Zombie Baseball Beatdown

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  CHAPTER 17

  At my house, we all took showers to get the blood off. Just in case it was infectious, we dumped a bunch of iodine and hydrogen peroxide all over ourselves, too. I wasn’t sure if it would do any good, but I figured it was better than nothing.

  After that, Joe and I rode over to the police station.

  The guy at the front desk gave us a bored look.

  “Yeah?”

  “We want to report a zombie uprising,” Joe said, before I could stop him.

  The police guy smirked. “You want to report a vampire hive, too?”

  “We’re serious—”

  I cut Joe off before he could dig a deeper hole. “We saw a guy out in the cornfields. He looked like he needed help. He’s all beat-up.”

  The police guy’s eyebrows went up. “You’re reporting an assault?”

  Was it an assault if you broke the arms and legs of a zombie?

  I said, “I don’t know how he got like he was, but he looked pretty bad.”

  “All bloody!” Joe added.

  Right then, we lost the police guy again. “Yeah? And did he keep asking for brains?”

  “Well,” Joe said, “he wasn’t really asking, so much as moaning.”

  The policeman leaned over his desk. “You think pranks like this are hilarious, don’t you? Maybe you’ve got some friends out there, laughing because they dared you to come in here and waste my time…”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ve got real work to do here, and we’ve got real crimes to deal with.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Beat it.”

  I tried again. “Really, sir. It’s not a joke. The man, he’s named Mr. Cocoran and he was our Little League coach. And he’s out in the cornfields outside of town, and he doesn’t look right. We aren’t lying, and it isn’t a joke. My friend likes comic books and he likes to tell stories, but that’s not his fault. He’s just that way. But Mr. Cocoran… We think he’s in real trouble. Couldn’t you just drive out and check on him?”

  The man looked at me. “We’re kind of busy right now.”

  “Please. We’ll go with you. If we’re lying, you can throw us in jail.”

  He sort of smiled at that.

  “That’s not quite how it works.” He looked up at the clock. “All right. I’ll call an officer. You can show him.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I wasn’t convinced that Officer Boone really was an officer. Maybe a trainee or something. Or maybe he was, like, a high school kid they’d dressed up in a police uniform. Sort of like they have those dummies out in California that sit in squad cars by the side of the highway and look like they’re shooting you with a radar gun, but actually they’re just sitting there being dummies—because you know they’re stuffed, right?

  Officer Boone might have had a uniform, but his face looked like a baby’s. Pale-blond hair, superpale pink skin, blue eyes. He should have been wearing diapers.

  Joe had the same thought. He took one look at Officer Boone and whispered that we had Officer Baby Face with us. He looked so young, I was surprised they gave him keys to drive a car. Miguel looked older than this guy. I mean, Miguel was actually starting to grow a mustache. This guy wasn’t going to be shaving until he was eighty.

  I hoped his gun was real, at least.

  Baby Face Boone drove us out into the increasing dusk, as we told him where to go. Then we got out and started walking, following our trail back through the corn.

  “You can get your gun out now,” I said.

  Boone looked at me like I was an idiot. “How about we just find this Mr…. Cocoran, okay, kid?”

  I wanted to say, “Sure, kid.” But I didn’t.

  Officer Baby Face also didn’t take his gun out. I wanted to say, Buddy, when a zombie comes to rip your brains out, you’re going to wish you had your gun. But I didn’t. I just headed out into the corn, feeling naked because I didn’t have enough layers of clothing, and wishing I had my bat.

  Baby Face Boone, the slowest draw in Iowa.

  Weee.

  Without any kind of decent backup, Joe and I took it slow, listening to the corn and hoping we weren’t about to be ambushed by any other zombies.

  We finally got to the spot where we’d fought Mr. Cocoran. I could tell it was the right spot, because everything was trampled, but…

  We stopped short.

  “What the—?” Joe muttered.

  The corn was stomped down, but that was all.

  “It was right here,” I said.

