by R. McGeddon
2. Headaches and dizziness
3. “I don’t feel too good.”
4. Death
5. Back again
6. “Braaaaaiiins!”
7. Shuffling about a bit
8. “BRAAAAAIIINS!”
9. Running very fast and biting people
10. Shot by Major Muldoon
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The search for Phoebe began early the next morning and took them all through the Town Hall. They searched in rooms filled with terrified-looking officials all shouting at one another. They checked in storage closets stacked high with chairs, tables, and terrified-looking officials all shouting at one another. They even checked down in the basement, where a single terrified-looking official was wandering around in circles, shouting at himself.
It was only when Emmie took a break from searching to use the bathroom that she finally tracked Phoebe down. She was standing in front of the big bathroom mirror, staring blankly at her own reflection.
This was not entirely unusual for Phoebe. She was always staring at her own reflection, although her skin didn’t normally look so withered and gray. The blood oozing from her eyes was new, too, and based on the available evidence, Emmie deduced that Phoebe was quite probably now a zombie.
This theory was confirmed a moment later, when Phoebe spun on the spot and lunged, her mouth wide open and her perfectly polished teeth bared. She barreled into Emmie and they both stumbled out into the corridor in a tangle of arms and legs. They landed right by where Arty and Sam had been waiting.
As soon as they hit the floor, Phoebe’s head snapped up. Her eyes locked on to Arty’s skull and her tongue flicked hungrily across her blue lips. She pounced off Emmie and onto Arty instead, slamming him against the wall and getting right up in his face, all hissing and snarling and everything.
“Get her off! Get her off!” yelped Arty. He wedged his forearm across Phoebe’s throat in a desperate attempt to keep his brains where they were supposed to be.
Emmie fumbled in her pockets for the antidote-flavored lip gloss. “One sec,” she said. “Just keep her busy.”
“How?” sobbed Arty.
“I don’t know! Let her nibble an ear off or something!”
Arty’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. “What?!”
“We can cure you afterward,” Emmie said.
“It won’t grow my ear back!”
Phoebe twisted free from Arty’s grip and lunged at him with snapping teeth. Sam drove his shoulder into her stomach, knocking her back. She spat and snarled, and made to attack again.
“I’m sure it’s in one of these pockets,” Emmie muttered, but Sam and Arty were no longer listening. They threw themselves at Phoebe, using their combined body weight (which, thanks mainly to Arty, was quite a lot) to shove her back through the bathroom door.
Sam grabbed a cleaning cart and wedged the door closed. He and Arty took a moment to get their breath back as Phoebe groaned and growled and hurled herself against the other side.
“I’ve never seen her that worked up before,” Arty wheezed.
“I have,” said Sam. He shuddered. “That sale at the shoe shop last month.”
“Found it!” announced Emmie, looking up. “Where’s she gone?”
Sam and Arty pointed at the door. Emmie glowered at them.
“What did you do that for? I could have cured her.”
“She almost ate us!” Arty panted.
Emmie shook her head. “You’ve got to make such a drama out of everything,” she sighed. “We need to go in there and fix her up.”
“I vote we leave her as she is,” Arty said. He raised a hand. “Who’s with me?”
Sam raised his hand, too. “Even with the whole trying-to-eat-our-faces-off thing, she’s actually slightly less annoying than normal.”
Phoebe had fallen silent, as if listening to what was being said about her. Emmie shook her head in disgust at the boys, then pulled the cart out of the way.
“I’m changing her back,” she said. “For better or worse.”
She held the lip gloss up in front of her like a very small sword, pulled open the bathroom door, and stepped inside.
She stopped when she saw that the bathroom was empty. Cold wind swirled in through a broken window.
Phoebe was gone.
Emmie slumped back out of the bathroom. “It’s no use,” she said. “She’s run off. We’ll never be able to cure her now.”
“We will,” Sam promised. “We’ll cure her and everyone else. Otherwise Sitting Duck is going to be blasted off the face of the Earth.”
