Monster in the Mirror
With Steven, Space
Stowaway,
Originally
published June 2010 in Spaceports & Spidersilk
Bloody
Marcy, & Bonus Previews
By
M.J.A.
Ware
DIGITAL
EDITION v1.2c - published at SmashWords
Copyright
© 2010 by M.J.A. Ware
Cover Art © 2010 - Ronnell D. Porter
All
rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or
by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright
owner of this book.
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. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any product referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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.
* * *
TABLE
OF CONTENTS
Bonus: Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb
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
Bonus: The Little Wooden Chair
I try ignoring the sound. Like fingernails on a blackboard, deep and violent. It's coming from the stairs, always from the stairs.
My legs move towards my bedroom door. I can't make them stop. With each step, my heart thumps harder. Something evil's in the air; thick and musty.
In darkness, I pass my little sister's room and approach the stairway. The sound grows. Eerie light climbs up the steps and reflects off the empty wall behind the landing.
My feet round the corner and I face the stairs.
I find nothing except the steps leading down.
I breathe a deep, hot sigh.
As I start heading back, I feel something from behind. Sharp claws dancing on my shoulders.
Racing back into my room, I lock the door. Something's out there. I can almost hear the scratching sound echoing in my head.
Later that day, I can't stop thinking about it. Maybe it was just a nightmare. Ever since we moved here, I haven't gotten a decent night sleep.
Mom's making lunch in the kitchen. "Nate, you look terrible. Another bad dream?"
"I'm fine," I lie, burying my head in my Wolverine Annual.
"You're just getting adjusted to the new house."
"There's nothing new about this heap." I look at the cracked plaster walls and warped wood floors.
"It's a historical landmark. We got a great deal. We're lucky to live here."
Sure, if you can ignore the nightmares and scratching sounds coming from the staircase.
With one huge bite, I stuff the last half of my PB&J in my mouth.
"Daniel sleeping over tonight?" Mom asks.
I look over at my little sister, Mandy. She's hovering over her lunch. Her long dark hair draped over her face. And she's mumbling to herself again. The same tune over and over—something about knocking on a door. She's always been slightly off, but this house has made her worse.
"Yeah. Dan's still coming."
"I wanta friend to sp-spend the night." Mandy says, doing her best not to stutter.
"You’re too young to have a sleepover, dear," Mom reminds her.
That night, Dan arrives as Mom goes out to the garage to do laundry. We head up to my room to put a new high-performance engine in my R/C truck.
"Dang, this house belongs in one of those old black and white horror movies," Dan says as we pass Mandy's room. She's sitting with her doll, humming that stupid song.
"Let's see your new cell." I grab his phone. "What's that on the screen?" I ask, looking at hash marks across the glass.
"Nothing. It's off." I turn the phone to show him and they disappear.
"Must have been a reflection. Here, Nate, I'll turn it on."
I stop. A chill creeps up my back.
I turn the phone and it re-appears. A tic-tac-toe board—only raised like wood paneling.
"Give it here, Nate."
"Wait a sec." I hold the phone out so Dan sees the reflection. "See that?" I whisper, almost unable to breathe.
"It's just a reflection of the door behind the stairs..." Dan turns to see what I already know—there's no door. "What the-is this some sort of gag?"
We both stare at the phone's screen. In the reflection, I see panic on our faces. This is no gag.
We turn, hoping we're being stupid, that there's an explanation. But nothing's behind us except the old, gray wall at the top of the stairs. It reminds me of the scratching sounds in my dream.
"Come on. There's a mirror downstairs."
We run down, afraid to look back. I dig through some boxes that no one's bothered to unpack and find an old hat mirror.
We stand sideways on the upstairs landing, between the wall and the staircase. Slowly, with a trembling hand, I hold up the mirror.
Reflected, is an old weathered door with a tarnished brass handle all fancy and decorated. When I turn to touch it, it's gone.
"Ummm. Think I'm coming down with a cold. Your mom better take me home." Dan starts down the stairs.
"Hey, you chicken." I grab his t-shirt. "We've gotta figure this out...ourselves." There's no way Mom would believe this. Even if she did, she loves this house so much; something like this would break her heart.
I have to fix this—but how?
"Whatcha doing?" My little sister's big brown eyes stare up at us.
"Go back to your room or I'll tell Mom you're bugging us," I snap.
"Okay. Just don't open that door." She turns and heads back.
"Wait, what did you say?"