  Boone swung a big old flashlight around, its beam sending hungry shadows swirling. Every time he did it, my skin crawled, but there wasn’t any Mr. Cocoran, and there wasn’t any zombie. There wasn’t even any blood. Just missing corn and some dug-up dirt.

  “It was right here!” I said.

  “It?” Officer Boone asked.

  “I mean Mr. Cocoran,” I said.

  “You sure?” he asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There’s no blood,” Joe said. He circled around. “Check it out. Some of the corn’s missing. Looks like it was dug up.”

  “You want to report a theft of corn now?” Boone asked.

  Joe was right, though. The area was totally cleared out, and the dirt was turned over and scuffed. There weren’t any of our footprints in it, and no blood, either. We’d had a whole zombie battle, and now the evidence was gone, like aliens had landed and scooped it up and taken it all away.

  “You think maybe he crawled out of here?” Joe wondered.

  “He couldn’t have.”

  “Why not?” Officer Boone asked.

  We exchanged glances. “Uhh…”

  Because we broke every bone in his arms and legs so all he could do was squirm around like an inchworm and say “brains” over and over again.

  But we couldn’t admit that.

  “Just because.”

  Officer Boone was starting to get angry. “Is this a prank?” he asked. “Is this your idea of a funny joke?”

  It didn’t matter how many times we said No, sir, we’re not joking, sir, he was here, sir as we crawled around on the ground, trying to find evidence, Officer Boone just got more and more annoyed.

  Finally he said, “All right, boys. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” He stomped off to his car.

  No way were me and Joe going to stick around in dark cornfields without the guy with the gun. Even if he was Baby Face. We ran after him.

  Of course when we got back into the car, it got worse, because Boone got on the radio and reported that he hadn’t seen anything, zombie or otherwise—and then as soon as he did that, the dispatcher squawked and asked if “those kids” were still with him.

  “Yeah, I still got ’em,” he said into his radio.

  “Bring them in. Rabi…” The dispatcher hesitated. “Rabidmath Chatterjee is wanted for questioning.”

  Uh-oh. That couldn’t be good.

  Miguel. It had to be. They wanted Miguel and a certain missing red F-250 pickup truck, for sure.

  I hit the handle on the door and tried to jump out of the car, but Boone beat me to it. He hit a button and the doors locked and I just slammed up against glass.

  He grinned at me in the rearview mirror. “Nice try, kid.”

  He started up the car and put it in gear. I was going to jail for sure. I wondered if my mom could bring me mango pickle and rice, or if I’d have to eat jail food all the time. And then I wondered if jail food was worse than Delbe Middle School food.

  “Are we under arrest?” I asked.

  Baby Face Boone didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 19

  If you ever get picked up by the cops, just deny everything and ask for a lawyer.

  I learned that from Law & Order. So when they got me into a room with a bald guy with glasses and a full beard going white, who looked a little like Santa Claus, I kept mum.

  “I want a lawyer,” I said.

  Santa Claus said, “That’s not the way it works, kid. You’re not charged with anything. We ju
st need to ask you some questions. We’re looking for a friend of yours. A Miguel Castillo.”

  “Don’t know him. Don’t know where he is.”

  “No?” the detective looked surprised. “His neighbor said you two drove away in Mr.…” the detective, whose name was Pearson, looked at his papers. “Mr. Castillo’s—his uncle’s—truck. A maroon Ford F-250 extended cab. Just this afternoon.”

  “So?” I said.

  I felt bad about stonewalling—because my mom would have died if she knew I’d talked like that to a grown-up—but I’d seen enough cop shows to know that you can’t back down.

  “So you saw him this afternoon?” the detective asked. “At his house? When you pulled…” He looked at his notes again. “Three suitcases, eight pillowcases, two armloads of sheets and blankets, four boxes of cereal, a lawn mower, two bikes, a Weedwacker, and a large plastic—possibly ten-gallon—jug of gasoline, into said F-250 extended cab and fled the scene?”

  Uh.