“But what can we do?” fretted Arty. “There’s no way we can spread the cure quickly enough.”
“Unless…” said Sam. He thought for a moment, pausing to stroke his beard. Except he didn’t have one. So it was just his chin, really. “I think I’ve got a plan,” he announced. “What if we lured the zombies all together in one place?”
Arty frowned. “Lured them with what?”
“You,” said Sam.
“What? Why me?”
“You saw how Phoebe reacted,” Sam said. “Zombies are drawn to you. It’s like they can smell your massive brain or something.”
“Oh, so because I’m the most intelligent I get to be zombie bait?” Arty said. “In what way is that fair? And how would having them all together in one place help us anyway? We’ve still got no way of administering the cure.”
Sam grinned. “Yes, we do,” he said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a handful of unfilled balloons. (See, I told you they’d be worth remembering.) “We fill these with water and add a few drops of the cure to each one.”
“Then we splatter the zombies right in their ugly faces!” Emmie cried. “Brilliant!”
Arty stroked the nonexistent beard he had on his face, too. “That … that just might work.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “O-okay,” he stammered. “Count me in!”
* * *
Zombie Invasion Stat Round-Up
Innocent people eaten: 348
Zombie heads mashed in: 175
People infected with virus: 2,327
Limbs fallen off: 82
People who accidentally died after slipping on banana skins while fleeing from a pack of pursuing zombies: 1
Number of times the word “Braaaaaiiins” was said: 6,427½
* * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
Getting the zombies to follow them turned out to be fairly easy. Sam, Arty, and Emmie snuck out of the Town Hall. They shouted, quite loudly, “Oi, zombies!” Then they pointed at Arty’s head a bit, and all the undead came running.
And that was part of the problem. The undead came running. They didn’t shuffle or shamble like a gang of sleepwalkers out for a stroll. They ran. Properly ran. Very, very fast.
“Starting to regret this now!” panted Arty, as he clattered along behind the much speedier Sam and Emmie. His great flapping feet slapped the concrete as he sprinted for his life, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the gnashing and snarling of the hundred or so zombies who were racing up behind them.
They ran up the main street and ducked beneath Bendy Bridge. Still the zombies followed, tumbling and clambering over one another, their terrible jaws drawing closer with every toothy snap.
“Can’t … keep … running,” Arty wheezed. Emmie and Sam grabbed an arm each and dragged him along between them.
“Almost there,” Sam said. “Just a little bit farther!”
They twisted down another street and saw Jesse wandering around looking stupid. Emmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “He’s still okay! Unbelievable.”
Jesse’s head snapped up. “Braaaaaiiins,” he hissed. Then he lunged for them.
“Oh no, my mistake,” Emmie said with a gulp.
Finding some hidden reserve of strength, Arty charged, head lowered like a battering ram. He thudded into Jesse, sending him tumbling to the ground.
“That’s for the l
iquid soap in the cola!” Arty hollered. “You’re just lucky I couldn’t find a shark!”
And then he, Sam, and Emmie were off running again, Jesse and the other zombies snapping at their heels.
“We’re not going to make it,” Emmie gasped. “We’re not going to make it!”
They turned a corner and the school loomed right ahead of them.
“We’re going to make it!” Emmie cheered, and the sight of the school gave them an extra burst of speed. They thundered through the gates and up the steps.
“The doors are open!” Sam cried, barely able to believe their luck.
“Presumably when the infection broke out yesterday, the teachers forgot about matters of building security,” Arty replied.
“Discuss later,” Emmie snapped, shoving them inside. “Hide now!”
They slammed the doors closed, just as the tide of living dead hurled itself against them.
“Quick, the bolts, the bolts,” Arty yelped. “Lock the doors!”
With a satisfyingly heavy-sounding clunk, Sam slid the metal bolts into place. The doors shook and the hinges groaned, but they held fast. They rested their heads against the door frame, taking a moment to get their breath back.
