by R. McGeddon
“Let’s hide in here,” Arty wheezed. He pulled open the bright yellow door, then screamed as a shape came scrambling out of the shadows before he could step inside.
“It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault!” whimpered the figure, as he fell facedown onto the rubber flooring of the play area, then boinged back up into a standing position.
“Professor Pamplemousse!” said Sam. “You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”
“Everyone’s started turning into zombies and they’re trying to eat everyone else?” babbled the professor.
Sam nodded. “Okay, maybe you will believe it.”
“It’s not my fault,” Pamplemousse whimpered. “I was only trying to mix a lotion for my sore knee.” His eyes darted across the group. “It went a bit wrong,” he said. (Pamplemousse was definitely a contender for the International Understatement of the Year award.) “Something quite terrible happened to Simon Stumble after I spilled it on him yesterday.”
“Did it make his hair do that ginger electro-fizz thing?” Phoebe asked.
“His hair has always been like that,” Emmie sighed. “He means it turned him into a zombie.”
“How was I to know?” the professor sobbed, then spent the next few seconds making some high-pitched babbling sounds until Sam shook him by the shoulders.
“Pull yourself together, Prof,” Sam commanded. “It can’t be that bad.”
“People are turning into zombies!”
“Right. Well, yes, that is pretty bad, actually,” Sam admitted. “But there must be something we can do!”
“Well…” Pamplemousse pondered, “there’s the Town Hall. They’ve got plans there for all sorts of emergencies. Floods. Fire. Plagues of the living dead. We should go there.”
“And then what?” Emmie asked. “We just hide?”
The professor began patting his coat pockets. “Actually, now that I think about it, there may be something we can do. Now, let me see, where did I put them—”
A low groan from nearby interrupted him. Everyone turned to see Mr. Gristle the local butcher walking their way. He gripped a cleaver in his meaty hand. His white apron wasn’t actually white any longer. It was completely red! Well, it was mostly red, with two green smudges at the knees where he must’ve fallen on the grass. But ignore them. Just pretend it was all red, because that’s scarier.
“Ah, Mr. Gristle, it’s just you,” said Professor Pamplemousse, letting out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you’re here. That cleaver of yours might come in handy. You see, there are a number of individuals roaming around who are extremely keen to munch on our—”
“Braaaaaiiins!” groaned the butcher.
“Precisely!” said the professor, nodding. As he did, he noticed the butcher’s head bobbing up and down in time with his. “Um … why are you staring at me like that, Mr. Gristle?” he asked. “I haven’t got something on my face, have I? Now, that would be embarrassing.”
“Uh, P-professor,” Arty whispered.
“Not now, lad. I’m talking with Mr. Gristle here.”
“No, but—” Sam began, before a hiss from Mr. Gristle silenced him.
The butcher lunged, his wobbly, big face puckering up with hungry rage. Teeth the color of fine English mustard snapped shut just inches from Pamplemousse’s face, which suddenly went very pale indeed. Pamplemousse blinked in surprise as Mr. Gristle raised his blood-soaked cleaver above his head and prepared to swing.
* * *
How to Spot a Zombie
Think someone you know might secretly be a zombie? Here are some clues to watch out for.
• Their face is hanging off.
• They’re trying to eat you.
• They smell like a granny’s armpit.
• They walk like someone’s stolen their knees.
• They moan a lot (and not about the state of your bedroom—that’s probably just your mom).
• Flies follow them everywhere and worms have parties in their hair.
• Their eyes are really creepy. (Emmie made me add this one.)
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
For a teacher, Professor Pamplemousse could be dead thick sometimes. He never noticed when his students played pranks on him, and he definitely never noticed when the other teachers did, either. Rumor has it he once got lost in the staff room for three days, before eventually being led to safety by a janitor in a brightly colored vest.
And he appeared blissfully unaware that Mr. Gristle the butcher was all of a sudden only interested in one particular cut of meat.…
“Braaaaaiiins!” grumbled Mr. Gristle, and he swung with his cleaver.
