Zombie Baseball Beatdown

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  Miguel came back, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I was supposed to keep that stuff safe.”

  “Well, we can’t do anything about it now. Let’s deal with your other things and get out of here. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

  * * *

  Cleaning out the house was weird because it kind of felt like we were stealing, even though we weren’t. I mean, it was all Miguel’s, right? It sure wasn’t anyone else’s. But it still felt weird. We gathered up suitcases and pillowcases filled with stuff and dragged them out into the front yard.

  It was too much to carry on bikes.

  “We’ll get Joe,” I panted, wiping sweat off my face. “Then we can get the rest.”

  “Wish we had a car,” Miguel said.

  “Yeah, well, we don’t.”

  Miguel didn’t answer. I finished tying a knot in a pillowcase and looked up.

  Uh-oh.

  Mr. Castillo’s big maroon Ford pickup sat in the driveway. Miguel was eyeing it.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “We can’t drive! You got to know how to work the gears. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

  “It’s an automatic,” Miguel said.

  We both looked at each other, then back at his uncle’s truck. It was just sitting there in the driveway. Big old red F-250.

  Miguel started to smile.

  I had the feeling things were spinning out of control.

  Turns out I had no idea.

  CHAPTER 9

  We loaded every single thing that looked valuable into the back of the truck: all of Miguel’s comic books and his baseball bat and his clothes and his blankets and sheets, and all the chocolate that his aunt kept up in the top cupboard. Plus we found five hundred dollars in cash and a bunch of silver jewelry.

  We dumped it all into the truck, along with the gas can and the Weedwacker and the lawn mower and our bikes, and climbed in.

  When we slammed the truck’s doors, Miguel’s neighbor Mrs. Olsen came out into her yard, holding a phone in her hand.

  “Hey!” she shouted. “You can’t drive!”

  “Ignore her,” Miguel said.

  She started coming toward us, but Miguel turned the key and the Ford roared to life.

  “Hey!” she called again, but she stopped coming after us—probably because she didn’t want to get run over.

  Miguel reversed the Ford and we started backing out. We went over the lawn and part of the curb, but the truck was so big, we hardly felt the bump. And then we were out on the street.

  Miguel grinned at me, kind of crazy-like. “Where you want to go?”

  I looked at Miguel, then down the street. With a shock, I realized we could probably go anywhere.

  How far could you get in a truck with gas in the tank, and no one to care if you came home for dinner? With five hundred dollars, we could probably drive to the beaches of California, or down to Mexico, or way up north to Canada. It felt like we’d been cut free and could go anywhere. We could do anything we wanted.

  And then I looked over at Miguel again, and I swear he was about to cry.

  That’s when it really hit me: No one cared if he came home ever again.

  If his neighbor lady was on the ball and was actually calling the cops like it seemed, some social worker might eventually start hunting for him, but Miguel had no family. He was free, sure, but free like if you were tied to a giant helium balloon and were just going up and up and up until you ran out of air.

  “My house,” I said firmly. “We’re going to my house. No one will ever find you there.”

  “You don’t think?”

  “We’ll call you Manoj, or something. Say you’re my cousin from Chicago. People can barely tell the difference between us, anyway.”

  We looked at each other, and then we both started to laugh. It was sad, and it was funny. Miguel put his foot on the gas and we peeled out, with his neighbor still watching from her lawn, her hand shading her eyes, holding her phone.

  I watched her getting smaller and smaller in the truck’s side mirror, still standing on the lawn, still trying to decide what to do about us, wondering if we were something she needed to worry about.

  Nah, lady—we were going to do just fine.

  CHAPTER 10

  Miguel was a terrible driver: the truck was huge, and he was barely tall enough to see over the wheel and dashboard. He kept hitting the wipers instead of the turn signal and kept looking at the speedometer, so we almost went off the road a couple of times.

  “Watch out!” I shouted when he grazed a mailbox.

  “Quit complaining,” he said. “This ain’t Gran Turismo. Driving’s harder than it looks.”

  “Just watch the road!”

