Zomburbia

by Adam Gallardo

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”

  Before she could start to outright beg, I gathered up my stuff and hurried off to my next class. I forgot all about the zombie out there.

  Journalism class didn’t have desks; it had tables that sat two people each. I moaned a little when I got into class because (1) I was late, which I loathe—I always gave the stink-eye to people who walk into class late—and (2) the only seat available was next to Brandon Ikaros. The expectant smile that lit up his face did not make me feel any better. I was definitely starting to pick up a serial killer vibe from him. Why else would he turn his attention on me?

  “Courtney, so nice of you to join us.” Mrs. Johnson stood up at the chalkboard and watched me make my way to my seat. Normally I’d have said something sarcastic—Well, I didn’t have anything else better going on right now—today all I managed was to mouth the word, “Sorry.”

  Every sound seemed amplified. The scraping of the chair against the floor filled the room, my bag’s zipper was as loud as a jet taking off. I swear I felt every eye on me as Mrs. Johnson resumed writing on the board at the head of the class. She’d written, STORY IDEAS. When I read that, I groaned again. I was supposed to have written down my ideas for next week’s issue of the Quotidian before I got to class. Watching that stupid zombie and talking to even more stupid Astrid had distracted me from doing my homework.

  “Are you okay?” It was Brandon. He was looking at me with real concern. Jesus.

  “I’m fine,” I whispered. “I just forgot to generate any story ideas.”

  He pushed his notebook in my direction. “You can use some of mine,” he said. “I came up with more than we had to.”

  The first item on his list read: Cover the pep rally from the perspective of Sully. Sully being our school’s mascot, a huge seagull. Or, more accurately, a poor misfit sophomore who didn’t make it onto the cheer leading squad and was offered the chance to wear a sweltering seagull costume to sporting events. I think that story could only be of interest to furries or those with a sweat fetish.

  “Thanks, Brandon,” I said. “I think I’ll just scribble down some ideas of my own.”

  Mrs. Johnson put down her chalk and faced the class. “Okay, let’s hear what you’ve come up with. Who’s first?”

  The Journalism class often took a while to get started. We could be a little cutthroat so people didn’t like to offer themselves up for sacrifice early in the running. Once ideas were being thrown around, it became easier to speak up. I started racking my brain, because I knew that if no one volunteered soon, Mrs. Johnson would call on someone. The law of my shitty life would demand she pick me.

  I sat hunched over, trying my best to be inconspicuous, while also trying to be a creative genius.

  “No one has any ideas?” Mrs. Johnson asked. “Okay, Courtney, what do you have?”

  Damn. Shit. Damn.

  I sat up and gave her a tight-lipped smile.

  “What about the fence?” I heard myself ask.

  “What about it?” Mrs. Johnson asked right back.

  I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said, “it’s supposed to be a double fence to keep us safe, and they never finished it.” I started to warm to the topic. “The, uh, district says there’s no money to finish it, yet the uh . . . the football team just got a bunch of money for next year to buy all new uniforms and equipment.” I shrugged at Brandon. Sorry, dude.

  Mrs. Johnson nodded. “Sure,” she said. “Who were you thinking of talking to?”

  “You could talk to Principal Ibrahim and the coach—”

  “Coach Amara,” Brandon chimed in. “Sure, he’d give you some choice quotes.”

  “My mom knows one of the school board members,” I heard someone add. It must have been Elsa. “We could probably use her to get an interview.”

  Several students, and Mrs. Johnson, were all throwing ideas back and forth. Talking about the angle to use and who to talk to. I sat back, relieved. Finally, Mrs. Johnson cut it short.

  “I like it, Courtney,” she said. “I want you to work with Elsa and Brandon on this; you take point. Lara, you’ll get us some photos—the fence, the team in their new uniforms, okay? What else have we got?”

  I sighed. Bullet dodged.

  I was unaware of Brandon leaning over to whisper to me until I felt his warm breath on the side of my face.

