I wondered, once again, if maybe I wasn’t alone. “Do you think there’s more than just me?”
Zander stood, puffing from the effort. “What? You figure you’re the only one?”
I waved away a fly, shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. But wouldn’t we have heard if there were more?”
Zander sucked thoughtfully on his lower lip. “If I was a zombie? I’d keep it under my hat, you know. Who needs the abuse?”
Maybe he was onto something. Were other zombies out there? Not just one or two, but lots of us? Kids in other towns, closeted away out of sight? Zombies in basements, playing video games, afraid to come out? We’d hear about it, right? I wondered how many people knew about me. Not just rumors and gossip, but really knew the truth. If people heard the story that some random kid had turned into a zombie, would anyone even believe it?
Doubtful.
Maybe that’s why Dr. Halpert worked so hard to keep things quiet. He said I’d been through enough, that I didn’t need the distraction. No television interviews, no reporters. Which was fine with me because: Obviously!
Zander interrupted my reverie. “Come on, let’s go get a slice. I’m getting one of those giant-size sodas—and I’m not sharing, so deal with it.”
Leo’s was your basic pizza joint. The neon sign outside read LEONARDO DI PIZZA! We called it Leo’s for obvious reasons. The place was empty and had a nice, oven-warm feel to it. Cozy. There were two hairy guys behind the counter—Hasan, making the pies, his arms covered with flour, and a new guy I didn’t recognize handling the orders and walk-in traffic. He had a thick black mustache and oven burns up and down his tattooed, muscular arms. He stared at me and his eyes darkened, as if a shadow had fallen over them. I pulled down my baseball cap and asked Zander to get me an Orange Crush. He screwed up his face, like I’m not your waiter, then it registered. No restaurant owner wanted to see my face walk into the place. I wasn’t exactly an advertisement for fine dining. I grabbed a window seat on the far side of the room.
Zander returned with two slices and an enormous Coke, along with my orange drink. “Soon we’re not going to need money. Everybody’s going to have neck chips instead.”
“What?”
“I read it online,” Zander said. “It’s a new deal set up by K & K Corp. You go to the bank, and the teller zaps a micro-nano-computer-chip thingy into your neck. Then when you buy something in stores, they scan it and the money is automatically deducted from your account.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said.
“Well, that’s a problem,” Zander said. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I’m fine,” I replied.
The door jingled. It was the tall girl from school. My locker neighbor, Gia Demeter. She glanced at us, unsurprised, and took a seat a few tables away. She didn’t go to the counter to order. She sat down, opened a book—an actual, old-fashioned book—and started reading.
“That’s the girl I told you about,” I whispered to Zander.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her,” Zander said. “I get a weird vibe.”
Gia looked up as if she knew we were talking about her. Puzzled, wondering why.
“What are you looking at?” I called to her.
Gia ducked her head back into the book.
“Hello?” I said. “I asked you a question. Are you following us?”
She paused, glancing around, and said in a whisper, “For the record, I’d advise against the neck chips. That’s how they’ll keep track of you.”
Zander shifted around in his chair to take a good look at this girl. “How did you know—?”
“You shouldn’t use plastic straws, either,” Gia said, gesturing to our table. “Or don’t you care about the planet?”
“It’s just a straw,” I said.
“Scientists predict that by the year 2050, the ocean will have more plastic, pound for pound, than fish,” Gia said.
Zander paused. “Wait, is that true?”
“More or less, best guess, it’s the way things are going. Don’t blame me, I’m only thirteen,” Gia said.
“How do they estimate the weight of the fish?” Zander asked.
“Never mind the fish,” I said, growing impatient. “Why are you even here?”
“I wanted to be here when it happens,” she said.
Zander looked at me, shook his head, circled a finger near his ear in the universal sign for crazy as a loon.
But she’d gotten my attention. “When what happens?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” she said. “I thought maybe I could help.”