  Instead, Miguel ducked his head to look under the wheel and stomped on the wrong pedal. We braked suddenly. I slammed up against the dashboard and finally understood why my dad was always on me and Mom to wear our seat belts; my jaw hurt, and we hadn’t even been going that fast.

  “Oww!”

  “Sorry,” Miguel said. He gunned the engine, and we were off again.

  We took side streets the whole way. I kept a lookout for police. At one point, there was a cop car, and we pulled over, and I was sure the cop was going to search us, because I had a creepy feeling the neighbor lady had already called us in. But the cop just kept going in a hurry and ignored us completely.

  After we unloaded everything at the house, Miguel stood frowning at the truck. “We can’t keep it here,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Mrs. Olsen. She probably already reported it, and it leads right to us. We got to hide it somewhere.”

  I thought about it. “We could always put our bikes in the back and take it out to Milrow. If we leave the truck there, it just looks like your uncle could have driven it there. Might even be able to just keep it out there, and no one would care. They always got cars in their parking lot, from all the shifts.”

  “What if the cops find it and take it?”

  “So they take it. It’s not like you got a driver’s license. If we keep driving it around, we’re going to get caught for sure.” When Miguel still hesitated, I said, “You definitely don’t want ICE or the cops coming here, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

  So we tossed our bikes back into the truck and drove out to the meatpacking plant.

  We were going to go out the main road, but there was another police car, coming the other way, with its lights and sirens on. Miguel turned hard, and we headed down a side street, afraid we were caught for sure, but the cop just kept going.

  “Where are all these cops coming from?” Miguel fumed.

  “Dunno, but they don’t seem to care about us.”

  We wound our way along smaller streets and eventually snuck back onto the highway. Miguel floored the gas. The big engine roared, and we blasted toward Milrow, with cornfields blurring beside us.

  We found a parking place on the far side of the plant, over by Milrow Park, with a bunch of other workers’ cars.

  As we were getting out of the cab, I saw some of Miguel’s aunt’s jewelry on the floor and quickly scooped it up. “You almost forgot this.”

  Miguel cursed and we both checked over the rest of the cab, just to make sure. It turned out we’d missed a box of Count Chocula, and then Miguel found his glove and his bat and a bunch of his clothes that we’d shoved way down behind the seat.

  “How are we going to get all this stuff back to your house?” Miguel asked.

  “We aren’t driving again,” I said. “With all these cops around, our luck’s definitely running out.”

  I had an idea. I started sorting through Miguel’s clothes.

  “What are you doing?”

  I pulled on one of Miguel’s sweatshirts. “We’ll wear all the clothes,” I said.

  “Oh man, we’ll boil.”

  “It’s only for a couple miles,” I said.

  “This is how people get heatstroke, you know.”

&
nbsp; Miguel was right—the extra layers of clothing were killer hot, especially in the thick, humid air of Iowa summer. We managed to get everything on, and we stuffed the jewelry in our pockets.

  “Who’s taking the cereal?”

  “I guess we leave it.”

  “And waste it?” I asked.

  “It’s really better with milk,” Miguel said.

  “My mom doesn’t let me have this stuff,” I said, and started digging out handfuls of the cereal and eating it. Miguel watched me like I was nuts. After a couple of mouthfuls, I knew why.

  “It’s really better with milk,” Miguel said again.

  “Gah.” I spat out chocolate bits. “Thooo muth thugar.”

  Miguel just laughed at that. I was kind of glad; it was almost like he was coming back to normal.

  “Come on, Einstein, let’s get out of here.” Miguel tossed me his baseball glove and balanced his bat across his handlebars, and we headed out.

  Riding down the road, we looked like the dumbest dorks in the world with all our layers of clothing. Like Stay Puft Marshmallow Men on bikes. Almost immediately, we got passed by some high school kids who honked their horn and laughed and pointed.

  “We look like bag ladies,” Miguel groused.

