Zombie Baseball Beatdown

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  CHAPTER 21

  A sleek Lexus was sitting in the police station parking lot. Maximillian clicked his clicker and all the lights went on and the engine purred to life.

  “Get in.”

  “I still got my bike.”

  Maximillian sized up the bike. “It’ll fit.”

  He popped the trunk and handed me his briefcase. He hefted the bike and popped it into the trunk, easy as pie, and then we were both in the car and starting to drive.

  “Buckle up, Rabi.”

  We hit the highway, and he opened up the engine. We flew down the road. Inside the car, everything was glowing green with all the fancy GPS and computer stuff, speed dials, and audio controls on the steering wheel.

  Maximillian tapped the stereo and something with thumping bass came on. Reggaeton. The kind of music my mom wouldn’t let me listen to because she said it didn’t treat women right. But the beat was full of awesome.

  Maximillian grinned as I started to bob my head to the beat. “Feels good to stick it to the man, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. They wouldn’t stop bothering me.”

  “Cops are like that.”

  He drove fast, and being inside the car, with its smooth ride, it felt like we were flying. It felt like we were in a completely different universe, where everything was sleek and rich and perfect.

  Money.

  Joe would have said it was money. Everything about Maximillian was money. Gold glinting watch. Not afraid of anyone. Bulldog lawyer, and he really knew how to bite.

  We pulled up in front of my house. “How’d my mom find out about me?” I asked.

  Maximillian shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we got you out of there.”

  “Is she mad?”

  “Of course not. She just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

  “She’s not mad at all?”

  Maximillian laughed. “Boys will be boys,” he said. “Is Miguel here?”

  “How’d you know about him?”

  “Because in my line of work, you don’t face down the police unless you’ve done your research. He’s why the police were hassling you. Anyway, I’ll need to speak with both of you.”

  “About ICE?” I asked. “Can you help him find his aunt and uncle?”

  Maximillian shook his head. “Let’s not rush into anything. He’s not my client. We’ll just have to see what his situation is and see what we can do to help. My firm doesn’t specialize in immigration issues. We’re more focused.”

  We both got out. “So what do you want to talk to us about?” I asked.

  “There’s a reason you went to the police in the first place.”

  “The zombies?”

  “Bingo.” He popped the trunk and got my bike out. “Go see if Miguel is here. We have a lot to discuss.”

  I went up and unlocked the door. The house was pitch-black. I found Miguel hiding in a back room, in a closet. When I came in, he said, “Oh man, I’m sure glad it’s you.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The cops came by, knocking on the door. I saw them through the curtains and didn’t answer, but they were here.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We got a lawyer.”

  “We do?”

  I led him out to the living room and introduced him to Lawrence Maximillian. Maximillian shook Miguel’s hand seriously, and then guided us all into the kitchen. “It’s very good to meet you, Miguel. Rabi seems quite concerned about your situation.” He went and got a couple of root beers from the fridge for us. Cracked them open and had us all sit down at the kitchen table.

  “All right,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened to you out in the cornfields.” He got out a thin little laptop from his briefcase. “Start from the beginning. The first moment when you started to think that something might be wrong.”

  So we did. We talked and he typed and his little glasses glowed blue with the reflected light off his laptop screen. He typed and typed and typed. It felt great to finally find a real responsible adult.

  Talking with all the other grown-ups had been like talking to a brick wall. But Lawrence Maximillian was different. The guy really listened. He didn’t make jokes or act like we weren’t real people or talk down to us. He looked us in the eye, and listened, and wrote everything down.

  We told him what we’d heard from Miguel’s uncle and aunt, about the weird things they were feeding the cows at the plant and the weird drugs they were giving them, and all the stuff about how bad it smelled out there the day we’d been playing at Milrow Park, and then about Mr. Cocoran and the other zombie that we’d also seen, and how there might be more of them around. And Lawrence Maximillian listened.

  We told him about how we took everything out of Miguel’s house, and how we ditched the truck out by Milrow, and how Miguel couldn’t find his passport, so we didn’t know if he’d get grabbed and deported, or if he’d be able to stay, or if we could trust anyone.

  Finally, we ran out of stuff to say.

  Mr. Maximillian straightened and smiled. He pulled another machine out of his briefcase, sort of unfolded it, and then he started feeding paper into it, page after page, printing out all the stuff that we’d said.

  “This is wonderful, gentlemen,” he said. “Really useful. Do you have any photos or other evidence that I should see? Sometimes young people have cell phones—maybe you snapped pictures? Souvenirs?”

  We both looked at each other. “Joe has a cell,” I said. “But we didn’t think to use it.”

  “That’s fine. Not a problem at all. That’s just fine. This is all very useful.”

  “Can you help Miguel with ICE?”

  “We should be able to make an arrangement so that he’s protected here in the United States. ICE will back off, if there’s enough pressure, and my firm and our partner firms can provide that sort of pressure. But it’s very important that you understand how hard it is to fight agencies like ICE. They’re drunk on their own power. Luckily, they roll over like puppies if the right senator gives them a call. With us in your corner, ICE will never know what hit them.”

