My Zombie Hamster

by Havelock McCreely

  It was eventually decided to put the issue aside for a while. Until we could come up with a better method of voting. One that wasn’t decided by Charlie glaring at us and casually balling her hand into a fist.

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 11

  My life is officially over. And for a change it doesn’t have anything to do with Anti-Snuffles.

  I found out who Mr. Craston’s replacement is going to be at school.

  Mom!

  She’s always been a substitute who comes in every once in a while to cover for sick teachers. But this is long term. For the rest of the school year. That means months and months of having Mom as my teacher.

  I asked her if I could transfer to a different school, but she told me to stop being so melodramatic.

  This is the worst news in the entire history of the world!

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 12

  Last day of vacation. Such a depressing time. Even when you get an extra week like we did (the school was being repaired after the gymnasium roof collapsed), it’s never enough. It feels like when your favorite show is getting canceled, or you hear the local cineplex won’t be getting Death Planet 5: The Return of the Parasites. (I’m still broken up about that. Charlie and I had this really elaborate plan to sneak in and watch it. We’d heard it was the most violent movie ever made.)

  List of Chores Before Going Back to School

  1. Schoolbag packed.

  2. Trip to supermarket to buy things for lunch. As usual, Mom favored so-called “healthy” snacks instead of the sugary treats us schoolkids really need to get through the school day.

  3. Frantic reading of the assigned book we were supposed to read during the holidays. I don’t know why they don’t assign us good books. Like Star Wars tie-ins. Or Harry Potter. Something like that. No. Instead we have to read the classics, which just means lots of heavy, boring text with no humor or action scenes.

  They call it Literature. With a capital L. And what is it good for? Nothing, that’s what.

  All that’s left is to mope around wondering where all the time has gone. It seemed like only yesterday we were taking off from school, the whole glorious Christmas break stretching ahead of us, filled with so much potential.

  And I’m no closer to catching Anti-Snuffles. I was really hoping to solve the problem before school started, but there’s no chance of that now. I even took a ride out to the woods, which was an incredibly brave thing for me to do, especially considering what happened the other night.

  But there were no deadbeat squirrels. No Anti-Snuffles. In fact, the whole forest was strangely quiet. I mean, sure, it’s the middle of winter, but you expect to see a few lone animals. Maybe a bird or something.

  Nothing. Not a thing.

  How can no one have noticed this yet? Are adults so blind to the world around them?

  MONDAY, JANUARY 13

  So. First day back at school. It went as badly as I thought it would.

  Class with Mom was pretty intense, let me tell you. All the kids knew she was my mom, so they were all waiting to see who had the power.

  See, that’s the thing. It’s not just about Mom teaching my class. I have my cred (such as it is) to think about. If I let Mom boss me around, then I’ll be a mama’s boy for the rest of the year. So I had to assert my dominance from the beginning.

  I was pretty terrified. Mom’s not someone you want angry at you. But I had no choice. She’d forced my hand by accepting the teaching post.

  First thing in a new school year, or when a new teacher starts: find your seats. Here’s something I learned last year. If you want to sit at the back, don’t pick a seat at the back. I did, and the first thing Mr. Craston did was order the whole back row to switch with the front row. Guess he figured all the troublemakers would be trying to hide at the back, so he wanted them where he could keep an eye on them.

  So this year I sat in the front row. Dead center. Right in front of Mom’s desk. Back straight. Eager smile on my face. It was a gamble, but I was sure it would pay off. Well, sort of sure. Actually, I was hoping it would pay off. Otherwise I’d be stuck there for months.

  But it worked. She entered the class—and it’s an odd feeling seeing your parents out in the real world. You usually just see them at home, where they’re supposed to spend their life looking after you, cleaning up after you, feeding you, that kind of thing. To actually see them interacting with the outside world feels a bit like watching one of those nature documentaries.

  And here we have the long-legged mammal, the Homo sapiens motherus. It is very rare to see a Homo sapiens parentus outside of its natural habitat, the family home. See how unsure this Homo sapiens motherus is of her surroundings, how her clumsy hands find it difficult to interact with normal, everyday objects like desk chairs and whiteboards.

  Mom was dressed in a smart shirt and dress pants. Where did she get those? I only ever saw her in jeans and T-shirts. Okay, fine. On occasion she puts a bit of effort in and uses some makeup. Maybe wears a blouse or something. But these were professional clothes. Business clothes.

  She put her briefcase down on the desk and looked over the class. I could see she wasn’t happy with me sitting there grinning at her. (Which was part of the plan.)

  She did what I knew she would do.

  “Those of you sitting at the back, please swap with everyone at the front.”

  Groans and complaints greeted this, but Mom knew the score. Let us get away with anything now, and we’d think we could do what we wanted for the rest of the year. So she slammed her hand down hard on the desk. The crack echoed through the class, silencing everyone instantly.

  “Now, please.”

  With a few grumbles, we all swapped seats. I leaned back and put my hands behind my head. I had picked the chair behind Stefan, the biggest kid in the class. He says he’s got a glandular problem. Whatever. All I cared about was that he was big enough to shield me from Mom’s view.