  “Well, you should’ve cleaned everything out when we had a chance. I’m sweating like a pig, and these aren’t even my clothes,” I said. My mouth still felt like a choco-sugar Sahara after eating all that cereal. “You owe me a root beer when we get back to town.”

  “You want more sugar?”

  “I want liquid sugar. That’s totally different.”

  Miguel started to answer, but broke off. The whine of a siren was rising in the distance, echoing over the cornfields.

  “More cops?” I wondered. “Where are all these guys coming from?”

  The siren was definitely coming our way, shrieking louder.

  “Get off the road!” Miguel shouted.

  We swerved into a ditch and dove flat beside our bikes. A second later, a cop car screamed past, lights and sirens blaring. We watched him whip by. Another followed, racing fast.

  “That wasn’t Delbe police,” Miguel said, as we watched them disappear. “That’s someone else.”

  Now that he mentioned it, I saw it, too. We’d been so focused on the lights and sirens that we hadn’t noticed that they didn’t have any town or state logos. Didn’t say SHERIFF or POLICE or anything. They had stripes on the side, and lights and sirens, and they looked official, but they weren’t from around here.

  “Rent-a-cops?” Miguel guessed.

  “ICE?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. They sure aren’t looking for me,” Miguel said. “That one didn’t even glance our way. And you were doing a crummy job of hiding.”

  It was weird. You just didn’t see that many official vehicles zipping around Delbe, ever. And here we’d seen three or four, buzzing the roads like a herd of hornets. It was like they were looking for something—but they weren’t stopping or slowing down, either. Just blasting back and forth.

  As we got onto our bikes, another cop-like car shot by. We almost dove flat, but they really didn’t seem to care about us at all.

  “I guess we’re safe,” I said.

  “Yeah. But let’s get out of here while the getting’s good.”

  We pedaled back toward town. Sweat dripped off our faces and soaked our layers of heavy clothes. All I could think of was how glad I was going to be to get into an air-conditioned house and drink an icy-cold root beer.

  I guess it should have occurred to me that you don’t get cop cars swarming like that if nothing important is going on. Sometimes, you just don’t put two and two together until it’s too late.

  Or, in our case, it didn’t happen until our baseball coach, Mr. Cocoran, stumbled out of the cornfields right in front of us.

  CHAPTER 11

  Mr. Cocoran raised his arm, and we slowed down. He was wearing his Milrow Meats work uniform, but it was ripped and spattered with brown stuff that smelled like cow manure, and there was a gash in his forehead dribbling blood down his face.

  He looked terrible, and stunk even worse.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Mr. Cocoran just stared at us, then looked back into the cornfields, where he’d left a trail of smashed and trampled corn. His eyes were wild and buggy, probably from the whack he’d taken to the forehead.

  As we got closer, I saw that his uniform was covered with bits of corn silk and chunks of green leaves, like he’d been rolling and diving around in the corn all day. On top of that, it looked like something had torn a couple of big chunks out of him, because his shoulder was all ripped and bloody.

  “Mr. Cocoran?” I asked again. “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”

  A fly buzzed around him and landed in the blood on his forehead. He didn’t seem to mind. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. A weird sound gargled out. “Ghahaghahg.”

  He took a stumbling step toward me.

  “Mr. Cocoran?”

  “Gahaghg!” He made a clumsy lunge at me, opening his mouth and snapping his teeth. He lurched toward me again, his mouth open wide, like he was trying to bite me.

  I rolled my bike backward. “Hey! Cut it out!”

  “What’s he doing?” Miguel asked.

  “I have no idea!”

  Mr. Cocoran kept stumbling after me, making clumsy grabs.

  “Gahggh!” He caught my handlebars.

  “Get off me, man!”

  Instead, Mr. Cocoran grabbed my arm. He was really strong. He opened his mouth and tried to bite me again. I fell off my bike trying to twist away, but Mr. Cocoran held on tight. We landed in a pile, with Mr. Cocoran on top.

  His teeth snapped again, going after my nose as we wrestled. I barely turned aside in time.

  “GHAHAHGGHGHHH!”