  “Nice job, Courtney,” he said. “Way to come through in the clutch.”

  Hating myself as it happened, I felt my cheeks grow hot as I blushed. I tried to play it off casually, you know, no big deal.

  “Yeah,” I said, “well, that’s how I roll.”

  Real smooth, I thought. I should have just flashed him some gang sign and poured a forty on the ground to prove how uncool and white I was.

  Well, I did want Brandon to stop paying attention to me. Keep this up and that was guaranteed.

  Trying to pretend I no longer existed, I put my head down and started working on my amazing made-up story.

  After class, I gathered my stuff and headed down the hall toward Trig. I wanted to get to class early to go over my homework before I handed it in. I’d spent a lot of time on it already, but Ms. Kay had a real hard-on about neatness and legibility. I figured I’d give it one last once-over to make it as clean as possible.

  Someone called my name. Brandon waved at me from down the hallway. I considered making a run for it, then decided it would be easiest just to stand my ground.

  He came loping—yes, loping—up to me. He flashed me a smile that must have cost as much as my dad’s car.

  “Hey, Courtney,” he said, “mind if I walk with you? You’re on your way to Trig, right?”

  “Totally,” I said. Brandon apparently had the ability to make me sound like an idiot. It must have been his superpower—or he was my kryptonite. I needed to think about it later when he wasn’t in the immediate area.

  “I was thinking we should get together,” he said to me, and my jaw fell open. He quickly followed up with “You know: you, me, Elsa. To talk about the story.”

  Right. The story. The one that I made up on the spur of the moment and wasn’t really interested in writing. That story.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal. “It’ll have to be tonight or on the weekend, though. Tomorrow I work and then there’s a party at Sherri’s.”

  “Sherri’s throwing a party?” he asked, and smiled. This news should not have generated that level of excitement. I stifled a groan. Why had I mentioned the party?

  “Not so much a party as an informal get-together,” I said. I wanted to downplay any aspects of the evening that might sound fun. “It’s going to be pretty boring, really.”

  “No, it sounds chill,” Brandon said. “Do you think Sherri would mind if me and a couple of guys came over?”

  I tried to imagine the apocalyptic scene that would ensue should members of the football team show up at Sherri’s place. I’m sure she’d throw an epic hissy fit. Come to think of it, it might be worth it to see that.

  “Well,” I said, deciding to err on the side of caution, “I don’t know if . . .” I let my voice trail off so that he could fill in the blanks himself.

  He seemed to get it because this embarrassed grin spread across his face.

  “Oh, man,” he said, “that’s rude, isn’t it, me inviting myself along?”

  I started to relax.

  “I should ask Sherri personally if it’s okay for us to come along, right?” he asked.

  Relaxation evaporated.

  “No, don’t!” I said louder than was warranted in a school hallway. Several kids stopped to look at us. I gave a blanket dirty look to the gawkers, and they all went back to their business.

  “I’m Sherri’s friend,” I said. “Why don’t I ask her for you? I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “That’d be diesel,” Brandon said, and flashed that perfect orthodontia again. Diesel?

  “Yes,” I said in repl
y, “very diesel indeed.”

  “And what about studying? Tonight would work best for me.”

  I agreed that tonight would be best for me, too. Brandon said he could talk to Elsa and clear the plan with her.

  “So can I get your phone number?” Brandon asked me. After a very long pause, he followed up with “so we can figure out when and where exactly.”

  So there I stood, in the middle of the hall, exchanging phone numbers with this weird boy. A boy who, by all the laws of high school social hierarchy I’d ever learned, should have done his level best to pretend I was invisible. I really needed to get a handle on this situation, to somehow gain the upper hand. Be decisive, Courtney!

  “So, I’ll call you,” Brandon said.

  “Great!” Ugh.

