Super Zombie Juice
Mega Bomb Preview
By
M.J.A.
Ware
Published by CG Press LTD. at SmashWords
©
2011 – M.J.A. Ware - Cover © 2011 – R. Hawkings
All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
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recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the
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This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. All trademarks referenced are the property of the
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Digital Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please provide them a link to where they can download it.
Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb
will be release on September 15th.
Find out more by visiting: www.MJAWare.com.
* * * * *
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Blizzards, Bites, and Zombies
Chapter 2 – Snookum's Last Stand
Chapter 3 – A Bridge to Nowhere
Chapter 5 – Zombie Juice, Now with the Killing Power of Lemonade
Chapter 6 - Class Dismissed
Chapter 7 – Walmart Security Gets Tough
Chapter 8 – Really Weird Science
Chapter 9 – When Life Give You Lemons, Kill Zombies
Chapter 10 – Uninvited Guests for Dinner
Chapter 11 – The Going Gets Tough
Chapter 12 – Kid to Work Day
Chapter 13 – There Goes the Cemetery
Chapter 14 – A Fieldtrip to the Firehouse
Chapter 15 – Sodium Bicarbonate Discharge Device
Chapter 16 – Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb
Chapter 17 – Zombie Fowl Frenzy
Chapter 18 – Home Sweet Home
Bonus Story: Steven, Space Stowaway
* * * * *
Chapter 1 – Blizzards, Bites,
and Zombies
Ever have a really bad day? I'm not talking miss the bus, caught cheating on a test, bike gets stolen bad. I mean people dying and coming back from the dead to eat your brains bad.
This whole mess started one night when my best friend Misty messaged me, "DQ run now!"
I'm as down with Butterfinger Blizzards as anybody, but it was almost eleven p.m. Somehow, she talked me into it—I can never say no to her. I mean, I can say it once or twice, but after eight or nine times, I give in.
You might have guessed, we didn't exactly ask permission. Misty snuck out by climbing down a window above her garage and jumping into an overgrown bush. Maybe it was the three waffle sundaes she'd eaten, but to get back up it looked like she was going to need a boost.
"Ready?" I whispered, clasping my hands over my knee.
"I don't think so, Nate. I'm wearing a skirt." Even in the dim glow of the neighbor's porch light, I could see the wrinkles in her brow.
"Then how you going to get back up?"
"I can climb."
"In your skirt?" I stood back, folding my arms. Misty had always been more t-shirt and cutoff jeans. "Why'd you wear a skirt, anyway? Who sneaks out in a skirt?"
She ignored me and started pulling herself up the rain gutter. By the third try, I knew, skirt or not, I was going to have to help.
I stepped forward when from behind me came a deep grunt, like a yeti clearing its throat.
Turning around, Misty's dad towered over us, arms crossed, naked except for knit socks and shorts; his huge, hairy muffin-top forcing the band of his briefs into submission.
Even in his skivvies, he was an imposing figure. Picture Atlas, if all he ever held up were jelly donuts. I didn't know if I should laugh or run.
Normally Misty's dad is too nice, one of those big guys with an even bigger soft spot—especially when it came to his only daughter—but that night, boy, did he holler.
He grounded Misty for the whole summer. Not from her girlfriends, just from me—even canceled our camping trip. Our families go every year, so that made it a tradition or something.
Almost three weeks passed before I heard a peep from Misty. I wasn't sure if her dad really came down on her or if she was just too busy to bother with me.
Finally, she called. "Guess I should feel honored."
"Hey, Nate, ready to go camping?"
"Who's this? I think you may have dialed the wrong number."
"Nathan!" she screamed. "Dad's keeping me under house arrest. Even confiscated my cell. It's so humiliating." The echo told me she was probably hiding out in her dad's workshop. "So, you up for camping or not?"
Apparently, no one had bothered to tell her the trip was off. I tried to break the news gently. "Where've you been? Your dad put the smackdown on camping."
There wasn't much to do in our tiny mountain town, so this trip was the highlight of our summer: fishing, ghost stories, eating s'mores until you puke.
"Just because our parents are being stupid doesn't mean we can't go."
I don't normally do crazy things like run away from home. Which is probably why we weren’t prepared. We lasted all of one night. Who knew a jumbo box of Little Betty Brownie Bites could go so fast?
On our way back, we knew we were in trouble, but had no idea just how much.
"Maybe running away wasn't such a good idea," I said, scanning the lifeless town. The sun crawled over the horizon, casting long shadows like bony fingers reaching down to clutch the empty streets.
"You think?" Misty said with an edge to her voice.
We'd been walking around for over an hour and hadn't seen anyone. "How'd I know everyone would..."
"Vanish." She finished my sentence. "They're all gone, Nathan. They can't all be out looking for us, not every single person in the whole entire town." She shook her head.
"Calm down. Let's think this out." I listened for familiar sounds, people, cars…even the trees were silent.
"Think what out? Nobody's here. I can't even get a single bar." Misty stood on the side of the road, brandishing her phone like a weapon.
"Updating your online status is the least of our problems," I shot back.
"This isn't a joke, Nate. We're in deep here. Deep, deep, deep!" She paused—probably winded from carrying on so much—then pointed across the street. "Look, someone's there."
From across the road, Mayor Frank waddled towards us. "Just our luck, only person in town and it has to be him?"
"Geez, a little early to be wasted," I said. Besides mayor, he was also the town drunk.
"Mayor Frank, over here," Misty yelled.
"Now you've done it. He's headed this way." I wiped my palms on my jeans; something wasn't right.
"Nate, shut up. We could use a little help."
He almost fell over three times while crossing the street. His clothes looked like they'd spent more time in the gutter than on his back. His eyes, swollen and cloudy—he looked sick. I'd never seen eyes like that.
The mayor didn't say a word, just reached out his two pasty arms. I thought he might shake our hands. He was one of those phony politicians. Instead, he grabbed Misty and went in for a big, open-mouth kiss.