“Look out!” cried Sam, shouldering Pamplemousse out of the way. The cleaver swished past Sam’s face. He paused for a moment, expecting to see an ear or a slice of nose schlopp down onto the pavement, but as luck would have it, neither one did.
Pamplemousse rounded on him, wagging a finger. “You could have really hurt me there,” he scolded. “Whatever were you thinking?”
“Zombie!” Sam shouted.
Pamplemousse frowned. “What did you call me?”
“No, not you,” said Emmie, pointing past the teacher to where Mr. Gristle was shuffling closer. “Him.”
The teacher narrowed his eyes and studied the butcher’s vacant expression and gnashing jaws. “Oh yes, you may well be right,” he said.
And then he ran away, crying his eyes out, directly toward where the other zombies had been hanging about earlier, up to no good.
“No, not that way,” Arty shouted, but he was already too late. Professor Pamplemousse had run off without looking back.
“What should we do?” asked Emmie.
“Die of fright?” suggested Arty.
“We need to come up with a plan,” said Sam.
“Well, FYI, there’s no way I’m running on the grass,” said Phoebe. “Not in these shoes.”
“Braaaaaiiins!” said Mr. Gristle.
Everyone else exchanged glances. “Oh yeah,” said Sam, swallowing nervously. “I forgot about him.”
The cleaver swished clumsily toward Sam, but he ducked out of its path. Arty caught him by the sleeve and dragged him out of the butcher’s reach.
“Run!” Arty yelped, and he stumbled away with Emmie and Sam right on his heels.
“Like, hello?” sighed Phoebe. “Were you even listening? I can’t run in these shoes.”
“Then leave them!” snapped Emmie.
Phoebe’s hand flew to her mouth. “Leave them? Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how much these cost?”
Mr. Gristle’s pudgy hand slapped down onto Phoebe’s shoulder with a sound like a salmon being hit by a spade. Phoebe went rigid. Her once-immaculate hair stood on end. “I’m leaving the shoes!” she decided. Then she kicked them off and raced barefoot across the park.
“This way,” panted Arty, ducking under the jungle gym and through a gap in the trees. He stopped when he spotted several shapes shambling toward him, their teeth chewing the air like it was made of toffee. But not the licorice kind, because licorice-flavored toffee is revolting, and anyone who says otherwise is a filthy liar.
In an unusual twist of fate, Professor Pamplemousse had once attempted to make licorice-flavored toffee in his lab. It didn’t work, though, because—unlike licorice-flavored toffee—it actually tasted all right.
Anyway. Where were we? Oh yeah, zombies and that.
“Not this way!” Arty corrected. “Definitely not this way!”
They turned and wove past the swings and around the merry-go-round. A path led off to the right, up a steep hill known locally as Devil’s Peak, for reasons far too complicated to go into right now.
A mad-haired old man with milky-white eyes exploded from the trees. (By which I mean he jumped out quickly. He didn’t literally explode or anything. That would have been hideous.) His fingers found Arty’s shirt. His jaw dropped open and hunger blazed in those cold, dead eyes. A terrible, high-pitched, and piercin
g scream split the air. It took Arty a moment to realize the screaming was coming from him.
“Get it off! Get it off!” he gibbered.
Sam dodged left and right, his hands raised, preparing to push. The zombie’s teeth chomped closer and closer to Arty’s face.
“Hurry up!”
“But … it’s an old man,” Sam said at last. “I can’t hit an old man.”
Thwam! Emmie shoved the zombie hard in the chest, sending it sprawling back into the bushes. “There!” She scowled. “Now, come on, let’s go this way.”
She turned, but another group of zombies blocked the path.
“Or maybe not.”
“I’m going to die,” said Phoebe, glumly. “I’m going to die in a park with no shoes on. And I don’t even want to think about how my hair looks.”
“No one’s going to die,” said Sam. A nearby zombie tripped, fell, and impaled himself on a jagged tree stump. “Okay … maybe that guy. But not us. My house isn’t far. We can hide out inside.”