  “I want a lawyer,” I said.

  Pearson rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “Let me tell you how this works, kid. Either you answer my questions—and you stop talking about lawyers and whatever you learned from watching Castle, or Law & Order, or whatever cop show that you think told you something about how to ‘beat the man’—or you keep on making my life difficult, and I put you into the holding cells with all the drunks and the bikers who came through town yesterday. And maybe, if I remember, you see a lawyer tomorrow. Or the next day. So you either help me out and quit trying to be a hard case, or you keep making my life crummy on a nice summer Wednesday night.”

  He looked over his glasses at me. “Think about it. Keep asking for that lawyer. I’m begging you. See how it goes for you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” I protested.

  “Driving without a license is a serious crime.”

  “I wasn’t the one who was driving!”

  “So Miguel was driving?”

  Dang. I wasn’t so good at the criminal thing after all. You aren’t supposed to rat out your buddies. I tried to figure a way out. “Uhhhh…”

  “Quit dragging this out”—he checked the report in front of him—“Rabidmath.”

  “That’s not how you say my name.”

  “Just tell us where he is.”

  What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t give up Miguel. No way. If they got hold of him, there was no telling what they’d do—

  And then, inspiration.

  “He’s gone to Mexico,” I said.

  The detective looked at me like I’d just told him that Miguel had decided to become a violin-playing penguin. I repeated myself. “He’s gone to Mexico. He’s going to find his family.”

  “He’s thirteen years old!”

  “He’s got five hundred dollars and a truck. And it’s an automatic.”

  The detective glared at me. Then he got up and went to the door, and called out. “Hey! Bernie! See if we’ve got any traffic stops out toward I-80, or heading south to Kansas.”

  He came back. “We’ll see if you’re telling the truth.”

  “He’s taking the back roads,” I said. “You’ll never catch him.”

  The detective looked at me, then he sighed. “You might be right about that, kid.” He paused. “So, where’s your parents?”

  “My mom’s in India, and my dad’s in North Dakota on an oil derrick. He’s out of cell phone reach.”

  “More stories?”

  “No! My mom really is in India. Her sister’s in the hospital. I was supposed to be staying with Miguel, but then ICE went and grabbed his aunt and uncle.” I looked at him. “Can I stay at your place until my mom gets back?”

  He looked disgusted. “Your mother ought to be arrested for neglect.” He tapped his pen on the table, thinking. Tat-tat-tat. “We’ll have to put you into some kind of temporary housing until we can find a responsible adult,” he decided.

  Responsible adult. That was kind of a funny one. Responsible adult. I wondered where they were, exactly. My dad was working; my mom was gone. Miguel’s family were all taken, and they’d been about the most responsible people I’d ever met. His family had always been on Miguel to study and get good grades and all that. And they worked like crazy, doing shifts at the plant and then lawn care on the weekends and housecleaning, too. They’d been awesome, but ICE had scooped them up. Joe’s parents? Joe’s dad was a mean old drunk about half the time, and the rest of the time he was working, and Joe’s mom only did things like shop and sit around and watch TV.

  And now something really bad was happening, and no one was paying any attention at all.

  Responsible adults.

  The zombie apocalypse was coming, and the people who were supposed to do something about it were busy calling around looking for a social worker and filing paperwork. They were trying to track down a kid who didn’t want them to find him because their version of help was to stick him with some family that wasn’t his.

  I knew if I told this cop about the zombie apocalypse, he’d say I was making up wing-ding stories, and then he’d come down on me even harder than he already was.

  Responsible adults.

  Let’s face it. They say they’re responsible, but half the time, they just make things worse, and the other half of the time, they’re so clueless, they might as well be out of the picture.

  I guessed that my dad might have believed me, if he’d actually been here. But since he wasn’t, it looked like we were on our own if we were going to stop the zombie apocalypse.

  And that meant I had to find some way to bust out of jail.