  Achievement unlocked: class ninja.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 14

  Charlie decided our group should be called the Illuminators. I let her think she got her own way, but secretly I know we’re really called the Eradicators.

  Our first move was to go and interview Mrs. Wilson about the disappearance of her cat.

  It took a while for us to actually make her understand what we were doing there. I blame old age. I mean, she must be about fifty. She thought we were there to shovel snow from her drive.

  “You want to what?” she asked us.

  “We want to examine your yard,” I explained for the fourth time. “To see if we can find any clues about your cat, Mr. Tiddles.”

  “Snookums,” she corrected.

  “That’s what I meant. Of course. Snookums. What did the police say?”

  “The police? The police didn’t come.”

  “You see?” I said, looking at the others. “What did I say? No one takes these disappearances seriously. It’s a crying shame,” I added, shaking my head and thinking back to the detective show I watched with Dad the other night.

  “You—you think the police should have come? I thought that, too, but my daughter said we would be wasting their time.”

  “Some people just don’t understand the pain of losing a pet, ma’am.”

  At this point, Charlie was snorting and snuffling, trying to stifle her laughter. Aren was smiling slightly, and Calvin was just looking confused.

  “Is—is your friend all right?” asked Mrs. Wilson.

  “I’m afraid we just don’t know,” I replied, glaring at Charlie. “Her parents dropped her on the head when she was a baby. Repeatedly.”

  “Oh, what a shame. She does look a bit … you know … funny.”

  Charlie stopped snorting and straightened up. I knew she was probably about to say something incredibly rude and offensive, so I quickly stepped in front of her.

  “The thing is, Mrs. Wilson, we’re actually searching for other missing pets in the neighborhood as well.” (True, by the way. Not a lie.) “We�
�d really like to take a look to see if we can spot anything.”

  “Well, okay then. Come on.”

  She led us around the side of the house and into the backyard. A wooden fence surrounded it. A small lawn in the middle and flower beds around the edges.

  “She was over there,” said Mrs. Wilson, pointing to a mound of earth against the back fence. “It’s where she does her … business.”

  We headed over to the … well, the poo graveyard, really. (What? That’s what it was.)

  “What do you expect to find here?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes, the odds of anything remaining are—well, they’re pretty low,” said Aren. “I could work them out exactly based on the weather, snow cover, rain, and average temperature, but it might take a few minutes.”

  “Don’t tell me the odds,” I said in a gruff voice.

  “Was that supposed to be Han Solo?” asked Charlie. “Because it isn’t.”

  I ignored this baseless attack on my impersonating skills and studied the fence behind the spot where the cat went to the toilet.

  “Look.”

  There was a hole at the bottom of the fence. We all got down to study it and found some hair stuck to the edges.

  “Aha!” I said triumphantly.

  “That proves nothing,” said Charlie grudgingly.

  “Why are we here?” said Calvin, looking around in confusion. “I think someone promised me ice cream.”

  We climbed over the fence to the street on the other side. We checked the sidewalk, and sure enough there were little dark spots on the ground.

  Blood.

  We followed the trail all the way to a storm drain in the side of the road. The metal grating that covered it was loose, so I lifted it and peered into the huge floodwater pipes. They really were massive. I reckoned we could walk along them without having to bend over much. I hung my head through the hole and looked both ways. There was more blood on the walls. I could see lots of tiny footprints in the mud and sludge that had collected in the drain. There could be only one conclusion.

  I straightened up and faced the others. “Anti-Snuffles has an underground lair,” I said in awe. “And he’s creating an army of deadbeat pets.”

  “This hamster is, like, the coolest zombie ever,” said Charlie with glee.

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15

  Had a bit of a standoff with Mom today in school. I knew it was coming. After I defeated her in the War of the Seats, she had to respond. She had no choice.

  See, here’s the thing. We both have everything to gain and everything to lose. If I let the class see me acting any differently from how I normally act, they’ll call me a mama’s boy. And if Mom lets me get away with anything, then everyone will say it’s unfair and I’m getting special treatment.

  So I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

  I got up early (which shows you how committed I was) and headed into school before Mom got there. I then superglued everything on her desk. Everything. The pens, the pencils, her stapler, her desk calendar, the apple that was there from yesterday. Everything.

  She wasn’t happy when lessons started, I’ll tell you that. She tried to lift her pen. Then another pen. She stopped moving for a bit then, and the rest of the class could sense something was happening. She briefly prodded a few other items, then leaned over her desk and stared at the class.

  “Who,” she said calmly, “has superglued my belongings to my desk?”

  No one said anything. There were a few gasps, a few sideways looks. This was big. This was serious.

  “Let me rephrase that,” said Mom. “Someone has superglued my belongings to my desk. If the person doesn’t own up, the entire class will get detention. For a week.”

  There. Exactly as I thought it would happen. I waited to let the tension build (hey, I’m a bit of a showman), then I loudly scraped back my seat and stood up.

  Mom locked eyes with me. I could sense the class looking at me in wonder and (I think) awe.

  “Do you have something to say, Matthew?”

