Zomburbia (5 page)

“My mom knows one of the school board members,” I heard someone add. It must have been Elsa. “We could probably use her to get an interview.”

Several students, and Mrs. Johnson, were all throwing ideas back and forth. Talking about the angle to use and who to talk to. I sat back, relieved. Finally, Mrs. Johnson cut it short.

“I like it, Courtney,” she said. “I want you to work with Elsa and Brandon on this; you take point. Lara, you'll get us some photos—the fence, the team in their new uniforms, okay? What else have we got?”

I sighed. Bullet dodged.

I was unaware of Brandon leaning over to whisper to me until I felt his warm breath on the side of my face.

“Nice job, Courtney,” he said. “Way to come through in the clutch.”

Hating myself as it happened, I felt my cheeks grow hot as I blushed. I tried to play it off casually, you know, no big deal.

“Yeah,” I said, “well, that's how I roll.”

Real smooth,
I thought. I should have just flashed him some gang sign and poured a forty on the ground to prove how uncool and white I was.

Well, I did want Brandon to stop paying attention to me. Keep this up and that was guaranteed.

Trying to pretend I no longer existed, I put my head down and started working on my amazing made-up story.

After class, I gathered my stuff and headed down the hall toward Trig. I wanted to get to class early to go over my homework before I handed it in. I'd spent a lot of time on it already, but Ms. Kay had a real hard-on about neatness and legibility. I figured I'd give it one last once-over to make it as clean as possible.

Someone called my name. Brandon waved at me from down the hallway. I considered making a run for it, then decided it would be easiest just to stand my ground.

He came loping—yes, loping—up to me. He flashed me a smile that must have cost as much as my dad's car.

“Hey, Courtney,” he said, “mind if I walk with you? You're on your way to Trig, right?”

“Totally,” I said. Brandon apparently had the ability to make me sound like an idiot. It must have been his superpower—or he was my kryptonite. I needed to think about it later when he wasn't in the immediate area.

“I was thinking we should get together,” he said to me, and my jaw fell open. He quickly followed up with “You know: you, me, Elsa. To talk about the story.”

Right. The story. The one that I made up on the spur of the moment and wasn't really interested in writing. That story.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal. “It'll have to be tonight or on the weekend, though. Tomorrow I work and then there's a party at Sherri's.”

“Sherri's throwing a party?” he asked, and smiled. This news should not have generated that level of excitement. I stifled a groan. Why had I mentioned the party?

“Not so much a party as an informal get-together,” I said. I wanted to downplay any aspects of the evening that might sound fun. “It's going to be pretty boring, really.”

“No, it sounds chill,” Brandon said. “Do you think Sherri would mind if me and a couple of guys came over?”

I tried to imagine the apocalyptic scene that would ensue should members of the football team show up at Sherri's place. I'm sure she'd throw an epic hissy fit. Come to think of it, it might be worth it to see that.

“Well,” I said, deciding to err on the side of caution, “I don't know if . . .” I let my voice trail off so that he could fill in the blanks himself.

He seemed to get it because this embarrassed grin spread across his face.

“Oh, man,” he said, “that's rude, isn't it, me inviting myself along?”

I started to relax.

“I should ask Sherri personally if it's okay for us to come along, right?” he asked.

Relaxation evaporated.

“No, don't!” I said louder than was warranted in a school hallway. Several kids stopped to look at us. I gave a blanket dirty look to the gawkers, and they all went back to their business.

“I'm Sherri's friend,” I said. “Why don't I ask her for you? I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“That'd be diesel,” Brandon said, and flashed that perfect orthodontia again.
Diesel?

“Yes,” I said in reply, “very diesel indeed.”

“And what about studying? Tonight would work best for me.”

I agreed that tonight would be best for me, too. Brandon said he could talk to Elsa and clear the plan with her.

“So can I get your phone number?” Brandon asked me. After a very long pause, he followed up with “so we can figure out when and where exactly.”

So there I stood, in the middle of the hall, exchanging phone numbers with this weird boy. A boy who, by all the laws of high school social hierarchy I'd ever learned, should have done his level best to pretend I was invisible. I really needed to get a handle on this situation, to somehow gain the upper hand. Be decisive, Courtney!