I'm not sure what came over me. I'd never hit anyone—except Misty's older brothers—and then only in a desperate act of self-defense. But I wasn't about to let this creep kiss her.
I cocked my arm back and with everything I had, socked the mayor in the face.
He folded, flat to the floor.
Grabbing my hand, I winced in pain. Misty screamed, her long hair whipping around as she jumped back.
My mind raced. Oh, no. I just punched the mayor. I took a step toward him. "Mr. Mayor, I'm sorry. I thought you—"
I looked down at my hand as I spoke, thinking maybe I busted a knuckle. It throbbed so bad I didn't notice the mayor roll over and grab my foot until it was too late; he sank his teeth into my lower leg.
"Ouch," I yelled as I tried to wiggle free. He wouldn't let go. What was I supposed to do? Ever been bitten by your little sister? Try a three-hundred pound drunk politician.
I just started kicking. After the third kick, my hiking boot flew off, still dangling from his mouth.
"Nate, you kicked the mayor in the face!" Misty's hands covered her mouth, but did little to mask her expression of horror.
We took off running, our backpacks clanking behind us.
"Those are Gore-tex boots, they're over two hundred bucks," I said, running lopsided down the street. If my dad found out, he'd kill me.
I looked at Misty. Her wide, hazel eyes scanned the deserted roads, flashing with alarm. Standing tall, California Firs blocked our view more than a couple blocks. I couldn't help but feel responsible for this mess. I should have tried to talk her out of running away.
Maybe Misty's dad was right; I was a bad influence.
Chapter 2 – Snookum's Last
Stand
A few minutes after punching a public servant in the face, we finally stopped running in front of Misty's house with its familiar faded cedar siding. It was old and rustic, but solid. It'd probably last forever.
I wiggled my fingers, making sure they still worked. It never hurt when a guy punched someone in one of those old karate movies Misty and I used to watch.
"Nate, what the heck happened?" Misty was breathing hard. She might have been in better shape than me. Athletic, but definitely not in a big-boned, husky sorta way.
"I don't know." I took a few deep breaths before continuing, "I've heard the mayor is grabby, but that was ridiculous. He could be your gramps. And did you see his fogged-over eyes?"
"His eyes? You shoulda smelled his breath—like a rotting cheeseburger." Misty squirmed from head to toe.
"Wait until I tell your brothers. Or your dad—"
"Nathan Patrick Lewis. You are not to tell a soul." Misty kicked up some dirt as she stood nose-to-nose with me. I'd been praying all year for a growth spurt. If it didn't come soon, she'd be taller than me. "Do you understand?" she said as if she could intimidate me.
"Don't worry, who'd believe me? I mean, the mayor trying to kiss you."
"Kiss me? I thought he was going to swallow my face, and what about you kicking his head like a soccer ball? What the heck are we supposed to do now?" Misty's fingers grabbed a clump of her long, wavy chestnut hair and she started chewing. I knew the hair thing meant she was either shy or nervous—or maybe completely freaked, like now.
"He was really gone. Bet he won't remember." I rubbed my leg where the mayor had tried to take out a chunk. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"Hey, look who's still here." Misty pointed to her neighbor's dog. A spoiled, obnoxious poodle, with an equally spoiled and obnoxious name: Snookums. "Mrs. Redberg would have never left Snookums alone."
"I hate that little rat dog. He always barks at me." He must have heard, 'cause he ran up to the fence yelping at full volume.
I'd never kick a dog, though I've heard poodles fly pretty far. I kicked the fence instead.
"Hey, Nate, stop picking on the dog."
It felt safe in Misty's house, something familiar that never changed. Wall-to-wall thick orange shag carpet, dark wood paneling, even popcorn on the ceiling—with sparkles. The sparkles were pretty cool.
The lock squealed as Misty bolted it behind me. I grabbed a pair of old sneakers. Worn and caked with dried mud, I didn't bother looking for a nicer pair. Her brothers probably didn't own any.
“I'm going to go powder my face," she said.
"Powder it with what?"
She shook her head and closed the bathroom door with a thud.
In the family room, I messed with the cable and Internet. A couple minutes later, Misty came in to supervise. Neither of us spoke. I kept rechecking the connections, more than a little desperate to get them working.
Nothing.
I was opening my mouth to tell Misty that it was useless when the windows, really the whole house, shook with the crack of thunder.
"Summer storm?" Misty asked, her voice higher than normal.
Indian Springs was deep in California's Sierra Mountains. Nothing but rivers and trees surrounded the place. Summer thunderstorms were pretty common.
"Maybe. Sounded more like an explosion," I said.
"This can't be good. Let's look out my window."
I hadn't been allowed upstairs for years. Mr. Wibbles still sat in his designated spot on the head of Misty's bed, but long gone were the plastic horses and pink curtains. Now the room was littered with pictures of her with girlfriends and posters of guys who were apparently so cool it didn't matter how bad their haircuts were.
From her window upstairs, we had a good view, but no sign of an explosion and not a cloud in the sky.
I chewed on one of the straps from my backpack as I looked over the vacant streets. The strap tasted like dirt and charcoal, so I spit it out. What was going on? Where were our parents?
"Think it could be a fast moving storm?" Misty asked.
I looked again. "No wind. I don't think so."
We stared helplessly out the window at the tiny town surrounded by rolling waves of trees and green surf as far as we could see. Finally, we headed back downstairs.
KABOOM!
Another explosion, but way larger. I felt it in my legs, as if the whole earth threatened to rip apart under my feet.
"Nathan, what the heck was that?" Misty's summer-bronzed skin went pale.
We flew back to the window, dodging pictures that had shaken off the walls and lay scattered along the floor.
Outside nothing changed. Well, almost nothing, that pint-sized dog started barking. Guess I couldn't blame him.
We kept our eyes glued to the window, searching for any sign of movement; a person, a car, even a raindrop would've been welcome. The only change, a silent haze that settled over the streets.