Bang! Daryl Northrup slapped two hands against the front store window, not ten inches from my head, hard and loud. Daryl was on the outside looking in, surrounded by a group of pals. I stared back at them, wondering why they wouldn’t just leave me alone. Daryl pointed at me, called back to his friends, “Hey, guys, look what I just found. It’s the freak and his fat friend. And nobody around to protect them.”
“Uh-oh,” Zander said. He put down the slice.
I felt a rope twist in my stomach.
Gia turned down the corner of a page to mark the spot. She closed the book, slid it neatly to the far left corner of the table, loosened her neck from side to side like a boxer before entering the ring, and waited for the fecal matter to hit the fan.
FIGHT
“Yo, Adrian,” Daryl called. “Come out and play.”
“Freaky-deaky,” sang a voice, and others chimed in, laughing.
Another yelled, “Spook!”
I didn’t like that last one. Not at all. I wanted to charge out the door, fists flying, but I realized that’s exactly what they wanted. I felt trapped.
Zander shrank in his chair, shoulders lowering, like he hoped to sink into the linoleum floor. I felt guilty that I’d involved Zander in my troubles.
“You chicken?” Daryl called. “You pus-faced, ugly piece of slime.”
“Ignore it,” Gia said. “Don’t listen to them.”
Daryl leaned against a parked car, crossed his arms. “No worries, no hurries. We’ll wait.”
There was no doubt in my mind why they were waiting and what they hoped to do. The names came, the insults in singsong voices: wuss, pukeface, drooler, zombie.
They didn’t know the real me.
And to be honest, I wasn’t so sure about the real me, either. Real or unreal, dead or alive, I decided to wait them out. To calm my jangled thoughts, I imagined a giant meteor falling from space and landing on top of them. The only thing left would be a smoking hole where their incinerated bodies used to be. “Poor Daryl, that must have hurt,” I’d say, and take a lazy sip of my Orange Crush.
Daryl rolled into the store, sauntered up to the counter, bought a slice like a regular customer, super considerate. He pulled up a chair next to me.
“Duuuuude,” he said.
“What is your problem?”
Daryl smirked, then wiped his greasy fingers on Zander’s shirt. He helped himself to the soda on the table, burped. “My problem … is that you smell like death, you freak, and I’m going to kick your butt up and down this sidewalk.”
“Don’t,” Gia warned.
Daryl spun around. “Who … in the hell … are you?”
Things happened quickly. I started to stand, and Daryl pushed me back into the chair. My head hit the window. Gia grabbed at Daryl, who shoved her away, and I launched a right hook to his chin.
A loud noise came from the counter behind us. The mustached pizza guy held a metal bat high in his hand. He pointed to the door. “Out!”
“But we didn’t start it—” Zander began to argue.
“Out of my place now, or I’m calling the police,” the man demanded.
We stepped outside, helplessly. Daryl stood a full head above me, with wide shoulders and blind hatred in his eyes. He turned away from me, head ducking down, then turned back and landed a sharp, compact punch to my face.
I didn’t feel a thing, but I knew it wasn’t g
oing to improve my looks.
“That’s it, I’m calling 911,” Zander said, pulling out his cell.
With a swipe, Daryl knocked the phone to the ground. “Nobody’s calling nobody,” he said. “This is between me and the freak.”
“Please,” Zander reasoned.
Daryl punched him in the stomach. Zander doubled over, gasping for air.
I felt a fury rising up inside me, the way fierce winds gather to create a storm.
I heard myself scream:
“GET OUT OF HERE NOW OR I’LL FIRE-TRUCKING EAT YOUR BRAAAIIINS!”
Only I didn’t say “fire-trucking.” Because, like, who would? Is it even a word? No, I said a different f-word, one that I had heard before, plenty of times (I used to ride the school bus, after all). But I’d never said it out loud until that moment. I didn’t mean to say it.
Well, no, that’s not exactly right. I spewed it. I meant it the way a volcano means lava. I just didn’t plan on saying it. Maybe it was the shock of that word, or the wild, crazed look in my eyes, but it totally worked. Everything stopped for a minute, as if the sidewalk tilted slightly. Everybody stood there, feeling the shift, wondering if anyone else felt it, too. It took a second for the boys to regain their balance. In that pause, no one moved, no one spoke. Daryl was the first to falter. He stepped back, as if blown by a stiff wind. I held my ground, shuddering, hands clenched in fists.