Mandy stops and stands with her back to us. Her long nightgown draped down to her feet. She starts singing that song again, only louder:
"Knock, knock on the door. Thirteen times, the monster moves no more.
Enter swiftly, don't make a sound. Except this song, the sp-specter to bound.
On a mirror, give thirteen taps. Make sure the creature can't come back.
Frame it fast, over the door. With fortunes luck, it'll be fettered evermore."
"Where'd you hear that?" I demand.
She turns around, "Don't know. Just heard it."
"That's the key, Nate, the song. It's gotta be!" Dan's voice shakes.
"Thanks for the brilliant insight. It obviously tells how to get rid of... the monster."
"Knock thirteen times. That must make it safe to enter," Dan says.
"And the mirror? Tapping the mirror must trap it."
"But can we trust a song?"
"We don’t have much choice." I look at my sister. She's gazing down at her doll. Smiling and combing its hair.
"Are we sure we got it right?" Dan asks.
Mandy repeats the song a couple of times, to make sure we got everything.
"Oaky you ready?" I ask, mirror in hand.
"No," Dan says forcing a smile.
Looking in the mirror, I reach back for the door, knocking thirteen times. The rough grain of the wood stings my knuckles, but nothing happens.
Still focused on the mirror, I grab the knob. It's ice cold.
The door opens slowly, as if pushing against me.
I turn, and now I can see the door straight on. It's open, but there's nothing except deep black beyond.
"Remember, don't say anything. I'll repeat the rhyme and tap on the mirror."
Dan's gripping my forearm so hard it hurts. I take a step into the room. The darkness is so thick it seems to press down on us. I want to turn back, but like my dream, something pushes me on.
There's a tug at my shirt, and I glance back to see that Mandy followed us in. I start to tell her to get out, when the door slams shut.
We all jump. I almost scream, but remember we can't say anything except the song. The song—what are the words to the song? I can't remember.
Everything's black. My heart beats so hard I hear it in my ears. As my eyes begin to adjust, I start to make out the room. It's dirty and coated thick with dust. Layers and layers of peeling wallpaper, a broken rocking chair, bare wires reaching down from the ceiling like long, skinny fingers.
And there's something else. Another presence--cruel, old, desperate.
Softly, a voice drifts into the air, "Knock, knock on the door..."
It's Mandy. As she repeats the song, the creature's anger swells. My arms grow numb and Dan's grip slips—something's zapping our strength.
"...it'll be fettered evermore," Mandy finishes.
It takes tons of effort to lift the mirror. Looking away, afraid of what the mirror might reveal I begin tapping.
One, two, three. I feel breath on my neck, rotten and sticky.
Four, five, six. A hissing sound fills my ears.
Seven, eight, nine. The whole room starts to rumble, like it's tearing itself apart.
Ten, eleven, twelve. The walls are closing in on us—I start to shake with panic.
Thirteen. There's a loud whoosh, and everything's silent.
I hear a click and a sliver of light slices across the floor. The door's open.
Dan quickly jumps out. I put my hand on Mandy's shoulder as we leave. The door gently clicks closed behind us.
"Good job, little Sis," I say and turn. The door's gone. Just a bare wall—except for one large rusty nail. "Wow. That was close."
I hang the mirror on the nail.
"Yeah, I thought we were dead when Mandy mispronounced specter."
"Mispronounced what?"
A crack appears in the mirror and spreads like a spider web.
Steven,
Space Stowaway
Okay, maybe sneaking on board a spaceship bound for Mars wasn’t such a bright idea. I got away with it, so I can’t be a total idiot, right?
Getting inside a three-billon-dollar spacecraft is a lot easier than you'd think. I used my mom’s access card to get past the security scanners and stowed away in a waste receptacle—that's a fancy way of saying, trash can. It wasn't as dirty as it sounds. I only hid there during the launch, so no one had used it (much) yet.
Once we’d taken-off, I squeezed into the air ducts. But it's been three days, and I’ve had just about as much confined space as I can handle.
Outer space isn’t as fun as it sounds. I'm cold, hungry, and my clothes are getting pretty ripe. Fortunately, I brought some candy bars and a clean pair of underwear.
The worst part is that I can tell we're in trouble. I overheard the chief engineer talking to the captain, "There's something wrong with the computer's calculations, but no matter how many times I double-check the numbers, I can't find the error." And the crew keeps having to make unscheduled engine burns to stay on course.
