Zombie Elementary (13 page)

“But there was a bunch of them. And Mr. Snuffles wanted to play with them,” sobbed Honor. “He got away from me. I was so scared!”

“Yeah, when I saw him he had a—”

He had a leg.

“Oh my gosh, Honor! Where is he now?”

“He was in the yard a few minutes ago,” Honor replied.

Yes, he was there when I came in. Only he didn’t have the severed zombie leg. The one with the Converse tennis shoe. “What happened to the leg, Honor? Did you throw it away before you got home?”

Maybe I could save it for Mr. O’Hara. If his BURP science people can really cure the zombies, it would be tough for one to be without a leg ’cause my dog ran off with it.

“Uh, he dropped it in the bushes across the street. I think. Maybe.”

I ran downstairs. I had to find the leg and save it for BURP. Wrap it in foil and hide it in the freezer, maybe? But I could never explain that to Dad when he went looking for leftovers.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just leave it in the
neighbor’s yard. See, I didn’t think I had knocked out the zombie who owned the leg. When I was, uh, dealing with the zeds, I don’t think he was among them. Did zombies come looking for their own body parts?

Jermaine would know, but he’d gone home. No time to call him.

I went through the front door. Dad was working in the flower beds. I looked across the street. Nothing to see. I mean, there were bushes and stuff, but no leg sticking out of them.

I could have gone poking around with a stick. If I had a stick, which I didn’t.

Plus my dad would have asked what I was up to. The neighbors would come out and yell at me.

Sorry, Mr. Zollinger, I’m looking for a zombie leg! I think I lost it over here!

Didn’t think so.

Then I heard muffled barking. It was the sound Snuffles makes when he’s got something in his mouth.

Oh.

He was at the side of our house
, where Dad couldn’t see him. I could. I walked over to him, real slow. The severed leg was stuck between his jaws, the tennis shoe facing down. I guess that’s the sensible way to hold it, I dunno.

“Give it here, boy!”

He dropped the leg. “Good boy!”

I didn’t want to pick it up.

I picked it up anyway. Just with one finger and my thumb.

Eeeeewwwww!!!!!!!

So, what was I gonna do with it now? I panicked.

I ran to the far end of the yard, where our house backs up to a wooded lot. I threw the leg as far as I could. It was a real good throw, and I got some distance on it. Snuffy took off like a shot into the woods.

About thirty seconds later, I had the severed leg again. My dog had dropped it right at my feet. Dang.

I wondered if I could bury it in the yard.

My dad was burning yard trash over by the shed where he keeps the mower and all the gardening stuff. My mom always tells him to watch the fire in
case it, you know, gets out of control and sets the shed on fire. He never takes any notice. He was out front working on his roses. Good.

I took two good-sized bits of wood and picked up the leg. I shoved it way down into the bonfire. I mean, way down. Mr. Snuffles whined, like I had taken his bone away or something. Which I guess I did. He squirmed. I held him by the collar.

After a while the smell from the fire changed to, like, hot dogs or something.

I went back into the house to check on Honor. After I washed my hands, I mean. I washed ’em real good.

She’d stopped crying. “I’m sorry, Larry! I just wanted to hunt zombies too. Like you and Jermaine and Francine.”

I told her it was okay, but maybe she should wait until she’s older. Maybe nine, I dunno.

After a while, I heard Dad’s voice.

“Hey! Marjorie! Was someone barbecuing tonight? Something sure smells good!”

It had been a long day
, what with church and the cheerleaders and all those zeds in the park and getting rid of the severed leg. I was pretty tired. I thought I should get to bed early, what with tomorrow being Monday.

Still, I needed to call Jermaine.

“What do you need to speak to Jermaine for?” asked my mom. “You saw him this afternoon.”

“Uh, something for school tomorrow,” I said.

“Larry, did you forget? It’s a Teacher In-Service day tomorrow, so you get a day off.”

I smiled at Mom. Usually I remember when school’s out. “Oh, yeah. But I still need to call him.”

Mom handed me the phone, then sat down right next to me with a magazine. I wished I had my own phone. All the other kids do.

“Jermaine. Yeah, it’s me. I had to, uh, deal with something after you left.” I couldn’t say what. I hoped he’d catch on. He did. Like I told you, he’s smart.

“Hmm. The leg, right? Darn it, I shoulda noticed when the dog didn’t have it anymore. You saved it for O’Hara?”

