Zombie Baseball Beatdown

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  “But now, I tell you, these Milrow men in their fine suits, and their scientists in their clean white lab coats, they are doing new things…. They are finding new drugs to make the meat taste better, to make it grow fat, and these drugs… these things that they feed them… they make the cows strange. The animals do not act as they should, and their meat does not smell as it should, and when you cut them, they do not bleed and die as they should—”

  “Raúl,” Mrs. Castillo said. “You frighten them. You do not see such things.”

  “I have eyes,” he said stubbornly. “I see the cows when they come into the line to be killed by my hand. I see how they stagger. They are not natural. Something was always wrong with the cows, because so many were sick and fed on bad things, but now it is getting worse.

  “I think something is changing out there in the feedlots. All those cows packed together, fattening on strange things, and sick near to death. These cows are not cows as I knew them when I was a boy and worked on my father’s ranch in Tamaulipas. It is not the same. These cows are not cows.”

  “Of course they are cows,” Mrs. Castillo said. “You’re telling the boys ghost stories now.”

  But Mr. Castillo shook his head stubbornly. “No, Nina. Something is different. It is changing.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I spent the night with strange dreams, and all of them were about cows.

  Cows from India like I used to see when we went over to visit family. White cows with high humps on their backs and garlands of marigolds on their short horns, people feeding them grass and getting blessings from the priest who cared for them. A sacred act. And then others: cows in feedlot trucks blasting past us on the highway as we pedaled our bikes out to Milrow Meat Solutions, their furry faces pressed against the grates of the truck trailers, the animals mooing with panic and stinking with manure as they disappeared into the darkness of the plant.

  And then other dreams—weirder ones. Steaks that talked to me and asked me for directions back to their ranch. Cafeteria hamburgers that jumped off school lunch trays and dashed for the doors, with all us kids chasing after them. I kept saying, “But I don’t even eat cow!” as I grabbed at bacon double cheeseburgers that hopped around like grasshoppers, and dove for sliders that were zipping down hallways and dodging us like feral cats.

  I woke to Miguel shaking me.

  “What?” I mumbled groggily. I was covered with sweat and felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

  “Time to work,” Miguel said.

  I groaned, but dragged myself out of bed and let Miguel prod me out into the sweat of the summer to mow lawns.

  Miguel had a Weedwacker and a beat-up gas mower, so I’d do the mowing while he did all the careful edge-trimming work, and if we got the work done fast enough, we would be free until baseball practice and the humiliations of Mr. Cocoran.

  Neither of us could have guessed that the world was about to fall apart.

  “Hey, Miguel?” I said as we shoved the mower over the curb and rattled down Poplar Street on the way to Miguel’s next job. “You think your uncle’s right about the cows at Milrow being unnatural?”

  Miguel shrugged. “My uncle’s always telling stories. All about the chupacabra coming to suck the blood out of goats. Things like that. He likes to tell ghost stories.”

  “But you don’t think he’s doing that now, do you? Mr. Riggoni was totally lying. We know that. And that smell was all kinds of wrong.”

  Miguel shushed me suddenly. I realized where we were.

  The big old house before us had, like, an acre of grass around it.

  “Seriously? You do their lawn?”

  We were staring up at Sammy Riggoni’s house.

  “It’s money,” Miguel said.

  “But his dad’s the guy who got your mom and dad—”

  Miguel cut me off with a hard look. “I don’t got the luxury of being all prissy about where my money comes from.”

  “Sorry. Okay.” But it seemed so wrong.

  I’d never guessed that Miguel would have to work for the people he hated most in the world.

  I guess that’s what not having money does. It takes away choices. The people with the cash get to make the decisions, and you just got to swallow your pride.

  But then, to add insult to injury, Sammy came out the front door, sucking on a lemonade and smiling like he was getting the biggest, bestest Christmas present ever. He plopped into a chair with a stack of comics and started reading, looking up at us every once in a while with a nasty smirk.