“So, I'll call you,” Brandon said.

“Great!” Ugh.

He trotted off and left me standing in the hall to contemplate what exactly had happened to me and to the situation and to wonder exactly how I was going to break it to Sherri that Brandon and his friends might be showing up at her party. Maybe I could remind her she'd told me to invite him? Or maybe she'd have a stroke and I wouldn't have to worry about it at all.

I headed off to class and consoled myself with the thought that I might well be eaten by zombies before I had to talk to Sherri again.

I
swear to Jebus that I was going to tell Sherri about The Brandon Fiasco while we were on the way home from school. Willie drove us as always. Sherri in back, me in the front, and we kept up a steady stream of inane chatter. I'll spare you the details.

Anyway, Sherri had just delivered a droll bon mot about her farts and I decided to use the ensuing silence to introduce a clever conversational tactic that would end with Sherri thinking it was
her
idea to invite the steroid brigade to her wingding. I never got the chance. Just as I was about to launch my offensive, Willie slowed the car and pointed off to our left.

“What do you think's going on?”

The front door stood wide open on the little house on the corner of the street. That wasn't so strange, but the fact that the chain-link fence out front had been knocked down really got my imagination going.

“I know who lives here,” I said.

“You know them? Who is it?” Sherri asked.

“I don't
know
know them, but it's an old lady and her dog.” I could see her in my mind. A little woman who looked like she was born old. She walked around during the day in a baby blue jogging suit and led her equally ancient corgi around the neighborhood. She also wore a huge pistol in a shoulder holster, which is the reason I remembered her in the first place. I told all of this to the guys.

“What should we do?” Willie asked.

“Call the cops,” Sherri said. “Let them deal with this.”

“Park,” I said. “I want to check on her.”

“Is what someone would say if they were retarded,” Sherri said. She stopped when Willie stiffened behind the wheel. “Oh, shit, Willie. I didn't mean it. But, listen, stopping is a very bad idea.”

Willie didn't say anything as he pulled the car to the curb and shut off the engine. In the backseat, Sherri started in with a steady stream of swears. Willie and I ignored her and climbed out of the car. I made sure to grab my pistol.

Sherri rolled down the window. “I am not going with you. No way am I getting eaten for someone I don't even know!”

“Call nine-one-one,” I said. “And no one is getting eaten. We're gonna shag ass out of there if it looks hinky, right, Willie?”

“Yep,” he said. I loved that he was just coming along without making a big deal about it. And without trying to convince me to stay put.

“Say hi to the zombies,” Sherri said. Then she pulled out her phone and started dialing.

It took some effort to control my breath as we walked up to the house.

“Maybe it was dogs or something,” I said.

“I don't think so,” Willie said. He pointed to a couple of loose fingers that lay near the fence. Great. What the hell were we doing?

Despite the fallen chain-link, we went through the gate. Manners. I held the pistol in a two-hand grip as we walked up to the door. I was careful to keep my finger on the trigger guard and not the trigger itself. It would really suck to shoot Willie—or myself—in a moment of panic.

“Hello?” Willie called into the house. “Anyone there? Ma'am?” He motioned with his head to me. I guess since I had the gun, I had to go first. I pushed the door open with my shoulder and stepped inside. Since I was in the lead now, I raised the pistol.

As soon as I stepped into the house, I knew we wouldn't find anything good. It smelled like someone's butt and spoiled meat. A table by the entryway lay on the ground and a cabinet in the living room had been knocked down. It didn't look like the place had been ransacked, more like some clumsy person had staggered through the house.

“Go down the hall,” Willie said, and I nearly jumped out of my goddamned skin. I'd practically forgotten he was there.

“Sure,” I said, and I tried my best to sound calm. My heart beat fast in my chest and I heard the blood rushing in my ears.

We made our slow way down the hall, looking into the rooms we passed as we went. A sewing room; the cleanest bathroom I'd ever seen; a little office, its desk cluttered with knickknacks. Then I saw the bloody footprint in the middle of the otherwise spotless hall carpet.