“Well, that was close,” Emmie panted.
“They really want to eat your brains,” said Sam, flashing Arty a grin.
“Braaaaaiiins.”
In the half-darkness of the entrance hall, the three friends froze. After a moment, Emmie quietly cleared her throat.
“Arty,” she said. “Was that you?”
Arty shook his head. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose and dripped onto the floor. “No, you?”
“Nope,” whispered Emmie. “Sam?”
“Wasn’t me,” Sam replied.
They turned around slowly. There, in the middle of the hallway, stood Phoebe. She shuffled forward, and as she did her vacant expression twisted into one of rage. Her eyes locked on Arty’s skull and her pace picked up. Her arms reached out. She growled and hissed like a savage animal in an expensive dress.
She lunged at Arty, but Emmie blocked her path. When she held up the lip gloss, the effect on Phoebe was instantaneous. She stopped grasping and snarling and being all about eating brains. Instead, she became all about sparkly pink lip gloss.
She smacked her cracked lips together. They made a sound like dry leaves rubbing against an old lady’s stubble. Her lifeless eyes fixed on the tube and she took a cautious step closer.
“It’s working,” Sam whispered. “She’s going for it.”
“Come on, Phoebe,” Emmie urged. “You want this, don’t you? It’s all girly and pink, just the way you like it.”
Phoebe’s face was slack, her mouth hanging wide like the top of a fisherman’s rubber boot. The rage that had gripped her was ebbing away as the lure of the lip gloss pulled her in.
Then, without warning, she let out a sudden snarl. She snatched the lip gloss and tossed the whole thing into her mouth. Her teeth clamped down. The plastic tube shattered and filled her mouth with an explosion of glittery pink nonsense.
She lunged, all teeth and fingers and the faint whiff of strawberries. Her eyes bulged, her hands found Arty’s hair, and her jaws came down, down, down toward his terrified wobbly face.
“Noooo…” Arty began to scream.
Phoebe stopped.
“… ooooooo…”
Phoebe sniffed. Her tongue licked around the inside of her mouth.
“… ooooooo…”
“It’s working,” Emmie cheered.
“… ooooh. So it is,” said Arty, just as Phoebe released her grip. Her face was already looking slightly more healthy. There was a tint of red to her cheeks, although that could easily have been from someone she’d eaten that morning. Her eyes were a little less lifeless, and she was making no attempt to eat anyone’s brains. These, Sam reckoned, were all good signs.
“Now we need to take care of the rest,” Sam said. “Arty, watch Phoebe. Emmie, come with me.”
Sam and Emmie raced to the water fountains and began filling the balloons. A sudden banging on the window beside them made them jump. The mayor was pressed up against the glass, his face rotten and bloodied. Dozens more zombies pushed in behind him.
Krik.
A small crack appeared on the window. Hurriedly, Emmie finished dripping antidote into each projectile, trying to ignore the groaning and banging that suddenly seemed to echo from every corner of the school at once.
Carefully putting the filled balloons into the backpack, they scurried back to the main entrance, where Phoebe’s appearance continued to improve. Arty caught the panicked look on his best friend’s face.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
Sam breathed out. “Pretty bad,” he admitted. “But we’re going to fix it.”
They made for the stairs, dragging Phoebe along with them. Their footsteps echoed through the empty school, all the way up the steps and over to the big double window on the second floor.
The area outside heaved with the undead. They stood several rows deep, shoving and pushing one another as they fought to get inside. Sam set his bag on the floor, the water balloons wibbling gently inside.
“Ready?” he asked. The others nodded. “It’s zombie curing time.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The water balloons fell in much the same way as the ones in chapter three did. The first one landed with a massive great sploosh on the head of a particularly nasty-looking zombie in overalls.
A hiss of steam rose up from the zombie’s head. The water had splashed those on either side of him, too, and now steam rose off them like it was going out of fashion.