  “Ignore him,” Miguel said.

  We started working, sweating it out in the humidity and heat. I pushed the mower, and Miguel did the edging, and Sammy watched us work out in the sun, sitting on the shady porch, sipping that icy lemonade.

  I didn’t like the way he was looking at us. It was like he was planning something, and it had to be no good.

  Finally Miguel got sick of it, and he shut off the Weedwacker.

  “What’s your problem?” Miguel asked as he unslung the Weedwacker and wiped sweat off his face.

  Sammy just grinned from the porch. “You got your passport on you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sammy stood up and leaned on the porch rail, looking down on us. “You think you can just pick up a bat and say you’re going to whack me?”

  I suddenly remembered the other day after the baseball game—how Miguel had picked up the bat and said, “I’ll take a swing,” and how scared Sammy had gotten when he was faced with someone who wasn’t scared of him.

  Miguel looked at Sammy, hard. I expected him to step up, like he always did when he ran into a bully, but to my surprise, he didn’t. He just shrugged and turned away. “Whatever, man.”

  “That all you got, lawn boy?” Sammy taunted.

  I got in between them, hoping to draw attention away from Miguel.

  “What do you mean about passports?” I asked. “Miguel’s American, just like us.”

  “You’ll see,” Sammy said, grinning.

  Miguel said something under his breath that sounded really bad, but he turned around and went back to pick up his Weedwacker. At first I thought Sammy didn’t hear him, but then Sammy’s smile turned into a scowl and he came down off the porch.

  He gave Miguel a shove from behind. “Say that to my face,” he challenged.

  Miguel didn’t even bother to look around at him. “Already did.”

  He started to sling the Weedwacker over his shoulder again, getting ready to pull the cord and start the engine, but Sammy grabbed him and spun him around. The Weedwacker hit the ground.

  Sammy gave Miguel another shove. “Say it so I can hear it, wetback.”

  “Whoa!” I tried to break in. “Cut it out, Sammy. He didn’t say anything!”

  “Shut up, Rabi.” He shoved me away. “Go back to your own country.”

  ????????

  I was so mad, I couldn’t even find words. Sammy was acting like Delbe was his place, like I hadn’t grown up here all my life, too. Like this wasn’t my spot. Not mine, not Miguel’s. Just his.

  If he hadn’t been such a big kid, I would have totally punched him in the nose, but Sammy would’ve creamed me. I didn’t dare do it.

  Miguel didn’t have that problem.

  Wham!

  It was so fast, we all sort of stood there for a second, looking surprised that Miguel had actually punched Sammy in the face. He’d actually done it. Sammy took a step back, and his hands went up to his nose. Blood stained his fingers. Anger filled his voice. “You little…” And then he charged.

  “AAAAAGGGGGhhh!”

  Sammy piled into Miguel, using his size to smash him. Miguel went sprawling. Sammy landed on top and pinned Miguel’s arms with his weight before starting to whale on him.

  For a second, I just stood there, watching Sammy pound Miguel, amazed that we were actually fighting. It was nuts to be doing this, but we were definitely past talking. And Miguel needed help.

  I d
ove in. I wasn’t as big as Sammy or Miguel, but I had speed and momentum. I blasted into Sammy and we went tumbling across fresh-cut grass.

  We all jumped to our feet at the same time. Sammy was glaring at me like he was going to rip my face off, but then Miguel came up beside me, panting. Ready for the fight.

  For the first time, I realized that even if Sammy was bigger than us, Miguel and I were a team, and we had the numbers. Sammy seemed to realize the same thing, because his eyes suddenly widened. Miguel glanced at me, grinning despite a bloody lip, and I knew just what he was thinking.

  We went after Sammy like a couple of wolves.

  “AAAAaagghhh!”

  Sammy ran toward the house, screaming for his mom. Mrs. Riggoni came out as Sammy pounded up the steps to the porch.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked. She yanked Sammy inside. “You two! Go home! Both of you! Get! Home!”

