No Way Out
and Other Scary Short
Stories
By
M.J.A.
Ware
DIGITAL EDITION v1.1a
PUBLISHED
BY: CG Press LTD. at SmashWords
Copyright
2010, 2011 by M.J.A. Ware
Cover © 2011 Rebecca Weaver,
http://missninjaart.com
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.
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* * * * *
Table
of Contents
No
way Out
Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb Extended Preview
Chapter 1 – Blizzards, Bites, and Zombies
Chapter 2 – Snookum's Last Stand
Chapter 3 – A Bridge to Nowhere
Chapter 5 – Zombie Juice, Now with the Killing Power of Lemonade
Chapter 6 - Class Dismissed
Chapter 7 – Walmart Security Gets Tough
Chapter 8 – Really Weird Science
Chapter 9 – When Life Give You Lemons, Kill Zombies
Chapter 10 – Uninvited Guests for Dinner
Chapter 11 – The Going Gets Tough
Chapter 12 – Kid to Work Day
Chapter 13 – There Goes the Cemetery
Chapter 14 – A Fieldtrip to the Firehouse
Chapter 15 – Sodium Bicarbonate Discharge Device
Chapter 16 – Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb
Chapter 17 – Zombie Fowl Frenzy
Chapter 18 – Home Sweet Home
* * * * *
"Ten bucks, huh?"
"Yep. But you've got to open the attic window and wave down to me."
"What if the window doesn't open?"
"Break it, what do I care," Chris said, taking off his rubber zombie mask.
I looked up at the old house. It was huge. Just finding my way to the stairs could take forever. "Make it twenty."
"Okay. The bet is twenty, but I keep the flashlight."
"The flashlight wouldn't be a problem if you'd brought your own. I mean, who goes trick-or-treating without a flashlight?" I said as I handed it over.
"Just get going, Mike."
Slowly, I walked to the side of the old house. The cloud covered moon cast just enough light to keep me from tripping over my own feet.
"I'll hold your candy for you."
"Fat chance," I yelled back. I musta had close to five pounds of candy in my pillowcase; we had just kept trick-or-treating until people stopped answering their doors.
The whole side of the house was covered thick with Ivy. I had to feel around for the window.
I climbed into the window and rolled onto the floor. It was so dark I couldn't see a thing, which made me a little freaked out. So, I just sat on the floor, not moving a muscle. Slowly my eyes began to adjust and my nerves calmed down.
The place was empty except for a thick layer of dust and a few pieces of furniture covered with white cloth, like you'd see in old movies. The air smelled sweet and kinda foul, not what I expected at all.
Slowly, I stood up and looked around. Chris was up to something. We'd trick-or-treated over a mile straight here. And Chris knew just how to get in. Except for that Ivy covered window, this place was boarded up tight.
He must have come by early and setup some sort of prank or maybe a booby trap. Thought he could scare me away or something and make twenty bucks in the process. No way was that happening.
Carefully, I made my way over to the stairs. With each step, the floor beneath me creaked. Not a lot of light made it in through the boarded-up windows. I shuffled my feet afraid of tripping.
I'd made it to the base of the staircase when something caught my eye. In the corner, a faint red light barely shined through an old sheet draped over a sofa.
Pausing after each step, I made my way over and slowly lifted the sheet. Sure enough, an old video camera sat recording. Checking the sheet revealed a hole just the right size for the lens.
It pointed towards the staircase. Picking it up, I messed with the controls until I figured out how to turn the spotlight on. Careful not to point it out the window, I scanned the stairs, but found nothing until I checked the ceiling. Hanging from the chandelier was another sheet, but this one draped like a ghost, it even had a face painted on it. This had to be Chris's doing; only he would think up something so pathetic.
I walked to the foot of the stairs to get a closer look. A rope hung down, went to the side of the stair rail and was strung across one of the lower steps like a tripwire. If you stepped on it, the ghost would come flying down.
"Nice try, Chris," I said into the, still recording, camera.
I headed up the stairs. Each one groaned like I'd awakened it from a deep slumber.
I stopped. I swore that I heard a sound. I stood still and listened, but there was only silence. I let out a big sigh and started walking up.
Suddenly, something flew at my face, scratching as it latched onto me. I fell backwards, managing to keep my feet under me for a couple steps, but I couldn't keep my balance.