The whole mess is really all my mom’s fault. She decided to go off on a three-year mission and leave me with evil Aunt Zooey.
I tried to explain to her that Aunt Zooey despises kids, but she wouldn’t listen.
So now, I'll be the first junior-high kid to tour the Red Planet—heck, I'm probably the first space stowaway too. I guess I’m famous.
Or will be, as long as we make it to Mars. The crew's really on edge. The chief even thinks we have gremlins. Though, I think he just heard me rattling around in the ducts.
The last message from mission control read, "Unable to isolate calculation error. If course anomalies continue, aborting the mission will be the only option." Which would really suck, because this is Mom’s first ever trip to Mars. She's so looking forward to it. Not to mention the colonists really need our supplies.
The intercom blares, “Dr. McNair, please report to the command level immediately, Captain out.”
Why's the captain calling Mom? Maybe it’s more problems with the ship. If I move quietly, I can crawl to the vent in the command center.
Once in the right duct, I scoot directly over the vent so I can look down and see the whole room.
Even from up here the captain’s clenched jaw is easy to read. He taps his fingers on a table.
‘Whoosh,’ the door opens and Mom walks in.
“Stacy, thanks for coming so quickly. I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the captain says.
“Is it the mission? Are we aborting?”
“No, it’s not the mission. It’s about your son, Steven.”
Uh-oh.
“Steven? What happened? Is he okay?”
“Well, we don’t know. We think he may have been kidnapped-”
"I knew I shouldn’t have left him. What was I thinking?” Tears start streaming down her face. Which makes me feel lower than a Martian slime beetle. “I wish I could see him again.”
There's a snap and the vent starts to give way—looks like Mom's going to get her wish. I try to grab hold of the sides of the duct, but it's no use. I tumble to the floor.
Mom and the captain just stare at me with their mouths wide open. “Aaa, hi Mom,” is all I get out.
“Steven James McNair. What in God’s name are you doing here? How did you get onboard? Do you know how much trouble you're in? And what's that smell?”
I can't answer all her questions at once so I pick the easiest. “That’s me. Haven’t showered in a few days.”
Just then, the chief engineer walks in. “Woah, what’s this? An E.T?”
“It appears we have a stowaway,” says the captain.
“Young man, when we get home, you are going to be in so much trouble.” Well, at least that won’t be for a while.
“I think, we’ve found the source of our course anomalies,” the engineer chuckles. He seems to find the whole thing funny—but he's the only one.
“What do you mean, the source of the anomalies? I haven’t done anything,” I say.
“Didn’t you? You added a good hundred pounds to the weight of the ship. That might not seem like much, but in a spinning cabin it’s enough to throw off all the computer’s calculations.”
“I can’t believe you snuck on board, Steven. What were you thinking?” Mom's shaking her head.
“I couldn’t stay with Aunt Zooey. She’d probably have eaten me.”
“So Captain, what do we do now?” asks the engineer, still grinning.
“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do. Regulations, you know. I’m sorry, Stacy, but the regulations have to be followed.”
“There’s a regulation regarding stowaways?” Mom asks.
“Yes, Regulation forty-six A. Regarding treatment of stowaways.”
Mom frowns as she thinks, then seems to remember. “Oh yes, forty-six A.”
“We’ll have to make the arrangements right away. Of course we’ll let you shower and get cleaned up first.” He pats me on the shoulder.
“Before what?” I don’t like the sound of this. Are they going to lock me in the brig or something?
“Before we escort you off the ship.”
“Umm, say what?”
“I’m very sorry, but if you stay on board we will not have enough fuel to reach Mars. We carry little extra fuel and we need it all to ensure we arrive safely. There’s really no other choice.”
“But I’ll die out in space. Mom, what’s going on?” I start sweating like a pig at Easter.
“I’m sorry, Steven. But if you are old enough to stow away you’re old enough to face the consequences.”
I can tell you one thing—I no longer have a clean pair of underpants.
I take a few steps back, wondering if I can make a break for the door.
Thankfully, the engineer can’t contain himself any longer and busts out laughing. He laughs so hard he falls into a chair. Everyone joins in and I realized I'm not going to end up a space popsicle.
Mom’s bout of laughing ends quickly. “Don’t think you’re out of trouble. You are in for a world of hurt. You can’t even imagine the punishment I am going to think up.”
I stare down at the floor.
“It would be prudent to jettison some weight, so we can maintain our safety margin,” says the engineer.