  His breath was hot and nasty, full of rot and disease. It took all my strength to keep his teeth away from my face.

  “Get off!”

  Drool ran from Cocoran’s mouth in long streams. His tongue stuck out of his mouth, licking and lapping at me.

  “Get off!”

  He was too strong for me. Like Sammy, times ten. Miguel ran up and grabbed Mr. Cocoran, trying to pull him away, but Cocoran didn’t budge.

  “Get him off!” I shouted.

  “I can’t!” Miguel grunted. “He’s too big!” Miguel jumped on the guy’s back and tried to pry him away, but nothing did any good.

  Mr. Cocoran’s face pushed closer to mine, baring teeth. His rancid breath made me gag. I got my arm up against his neck, bracing against his throat, fighting to keep his nasty teeth from ripping into my skin. Miguel was still trying to roll him off or drag him away, but nothing was helping. My arm was weakening.

  “I can’t hold him, Miguel!” I shouted. “Get him off me already!”

  “He’s too strong!” Miguel yelled as he pulled on Mr. Cocoran’s hair, yanking as hard as he could.

  The man’s face just got closer and closer.

  “GaaahhhghHHEHGH!”

  “Miguel…” I was using all my strength, and it wasn’t enough.

  Suddenly Mr. Cocoran let up.

  For a second I thought he was letting me go. I thought he was going to say this was all some kind of a joke, and everything would go back to normal. Instead, he grabbed my arm…

  And he bit me!

  His teeth sank into my forearm. Even with all the clothes I had on, it hurt like crazy. I howled.

  “Get him off!” I shouted to Miguel. “Get him off! Get him off, gethimofffffffff!”

  “I can’t do anything!” Miguel shouted.

  I was shaking my arm wildly, but Mr. Cocoran’s teeth were sunk in deep. I couldn’t get my arm loose. “Hit him! Just hit him! Use your baseball bat!”

  So Miguel did.

  Wham!

  Right upside the head with his Louisville Slugger.

  There was a wet crunch, and Mr. Cocoran’s head sn
apped around. The guy fell off me and went still. I crawled out from under him, gasping, and hauled myself to my feet. We both stared down at Mr. Cocoran’s flopped-over body.

  “What the heck was that?” I couldn’t get my breath back, and my body was shaking all over.

  “You told me to hit him.”

  “I didn’t say you should hit him in the head!”

  “You’re picky about where I hit him? He was tearing into you!” Miguel wiped the sweat off his face with a shaky arm.

  “Oh man,” I said, putting my hands to my forehead. “We are in so much trouble.”

  “Is he dead?” Miguel asked me, suddenly sounding worried.

  Mr. Cocoran’s head was dented, and his neck was all twisted around. “Well…” I said, “it doesn’t look supergood.”

  I’ll admit that I never really liked Mr. Cocoran, but seeing him lying there was sickening. One minute he’d been alive, and now he was just… gone. I rubbed my arm where he’d bitten me. I could barely touch it, it was so bruised.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” Miguel wondered.

  I had no idea. “I think when this happens in the movies, they hide the body.”

  “When this happens in movies? This isn’t a movie!” Miguel was finally starting to freak out. “He wouldn’t stop! I couldn’t—” He broke off, looking shattered. “Oh man, this is bad.”

  The more we looked at Mr. Cocoran, the more I realized we were in serious trouble. You can’t just go around hitting people with baseball bats. And it looked like Mr. Cocoran really was dead. One hit, and he’d gone down. Miguel really had an amazing swing.

  “Does this mean we’re murderers?” I asked.

  It felt like the ground had gone missing below me. Like I was falling and falling and there wasn’t any place to land. In one second, my whole life had changed, and there was no going back.

  “We got to get out of here.” Miguel grabbed my layers of shirts. “We just got to get out of here.”

  “No, wait. We need a plan,” I said. “This wasn’t our fault. It was self-defense, right?”

  “Who cares! Let’s figure out your superplan away from—”

  Mr. Cocoran sat up.

  Miguel and I yelped and jumped back.