There was a murmur of agreement from Emmie and Arty. “Any questions?” asked Sam.
Phoebe’s hand shot up. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” she said, lowering her arm. “What’s happening?”
“We’re going to my house,” said Sam. “Now…”
Phoebe’s hand shot up again. Sam did his best to remain patient. “Yes?”
“No, I meant what’s happening in general? We’re not going to get eaten, are we?”
“Maybe,” said Emmie.
“Oh, right. I see,” said Phoebe. Then she began to scream.
“Shh! Shut up!” Sam whispered. He clamped a hand over Phoebe’s mouth, trapping another scream before it could give them away. “Come on,” he barked. “If we want to stay alive, we need to move now!”
* * *
It took longer than usual to get from the park to Sam’s house. This, as you’ll know if you’ve been following the story, was due to the large groups of the living dead roaming around the place, up to all sorts of flesh-eating mischief.
Sam’s house was empty, which was a relief on one hand and quite worrying on the other. It was a relief because an empty house was by its very definition a house without any zombies in it. But it was also worrying because although Sam was staying at Arty’s while his mom and dad were away for the weekend, he didn’t know if they were up to their armpits in zombies, too, or if the outbreak was confined to Sitting Duck. He hoped his parents were having a nice time and not being eaten alive somewhere. It would be a real downer on their weekend if they were eaten.
As soon as Sam picked up the key from under the plant pot, he and the others were through the door and getting to work to make the place safe. Sam headed out into the garden to build a trip-wire system that would alert them if zombies got close to the house. Arty searched inside the house for things they could use as weapons. Emmie, meanwhile, tried to calm Phoebe down by slapping her across the face over and over again. Despite the situation, Emmie quickly started to enjoy herself and she was quite disappointed when Phoebe went and spoiled the game by snapping out of her daze.
* * *
Zombie Trip-Wire Alarm System
A trip-wire alarm system is a great way of alerting you to approaching zombies, door-to-door salesmen, or people in cardigans droning on about life after death. Here’s how to set one up:
1. Choose the right spot. Near the ground usually helps.
2. Get a long piece of string (or thread), then thread (or string) it across the area you want to protect. Tent pegs are ideal for tying the string (or thread) to. Bananas are not.
3. Make sure the string is nice and tight. You should be able to play it like a very boring, one-stringed guitar.
4. Attach noisy things to the ends of the string. Noisy things might include pots, pans, bells, and fire engines. Things to avoid might be feathers, custard, cotton candy, and clouds. Then sit back and wait for your enemies to approach.
* * *
When Sam came back in from the garden, Arty was showing off the weapons, like that guy from James Bond who shows off the weapons. You know the one.
“I call this one the Multispeed Undead Threshing Device,” he announced grandly, holding up one of the items he’d found for the others to see.
“That’s funny,” said Sam. “My mom usually calls it a whisk.”
“Tell me that’s not all you found,” groaned Emmie.
Arty held up the next object. “I think you’ll like this one. I’ve named it the Bristly Brain Basher.”
“It’s a toilet brush,” sighed Emmie.
“Ew.” Phoebe grimaced. “Toilets.” Then she went back to rubbing her aching face.
As Emmie and Arty continued to bicker, Sam clicked on the radio. There was a sudden squawk of static followed by a familiar voice floating over the airwaves. It was the mayor.
“This is the mayor,” he said. (See, told you.) “It has come to my attention that some things have been happening that, all things considered, probably shouldn’t be happening. Not entirely sure what the story is, but it’s probably best if everyone tootles along to the Town Hall until we can figure out exactly what’s happening and to whom it’s happening. See you there!”
The radio hissed off into silence.
“Right, then,” said Emmie. “You heard the man—let’s go.”
“What, out there?” gasped Arty.
“Well, I doubt they’ll bring the Town Hall here,” Emmie said. “So yes, out there.”