  He looked grave. “But I should also tell you that this is a very serious thing. A zombie uprising isn’t something that anyone wants in the news. Panic. Fear. Lost business.” He pushed the papers across to us. “I’ll need you both to sign these.”

  I hesitated. My dad and mom always said you shouldn’t sign anything without knowing what it was.

  “What’s this?”

  “A standard NDA. A nondisclosure agreement. It states that your testimony on the issues related to untoward occurrences and certain other pieces relevant to the appearance of what people might call a ‘zombie uprising’ is proprietary trade information. A business secret that cannot be reported to others without legal repercussions.”

  We both must have looked confused, because he said, “It’s a promise to keep the zombies a secret.”

  “But why would we do that? Don’t people need to know something’s going wrong out at Milrow?”

  “Two reasons. One, my firm can’t do anything about the problem unless you swear to keep it a secret. Two, we can’t help Miguel with ICE unless we have your full cooperation.” He smiled again, all friendly-like, but for the first time I wasn’t totally convinced that Maximillian was actually a friend.

  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Lawrence Maximillian was a total stranger.

  He might have looked like Spider Jerusalem, but that didn’t mean he was Spider Jerusalem. The guy had suddenly popped into our lives, out of nowhere. He’d walked right into my house, and he’d acted all friendly, like he belonged, but he didn’t really. And keeping the zombies a secret didn’t seem right, and the way he talked about Miguel and ICE didn’t, either. The more he talked, the more wrong he seemed.

  “Who are you working for?” I asked.

  Maximillian grinned. “Just think of me as the cleanup squad.”

  “Cleanup squad? S
o… you’re not working for my mom, or us, or anything like that?”

  “I’m afraid not. But we’d really like your help on this,” Maximillian said. “And of course, if you’re helping us, then we have a good reason to make sure nothing unfortunate happens to Miguel. We all know how precarious it is, living in this country without any documentation at all.”

  This guy had gotten root beers out my fridge. He’d been so smooth about it that I hadn’t even noticed. I’d just started drinking the root beer he’d given me, like he was the host, and I was the guest. It was creepy how smooth he’d been.

  “Are you saying you’re going to get me deported if I don’t sign these papers?” Miguel asked.

  “Of course not. That would be impossible. You’re a good American citizen, aren’t you? You haven’t broken any laws. You’re a model of virtue. Why would ICE care about you?”

  Maximillian shuffled his papers, read something, and circled it with a red pen. “But perhaps you want help… well, for whatever reasons you might want it… for yourself, for your family, perhaps… My firm and our partners can’t fight ICE on your behalf, if you don’t sign. You can certainly go it alone.” He shrugged. “Sometimes people win.” He looked up from his papers. “But let’s be honest. The specifics of your case aren’t exactly to your advantage, are they, Miguel?”

  Miguel turned guarded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come now, Miguel. Let’s stop the charade. I know your situation. I know. Every. Single. Detail.”

  The blood had gone out of Miguel’s face. He was practically as pale as Joe, all of a sudden.

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked.

  Miguel just looked horrified. “Who hired you?”

  “That’s not the question you should ask.” Maximillian pulled his cell phone out and laid it on the table beside him. “The only question you should ask is who I can call on this phone. Some of the numbers in this phone can help you. Others?” He shrugged. “Not so much.”

  Miguel was looking more and more afraid.

  Maximillian went on. “You have so many enemies, boy. And we both know how they’ll treat you if they catch you. For someone in your situation, the border is just a phone call away.”

  “You can’t do anything to Miguel!” I said. “He’s American. You can’t do anything to him. We’ll find his passport, or his birth certificate, or something! The hospital will have it. You can’t do anything to him. He can’t be deported.”

  “Miguel?” Maximillian asked.

  I looked from Miguel to Maximillian. It was like they were having a secret conversation through telepathy or something. Like in Joe’s comics. Like Professor X, or M’gann M’orzz and J’onn J’onzz being able to read each other’s minds. And I was completely shut out of whatever it was that they were actually saying.

  The one thing I could tell was that Miguel looked more scared than anyone I’d ever seen.

  “We should sign,” Miguel said. “Just sign, Rabi.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Are you serious?” I looked from Miguel to Maximillian. “This guy isn’t our friend. Who knows what’s in these papers?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Miguel said. “Just sign it, Rabi.”

  “Listen to your friend, Rabi.” Maximillian beamed. “It’s so much better when we’re all cooperating. This way, we all get what we want.”

  Maximillian was slicker than snot. Nasty and slippery and totally out for himself. I couldn’t believe I’d trusted him for even a second. I’d been so stupid.

  Maximillian offered us pens. “Let’s get these papers signed, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Who do you work for?” I asked again. “Who told you about us?”

  “Does it really matter? Maybe the police talk too much on their radios. Maybe your neighbors talk too much about boys who are up to strange things. Maybe there are eyes and ears all around you, and you don’t even know it. Focus on your friend, Rabi. All you need to worry about is how to protect Miguel, and how you’re going to stay very, very quiet about all of this.”