“Easy, freak,” Daryl purred. “Don’t get all bent. I’m only goofing around.”
“Get out of here, you creeps.” It was Gia’s voice, strong and clear, coming from behind me. “Or you’ll really be sorry.”
Daryl stared at Gia as if seeing her for the first time. His friends turned their shoulders sideways, looked away, a wolf pack signaling surrender. “Sure, sure,” Daryl said in a false show of cool. “We’re good, we’re gone.”
“Apologize!” Zander bellowed. All eyes turned to him in shock, the nowhere boy who’d been inconsequential until that moment. Zander seemed to stand taller. “Apologize now, like you mean it, or Adrian will make sure that bad, bad things happen to you.”
“He’ll chew your bones,” Gia threatened in a soft voice. “He’ll eat your heart.”
“One bite and he’ll zombify your butt,” Zander stated.
A couple of the guys laughed nervously.
I stepped forward, dragging my one bad leg. “Try me,” I said, voice scarcely above a whisper. “I haven’t eaten in weeks.”
And then, right there in front of Leonardo di Pizza, fueled by the strength of the undead, I feasted on their flesh.
NOT REALLY
Kidding.
ACTUALLY
Actually, they dispersed. The pack’s threat fizzled away. Those guys did the internal calculations, the mathematics of risk and reward, and figured I wasn’t worth the trouble. Because that’s the way it is with all bullies. They play the odds, and they never risk a fair fight. Did they really think I could hurt them? With one vicious bite, turn them into flesh-crazed zombies? Or did they look into my wild eyes and see a dark, shadowy something that made them hesitate?
Nobody wants to fight the crazy guy.
I momentarily felt triumphant. I’d stood up to the creeps and trolls. Even better, I’d scared those guys out of their shoes.
The coast clear, Zander pounded on my back. “That! Was! Awesome!” he cried, smiling ear to ear, practically jumping out of his sneakers.
Gia didn’t join in the celebration. She stood downcast, watching me. Under her gaze, my mood shifted.
“Why are they like that?” I asked her.
“You’re different,” she said. “And people hate you for it.”
I didn’t understand.
Gia stepped closer. “You are the scariest thing they can possibly imagine. You are not exactly like everybody else in school—and to them, that’s an insult.”
“Hey,” Zander spoke up. “What makes you think you know so much?”
Gia stared at him, unblinking. “I’ve been different my whole life.”
She turned to walk away.
“Hey, wait up,” I said. “You said you came here to help me. How did you know—?”
“That something bad was about to happen?” Gia said, finishing my sentence. “I just knew. You’re not the only one with a gift.”
“A gift? You call this—”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, in an undead kind of way,” I countered. “But in there, you said you were here to help. I didn’t see you lift a finger.”
“I stood by you,” she said. “Just like your friend here…”
“Zander,” he said.
“Zander,” she echoed, as if burning the name into memory. “That was all you needed this time, so that’s all the help I gave.”
She had the most incredible haunting green eyes. “What else could you have done?” I asked. “Are you a black belt in karate? A ninja warrior or something?”
Gia didn’t say a word. Just bowed her head slightly, nodded politely in Zander’s direction, took a few steps backward, turned, and left.
“Where you going?” I asked.
“Home,” she said. “Getting late.”
Zander and I watched her drift down the sidewalk, like a puff of smoke. “That Gia is—I mean, that girl—” Zander struggled and failed to find the words. He finally said, “She’s kind of out there. Am I right?”
I didn’t answer.
I was just glad to have one more person in my corner. Zombies can’t be choosers.
HAMBURGERS AND GAS MASKS
“Hello…?”
Dane’s uncertain voice called from the TV room.
“It’s just me, Dane.” I dropped my backpack with a thud.