Arty sat down on Sam’s sofa and almost hurt himself with the TV remote control. “No chance,” he said. “We’re safe here.”
Emmie turned to Sam. “Tell him.”
Sam shrugged. “I can see his point. We did nearly get eaten.”
“You’re not scared, are you?” Emmie scowled.
Sam shook his head. “No. But Arty is.”
“Terrified,” Arty agreed.
“So I can’t leave him by himself,” Sam said.
Emmie sighed. “Phoebe? Are you coming to the Town Hall?”
Phoebe snorted. “No way. It totally reeks of old people.”
“Right. Fine.” Emmie shrugged. “I’ll go by myself, then. I don’t mind.”
“What?” spluttered Arty.
“You can’t do that!” cried Sam. “What about the zombies?”
“What about them? We’ve seen, what? A dozen? It’s hardly a plague, is it? It’s barely even a social gathering.” Emmie crossed her arms. “You lot stay here and wait for the zombies to come knocking if you like.”
“I don’t think zombies bother to knock,” Arty pointed out.
“Well, whatever they do,” Emmie said. “If you want to wait for them to do it, you go ahead. Me? I’ll be safely tucked up in the Town Hall with everyone else.”
“No way,” snorted Arty. “You wouldn’t dare just go off on your own!”
Sam sighed. That had done it.
“Wouldn’t dare? Wouldn’t dare?” Emmie snapped. “Just you watch me!”
And with that, before anyone could make a move to stop her, she yanked open the back door and was gone.
* * *
Converting Household Gadgets into Weapons
When caught up in a zombie apocalypse, the important thing is to not panic. Actually, that’s not true. Definitely panic. These things are going to try to eat your face off! Panic, for goodness’ sake. What are you, a robot?
While panicking, it’s a good idea to arm yourself. Being armed will allow you to fool yourself into thinking you might get through the whole thing alive, when you and I both know there’s no chance of that happening, right? Right.
So, if you’re looking for inspiration for homemade weaponry, look no further:
1. The Slice ’n’ Dicer
Set your toaster to its highest setting, stick in some slices of bread, and take aim. Three to four minutes later, those zombies had better watch out, as some charcoal-like bread might just take their heads off! But probably won’t.
2.
Fantastically Forceful Football-to-Face
Let’s assume for a minute that you’re an incredibly skilled footballer. And let’s also assume that you can kick a football with the approximate force of a small cannon. Working on these assumptions, why not use your incredible skills to combat the living dead by blattering the ball off their heads as they try to eat you alive? Remember to ask for the ball back afterward, or you’ll really only get one shot.
3. Laser Blast Rifle
You know how DVD players use a laser to read the disc? I’m fairly sure there’s a way you can strip that down and use the laser and lens as part of a futuristic blaster rifle with which to incinerate the living dead. I mean, I don’t have blueprints or anything, but I reckon it’d be straightforward enough. Alternatively …
4. Rolling Pin
Sort of speaks for itself, really.
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
In the silence that followed, Sam wondered if he should have stopped Emmie from going. Arty wondered if the army would sweep in to save them from the zombie hordes.
Phoebe wondered how her hair was looking. She took her compact mirror from her ridiculously small bag and checked her reflection. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest and the freshly applied lip gloss was already smudged.
“We shouldn’t have let her go,” Sam fretted. “Anything could happen to her.”
“She could be eaten alive.” Phoebe nodded.
“Yeah,” said Sam.
“Or get mistaken for a zombie and have her brains bashed in.”
“Yep,” said Sam.
“Or be torn limb from limb by a pack of—”
“Yes, thank you, Phoebe. We get the idea,” Sam said. He paced anxiously around the living room. “We shouldn’t have let her go.”
From out in the back garden there came a loud clatter of pots and pans. Something had snagged on Sam’s trip wire. They all held their breath. Then Sam let out a sigh of relief when there came a rat-a-tat-tat on the kitchen door. It must be Emmie! Sam thought. After all, as Arty already mentioned, zombies don’t knock on doors.