  We skidded to a stop. Her face was so angry I was afraid she was about to come down and whup us herself.

  I wiped my face with my arm, and blood smeared my skin. I realized I had a bloody nose. When did I get that?

  “He started it—” I tried to say, but Miguel grabbed me and pulled me away.

  “Come on, Rabi. Let it go.”

  I looked from Miguel to Sammy’s mom, confused. Sammy was the jerk here, but now Miguel was suddenly giving up? He never gave up.

  “I’m calling both of your mothers!” Mrs. Riggoni shouted as we gathered up the mower and Weedwacker. “Don’t think we’re not going to be talking!”

  Under her gaze, coiling up electric cords and cleaning up the equipment seemed like it took forever. Now that the fight was over, I felt embarrassed. But I also felt bad about how I’d just stood there, dumb and mad and feeling scared of Sammy when he insulted me, instead of taking a swing at him, like Miguel had done. At least Miguel had stood up to him.

  But now Miguel didn’t look happy, either.

  With Sammy’s mom still shouting after us, we started home. Miguel kicked some gravel that had gotten out on the sidewalk from an ornamental garden. Just booted it.

  “Stupid,” he said.

  “At least we made Sammy run like a chicken,” I said, trying to look on the bright side.

  “I’m losing that lawn for sure,” Miguel said. “Twenty bucks a week, down the drain.”

  Now I felt really bad. I hadn’t thought about the money that was supposed to help Miguel’s family. “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Miguel said. “He deserved it.” He pushed the mower up over another curb. “But still, I’m hosed. I lose the lawn, for sure. No telling what else happens. Maybe Mr. Riggoni fires my uncle and aunt.”

  “Would he really do that?”

  Miguel shrugged. “Who knows what white people do?”

  “Cut it out. My dad wouldn’t do that,” I said. “He’s white.”

  “What if I beat you up real bad, and your dad knew my aunt and uncle were illegal? What do you think he’d do then?”

  I hesitated. I had no idea, really, but once again I was realizing that Miguel worried about a lot of things I just didn’t need to think about. My family all had citizenship; we didn’t sweat this stuff. But everyone Miguel depended on was in danger, all the time.

  I couldn’t help thinking of the number of times I’d turned on the TV and caught talk-show hosts ranting about how illegal immigrants needed to be thrown out of the country. During election season, you could watch debates where politicians would all try to one-up one another on how tough they could be on immigration. States like Alabama and Arizona already wanted everyone to prove all the time that they were citizens, and if you couldn’t, they’d deport you. When you added it all up, it was like there was a whole army gunning for Miguel’s family. No wonder he was worried.

  We made it back to Miguel’s street and headed up the walk to his house.

  Miguel stopped suddenly and put out his hand, holding me back.

  We both stared.

  His front door was wide open, swinging easy. There wasn’t a single sound coming from inside.

  We stood there, staring.

  The white lady next door came out and saw us.

  “They’re gone,” she said. “ICE came a couple hours ago.”

  Miguel’s world fell out from under him.

  CHAPTER 8

  “You can stay with me,” I said to Miguel as we walked through the empty house.

  “I got to find where ICE is keeping them,” Miguel said.

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  I knew my mom had used an immigration lawyer when she was applying for full citizenship. Dad said the only way you got anything done when you talked to the department of immigration was if you had a good lawyer.

  “I don’t have money for a lawyer,” Miguel said. He looked like he’d been gut-shot.

  “Where’ll they take them?” I asked. “Jail?”

  “No. They won’t go to jail. ICE has their own prisons. They could be anywhere by now.” Miguel sat down on the couch, still stunned. “I don’t know where they are,” he said. “I don’t know where any of my people are.”

  I pulled on Miguel’s sleeve. “Come over to my house,” I said. “We’ll hang there. Maybe we can find someone who can help you.”

  “I can’t pay rent for this house,” Miguel said.