I fell backward and smashed, rear first, into one of the bottom steps. They gave way like wet cardboard.
I felt myself falling for what seemed like seconds. The whole time, something clawed at my head.
Thud. I landed hard and threw the creature off my face. It yowled and I knew it was a cat. Candy pelted me with the force of driving hail, like busted piñata guts.
I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, but nothing was broken. Though, I figured it would be a few minutes before I could stand on it again.
Everything was pitch black. The only sound was the soft echo of the cat hissing. Carefully, I felt around for the camera. The floor was cold, metal, and sticky. It was barren except for fun-sized candy bars and Smarties scattered across the floor.
First, I found the battery. It had a large crack along its case. I figured I'd be lucky if it worked. Once I located the camera, I used my jeans to wipe the gunk off my hands, and snapped the battery back into place. The spotlight flickered on.
The cat hissed again. It stood, hair on end, a few feet away from me in the corner. Actually, it wasn't a corner; there were no corners. We were in some sort of circular holding tank. This better not be part of Chris's plan, I thought.
I started recording, just for the heck of it. As I panned around the tank, I knew I wouldn't be able to climb back up. It must have been ten or fifteen feet high, with rusty but smooth sides.
Putting one hand on a wall, I stood up. It hurt to stand on my right ankle, but it wasn't sprained, not badly anyway.
"Chris!" I yelled, shocked at how frightened my voice sounded.
I stopped the tape and turned the light off. I could just make out a faint glow coming from the broken stairwell. It was way up there. I was lucky I hadn't really gotten messed up.
I hollered to Chris for about five minutes before I stopped. I figured he thought it was real funny to make me wait. Or maybe, he was too scared to come in this place at night and ran off to get help. Either way, he was toast when I got out of here.
After a while, I got used to the darkness and the cat got used to me. It must have been wild because it wouldn't let me pet it, but at least it stopped hissing.
I sat and ate all the candy in reach, only turning the light on to make sure that I wasn't eating an Almond Joy or when the house spoke. And this house had lots to say. Creaks, moans, and thumps regularly bellowed from its gut.
Finally, when all the Snickers were gone, I heard a voice.
"M-m-i-k-e," it said feebly.
"Chris, I'm down here!" I yelled up.
"Mike, where are you?" His voice a little firmer.
"I fell through the stairs. Be careful you don't fall in."
A second later, a flashlight blinded me. "Dude, what happened?" Chris said.
"It was your stupid trap and this stupid cat. I slipped and the stairs gave way."
"My trap didn't have a cat," he said blankly.
"It was a stray -just get me out of here."
"Man that's deep. Hey, I remember seeing an old ladder upstairs. I can hand it down to you."
"Good. Just don't fall in."
"No problem, I'll jump over the hole."
"Be careful," I yelled as I pointed the camera's light up at the hole.
I saw him jump over the broken stairs and heard a thud as he landed. Then I heard something unexpected. Chattering, like champagne glasses clinking.
"Aah!" Instantly, I knew what had happened.
I stepped back against the wall of the tank. Just as a big dark mass went flying past me.
"Ouch!" Chris screamed as the cat broke his fall. It screamed too and jumped at me, then leaped away.
"Oh, man. I broke my leg."
"What, you're joking?"
"No, I heard it crack." I could hear crying in his voice. This wasn't part of his game.
"You idiot. What were you thinking?"
"I forgot about my ghost. I jumped over the hole and hit the tripwire. It flew down and startled me."
"You're a genius. Hold on, I've gotta get this on tape." I turned the camera on record and pointed it at him crumpled on the floor. "Oh, Chris, oh no." Blood pooled thick and dark from his leg.
"I told you it was broken, you butt-wad."
"This is bad. We might have to yell for days before anyone hears us. How loud was I from out there?"
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. "Tell me you weren't yelling."
"What, I was yelling at the top of my lungs."
"We're hosed. I didn't hear a thing." I could hear crying in his voice again.
"Just calm down, we'll think this out." Now the camera was shaking in my hands.
"Mike, there's no way out of here. No one can hear us. The house is boarded up. We're never going to get out."
*
"He was right. I think, it's been seven days now. This must be an old oil tank. We tried to climb out, but Chris can't even stand. There's nothing left to eat, even the Almond Joys were gone days ago, and we've had no water except for a pack of Nik-L-Nips," I record into the video camera.