My hands were sweaty and I had a hard time gripping the gun. My dad sent me to a gun safety course every summer since I got the thing—the way other parents send their kids to camp—but I still got nervous every time I thought I might have to use it. Especially since Willie was with me.

The door at the end of the hall stood ajar. I paused before going any farther, terrified what I'd find. What if the room was chock-full of UDs? Could Willie and I make it out of the house before they got to us? I wasn't sure if I could go on.

“I'll go,” Willie said, and that settled it. I shook my head and stepped forward.

After just a couple of steps I could see into the room. The furniture was overturned, the blankets stripped off the bed. The zombies must have cornered the old lady in there, and she put up a fight. Good for her. I was about to tell Willie that I didn't see her—maybe they carried her away—then I saw a frail arm sticking out of the heap of blankets. One of the fingers had been gnawed off.

“Shit,” I said. “They ate her.”

“No zombies?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Okay.” Willie stepped forward and pulled the door shut. “We can't do anything else here. Let's get outside, okay?”

Then he grimaced.

“What?” I asked, but didn't look back in the room.

“They got the dog, too,” he said.

I'm not sure why, but that made me even more sad than thinking about the old lady getting eaten.

“Let's get out of here,” I said.

I let him lead the way. By the time we got to the front step, we heard sirens getting closer. Sherri sat in the car, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked pissed. Maybe she was angry that neither of us had been eaten along with the old lady. She only got out when we told her there were no zombies around.

The cops arrived as we were leaving the yard and we spent the next half-hour answering questions. The guy who interviewed us never came out and said it, but I could tell he thought we were idiots for walking into a potential undead buffet.

At one point, we heard a gunshot come from inside the house. I jumped.

“Standard operating procedure for anyone who dies by zombie attack,” he said. He said it the same way I imagined he explained to drivers why it was dangerous to exceed the speed limit. A little while later, two EMTs carried out a full body bag on a stretcher.

“But she had a fence,” Sherri said, echoing what I was thinking.

“Well, that'll stop one or two,” Officer Insensitive said, “but a big group of them will just push it right over.” He stopped and took a moment to collect himself. “You kids should get on home,” he said, “and be safe.”

“Thanks, officer,” Willie said, “we will.”

We climbed back into the car and Willie eased us away, leaving the cop to stand in the middle of the street.

We all jumped when my phone beeped. I scrambled through my bag to find it. The screen displayed a number I didn't recognize. I hit the button to read the message.

 

Meet my place at 6

Put UR name on list at gate

Call if U cant make it

 

That was followed by an address and a link that I guessed would take me to a map of how to get to Brandon's house. I put my phone away.

“Who was that?” Sherri asked.

“My dad,” I said. “He's going to be home late.”

We drove on in silence after that because there really wasn't anything else to say.

After I dropped off a bunch of my stuff at home and left a note for my dad, I rode my bike to Brandon's place. I could have asked Willie to give me a ride over there, but that would have led to a lot of questions I didn't want to answer. I know that a lot of you are shaking your heads at this point and asking, “What the hell was she thinking? She just found out a kindly, old grandmother was brutally murdered practically next door and now she's going to ride her bike through the streets?” What can I say? I was young and stupid. Also, even someone as inept as me at bike riding should be able to avoid a group of shufflers during the daytime. I'd just have to hope that our little study group got done before the sun went down.

Brandon's place was only about two miles from my house. In a lot of ways, though, it was a whole other world. I rode down Commercial Street to get there. I hate riding on such a busy road, but the fact that there were so many cars on it made it safer in terms of the undead hordes. Brandon's subdivision was to my left off Commercial, which means I had to walk my bike across the street. I am not one of those bicycle ninjas who can do things like ride along with the cars on the road and take left turns. Once I got to the correct side of the street, I realized that my legs felt pretty rubbery, and I couldn't imagine climbing back up on the bike, so I just pushed it the last hundred yards or so.