  “It was me.”

  More gasps. This was like a courtroom drama on TV. All heads swiveled to face Mom. Her mouth set in a firm line and she nodded.

  “Fine. Report to the principal. And you’ve got detention.” She paused here for effect. I must have inherited my showman skills from her. “For a month.”

  Gasps of horror from everyone. A month! That was simply unheard of. The record for the longest detention goes to Lowbrow McNee. This was before my time, but it has entered into school legend. He found boxes and boxes of industrial-strength gelatin. It was out of date or something, thrown away by Jell-O makers. And during the course of one night he threw all of it into the school swimming pool. Needless to say, the sight of divers bouncing and skimming along the wobbly surface of the pool was something that would always be remembered. And McNee had to own up. You couldn’t do that kind of thing and not take responsibility. He spent the rest of his school career as one of the cool kids.

  He got three days’ suspension and two weeks’ detention.

  So as you can see, I’m a bit ahead of him here.

  I trudged out of the class, and only when I was in the corridor did I smile. I had done it. Now no one could call me a mama’s boy or a teacher’s pet, and Mom gets to look tough because she sentenced her own son to a month’s detention.

  Everyone wins.

  Well, except for the fact that I had a month of detention ahead of me.

  Still, I think it was worth it.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 16

  I’ve been noticing a lot more lost pet signs stuck to lampposts around town. So many, in fact, that they’ve started to overlap.

  We’re talking the whole range of animals here. Lost cats. Lost dogs. Lost guinea pigs. A lost chinchilla. (I don’t even know what they are.) A lost pig. (Who had a pig? Honestly, that’s insane. And why hadn’t I heard about it before now?) Lost snakes. Lost mice. Lost rats. A lost chameleon. Even lost fish. I had to read that one twice, but it was legit. Someone who said her fish had gone missing was offering a reward for their return.

  What was Anti-Snuffles’s plan? Was he just acting on instinct, or was it something more evil?

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 17

  11:00 a.m. The missing pet scandal has finally hit the big league, which means my time is running out.

  See, for the past five years, the mayor has organized a Best Pet competition for the whole town to take part in. And every year the scale of the event has gotten bigger and bigger. It’s not just the competition. It’s a daylong event, with a minicircus, rides for the kids, live bands, food stalls, and games.

  And every year, guess who wins?

  If you guessed the mayor and Pugsley, the walleyed pug, you’d be absolutely right.

  It’s not as if the voting’s rigged or anything, just that everyone knows whose dog it is and no one wants to make the mayor angry.

  Of course, if he were a decent person, he wouldn’t even take part. But he’s not. He’s an idiot with a wig so bad it looks like an animal is living on his head. (The prize for best pet should go to his wig.) Anyway, the point is he’s announced a reward for anyone who has information about the missing pets. He’s under the impression that it has something to do with the competition, that someone is trying to ruin his yearly moment of glory where he takes a victory lap around the park in front of city hall in his golf cart while his aide holds up Pugsley for all to see, like that scene from the beginning of The Lion King.

  The pet competition takes place at the beginning of next month, so that means I’ve got a couple of weeks to deal with it. Despite the Zombie Police being staffed by cavemen, they do have advanced equipment back at their headquarters. So if they find the missing pets before we do, it’s possible they can trace them back to Patient Zero: the first of the pets to turn deadbeat.

  Which means it could come back to me.

  And to Dad.

  10:30 p.m. Aargh! Tomorrow is our Outdoor Acclimatization Progr
am. I completely forgot about it! They want us to be at the city gates at six. In the morning. That’s just … inhuman.

  11:45 p.m. Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about how early I have to get up tomorrow.

  12:34 a.m. Why do you torture me so, mind? You know I need to get up in a few hours. Why are you keeping me awake?

  1:43 a.m. This is beyond a joke now. I wonder if someone slipped me some coffee at suppertime.

  2:24 a.m. Should I just give up? Just get up, maybe put in some hours on Runespell? Or catch up on some reading?

  3:37 a.m. Eyes feel like they are too big for my head. And raspy. I can hear them moving in my skull.

  Tomorrow—today—is not going to be fun.

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 18

  8:00 p.m. So here we are, at the end of our first day of camping. (Or the Zombie Acclimatization Program, as Dallas informed us it was now called—ZAP! for short. Not bad. Dallas claims he came up with it himself. Which is fine. Even though it does clash with my own acronyms for the Zee-Zees.)

  Anyway, we’re all alive and well. A bit cold, but it is winter, after all. And Dallas made sure we all had these portable heaters and luxury tents and everything. We’ve even got a huge fire going in the middle of the campsite, with all the tents circled around it.

  It’s not that bad, actually. I don’t know why Dad always said camping was so terrible. Admittedly, the stories he told about his times in the woods were quite worrying. I wasn’t sure if it was the wet seeping up through the floor of the tent, the wind that cut through the material and stopped you from getting to sleep, or the snakes, or the bears, or the mosquitoes. I think it was just a combination of all of the above, to be honest, and every time I brought up camping he always had a new story to tell about how horrible it was.