Dane entered the mudroom, slipping on stocking feet. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re home alone? Where’s Mom?”
Dane shrugged, blinking his small, round eyes. Poor guy.
I asked, “How’d you get home from school?”
“Mom picked me up, then she got a call and—”
“And left you here alone,” I said.
“It’s not her fault,” Dane replied protectively. “She had to work.”
I saw the worry lines under his eyes. Sometimes Dane looked like an old man in the body of a four-year-old. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
Dane’s face squinched up. He hurled himself at my legs and wrapped his short arms around me, and the floodgates opened up.
“Hey, hey, little man, what’s this?” I said, rubbing his back. “Don’t cry.”
“You were supposed to come home right after school,” he sputtered between sobs. “Mom said you’d be home in a jiffy.”
I checked my cell. It was after five o’clock. No calls, no messages. “You should have called me. I didn’t know. Nobody told me. Anyway, I’m home now.”
“Good, because I’m starving.” He broke into a chubby-cheeked, fighting-back-the-sadness grin. My little brother, the human garden gnome, was undeniably cute. We went into the kitchen, where I poked around the shelves and cupboards, offering suggestions. “Cereal? Pretzels? I could nuke you some mac and cheese in the microwave.”
“I wan’ a burger,” Dane said.
“Seriously? I don’t have time to cook a whole dinner, Dane,” I said. “I’ve got homework and—”
It was useless. Dane bit his lower lip and looked at me through eyes of sorrow. So I pulled out the frying pan, found a pound of hamburger meat in the fridge, and formed a patty with my hands. It was like making a meat snowball. “You like ’em thin or thick?” I asked.
“Thin, with cheese,” Dane ordered. “Two slices. And ketchup.”
“Yes, master,” I said in a deep voice, hunching over and lurching toward his seat at the table.
Dane laughed.
“That’s my impression of Igor, Dr. Frankenstein’s hunchbacked assistant,” I told him. Rubbing my hands together, I asked in a thick Transylvanian accent, “Anything else, mas
ssterrr?”
“Soda,” Dane said.
“Milk,” I countered.
I leaned against the island countertop while Dane munched happily, idly watching the TV by the sink. One of Dane’s favorite commercials came on, some company selling gas masks. A series of shots showed various models walking around while wearing the masks—shopping at the mall, standing in an elevator, moving down a crowded hallway, even at a cocktail party. Anytime there were lots of people around, a gorgeous body in a gas mask was among them. The commercial cut to a close-up of a blond actress. She yanked off her mask and smiled at us.
“EarthFirst Gas Masks,” she announced. “Sleek and stylish and eighty percent more effective than ordinary surgical masks for protection against air pollution and other contagion!”
Her white teeth gleamed, her glossy red lips glistened, and something inside me stirred. Next, a handsome actor with flecks of gray in his hair stepped beside her. “That’s right, Vanna. These masks will keep you safe from airborne diseases like dengue fever and superflu and”—he paused to shake his head, winking mischievously—“who knows what other germs are floating around out there nowadays! I know I’m not taking chances!”
Vanna laughed. Ho-ho-ho.
I turned off the TV.
“Hey!” Dane protested.
“You don’t need to watch that stuff,” I said. “It’ll fry your brains.”
“I want one for Christmas,” Dane said.
“Christmas? Already? Let’s get past Halloween first. Then you can write to Santa,” I said. “I think there’s a new line of masks coming out just for kids. I read there’s even going to be a Darth Vader mask.”
Dane sat swinging his feet in the air, munching silently, probably imagining himself in a Darth Vader gas mask. He stopped chewing and looked at me with a funny expression. “Shouldn’t you cook it first?” he asked. He pointed at the package of raw hamburger meat.
I discovered that I had a hunk of raw meat in my hand … and in my mouth. I immediately spit it into the sink—disgusting!—and rinsed my mouth with water. “What the heck!” I said, bringing a hand to my suddenly churning stomach. I saw that almost all the raw meat from the package was gone. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I didn’t know I was eating it.”
Better Off Undead Page 4