Sam, Emmie, and Arty let fly with more of the balloons. They wibbled and wobbled and burst spectacularly, and as each one rained down, more and more steam rose up.
A hand clamped down on Arty’s shoulder and he let out a high-pitched scream. He turned to find Phoebe squinting at him.
“Like, why does my mouth taste like raw meat?” she asked. She looked down at her clothes and let out a little yelp of horror. “I’ve got brains on my dress! That’ll never come out.”
Down below, the zombies who had already been hit by water balloons had stopped trying to get inside. They were rocking gently from left to right, their hate-filled expressions now more confused than anything else.
“Grab a balloon and get chucking!” Emmie barked.
To her amazement, Phoebe did as she was told. She picked up one of the balloons, hefted it in her hands for a moment, then threw it. It went splat down on the zombies directly below them.
Sam, Arty, and Emmie continued the bombardment, and with a hiss the sound of hammering on the front door began to fade.
By the time Sam had hurled the final one, the crowd below was well and truly drenched. Most of them looked more than a little bewildered to find themselves dripping wet in the school yard. Those who had arms or legs hanging off looked somewhat concerned. They limped away in the direction of the hospital, muttering unhappily under their breath.
Downstairs, Sam threw open the front doors of the school and they all stepped out into the sunlight. Mayor Sozzle was wandering around, scratching his head and loudly announcing that everything was under control. “Of course, this was all part of the plan,” he proclaimed. “Everything went exactly as I always knew it would. No, please, no need to thank me.”
“You can say that again,” Emmie snorted. “It’s us they need to be thanking.”
Mayor Sozzle peered at the children in turn, then leaned in close. “Really?” he mumbled. “You sorted all this business out?”
Sam nodded. “The three of us.”
“Four of us,” Phoebe protested.
Mayor Sozzle nodded. “Right. Well … good. Thanks for that,” he said, grinning. He straightened up and rubbed his hands together. “Now, time for a celebration, I think.”
“Shouldn’t you notify the authorities that everything is under control?” Arty asked.
Mayor Sozzle laughed. “Nah! Why should we tell those fuddy-duddies anything?”
“So they don’t blow us up in a thermonuclear explosion,” said Sam.
The smile fell from the mayor’s face. He blinked. “Oh. Yes. Forgot about that,” he said. Then he turned and ran all the way back to the Town Hall as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him.
* * *
The town of Sitting Duck was still in a right old state when Sam’s parents returned. They picked their way through the rubble, completely failing to notice all the blood and body parts that were still waiting to be cleaned up.
Luckily, Sam had managed to swirl some disinfectant around the living room and rubbed away the worst of the stains before his mom spotted them. Major Muldoon had even arranged for a repairman to come and fix the holes he’d blasted in the walls with his gun.
“Put the kettle on, sweetheart,” said Sam’s mom, as she slumped down onto the sofa.
“What a trip,” his dad said.
“I need a vacation just to get over the vacation!” laughed Sam’s mom.
“Yes,” agreed his dad. “And then we’d need a vacation to get over the vacation we needed to get over the vacation!”
“No, dear,” said Sam’s mom, very seriously. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Sam’s dad. He looked up at his son. “Anything happen when we were gone?”
“This and that,” said Sam with a shrug. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Good boy.” His dad smiled.
“Now … about that tea,” urged his mom. Sam leaned down and gave them a hug.
“Welcome home,” he said, then headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Sam whistled happily as he ran the cold tap. Had he looked out the kitchen window at just that moment, he would’ve seen the local butcher, Mr. Gristle, out for a walk.
Cleaver in hand.
Jaws chomping hungrily at thin air …
* * *
So You Were a Zombie
So you’ve suddenly found yourself standing in the street holding someone’s half-chewed elbow and wondering how you got there. Don’t worry, the answer’s probably not as bad as you think—chances are you’ve simply been a flesh-eating zombie for a few hours.