"We'll have to see what we can spare," the captain replies.
"I have some audio equipment I can offer." Mom brought some high quality broadcasting equipment—planning to set up the first Martian radio station. She was going to broadcast Beach Boys twenty-four hours a day. Personally, I think I did the colonists a favor.
In total, we collect one hundred and forty pounds. Sixty of that Mom's stuff.
The whole crew gathers around to see the junk blown out the airlock. Among the radio equipment and used food canisters is the aluminum waste container I snuck on board in. As it flies away from the ship I can’t help but think what might had been, had the captain not been so understanding.
"That's soo stupid," I tell them.
"No, it'll be totally funny 'cause Marcy's such a chicken," insists Amber.
"Shelby'll do it. She's cool." Hanna smiles at me.
"Yeah, I'm cool." I say, knowing this might be my only shot to get in with the popular crowd.
"Good, here's you're blood." Amber discreetly hands me a small tube of fake blood. She turns and yells, "Who's up for a game of Bloody Mary?" Amber's the most popular girl at Evergreen Jr. High. She's blonde, gorgeous, and rich. Her parents just built this brand new, three-story house with this huge game room on the top floor.
"Awe, that game's stupid." Marcy glances over to the bathroom.
"You aren't chicken are you?" Amber asks.
"No, I've played it before. It's stupid. I've never seen anything."
"Well, then you won't mind playing it again, will you?" says Hanna.
Marcy looks down and doesn't say anything.
"Who's first?" Amber asks, holding up a flashlight.
"I am," Tiffany says, throwing her long curly brown hair back. "I just don't remember how it goes."
"Okay, here's how you do it." Amber rubs her hands together. I think she's overly excited at the prospect of her practical joke. "Go into the bathroom and close the door. Turn the light off and say, 'Bloody Mary, I killed your baby' thirteen times. Then shine the flashlight into the mirror and you'll see Bloody Mary!"
Tiffany takes the flashlight and heads into the bathroom. Through the crack under the door, we can see the light go out. A minute later, there's a little scream and she jumps out. "I saw her—at least I think I did. It was so fast, I'm not sure."
One by one, each of the girls take a turn; Hanna and Amber both scream at the top of their lungs when it's their turn—they swear they saw her bloody face staring back at them.
Finally, only me and Marcy are left. "I'll go first," I say. Not sure if I'm dreading my turn or Marcy's more.
I go into the bathroom and look at the mirror. It's oval and has a gold-tone frame, like the evil mirror from Snow White or something. A little spooked, I flip off the light. It's really not that dark. There's a big window on the far wall; light from the streetlight streams right in through the blinds.
Under my breathe, I say the stupid chant once and then wait a minute before turning on the flashlight. It reflects off the glass and into my eyes. I'm blinded for a second and can't really see anything.
I open the door, half expecting them to have pulled the gag on me. But the girls look normal, except some of them are giggling—probably because they know it's finally Marcy's turn.
"Well?" Amber asks.
I blink my eyes a couple of times trying to make the spots disappear. "Umm, guess I might have seen her."
Amber and Hanna have already moved on. "Your turn Marcy," they crow in unison.
"All right, this is dumb though." Marcy grabs the flashlight out of my hand and storms into the bathroom.
All the girls get out their tubes of fake blood. Amber motions to everyone to wait. "Marcy, I can see the light on."
A second later, the bathroom light clicks off and all the girls start smearing fake blood on their faces. I can't believe how ridiculous they all look. It looks more like fruit punch than blood.
Hanna nudges me and looks down at the tube, still unopened in my hand. I flash her a fake smile and start dabbing it on my face.
A second later, I see the beam of the flashlight peeking out of the crack under the door. All the girls are trying not to laugh and the bathroom door slowly starts to open.
By the time Marcy opens the door, Amber's turned off the lights in the room.
All we can see of Marcy is her flashlight, shinning in our faces. Everyone starts busting up laughing, then there's a loud, continuous scream and everyone stops.
I see the beam of the flashlight moving backwards, like the headlights of a car, except speeding away. There's a loud crash of breaking glass. The flashlight drops, disappearing out through the window. There's a sickening thud—the screaming stops.
In the window, the blinds are ripped away. The streetlight pours into the bathroom. Shards of glass covered in oozing blood are all that remains in the window.
* * *
Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb,
Extended Preview
Buy the entire book at: www.MJAWare.com.
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?"
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