"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, a 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 grandm
a 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 lemon
s into zombie-killing juice.
I strapped the tank on and started pumping the gun. "Now we're ready. Bring on some zombies."
Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb is available for a special introductory price.
* * *
The Little Wooden Chair – Extended Preview
Chapter 1
Imagine for a moment what it would be like to be a chair. You cannot speak or move; you will never know the joy of sleeping or eating. In fact, all you are good for is supporting people’s rear-ends. The worst part of being a chair is never knowing feelings. Most importantly, a chair will never know love—well, except for one particular little wooden chair.
Like most little girls, Maggy loved everyone she knew: her mother, father, her aunt, and of course her dolly. But Maggy never thought about loving her little chair.
The chair was a present from Maggy’s grandfather. Maggy did not know him; he had died when she was just a baby. He smoked too much and as everyone knows smoking will kill you.
He had worked on the chair, late into the night, only stopping when he had one of his frequent coughing spells. It seemed to the chair that he knew building it was the last thing he'd ever do.
Being a chair is a dull business. All there is to do is wait around for someone to sit on you. Now this particular little chair had it good, at least as good as any chair could expect. The chair was too small for anyone besides Maggy to sit on and, not eating much, she was very light. He had a prime location, just inside the door of Maggy’s tiny bedroom. And Maggy didn’t close her door, which meant that the chair had a clear view of almost of the entire house, which consisted of four sparsely furnished rooms with gray walls textured in a myriad of patched holes.
Best of all, this little chair could do something most chairs cannot, it could move. Not across the room mind you, but back and forth—it was a rocking chair. The little wooden chair’s favorite pastime was to rock back and forth while Maggy sang to her dolly or combed its hair.
The chair had always felt a strong bond with Maggy; perhaps because they shared the same world. Maggy was too young to attend school, exactly how old she was, the chair didn't know. However, it did know that she rarely left the confines of the house. The only time she ventured out was when she'd go to her aunt’s.
During the day, and even at night, Maggy’s mother was often gone, leaving no one to watch her. Her mother had written Maggy’s aunt’s phone number on a notepad in case of an emergency.