“Nope.”

“Did you
dispose
of it?”

“Yup.”

“Permanently?”

“I guess.”

“Buried it? That won’t work with Mr. Snuffles.” I smiled, ’cause I’d figured that one out myself.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Mailed it to BURP in Washington, DC? I guess that’s where their lab would be.”

“Nope.” Actually, I liked that idea a lot. But it would probably have taken a lot of stamps and I would have had to leave it in the mailbox at the end of our driveway. The zombie might have found it. I’d get in a lot of trouble if I caused the undead to mess with the mail waiting for pickup. That’s a federal offense. Plus, Mom sends out paid bills on Monday mornings, and
I wouldn’t have wanted her to meet a zombie in her robe and slippers. (Mom, not the zombie.)

“Burned it?” asked Jermaine.

“Yup,” I answered.

“Smell terrible?”

“Like hot dogs.”

My mom gave me a funny look. “Your dad said he smelled hot dogs. Must be some cookout if Jermaine could smell it from his house.”

“Tomorrow,” Jermaine went on, “I got a plan. I know who could help us with fighting zombies. Someone with a vehicle and, you know, equipment. An adult. We could go see him.”

I’d about given up on adults helping with the zombie problem. The only grown-up who knew about the outbreak was from the government, and he came to ask
us
to help
him
. And I didn’t wanna talk to Mr. O’Hara right then, ’cause I’d have had to tell him about the roasted leg. He’d have been mad at me.

“You know Chainsaw Chucky?” asked Jermaine.

Chainsaw Chucky has commercials running on local TV channels. I saw one last night. He’s this weird long-haired guy who runs a business selling
chainsaws. Fixing busted chainsaws. Anything with chainsaws, really. His grandma is always in the commercials with him. She’s weird too. They sit on the porch of this beat-up old house, and Granny sings a little song:

Chucky fires up his chainsaw, and they both grin at the camera. Neither one has a lot of teeth. Scary, sort of. Like they’re both a little nutso.

So I guessed that’s who we’d be going to see in the morning.

I got up in the night to get a drink of water from the bathroom faucet. I heard something outside. I looked out the window, across to the Zollinger house. There was something large rooting around in the bushes.

I closed the window and made sure the catch was locked.

“Why do you think Chainsaw Chucky
could help us?” I asked Jermaine.

“Wait ’til we get there!” Jermaine replied. “He’s our man!”

“Isn’t he, uh, kinda crazy?”

“Oh yeah.”

We rode our bikes all the way along the main highway out of town. It’s maybe three miles. I had my bat in a bag over my shoulder. Jermaine had left his BB gun at home. We pulled into this scrubby yard in front of what looked like what happens if you let an old farmhouse and barn fall down. There was a big sign out front:

CHAINSAW CHUCKYS
CHAINSAWS FOR SAIL, FIXED, RENTED

“You’ve been here before?” I asked Jermaine.

“I came out with my dad once,” he replied. “Trust me on this, okay?”

Jermaine led the way onto the porch. It was pretty rickety. I’d seen it before. It’s the same porch in the TV commercial. He pulled on a string and a bell rang. He grinned at me.

“Kin ah hep yew?” asked a voice. It was an old lady voice, croaky. The screen door opened, and a tiny woman stood in front of us. She smelled of mothballs and Marlboro cigarettes. I knew they were Marlboros ’cause she had a new pack in her wrinkly hands.

I’d seen her singing on Channel 148.

Jermaine gave her his most polite smile. “Good morning, ma’am. We’d like to see Mr. Chucky, if we could.”

“Is it about a chainsaw?” she asked.

Obviously, we didn’t have a chainsaw with us. Ten-year-olds don’t have chainsaws. I said that earlier, right?

“In a way it is,” said Jermaine.

She led us around the house, past a beat-up truck with a lot of rust on the side, to a big timber shed. “Hey! Chucky!!!” she yelled. “Got customers!”

A man’s voice came back. “Send ’em in!”

Jermaine grinned at me again. We walked into Chainsaw Chucky’s workshop.

It was full of chainsaws. Big ones, little ones, gas-operated saws and ones that run off an electrical cord. Chainsaw parts hanging everywhere. From the ceiling. On a table. On a bench. On the floor.

On the walls, Chucky had movie posters.
Evil Dead. Zombieland. Army of Darkness
. They all showed people fighting zombies. With chainsaws. The people, I mean, not the zombies.