All of this means that I was a sweaty, heavily panting mess by the time I got to the gates that led into Brandon's subdivision. The sub was called—believe it or not—Elysian Fields. Doesn't that sound like the name of a cemetery? Don't you think that in this day and age developers would name a place to live something a bit more
lively
? The guard added to the funereal atmosphere. He looked a little like a walking corpse with a riot gun strapped across his back. I couldn't tell if he was taking his sweet time to get to me or if he was really walking as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him. Either way I had lots of time to stand in the sun. Unless Brandon had a thing for really sweaty girls, I think me showing up on his doorstep soaking wet would put a stake in the heart of his seeming obsession with me.

The World's Oldest Guard (WOG) finally reached the gate and squinted at me like I was there to commit some high-dollar-value vandalism. A safe bet any other time, actually.

“Yes?” he said.

“I'm here to visit Brandon Ikaros,” I told him, and gave him the address.

“Name?”

“Courtney Hart,” I said, keeping the exasperation out of my voice.

“You on the list?” he asked.

My resolve was slipping and I could hear the annoyance ratcheting up as I answered him. “Brandon said he'd put me on the list.”

He eyed me for a moment, trying to figure out if I was giving him guff. Finally, he turned and toddled off toward the guard booth because he
did not have the list on him.
Actually carrying the list with him to the gate would have been too much trouble, I guess. I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth shut. I could see WOG in the booth. His head was down, consulting the list, I'm sure, then he looked back up and met my eyes. I could tell he was debating whether or not to let me in even though he'd found my name. He frowned deeply and hit a button. The gate rumbled to life. I heaved my leg over the bike's crossbar and made my wobbly way down the street.

WOG tried to say something to me as I rode past—probably the subdivision's rules of conduct or the Geneva Convention or something—but I ignored him and kept riding. One can only spare so much of one's time to annoying people.

The houses in the subdivision were nice, not too vomit-inducing. They all seemed to just skirt the McMansion designation. Brandon's place was no exception. It was a two-story job with columns in front. Though it looked nice, it did lose points because there was a monster pickup in the driveway. It was raised so high, I'm sure I would need a ladder to climb into it. Not that I ever would.

I did note with approval, however, that there was a gun rack in the back window that was loaded up with a couple of shotguns. I couldn't tell from my vantage point what types of shotguns they were. I guessed that, based on the income-level in evidence, they'd be top-of-the-line.

I didn't bother chaining up my bike. I can't imagine anyone in this neighborhood would deign to steal it. They'd be more likely to have it removed as an eyesore.

I mopped my face as best I could and rang the doorbell. Brandon opened the door a few seconds later, and I got goose bumps as I felt the twin effects of the house's full-bore air-conditioning and his high-voltage smile.

“You're here,” he said. “Great!” And he moved aside so I could enter.

Elsa already sat at the large dining room table with a glass of soda in front of her. She looked mildly disappointed that I'd shown. Probably wanted the boy all to herself. I'd have to let her know she was welcome to him. I sat down and started to arrange my stuff, and Brandon offered to get me a soda, too. I asked for a diet.

“Doesn't look like you need it,” he called as he went into the kitchen. I exchanged a look with Elsa, neither of us able to believe he'd said that.

Brandon came back with my soda—diet, despite the fact that I'm apparently rail thin—and we got down to business. It only took about an hour to figure everything out. We weren't blowing the lid off Watergate, after all. Afterward, I could feel us shifting into the part of the evening where we socialize. I was trying to calculate how quickly I could leave without looking like I'd been raised by a pack of ill-socialized badgers.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Elsa talked about rehearsals for the spring play. The drama club was putting on the umpteenth production of
The Diary of Anne Frank
. This year, however, the director, Mr. Richland, was trying to make the play edgy and relevant by having the Frank family terrorized not by Nazis. His grand theatrical vision was to have the family terrorized by
zombies
. It must have taken five whole minutes to come up with that bit of genius. When it was Brandon's turn to introduce a conversation starter, he brought up some volunteer work he did with his Scout troop at an old folks' home. Yes, Brandon was seventeen and still a Scout, an Eagle Scout, actually. I refrained from making any Brownshirt jokes; I didn't think they'd go down very well. This topic actually generated a fair bit of talk since Elsa has a minor phobia about old people and I wanted details about their bathroom habits. What can I say? My interests are many and varied.