  CHAPTER 20

  Detective Pearson didn’t put me in a holding cell. He had me sit on a chair in the office where the detectives worked, while he typed stuff into his computer and called around to figure out where he could dump me with a “responsible adult.”

  I sat there picking at the laces on my sneakers and trying to figure out if I could just make a run for it.

  “I’m here for Rabindranath Chatterjee-Jones.”

  Someone pronouncing my name correctly? That caught my attention.

  A tall guy wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase was standing behind the counter. He caught sight of me, peeking out of the detectives’ office. He had small rectangular glasses that looked city-slick, and he was completely bald. He sort of reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite place him…

  “Rabindranath?” the suit guy asked. “Rabi?”

  How did he know me?

  Detective Pearson was moving to get between us.

  “What’s your business?” the desk sergeant and Pearson said at the same time.

  The bald suit guy grinned, and suddenly it hit me—the guy looked almost exactly like Spider Jerusalem. Minus the tattoos and cigarettes, sure, and all dressed up, too. But with that crazy smile, all the guy needed was a takeout carton of caribou eyeballs, and he could have been the spitting image.

  Bald suit guy said, “My business is with my client Rabindranath Chatterjee-Jones, whom you have been holding without charge or bail.”

  “Wait just a second—” Pearson started, but the guy mowed him down.

  “You have held him without charge or bail, and…” He peered around Pearson’s Santa Claus body to see me. “Did you ask for a lawyer, Rabi?”

  I nodded vigorously. Pearson glared at me. The suit guy tore into him, his voice getting louder.

  “You have held my client without charge or bail, and you have prevented my client from retaining counsel. At this point, I could probably bring you up in both criminal and civil court for kidnapping, dereliction of duty, civil rights violations—”

  “Who the heck are you?” Pearson demanded.

  Spider Jerusalem, I thought. Kicking the butt that deserves it.

  “Lawrence Maximillian, of Maximillian, Young, and Trevaine.” He bared his teeth. “We specialize in police-brutality cases.”

  Pearson started to protest. “We were looking for a respo
nsible adult!”

  “For more than four hours? Did you let my client call me?”

  “He didn’t ask for you!”

  “He asked for a lawyer. Did you even provide a public defender? Read him his rights? Anything?”

  I didn’t know who this guy was, but he was brilliant. Every time Pearson tried to say something, the suit dude just hammered back.

  Whenever I get in an argument, I never have a comeback when I really want it. I think of responses a week later, and then I never get to use them. This lawyer was amazing.

  Pearson said, “Protective custody.”

  Lawyer guy said, “Civil rights.”

  Pearson said, “Couldn’t locate.”

  Lawyer guy said, “No charge.”

  Bam, bam, bam. Out of the park, every time.

  And then the lawyer guy just said, “Come on, Rabi, we’re leaving.”

  I looked to the cops, and then at the lawyer.

  “Hold it right there,” Pearson said.

  Lawrence Maximillian said, “Don’t even stop, Rabi.”

  “You’re interfering with an investigation.”

  “You’re interfering with my client’s freedom. Charge him now, in my presence. Please. Make my day. We’ll have Judge Fenton on the phone, and we’ll start the paperwork for our lawsuits and your procedural errors, at the same time.” The lawyer stared Pearson down. “I eat police departments like yours for lunch. When I’m done with you, you’ll be selling Skittles and Gatorade at a Casey’s convenience mart, and the town of Delbe will be bankrupt.”

  He took my arm. “Come on, Rabi. They’re done talking to you.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Lawrence Maximillian looked at me over his little rectangular glasses and grinned.

  “I’m always sure.”

  He slapped a business card on Pearson’s desk. “Next time you want to question my client, you call me first. We’ll arrange a time and place that’s convenient for my client and his busy schedule. If I hear you’ve tried to interfere with my client’s freedom again, I’ll add harassment to the charges.”

  We walked right out of the police department, leaving Pearson and the desk sergeant staring, mouths wide open, looking like they’d been hit over their heads with baseball bats themselves.