  “It’s okay, man.” I grabbed him and tried to pull him up. “You can stay with me.”

  “What’s your mom going to say?”

  “Who cares? You got to stay somewhere.” I looked around at the house, trying to figure out what to do.

  When someone broke into your house and stole your stuff, you were supposed to call the cops. But what did you do when the cops broke in and stole your family?

  “You better get all your stuff out of here,” I said. “They might come back. They might come looking for you.” I thought of the lady next door. “Your neighbor will probably call you in.”

  “Mrs. Olsen. She’s a pain.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s probably going to call someone on us. No way they’re going to just let you live here alone.”

  “Does this mean I get put in social services?” Miguel asked. “Do I go to a foster home or something? Are they going to want my birth certificate and all that?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Was he an orphan now? Something else? All I knew was that we needed to get the heck out, and quick, before anyone Mrs. Olsen called showed up. I had a feeling that no one from the government was going to give us the help we wanted.

  “Let’s get your stuff,” I said. “We’ll hide out over at my house while we figure things out. No one’s going to find you there.”

  “They’re probably going to try to deport me, too.”

  “You’re an American!”

  “Yeah, well, my family’s all in Mexico now. No one’s going to want me here.”

  I was starting to realize how bad this was. Miguel’s whole life had just gotten deleted.

  “Miguel?”

  He didn’t answer. He was just sitting on the couch, completely shell-shocked.

  It was obvious Miguel wasn’t going to be able to take care of himself for a little while. He might have been able to hit triples and homers on the baseball field, and he could even make Sammy Riggoni run for his life, but this was bigger than Miguel. If he was going to get through this, he was going to need help, and that meant I needed to suck it up and figure out what to do next.

  “Did your aunt and uncle have any money in the house?” I asked.

  Slowly, Miguel nodded.

  “Get it,” I said. “Get the money, and any jewelry.”

  My mom was big on jewelry. Indian women kept half their money in gold and diamonds and stuff, in case anything happened. It was kind of like a bank they wore on their fingers and in their ears and on their noses and around their necks.

  “Get all the valuable things,” I said. “And grab any games and clothes you don’t want someone else to get. We�
�ll take it all over to my house.” I pulled him up. “Come on, man. We got to hurry.”

  Miguel finally stood up. As he did, his expression changed. “Sammy did this. He reported them.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  But I suspected Miguel was right. Sammy had been smug at his house, like he’d just kicked our butts and we didn’t even know it. He’d sat on his porch, knowing what was happening down here at Miguel’s house while we were away, and he’d sipped his lemonade and smiled.

  Sammy had known something, all right.

  “He just ruined my life,” Miguel said. His hands knotted into fists. He started for the door. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Miguel’s not crazy like Joe, but when he says he’ll do something, he does it. He never chickens out and he never stops. It’s like when he’s standing at the plate in baseball. He just stares down the pitcher, and the pitcher gets nervous because Miguel is giving him a look like, I’m going to put this ball right back through your face. Total focus, right?

  So when Miguel said he was going to kill Sammy, I believed him.

  And it scared me.

  I grabbed his arm as he went past. “Whoa!” I said. “Let’s get your stuff out of the house before ICE comes back.” Miguel tried to jerk away, but I held on.

  For a second, I was afraid Miguel was going to slug me, but I held on anyway. No way was I going to let him go after Sammy in this state. “We can deal with Sammy later,” I said. “Seriously. First things first, though. We got to get out of here.”

  Miguel took a deep breath. Let it out slow. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Good. Go get the money.” A new thought came to me. “And you should get your passport, too.”

  Miguel nodded slowly at that. “My passport…” His expression turned to concern. He rushed into the kitchen. I heard drawers opening and slamming.

  “They got my papers!” Miguel shouted. “Passport, birth certificate, everything. It’s all gone!”

  I felt a chill but tried to keep the worry out of my voice. “Don’t sweat it,” I called back. “You got to have copies somewhere, right?”