  He trotted off and left me standing in the hall to contemplate what exactly had happened to me and to the situation and to wonder exactly how I was going to break it to Sherri that Brandon and his friends might be showing up at her party. Maybe I could remind her she’d told me to invite him? Or maybe she’d have a stroke and I wouldn’t have to worry about it at all.

  I headed off to class and consoled myself with the thought that I might well be eaten by zombies before I had to talk to Sherri again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Now That We’ve Broken the Ice

  I swear to Jebus that I was going to tell Sherri about The Brandon Fiasco while we were on the way home from school. Willie drove us as always. Sherri in back, me in the front, and we kept up a steady stream of inane chatter. I’ll spare you the details.

  Anyway, Sherri had just delivered a droll bon mot about her farts and I decided to use the ensuing silence to introduce a clever conversational tactic that would end with Sherri thinking it was her idea to invite the steroid brigade to her wingding. I never got the chance. Just as I was about to launch my offensive, Willie slowed the car and pointed off to our left.

  “What do you think’s going on?”

  The front door stood wide open on the little house on the corner of the street. That wasn’t so strange, but the fact that the chain-link fence out front had been knocked down really got my imagination going.

  “I know who lives here,” I said.

  “You know them? Who is it?” Sherri asked.

  “I don’t know know them, but it’s an old lady and her dog.” I could see her in my mind. A little woman who looked like she was born old. She walked around during the day in a baby blue jogging suit and led her equally ancient corgi around the neighborhood. She also wore a huge pistol in a shoulder holster, which is the reason I remembered her in the first place. I told all of this to the guys.

  “What should we do?” Willie asked.

  “Call the cops,” Sherri said. “Let them deal with this.”

  “Park,” I said. “I want to check on her.”

  “Is what someone would say if they were retarded,” Sherri said. She stopped when Willie stiffened behind the wheel. “Oh, shit, Willie. I didn’t mean it. But, listen, stopping is a very bad idea.”

  Willie didn’t say anything as he pulled the car to the curb and shut off the engine. In the backseat, Sherri started in with a steady stream of swears. Willie and I ignored her and climbed out of the car. I made sure to grab my pistol.

  Sherri rolled down the window. “I am not going with you. No way am I getting eaten for someone I don’t even know!”

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said. “And no one is getting eaten. We’re gonna shag ass out of there if it looks hinky, right, Willie?”

  “Yep,” he said. I loved that he was just coming along without making a big deal about it. And without trying to convince me to stay put.

  “Say hi to the zombies,” Sherri said. Then she pulled out her phone and started dialing.

  It took some effort to control my breath as we walked up to the house.

  “Maybe it was dogs or something,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” Willie said. He pointed to a couple of loose fingers that lay near the fence. Great. What the hell were we doing?

  Despite the fallen chain-link, we went through the gate. Manners. I held the pistol in a two-hand grip as we walked up to the door. I was careful to keep my finger on the trigger guard and not the trigger itself. It would really suck to shoot Willie—or myself—in a moment of panic.

  “Hello?” Willie called into the house. “Anyone there? Ma’am?” He motioned with his head to me. I guess since I had the gun, I had to go first. I pushed the door open with my shoulder and stepped inside. Since I was in the lead now, I raised the pistol.

  As soon as I stepped into the house, I knew we wouldn’t find anything good. It smelled like someone’s butt and spoiled meat. A table by the entryway lay on the ground and a cabinet in the living room had been knocked down. It didn’t look like the place had been ransacked, more like some clumsy person had staggered through the house.

  “Go down the hall,” Willie said, and I nearly jumped out of my goddamned skin. I’d practically forgotten he was there.

  “Sure,” I said, and I tried my best to sound calm. My heart beat fast in my chest and I heard the blood rushing in my ears.

  We made our slow way down the hall, looking into the rooms we passed as we went. A sewing room; the cleanest bathroom I’d ever seen; a little office, its desk cluttered with knickknacks. Then I saw the bloody footprint in the middle of the otherwise spotless hall carpet.