The dog's barking stopped, and in its place came a loud wail. My heart leapt. Could it be a fire truck?
A quick, desperate, piercing yelp and the sound died. "Nate, the dog. That's the neighbor's dog."
Goosebumps danced along my spine.
"Go check it out." Misty started pushing me towards the door.
I tried thinking of an excuse to stay put. "That dog's crazy. He'll probably bite me," was all I came up with.
"You're such a girl. If he tries to bite you, give him a kick."
"Oh, now I can pick on him," I said as I headed down the stairs. On the way out, I slammed the door to make Misty think she'd ticked me off.
Outside, I grabbed the big wood-splitting axe. Looking at the worn shaft, silvered with age, I wondered if I needed it. My hands wouldn't let go—I took that as my answer.
Hopping the old chain-link fence to the neighbor's yard left rusty freckles on my sweaty palms. I expected the runt to come tearing around the corner any second. Except when I got around back, what I saw frightened me way more than any dog.
Chapter 3 – A Bridge to
Nowhere
On the back stucco wall, above the dog's water bowl, a huge stain of smeared blood and fur was all that remained of Snookums. It reminded me of my plate after I ate waffles with blueberry syrup, which until right then, was my favorite.
I'd turned to look away when Misty joined me. "Oh my gosh, what's that?"
"I'm guessing that's what's left of Snookums," I said, swallowing a lump in my throat.
"How the heck can you say something like that?" Misty's jaw clenched and her face turned a shade of red.
"Sorry. I, um, didn't think about what I was saying. I was sorta speechless."
"Then you should keep your mouth shut, Nate."
"You're right, Miss. It just came out. I'm really sorry." I rubbed my hands against my forehead. The day wasn't going so good. Even worse than that time at lunch when I sat on my sloppy joe.
She paused and took a deep breath. "Let's cut each other some slack. Least until we figure out what's going on."
"Yeah, agreed."
She turned away. "What happened to poor Snookums?"
"Don't know." Privately, I took back every nasty thing I'd ever said about the mutt. "Coyote maybe? Let's not hang around to find out." I eyed the sparse forest behind the yard. Years of logging had cleared every decent tree on this side of town, leaving a few sad saplings and lots of ugly stumps.
"Maybe we should get back inside," she said, glancing over to her house.
"Nothing we can do here. Let's head over to Greenburg. See if we can't find out what's going on."
"What if we run into the mayor?" She grabbed my arm.
"Let's just get going." I started walking.
*
"Could have been a chemical leak from one of the big factories, maybe a forest fire?" Misty said, guessing what could have caused everyone to evacuate. Whenever she got nervous, her mouth wouldn't shut.
"My money's on mass alien abduction."
She gave me a cool stare—she wasn't amused. I kept quiet and just let her blabber on about how this couldn’t possibly be happening, until we'd walked almost all the way to the bridge.
"Your brother's shoes are killing my feet."
"Oh, Nate." I heard it in her voice; she hated complaining. You wouldn't know it by looking at her, but Misty was one tough girl.
"Seriously, I think they're blood blisters."
"Not your feet, the bridge. Nate, look at the bridge."
I glanced up, not prepared for what I saw. "Whoa—the bridge, it's gone. I mean it's been destroyed."
All that remained were piles of rubble and the steel frame—twisted into a giant crumpled spider web. A huge crater sat where the overpass should have been. Someone really wanted this bridge gone.
Misty stepped forward and looked down at the huge pit. "Who would blow up the bridge? What do we do now, swim across?"
"There's no way I'd take on Bear River. Not this time of year."
"Our families could be over there. Let's find a raft or a boat," Misty said.
"Remember those outta towners who plopped in, one after another, trying to save each other?" Bear River swells all up with crazy currents and hardcore eddies every year. "That river's gulped down entire families. Let's just wave someone down and they'll get help." I stood on a pile of rubble, looking across.
"No one's there," Misty whispered.
We didn't say another word. We just stared across the bridge.
We stood there awhile longer. Still, no one showed: not at the bridge, not in the town, no cars driving by, nothing.
Finally, after standing there silent, just staring for what seemed hours, I lost it.
"I knew we should've come here before going to your house. I knew it!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, hands raised like one of those cheesy TV preachers. "You know what the other explosion was, don't you? It had to be the other dam bridge. They've blown both bridges—we're trapped. Just you, me and that stupid little dog—no, wait—he's dead, how could I forget we saw his—"
Tears flowed. I'd only seen Misty cry one other time. Even when we were kids and she fell off her bike, she'd just shake it off.
She stood there, face in her hands, tender tears trickling down her cheeks. I thought, this might have been the worst thing I'd ever done.
There was only one thing I could think to do. I gave her a hug. In all the years I'd known Misty, I'd never hugged her. Sure, I'd tackled her a few times, but that's just not the same.
She felt a lot softer than I remembered. Maybe she was getting out of shape now that she wasn't playing dodgeball.
It felt weird, like, well, like hugging your best friend. I wanted to tell her it would be all right. That we'd see our parents again, but I was never a good liar.
She started wiping her cheeks. I quickly let go and took a couple steps back. "Um, maybe we should try hollering. See if we can get someone's attention? There still might be someone over there."
"If there was, they would have certainly heard your yelling."
"Yeah, about that—I'm really sorry. This is totally not your fault. I'm really, really sorry." I always messed things up. No wonder Misty hadn't been hanging around me. Sometimes, I don't even like to hang around me.
"Sorry, seems to be a theme with you today. But I'm cutting you some slack, remember?" A small smile slipped out and made me feel a little less like the world's biggest jerk. "So now what?"
The sun beat down on us, as if it’d been glued in place. The air felt stale and lifeless. "No use going to Greenburg if no one's over there. Let's go to Cedar Creek, see if the other bridge is really blown."
Sure enough, the Cedar Creek dry dam was completely gone. Crossing the creek would have been easy, but there's nothing except asphalt and trees between here and Chico. Which is, I don't know, at least a week's walk.