  “Milrow,” I guessed suddenly. “You work for Milrow Meats, and you want to cover all this up.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Miguel said, signing furiously. “Just sign it, Rabi.”

  I’d never seen Miguel back down from anything in his life. But now it was like he didn’t have a bit of fight in him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I said. “We can’t let this guy push us around.”

  Miguel shoved the papers over to Maximillian, and he looked so scared and sad and unhappy….

  I finally got it.

  I finally understood why Miguel was so scared of ICE, and the reason Lawrence Maximillian could just lean on him and expect him to crumple.

  “Miguel?” I said. “You were born here, weren’t you?”

  Miguel wouldn’t meet my eyes. He gave a shrug—kind of sad, kind of sorry, kind of giving up.

  “Sorry, Rabi.”

  He wasn’t American at all.

  I mean, he was American, you know? We’d grown up together, and did all the stuff like Little League, and making bike jumps over creeks, and taking allowance money down to Casey’s to buy root beers… but he wasn’t American American. He was one of the people all the politicians kept screaming about on the news. The illegals. The ones who were supposed to be taking everyone’s jobs and spreading crime or whatever. And here he was, sitting at the kitchen table, looking run over by Lawrence Maximillian.

  “My parents brought me here when I was just a little baby,” Miguel said. “I never had a birth certificate here in America.”

  Maximillian looked like a satisfied lizard, sitting at my kitchen table and smiling.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Miguel said. “If he calls ICE…” He made a slicing motion across his neck. “It’s all over for me.”

  Maximillian broke in. “It’s not like that at all, Miguel. With friends like Rabi and Joe, you’re in a much better position than you describe. Assuming all of you behave…”

  “You mean you’re blackmailing all of us to be quiet about the zombies, or you’ll do something to Miguel,” I said.

  “You make it sound so unpleasant. All we need is a signature and silence. We’ll take care of the zombie question and you boys can go back to playing baseball and video games. No one needs to care about who was born when, or where. Everything can go back to normal.” He tapped his phone, reminding us that disaster was just a phone call away. “What’s it going to be, Rabi?”

  What was I going to do? Maximillian could just call ICE and Miguel would be kicked out of the country.

  I signed.

  I hated doing it, but I signed.

  Maximillian whisked the papers out of my hands. “Very good choice, young man.” Suddenly he was all friendly and smiling again. He looked at Miguel. “We have a partner firm who will be in touch with you about your immigration concerns. We’re very good at protecting people we care about.”

  He pulled a box out of his briefcase and popped it open. “As you’ll be on your own until Rabi’s mother comes back, you’ll probably need some spending money.” He pulled out a wad of bills and started laying cash out on the table. My jaw hit the floor. The bills were hundreds.

  He counted out $500 for each of us. Fanned the cash open, stacked it, and handed it across with a flourish. “Well done, gentlemen. Well done.” He snapped his briefcase closed and headed for the door.

  Just before he left, he turned back to us. “Remember, gentlemen. Not a word of this. Not a single word to anyone. Or Miguel is on his own.”

  “We get it,” I said.

  “Of course you do, but let me make it clear. If you tell your friends or your parents or some policeman or a reporter, or you Tweet it or Facebook it or Tumblr it, or blog or blab on whatever new Web toy you use these days, then the full force of this agreement will come into effect. My firm is very good at lawsuits. By the time we are done with you, you will have no ho
me, no money, your parents will have no jobs, and Miguel will have no future.”

  He went back to smiling, quick as a blink. “A pleasure, gentlemen. Let’s hope we never have occasion to meet again.”

  And then he was gone, out the door and down the walk. His Lexus purred to life, little lights blinking. The car pulled out and whooshed off.

  Lawrence Maximillian: the face of evil.

  As soon as he was gone, I punched Miguel in the shoulder. “You should have told me!” I said. “I would’ve had your back!”

  “Ow! My mom and dad said I shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “But this is me! You think you can’t trust me? We grew up together! You think I’m some kind of rat? I wouldn’t call ICE!”

  “It’s not like that, Rabi. I didn’t even know until a couple years ago. My mom and dad didn’t even tell me.”

  “Oh, so you’ve only kept it a secret for a couple of years.”

  “Don’t be like that. If word got around, I’d be in deep trouble. It doesn’t matter if someone tells on purpose, or not. All that matters is if people know about me, then I got ICE breathing down my neck.”

  “But still, you should’ve told me,” I said. “I thought I was your best friend!”

  “This isn’t a game, Rabi! This is my life! This isn’t about all the kid stuff like cross your heart and hope to die.” Miguel was mad now. “My whole family’s gone. You don’t got to worry about this stuff, but I do! If I make one mistake, they’re going to dump me in some country I never even seen before. My Spanish is more like Spanglish! I wanted to tell you a million times. A billion! But I couldn’t risk it. And now you have to keep the secret, too. You got to swear.”

  “Of course I swear. I would’ve sworn a million years ago! And I wouldn’t have leaked.”

  “You got to swear,” Miguel said again, and his voice was fierce. “You got to swear!”

  I grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I swear. I won’t tell anyone. Never, never, never. I swear on my mother’s grave.”