  My hands were sweaty and I had a hard time gripping the gun. My dad sent me to a gun safety course every summer since I got the thing—the way other parents send their kids to camp—but I still got nervous every time I thought I might have to use it. Especially since Willie was with me.

  The door at the end of the hall stood ajar. I paused before going any farther, terrified what I’d find. What if the room was chock-full of UDs? Could Willie and I make it out of the house before they got to us? I wasn’t sure if I could go on.

  “I’ll go,” Willie said, and that settled it. I shook my head and stepped forward.

  After just a couple of steps I could see into the room. The furniture was overturned, the blankets stripped off the bed. The zombies must have cornered the old lady in there, and she put up a fight. Good for her. I was about to tell Willie that I didn’t see her—maybe they carried her away—then I saw a frail arm sticking out of the heap of blankets. One of the fingers had been gnawed off.

  “Shit,” I said. “They ate her.”

  “No zombies?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Okay.” Willie stepped forward and pulled the door shut. “We can’t do anything else here. Let’s get outside, okay?”

  Then he grimaced.

  “What?” I asked, but didn’t look back in the room.

  “They got the dog, too,” he said.

  I’m not sure why, but that made me even more sad than thinking about the old lady getting eaten.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  I let him lead the way. By the time we got to the front step, we heard sirens getting closer. Sherri sat in the car, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked pissed. Maybe she was angry that neither of us had been eaten along with the old lady. She only got out when we told her there were no zombies around.

  The cops arrived as we were leaving the yard and we spent the next half-hour answering questions. The guy who interviewed us never came out and said it, but I could tell he thought we were idiots for walking into a potential undead buffet.

  At one point, we heard a gunshot come from inside the house. I jumped.

  “Standard operating procedure for anyone who dies by zombie attack,” he said. He said it the same way I imagined he explained to drivers why it was dangerous to exceed the speed limit. A little while later, two EMTs carried out a full body bag on a stretcher.

  “But she had a fence,” Sherri said, echoing what I was thinking.

  “Well, that’ll stop one or two,” Officer Insensitive said, “but a big group of them will just push
it right over.” He stopped and took a moment to collect himself. “You kids should get on home,” he said, “and be safe.”

  “Thanks, officer,” Willie said, “we will.”

  We climbed back into the car and Willie eased us away, leaving the cop to stand in the middle of the street.

  We all jumped when my phone beeped. I scrambled through my bag to find it. The screen displayed a number I didn’t recognize. I hit the button to read the message.

  Meet my place at 6

  Put UR name on list at gate

  Call if U cant make it

  That was followed by an address and a link that I guessed would take me to a map of how to get to Brandon’s house. I put my phone away.

  “Who was that?” Sherri asked.

  “My dad,” I said. “He’s going to be home late.”

  We drove on in silence after that because there really wasn’t anything else to say.

  After I dropped off a bunch of my stuff at home and left a note for my dad, I rode my bike to Brandon’s place. I could have asked Willie to give me a ride over there, but that would have led to a lot of questions I didn’t want to answer. I know that a lot of you are shaking your heads at this point and asking, “What the hell was she thinking? She just found out a kindly, old grandmother was brutally murdered practically next door and now she’s going to ride her bike through the streets?” What can I say? I was young and stupid. Also, even someone as inept as me at bike riding should be able to avoid a group of shufflers during the daytime. I’d just have to hope that our little study group got done before the sun went down.

  Brandon’s place was only about two miles from my house. In a lot of ways, though, it was a whole other world. I rode down Commercial Street to get there. I hate riding on such a busy road, but the fact that there were so many cars on it made it safer in terms of the undead hordes. Brandon’s subdivision was to my left off Commercial, which means I had to walk my bike across the street. I am not one of those bicycle ninjas who can do things like ride along with the cars on the road and take left turns. Once I got to the correct side of the street, I realized that my legs felt pretty rubbery, and I couldn’t imagine climbing back up on the bike, so I just pushed it the last hundred yards or so.