"We could take bikes," Misty suggested.
"No. It's all mountain roads, we wouldn't last an hour."
Drained, dog-tired, and defeated, we headed to Misty's house to regroup. It'd been one fantastically horrible day.
"I can't believe you tried to blame me for the bridge blowing up," she said.
"I didn't say it was your fault; I was just blaming you. There's a big difference."
Misty shook her head. My legs ached and my conscience stung. I didn't have it in me to argue—especially since I was wrong.
We both dragged our feet across the asphalt. The rough sound reminded me of a street sweeper.
"We've gotta get a car. I can't walk around this town anymore." I was still wearing my backpack. Misty had left hers at home.
"Everyone takes their keys when they evacuate," she said as we passed a house with a TV lounging comfortably in the middle of the lawn.
"Who said they evacuated? Maybe they had all the water extracted from their bodies and they turned to salt. Maybe there was a huge sale at the mall up in—hey, do you see that?"
She had. "Hey mister! Over here, please help!" With her long, perfect hair, Misty could have passed for a cheerleader as she waved her arms up and down.
The glare of the low sun made it hard to see the man caught in the shadows. He was old, shuffling his feet with a slight limp. He turned and slowly started towards us. The only thing I could see was that it wasn't the mayor; this guy was too tall and wasn't shaped like a blimp.
We started jogging towards him. "Oh, thank you. We really need some hel—"
When I turned back to look at Misty, I realized something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Misty stopped first. I took a couple more steps before turning to face her. "Come on."
I'd seen that look in her eyes twice today. Instantly, knots welled up in my stomach. "Miss, what's up?"
"Aaahh!" Her voice shook.
"What the—" I spun back around, thinking I knew what to expect. It had to be the guy who killed the dog. Even the mayor wouldn't freak Misty out like that.
The fur dangling from his bloody lips told me I was right, except it wasn't a guy. Whatever he or it was, one thing was sure, it was way past its expiration date.
I stepped into the shadow of a tall building so I could see the thing. Skinless, every inch covered in a sticky grayish-brown slime, like charcoal mixed with molasses. And the smell—burnt hair and rotten mayonnaise—even worse than the dumpster behind Harry's Indian and Sushi Hut.
I stood looking at it, completely freaked out. Then it dawned on me that it might be a good idea to get the heck out of there.
The words rattled as they came out, "Le-le-let's-go."
Misty's outstretched hand still pointed at the ghoul staggering towards us; I grabbed her hand and turned. Thankfully our legs worked. We ran eight or nine blocks and didn't stop until we got to her front porch.
"What was that?" Misty asked.
"I don't know." I tried to catch my breath. "I mean, I know, but I'm afraid to say."
Misty seemed winded, but calm, considering what we'd just seen. My knees wouldn't stop shaking.
"What? What do you think it was?" she demanded.
"It's obvious. That guy—err-thing—wasn't alive; it wasn't even all there. But it was taking a stroll down the street. It had to be a zombie."
"I knew you spent too much time watching that sci-fi channel."
"Okay, what's your explanation?" Now my hands were on my hips.
"I don't know." She had a lock of hair between her lips. "Maybe a chemical burn? That could be why they evacuated the town."
"Chemical burn, you can do better than that. That thing looked like part of it was still in the ground somewhere. Did you smell it? That wasn't barbecue I smelled—"
"Nate. I swear sometimes you're disgusting on purpose." She stomped her foot.
"Look, whatever it was, it's bad news. Let's go in, then figure out what to do."
I forced a smile. Misty blew a few stray hairs out of her mouth and said, "Yeah. Better get in before it comes back for dessert."
*
I didn't feel much like eating, but we hadn't had a bite all day and Misty insisted. So I forced down some Coco Pebbles. I couldn't even finish the chocolaty sweet milk.
"What now? Lock ourselves in?" Misty asked.
"We could go out and kill it, one limping zombie. No problem. We get my dad's gun, then hunt it down." My fingers tapped on her old aluminum kitchen table.
I was pretty relieved when she said, "Hunt it down? I don't think so. We don't know for sure it's even a zombie. We should cross the river to Greenburg. Keep going to Quincy if we have to." She drank a huge glass of milk in one long gulp, then wiped her mustache off with her sleeve.
"Greenburg? Quincy? No way. Who knows how many zombies are there. Maybe none, but maybe hundreds. What if we get surrounded? We'd have no place to hide."
"Okay, then we secure the house, and wait out your zombie invasion watching movies." Misty's eyes patrolled the front window. "Help has to arrive...soon."
"I saw this movie where they waited out a zombie invasion in the mall. The mall has everything: food, guns, clothes."
Misty picked up the phone, smacked the receiver a couple times, then listened, like she might bash a dial tone out of it. Her nails were covered with dirt and chipped pink polish.
"There's no gun store in the mall. Besides, our mall's open air." That had to be the only time Misty ever turned down a trip to the mall.
"So, the people in this movie, did they make it?" She twisted the phone cord around her finger. Misty had a corded phone. Her dad didn't buy fancy stuff like cordless phones, new cars, or two-ply toilet paper.
"Don't remember. I think one of them got pregnant."
"We don't have to worry about that."
"The baby turned out to be some sort of monster."
"Aren't they all?" Then she suddenly got excited, "Oh, I got it. We'll hide out in Walmart. It's perfect; they've got everything."
Walmart was the pride of Indian Springs (like I said, it was a small town). We'd beat out every town in three counties for the honor of selling discount merchandise. My dad said it was the only reason Mayor Frank had gotten re-elected. Walmart wasn't a bad idea. Except for one thing, "There's too much glass in the front."
"Oh yeah...Could we get some plywood, board up the windows?"
"Might work, plus I bet it has one of those security gate things."
"Then Walmart it is," she said, smiling with satisfaction.
