into her classroom with a gun and shoot her, that the power could go out or some new crisis rise and strand her family in a changed world. God could hold her fear of not being in control of tomorrow, when in truth, she never had been. That was the crux of it, the constant humbling life dealt out from not being in control. Maybe that was what brought so many people to religion in all of its permutations. You couldn’t control that your children were healthy or would stay that way, that the opening classroom door would just have an office aide on the other side here to pick up the attendance, that the world tomorrow would resemble the one from today. You hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. And God listened.

  She put the gift for her noisy little brothers on top of the cases of water and said a prayer for all of them.

  Brennan

  He didn’t have to look out the windows to know what was there.

  Mama called the police on the protestors every day, but they did not always respond. In the cops’ opinion, what harm were these women doing after all? It was a peaceful assembly. The sidewalk was public property, and they did not block the street. One cop said about the hymns being sung that he’d find it soothing to have a choir in full serenade outside his home at dinner. Just don’t read the signs! California was full of fruits and nuts protesting every little thing, and in time they’d get bored and go away.

  They kept the shades drawn and the television on, to drown out the hymns and prayers, the calls for them to move. Brennan no longer walked to church early in the mornings, not after some of the older boys who lived in his neighborhood chased him there. They waited outside while he prayed, and threw eggs when he ran to the high school. Now Corbin picked him up in the morning at home. The protestors usually did not come that early, but evidence of them from the previous day remained. Cigarette butts were strewn in the fringe of grass at the edge of the lawn, garbage wet from rain in the gutters. And now this morning, a rude sign was on their grass and a giant red C was spray-painted on the garage door.

  “Holy shit!” Corbin said when Brennan climbed inside the minivan.

  “Last night someone threw beer bottles at the house,” Brennan said, motioning to the brown glass on the pavement.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “They didn’t come in time to catch anyone.” It had been twenty minutes before the squad car turned down their block, even though Mama called the emergency number. The whole time they waited, Brennan sat on the sofa hating that his stamp meant he could not become a soldier. He hated that he was short and without much muscle, which prevented him from commanding respect. Every night he dreamed of the loading bay at Mr. Foods and woke up scared and raging. He thought of the surprised look on the thieves’ faces if Brennan had whipped out a gun from the back of his pants. Surprise and fear, the stampede of feet to follow through the parking lot. Respect this!

  Throwing over his wallet was the right thing to do. All of them had said that, Mama and Mr. Douglas and Mrs. Li, one of the Mrs. Cambornes and the first cops on the scene. Don’t die over three-fifty! But Brennan felt violated all the same. Only three-fifty but it was his three-fifty, and he could not bring himself to touch that wallet ever again. Not after those thieves had touched it. They had made it a receptacle of a bad memory. He had been ashamed to stand among the adults milling about in the loading bay, every one of them knowing that Brennan could not defend himself. A gun would have made a difference, turned them away with nothing. He would have his pride.

  Corbin did not have protestors outside of his home, nor did the others. Apparently their neighbors had other things to do. Shaking his head about the red C and broken glass as they pulled away, Corbin said, “That sign says not to suffer a witch to live. Sombra C is witchcraft now?”

  “A very old woman was holding that yesterday.”

  “A stamp removal ring got busted, I heard it on the news last night,” Corbin said. “Wish I’d had mine taken off first.”

  “You’d be arrested if caught.”

  “Then arrest me. Put the stamp back on. And when I get out, I’ll have it removed again. The government can’t ask us to walk around as culler fodder for the rest of our lives. But it’s so expensive! These people were charging ten thousand dollars to have stamps destroyed and giving their customers no underground access to Zyllevir. That’s how
they got busted, people trying to get their pills on the sly.”

  “I do not like Zyllevir,” Brennan mumbled. The temporary nausea was awful.

  “Some people stop taking it because the stomach upset goes on all week, or they take half-doses to reduce it and end up going feral. The pharmaceutical industry has got to come up with better drugs. They did for AIDS. So, did you talk to that girl at your church yet?”

  “I said hello again-”

  Corbin looked over in teasing amazement. “Again? Doesn’t that make three times? You animal! They’re just girls.”