"Okay, but we'll stop by my house first to get the gun and some clothes." I stood up and my leg throbbed where the mayor had bit me. I wanted to look at it. See if I was done for sure, but I was afraid of alarming Misty, so I decided not to look.
"I should pack some stuff, too."
As I looked out at the sun cowering behind the mountains, I tried not to think of how messed up this all was. "What's keeping you? We better get going," I hollered up the stairs.
Misty's old backpack was bursting (literally in some places) at the seams.
"Hope you got enough clothes," I said.
"Yeah, should probably gotten more."
"That wasn't what I meant. But you can pick out some at Walmart"
"Walmart? For clothes? Don't think so." Misty looked at me as if I was crazy. "I wouldn't be caught dead in anything from Walmart."
I hoped it wouldn't come to that.
"We're going to need to find a ride. Something with a trunk," I said, looking out the window at the lonely streets.
"Haven't we been over this? We don't know how to drive and my dad took the car."
"Driving's easy, and I wasn't thinking of your station wagon—more like my dad's Fastback." My dad had a 1967 Shelby GT500 Fastback. Mint condition, in factory powder blue. He only took it out for car shows and the Indian Hills Fourth of July parade.
"That's the first bright idea you've had."
"What happened to the whole cutting me some slack thing?" We'd always given each other lip; it was sorta funny. But lately it'd been getting downright brutal.
As she grabbed her backpack and headed out the door, Misty shot me her little half-smile that raised the dimple on just the right side of her mouth.
I took the big axe and followed. I knew Misty couldn't resist taking the Fastback—no one could, even a girl.
"Speaking of bright ideas, didn't Greg get an electric scooter last Christmas?" Greg was one of Misty's two older brothers.
Misty's older brothers sucked. Not for Misty, they never picked on her; her dad wouldn't stand for it. But they delighted in torturing me. Fortunately, they weren't too bright, and over the years I'd gotten real good at avoiding them.
"It's really a toy," she said. "But it should get us to your house."
There wasn't much room on the scooter with all three of us: Misty, myself, and the huge axe. She let me steer and put her arms tight around my waist. That was the second time she'd hugged me that day, or our whole lives, depending on how you looked at it.
It was only five blocks to my house, but we still managed to run into a little trouble.
The zombie-type of trouble.
"Let's turn back and take another street," Misty said as a trio of female zombies approached at the end of the block. They could have passed for three grandmothers out in their Sunday best, except their pastel and lace-fringed dresses were soaked in blood.
I stopped the scooter. My first impulse was to dump the thing and run back to Misty's house. When I was six and afraid of the dark, my dad taught me this trick: Stand still and slowly count to ten; then things don't seem so scary.
I stared at the zombies and silently counted to ten.
"Nate, what are you waiting for? Free hard candy? Get out of here!"
Okay, so it doesn't work with zombies, but I realized they moved slow—really slow. Heck, one of them was sporting a walker.
"Nah, they're crawling. We can ride around them," I said, casually waving my hand at her.
I didn't wait for a reply. Daylight was burning, and the elderly-undead seemed so slow I really thought we had nothing to worry about.
As we rode past, they turned to follow. I still wasn't worried; they were way on the other side of the street.
A half-second later, I felt a lurch. I flew over the handlebars. At the same time, Misty screamed.
Now I was worried.
I rolled completely over and landed on my feet. Nice move, except I lost the axe.
I turned and saw one of the granny zombies had Misty by the backpack. I don't want to repeat what she screamed. Let's just say she wasn't eager for grandma to get close enough to give her a kiss.
My axe lay in the street, almost right under them. In one move, I swooped down, retrieved it, and brought the blunt end up, smacking it in the chin.
Crunch—something flew from its jaw.
Misty broke loose. The zombie let out a high-pitched scream. I swung the axe back, about to take a whack at its head, when it turned back and bit down on my arm, making a wet, mushy sound.
"Aah!" I cried and pulled my arm free.
Misty had already retreated several paces. I wanted to take another whack at it, but I realized I didn't even know if that would stop it. I mean, sure it does in the movies, but would it work for real? Could I even hit it hard enough? And what about her two bridge buddies, just a few feet away?
The scooter was thrashed, so we ran.
"Thanks, Nate."
"What the heck happened?" I asked between breaths.
"It jumped me."
"It did what?"
"It jumped—well, it was more of a lurch. It just dove at me as we rode past. Those things are strong, slow, but strong." Misty held a clump of hair; I could tell she was trying not to put it in her mouth.
"I didn't think of that. We'll have to keep farther away in the future."
"What are you saying? Do you think we'll see more of them?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, but this morning we walked from one end of town to the other; the place was empty." I held the axe behind my back, hiding the arm that had been bitten, too afraid to look. "Now we've gone two blocks, three zombies. Speaking of which, they're still following. Let's take a detour. Make sure we lose them before we get to the house."
We'd started down a side street towards the center of town, easily losing the little-old-zombies when I felt a burning sensation on my arm. "Ouch, that stings."
"What, what is it?"
"I don't know. My arm, it burns. Aah, it really burns." I stopped and grabbed it. I couldn't help but look. It was bright red, but I didn't see any blood—only faint bite marks.
"Nathan, it's turning red!"
"Quick. Some water!" I started to panic. I looked around, but couldn't find any, not even a spigot.
"You musta been bit. You're turning into a zombie!" Misty's eyes bulged as she stared at my arm.
"Just get me something to put on it!" I yelled.
"There's the Pizza Pit. I'll get some water." Misty ran off towards the shops down at the end of the street.
It seriously burned now, like holding your arm under scalding water. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I fought the urge to scream. I wasn't a crier, but this sucked.
Unable to wait for Misty, I used the only liquid I had: saliva. I didn't know what else to do; I just spit on my arm. It helped, so I kept doing it. A second later, I heard the crash of shattering glass.
"Here's some water—Yuck!" Misty returned with a big glass. "What are you doing? That's disgusting."
"Yeah, but it works. Pour that on my arm." The water took the rest of the burn away. It still stung—I mean really good—but no more burn. "Hey, did you break a window in the Pizza Pit?"
"Yeah, I had to get in. The door was locked, so I grabbed a patio chair and viola! A glass of water."
"Wow, you're my hero."
"Shut up."
"Hope they don't find out it was us. That's the only decent pizza in town." I smiled and added, "Seriously, thanks."
"What did that to your arm?"
"It must have been..." I thought for a moment. "The zombie. When I hit the zombie, it bit my arm."
I looked down. I had the world's worst Indian burn. "Miss, did it touch you?"
"No, only my backpack. But what about your arm—"
"Your backpack." I quickly grabbed her and spun her around. This wasn't the time for kid-gloves. "Geez, better take it off. You've got zombie snot or something all over it."
She dropped it like an outta style handbag.
"Wow, that stuff is strong." Part of the material had already dissolved and it seemed to be spreading.
Misty froze and looked me up and down, "Nate, you've been bit by a zombie. You are going to turn into one now."
"No, no, I'm fine. It didn't really bite me. I mean, I think I knocked its dentures out. It kinda gummed me."
"Nate, that stuff's toxic. You've been infected with zombie snot; it's only a matter of time now." She stared at me, deadly serious, and started stepping backward.
Chapter 5 – Zombie Juice, Now
with the Killing Power of Lemonade
"No, it doesn't work that way. I've seen tons of zombie movies. You don't get zombified unless it breaks the skin," I said, thinking about how my leg still ached.
"Movies, Nate, movies. These are real zombies. In the movies zombie snot doesn't burn you, does it?"
"Listen, I'm fine. Let's just find a hose and wash that stuff off the axe."
"Maybe I better hold the axe—just in case." Misty eyed me like any moment I might lean over and take a bite.
"I'm not going to turn into a flipping zombie." I'd had it with her, I really had. It's not nice to tell someone they're going to turn into a zombie, not nice at all. "If you want the axe, take it. You can lug it around."
With axe in hand, Misty seemed satisfied. She cleaned it, looked back to make sure we weren't being followed and said, "Let's get going."
"Misty, did you notice the zombie's eyes? All pale and fogged over—like Mayor Frank? I think he might have been a zombie or maybe starting to turn into one."
"Oh, good. That's a relief."
"Good? What the heck do you mean, good?" I said, still irritated with her.
"At least he wasn't trying to kiss me."
"He was trying to bite your head off. Isn't that worse?"
Misty just shrugged.
*
No one was ever here when I got home. Still, the house felt strange. As if it hadn't been lived in for years. It was the biggest house for blocks. Fake log siding and precisely placed boulders. Even I could tell it looked too perfect to fit in with the rest of the neighborhood.
"Umm, Nate, did you see this?" Misty sat on the arm of one of the crushed velvet chairs in the living room. Shoe prints on the white carpet traced her path.
"Hey, get out of there. You know better than that."
"Your mom must be so worried." She walked over and handed me a copy of the Indian Springs Tribune.
Misty was probably as close to my mom as I was. When we were about six, Misty's mom died. After that, my mom kinda took over as a surrogate. Our families always hung out, anyway, barbecues, camping, stuff like that. So, Mom and Misty always spent (too much, if you ask me) time together.
Right on the paper's front page, in bold with large black type: Two Local Teens Missing, Presumed Lost in Woods.
"It says they were organizing search parties to look for us along the trails behind my house," Misty said.
The article went on to talk about how upset our parents were. It even quoted my dad: "I'm praying for the safe return of my son. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I cried all night." Crying? My dad? He barely even laughs.
For a second, I thought I might cry. "How could we have done this to our parents? What were we thinking?"
"What if we never see them again? I've thought the same thing," Misty said.
I held in the tears, but was blinking like I was making googly eyes at her. Misty's eyes didn't look dry, either. She ripped the paper out of my hands. "Come on. Let's get going. Grab some clothes. I'll get the gun."
I dumped most of the camping stuff out of my backpack and almost stopped to look in the bathroom mirror. I was sure my hair looked rattier than ever, but with no one around, I didn't care.
I grabbed a pair of shoes and finally took a look at my leg. My sock had protected me from the worst of it. It was red with deep teeth marks and a bit of the skin was even broken. I didn't want to think about what it might mean, so I quickly loaded some t-shirts, jeans, lots of socks, and...Oh no, underwear. "Why can't Mom stay home and do laundry like a normal mother?"
"Do you ever actually listen to the stuff that comes out of your mouth?" Misty walked into my room. "Got some bad news. No gun. Your dad musta took it when they left."
I wasn't paying much attention. Sure, the gun was important, but not as important as clean underwear. If you doubt my priorities, try wearing the same pair for more than a couple days.
I frantically dug through my closet where I had a pile of old clothes I'd worn-out or outgrown.
"What are you doing? You feeling okay? Is it the zombie snot?"
"All my underwear are in the hamper, dirty. I can't find a single clean pair."
"There'll be hundreds of pairs at Walmart. You can change 'em every hour if you want. Just don't ask me to do your laundry." She picked up a dirty shirt off the floor and threw it at me. "Get a bandage for that arm and let's go."
*
The leather seat cradled my body like a custom-fitted chair. "I can't believe I'm doing this. You know how much Dad loves this car." I had serious second thoughts about driving it around zombie-infested streets.
"It's either this or we walk," Misty said.
On the other hand, walking around zombie-infested streets sounded even worse.
The engine kicked right over and started purring. There's just something about the deep bass of a big block engine, especially when you're behind the wheel.
I'd never driven stick, or automatic for that matter. But I knew how, at least I thought I did.
First, put it in reverse. Except, rather than sliding into reverse, the gears ground together, the sound worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.
"Oops, forgot the clutch."
"You sure you know how to drive this? We might be safer taking our chances with the zombies."
"Ha ha, just give me a second."