  “It is hard to speak to them. To people. Usually, I just don’t.” Brennan flushed when Corbin didn’t reply. “I have said too much, see?”

  “No, I was just thinking that that must be lonely,” Corbin said. “But only if you reach out do others reach back. Not all of them do. But some . . . is that the police?”

  The parking lot and bus loop at Cloudy Valley High were swarming with squad cars. Yellow tape kept anyone from pulling in, and teachers were posted on the sidewalk. As cars pulled up to the curb, they leaned through the windows to speak. Then the cars moved along, away from the school. Brennan unrolled his window, Corbin calling out, “Hey, Ms. Velman! What’s going on?”

  She withdrew sharply from the window and spoke from a distance. “All Cloudy Valley schools are closed for the day. A bomb threat was just now received at the district office and every campus has to be searched by authorities.”

  Their cell phones buzzed as they pulled back into the road. The message was from Elania, telling them too late not to bother showing up at school. She was also cancelling their scheduled afternoon at her house, since one of her brothers had a cold. Corbin dropped Brennan off at home.

  The television playing, a second bowl of cereal in his lap, he flipped around for something to watch. Landing on a show about a nature preserve for abandoned wild animals, he poured a third bowl and texted Mama about school being closed. She wrote back that there were hamburger patties in the fridge for lunch, and he should wheel the trash to the curb since pick-up was tomorrow.

  At half past ten, a mass text came from Micah, who was home sick and requesting Zaley’s whereabouts. Mrs. Mattazollo had just called in hysterics since Zaley did not come home from her walk to school. And she made sure to tell my mom that Zaley isn’t allowed to play with me anymore. Actual words. Zaley’s not picking up when I call. So I’m just curious: is precious baby Zaley playing at any of your houses right now?

  Not here, Brennan wrote, as did Elania, Janie, and Quinn.

  Not with me, Corbin responded.

  Maybe she’s off Shepherding, Micah decided.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m at Berry Berry Fresh downtown having tea and a scone, and then I’m going to the library, Zaley wrote. I told her that I’d be back in time for PT. Sorry about the fire alarm.

  You walked all the way to Berry Berry Fresh by yourself? Micah wrote. Who held your hand to cross all of those streets?

  Micah, don’t ever change, Zaley answered, her text coming in on the heels of Austin’s saying: Micah, stop being a bitch! That was weird to Brennan, how two girls looked like they were fighting, but to them it was a joke. He sent this observation privately to Corbin, who responded that girls were a mystery.

  They were indeed. On Sundays there was a new person in the red pews at Mass, a girl who did not go to Cloudy Valley High. Here was a girl far more beautiful than Yanni Bolman or the ones in that old clothing catalogue. She was Mexican, with hair black at her crown and deep brown beneath her shoulders. Prayers fell from rosebud lips to her clasped hands. The sweetness of her face caused his heart to thrum. Her stamp read 13%. Though always clad in jeans in God’s house, Brennan didn’t think that God could judge her poorly, not with her eyes ever trained to the cross. The girl’s parents and siblings sat in the regular pews, and after services, her father called for her to wait at the car.

  Her name was Nevara. That was beautiful, too. Brennan wished to know if she was named for a snowfall when she was born, like his middle name had special meaning. But that was a question for far in the future. The first time he forced himself to be brave and say hello, she looked at him and his stamp in utter repugnance. He kicked himself all the way home. What had he been thinking? Resolving to never make such a mistake again, he passed the week determined to correct this breach and found hello slipping from his lips on Sunday. She whispered hello back. He hoped that she would forget her purse or drop a kerchief that he could pick up and give chase to return. That would give him something to say. His eyes followed her out and landed on a boy in the red pew behind. About twelve or thirteen years old, his hand was pressed to his scarf like more was needed to shield the stamp. Heartened by the girl saying hello, Brennan blurted hello to that boy as well. The boy said hi-I’m-Frankie and scurried away to his family.