Misty put on her seatbelt. "Nate, safety first." I wasn't sure if she was making fun of me or just being cautious—probably both.
Slowly, the car backed out of the driveway. I watched the garage door close and wondered if I'd ever set foot in my house again.
I made it into first gear, but stalled going into second. "Not a word, Misty, not one word."
She crinkled her nose and smiled. "Okay. But make a stop at Camping World. We should pick up a generator and some supplies. In case the power goes out."
"Good idea, but we'll have to be fast. We've still gotta stop at the mall to stock up on food."
"There's tons of food at Walmart."
"Yeah, but it's all canned and processed stuff. There's real, fresh food at the mall. We'll raid the food court."
"Nathan, you can't fool me. I know you just want to load up on cinnamon rolls. You're such a huge cinnamon roll pig."
"Fine. Forget the mall," I said, a little worried about the possibility of cinnamon roll withdrawals.
We rounded the corner. Alone in the middle of the street stood another zombie. This one wore an old style tuxedo, bow tie, even tails. It looked like a big chunk of its scalp was coming off; either that, or it was a seriously bad toupee.
"Five points for hitting the zombie, ten if it doesn't get back up." Misty sounded almost cheerful.
"No way. I am not hitting a zombie with this car."
"What? That's what you do, Nathan. Plow through zombies. How else are we going to kill them?"
"I'm not hitting it, end of conversation."
"But—"
"No!"
"At least pass it on the left. I don't want to look at it." Misty folded her arms across her chest.
As I passed it, the thought occurred to me that it might dive at the car, like the grandma zombie. I hit the gas and dropped it back down a gear, only I forgot the clutch again.
The car lurched, the zombie lurched, and the next thing I knew a rabid zombie was knocking at my window—knocking with its head, that is.
"Nathan, get the car started, now!" Misty started crawling up the back of her seat.
"I'm trying, I'm trying." Thick green goo dripped out of its eye and smeared all over the window. It took me a few seconds to think. Clutch in, turn key, a little gas, first gear, clutch out, more gas.
"You so cannot drive stick," Misty said as we sputtered away, leaving the zombie behind.
"Oh no. No. No!"
"What, what's wrong?"
"Zombie snot—it's all over the window. That stuff will eat through the paint like your brothers at an all-you-can-eat buffet."
"Don't panic, we'll wash it off."
"If anything happens to this car, my dad is going to kill me."
"Nate, we're driving around an abandoned town overrun by zombies. I think you might get a few scratches on the paint."
"No, no, unacceptable. See if you can find a hose."
"There's one by the mall. Pull it up on the sidewalk." She pointed across the intersection.
Misty jumped out and ran for the hose. I followed out on her side. "Nate, there's no knob. It's one of those security things."
I dove back into the car and popped the trunk. Dad always carried a tool kit for just such emergencies. Well, not just such, but you know what I mean.
I grabbed a pair of vice grips and dashed to the spigot. Misty sprayed the window as I supervised.
"The paint's okay." A wave of relief washed over me. "It's a sign. We're going to make it through this."
"Oh, brother." She shook her head. "We're already here. Might as well get your cinnamon rolls."
"We'll drive right through the middle," I said cheerfully.
I'm not sure who decided our mall qualified as a real mall; there must not be any actual standard for the word. Ours was really more of a large, beat-down shopping center. A couple dozen shops ringed an old three-screen theater.
Together, we dragged a cement trashcan aside and drove down the mall's center walkway.
Looking around, I realized we could easily get cornered here. Suddenly I wasn't so eager for my cinnamon roll fix.
We slowly drove down the main walkway. Sappy jazz music floated overhead. Stores wide open, welcoming us as if we'd been expected.
"Miss, take the left side; I'll go right. Get as much food as you can and keep an eye out for anything else we might use," I said, trying to sound as if I had everything under control.
"You sure you're feeling okay, Nate? No sudden craving for raw hamburger?"
"If I do, you'll be the first to know." I tried to smile. "Just get going."
It wasn't long before we'd loaded the trunk with cold cuts, cinnamon rolls, even gourmet cookie dough. One thing was sure: we weren't going to starve. By the time we reached the end of the mall, we'd made a pretty good haul.
"Hey, Miss, I'm going to check out the Sharper Image. You finish up the food court."
"Got it." She wasn't carrying food, but rather an armful of clothes and one of those big handbags, the kind you always see photos of stars carrying puppies around in.
"What the heck?" I said, pointing to the stack of loot in her arms.
"I have to replace my backpack and stuff."
I couldn't put together any sort of response to that, so I turned and left.
At the store, I got a bag and started stuffing it with one of everything in sight. When I got to the binoculars, I took my time. Lots of models were on display. As I picked up the most expensive-looking pair, I heard a scream.
I ran back as fast as I could.
"Nate, help!"
Misty stood behind the counter of the Krazy Karrot Smoothie Bar, a zombie close behind.
I didn't worry about the car. It was in my way, so I hopped up and slid over the hood. Just like a guy in those old car movies they play on free movie channels, except that I slid right over and onto my butt. I would have been embarrassed if I weren’t so panicked.
By the time I got to the counter, Misty was cornered. The zombie almost on top of her. She desperately held up a stool—the only thing between her and its teeth.
I headed toward the counter when I realized I'd messed up. I'd left the axe in the Shelby. There wasn't time to go back and get it. The muscles in her arms visibly straining, I had to find something to hit this thing with or Misty was zombie chow.
I picked up a plastic chair and threw it at the zombie, hoping to draw its attention. It just bounced off its head.
The zombie, inches from Misty, pushed against the stool, jaws full of brown, rotting teeth snapping at her.
I grabbed the largest thing in reach, a five-gallon bucket of lemonade. Struggling, I got it over my shoulder. Somehow, I managed to swing it over my head and upside-down onto the zombie. Lemonade flew everywhere. I was about to tackle the thing when I heard an ear-piercing scream. It wasn't me. It wasn't Misty. It was the zombie.
This guy really didn't care for lemonade. It fell, first to its knees, then flat on the ground. Its legs jerked and kicked, like its head was in an electrical socket.
A second later, it stopped. Smoke rose out of the bucket, still stuck on its head. The monster lay motionless.
Rather than step around it, Misty climbed on top of the counter and walked over to me, not once taking her eyes off the corpse.
"What was in that lemonade?" I said.
"Nothing. It was just lemonade, even tasted some." I looked over at her. She was shaking slightly, splashes of lemonade on her face and shirt. I wanted to take her hand, but guys don't go around taking their best friend by the hand—even if they had just fought off a killer zombie together.
There were tails on its retro tux. "Misty, I'm really sorry. It's the same one. I should have hit it with the car. It's all my fault."
"Don't be sorry. This is the best break we've had. We've found their weakness. We know how to kill them." She looked down at the puddle of lemonade and zombie pus pooled on the floor.
"What—lemonade? You think lemonade kills zombies?"
"Probably not lemonade, but something in it. The sugar, maybe? I don't know, but look, it works."
I couldn't argue. Smoke still billowed out of the bucket. This zombie was toast. "Should I kick the bucket off its head?"
"No way, that's sick."
"This from the girl who stuck gummy worms all the way up her nose."
"Not gummy worms, it was just one, and it's only went halfway up each side." I could see her starting to blush. "I was just a kid then, anyway."
"Wasn't that on our last camping trip?"
"Remember how we got that dorky kid from the dry campsite to eat it?"
"You mean, how you told him you'd give him five buck if he ate it? Only you didn't have five dollars and I had to pay up to keep him from telling our parents?"
"Your dad gives you a huge allowance for just taking the trash out." She looked around and seemed to suddenly remember we were standing over a zombie corpse. "Let's get more lemonade and get outta here."
"If you're right about the lemonade, we'll need some weapons. There's a CB's Toys down at the corner. Go grab some water guns. I'll find more lemonade."
Before running off, she grabbed a large cup of the stuff to take with her.
I found three full buckets of lemonade in the fridge and several cases of lemons in back.
Misty returned with the largest Super Soakers I'd ever seen. These things had tanks you wore on your back. I wondered what kind of terrible people my parents were for never buying me one of these.
"Says they shoot up to fifty feet," she said.
"Um, yeah, that should do the trick."
We used an entire five-gallon bucket filling up the two Super Soakers and a few smaller guns. I grabbed a few tools, like the lemon masher and funnel, so we could turn the rest of the lemons into zombie-killing juice.
I strapped the tank on and started
pumping the gun. "Now we're ready. Bring on some zombies."
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"I hate the way this place smells," Jake said. Our shoes squeaked as we walked across the linoleum titled floor, down a sterile hallway to the last room on the right.
"Yep, menthol and vitamins, never a good combo."
"This is your fault, Alex. If you weren't so desperate to get close to Shelby Summers we wouldn’t have volunteered for old fart duty."
"How was I to know the girls would end up visiting female patients and we’d have to entertain some old geezer?"
We gently knocked on Mr. Fitch's door. "Could be worse. Least we got assigned an interesting old guy," I added.
"Maybe we can get him to tell us another war story." Jake opened the door.
The walls of his room were littered with old black & white photos. On his dresser he had a small case with military medals. Unlike the rest of the center, his room smelled like menthol and cigarettes.
Mr. Fitch was some sort of war hero. That is, before he turned into an old grumpy dude. He once complained the hospital wouldn't let him hang his M1 Garand on the wall.
"Hey, Mr. Fitch," we both said in unison.
Slowly, he turned from the window. "You're late!" He pounded his cane with a loud thud.
If you could just get past his rude, angry exterior, he wasn't half-bad.
"Got any good war stories for us today?" Jake said.
"War stories. I'm not going to fill your little heads with stuff like that. It'll give you nightmares, that's what it'll do."
I hadn't said anything to Jake, but the last time we were here he told us a story, about the Battle of the Bulge, that really did give me nightmares. He was captured by the Germans and well, I don't want to give you nightmares, but they did some pretty awful things.
"You two lunkheads going to sit down or just stand there looking like Mormons?"
"I think you mean morons," Jake said.
"No, I mean Mormons. They're always coming around here being all nice, passing out those Mormon Bibles."
"This is my math book," Jake said.
"Hmm, maybe you are a moron." He shook his head.
Well, today's visit was going well. I hoped Shelby was giving her granny a foot massage—it'd serve her right for tricking me into this.
"Did I tell you boys I had a boil removed last week?"
"Umm, no," I said, shooting a look of horror at Jake.
"Let me show you—" He turned around and grabbed his trousers.
"No, please! That's okay." He stopped, turned and glared at me. I quickly added, "It's just stuff like that makes me a little queasy."
"You mean blood? Why, you should have seen it on D-day the whole shore turned red."
"No, it's more sores on old guys' rears that make me want to puke," I whispered to Jake.
The three of us sat and talked about nothing in particular. Mostly we just listened to Fitch tell us how lazy kids are today. Jake kept checking his watch. He claimed it was a Rolex—I think it was a fake. Either way, it never left his wrist.
"So, what are you two dressing up as for Halloween?" he asked. "Let me guess, pimps or gangbangers. Isn't that what you kids are into today?"
"I'm going as Iron Man," Jake said.
"You mean a guy in an iron lung?" Mr. Fitch looked Jake in the eye. "That's just sick."
"I know, isn't it!" Jake said, bouncing up in his chair.
It looked like Mr. Fitch was thinking about taking a whack at him, so I cut in. "I'm going as a monster."
"What sort of monster? Not one of those comic book villains, I hope."
"No one reads comics anymore," Jake said.
I didn't mention that I still picked up the latest Punisher when I had enough spare cash. Jake just couldn't read well enough to get into them.
"No, just your standard evil monster. Going to paint my face green, get some fake scars, and lots of blood. It should gross the girls out."
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