  After the third exchange of hellos with the girl, Brennan gathered his courage all through Mass and asked afterwards if she went to Cloudy Valley High, even though he knew that she did not. The girl looked at Brennan quietly, and he prayed that his hair wasn’t sticking up in back. Then she replied that she was a freshman at Holy Trinity in Penger. Her father called for her to go to the car, but she lingered to take out her cell phone and pop an earphone in one ear.

  Flashing the screen to Brennan, she said, “You like Mav?” He said yes though he had no idea what she was talking about. She asked for his number (this beautiful girl had asked for Brennan’s number!) and pressed out of the pew once she had it. Brennan abused himself heartily for not thinking to ask for her number in return. Why had that not come to his brain? It surely would have come to the brains of his guy friends at school. Austin always knew what to say to girls. But it was still a success! He watched her go as Frankie leaned forward, to say all in a flurry that he was in eighth grade at Cloudy Valley Junior High and what was high school like? Brennan answered that it was big, yet you learned your way around very fast. Frankie said that he might see Brennan there next year, and then the kid’s cheeks turned bright red like this was a very foolish thing to say. He was shy like Brennan, and that made Brennan feel not as shy. They exchanged phone numbers and Frankie whispered that he hated having Sombra C.

  Brennan looked up the name at home. Mav was a band. He listened to every song and liked them fine, so it was not a lie if she brought it up a second time. Or he’d bring it up, drop the name of his favorite song in those seconds they had before her father called. Nevara. He caught himself whispering it at night, and once in the bathroom as he fought to flatten his hair. That was a lovely name, not like the nasal Yanni.

  From outside of his house came the lilt of voices in song. Muting the television, Brennan set the bowl down on the coffee table and rose from the sofa with excruciating slowness to reduce the noise. He crept to the window and peeked out the side of the closed drapes. They were gathered once more upon the sidewalk, six women with signs written in English and Spanish. One of the younger women had a stroller with her. Chubby brown fists waved from the seat. Had they seen Brennan come home? Or did they do this every day, stand about and sing to an empty house? The oldest woman held onto the child’s hand, making faces into the stroller as she sang and danced. When the hymn ended, the women chatted to one another and passed the baby around. A seventh woman arrived with coffee and paper cups.

  After drinking the coffee, one woman pushed the child into the air and shouted in Spanish, “Think of the babies! Think of the babies! Keep this baby safe from the blood of devils!” The others clapped and cheered.

  He wasn’t going to take out the trash with those women there. For a long time he watched through the crack. Why were they doing this? The women waved at cars going by. Some of the drivers honked; others pulled over so the passengers could speak to the women on the sidewalk. They talked and laughed, collecting pedestrians for long or short stays, sang and prayed to return the neighborhood to God. A car stopped to deliver lunch from Shor-Bee’s. The child waved a stuffed toy and
ate the fries pressed to his lips. They rocked the stroller back and forth when he grew fussy and finally his mother took him home.

  Brennan didn’t want to have a burger for lunch since that was what the protestors were eating. Also, the kitchen window only had half-curtains and faced the street. They would be able to see him cooking, and he was still unsure they even knew someone was home. So he would not eat. Then he remembered the lunch in his backpack. As he undid the zipper, Mama called and said, “The rain is coming down in buckets over Napa so I am already halfway home.”

  “They are back, Mama.”

  “That my days could be so empty I stand outside someone else’s home and make trouble! Should I call the good-for-nothing cops? What are they doing?”

  “Only singing and praying.”

  “Mr. Jenkins left three messages while I was in a safety meeting. I’m going to call him back now. Do we have pets I should know about?”

  “No.”

  After hanging up, Brennan returned to the crack. Some of the women walked away to the corner where the bus stopped and returned with young children. Their mothers shouted at them not to play on the grass, but the stretch of green was too inviting to kindergarten eyes. Scolding and swats on the bottom did not work for long, even cries of do you know who lives here? A zombie lives here! Do you want to be a zombie? The children loudly chanted zombie zombie zombie on the sidewalk, weaving around their mothers’ legs and banging on toy drums. Another child eating chips threw the empty bag on the lawn. A woman raced across the street and brought back a chair for the oldest woman, who sat down and lifted her shirt to inject herself with insulin. Brennan prayed for rain to come to Cloudy Valley.