"Chris is passing in and out of consciousness. When he's awake he keeps talking about his dad coming to take him to a monster truck show." I clear my throat. "I hope someday, someone finds this tape."
"Ohh," he moans.
"Chris, you okay, buddy?"
"Mike?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you."
"What is it, dude?"
"You owe me twenty bucks."
"You never give up. We agreed we're even when we drew straws to see who'd fix dinner a few days ago, remember?" Well, at least the cat had come in handy.
* * * * *
The Price of Friendship
What’s a best friend worth? You’re asking the right guy, that’s for sure. For my former best friend Joey, it was exactly $189--the price of a new pair of Kobe Bryant Slam-dunk high-tops.
It started as we were walking home from school last week. Joey was complaining his mom wouldn’t fork out two hundred bucks for a pair of Kobe Bryant Slam-dunk high-tops. Personally, I couldn’t blame her. That kind of money could be spent on something important, like a battery-powered pitching machine.
A bunch of guys I knew were standing around trading baseball cards. I’m always on the lookout for a good card, so we stopped to have a look.
There was this older kid doing all the trading. He had everything: a minor league Mark Maguire, an old Will Clark. Guys were snapping up cards left and right, but giving nothing in return.
“Got a ‘95 A-Rod I wanta trade.” I pulled some cards out of my backpack.
“Hold on boys, be with you in a moment.” The trader’s smile reminded me of a used car salesman. He even smelled oily.
The crowd dispersed and several hundred dollars worth of cards walked away. This guy had a serious collection.
“So, you’re looking to make a trade?”
“Wow, that’s a J.D. Drew hologram card. Man, I want that one, but I didn’t bring my cards,” Joey said.
“I’m not trading for cards. I’m looking for something... a little less tangible.” He handed Joey the card. “You can have it for, say, two hours.”
“Two hours, what, then give it back?” Joey looked just as confused as I was.
“No, for just two hours of your slightly used, second-hand memories. No big deal.”
“Umm, Okay. How you going to collect on that?” I was almost laughing.
“Will it hurt?” Joey started putting the card down.
The trader broke out with a big toothy laugh. We chuckled nervously with him.
“Naw, won’t hurt a bit.”
“How about two hours of math class?”
He laughed again, but it just didn't sound friendly. “Not math class, not memories you actually need. In fact, you’ll never even miss them.”
“Sounds good to me.” Joey pocketed the card.
“How about your friend? Anything you need to round out your collection?”
He did have an impressive collection, but not the one card I laid awake at night thinking about. “A Sammy Sosa rookie card.”
“I might be able to help you out, let’s see...” He dug around in his backpack.
“Here we go.” Enclosed in a protective case was the card of my dreams. “It’s signed, too.”
“Wow,” Joey gawked as I took the card and held it reverently in the palms of my hands--I could never afford this.
“How many hours for a card like that?” asked Joey.
“Maybe I could sell the memory of my little sister,” I joked, but didn’t laugh. This card was no laughing matter.
“Would it be a big deal if you forgot your little sister? She’d still be just as big a pain; you’d just forget the misery she’s put you through.”
“I don’t think so.” I had no love for my little sister, but I didn’t want to forget her, besides, if Mom found out, she'd give me one of her lectures on the importance of family.
“No sisters then, no family. Something unimportant, a memory you really don’t need.” He pushed the card towards me.
“Nick, take the card and let’s go.” Joey obviously didn’t think he could collect.
“Listen to your friend -it’s a one of a kind card.”
I slowly closed my hands round the card like I was closing a prayer book. Joey grabbed my arm and pulled me along.
“Don’t forget,” the trader called out, “all trades are final.”
"Man, I can't believe our luck." Joey smiled as he looked down at his new found treasure.
When I got home there was a strange dog roaming around the yard. He kept barking and jumping. I wasn’t normally afraid of dogs. I’d wanted one for years, but this dog had me spooked.
“Get out of here, go home!” I ordered, but he kept jumping on me as I made my way to the door.
“Nick, is that you?” Dad hollered from the kitchen. “Did you feed Max?”
Maximilian--the name I had set aside for a dog. Were my parents surprising me or…
“I swear. You never take care of that dog. Why just tonight I almost stepped in a pile of-"
I looked down at the Sosa card and for a second I thought I might faint.
The next morning, I met Joey at our usual corner.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what?”
“The card, what did you forget?”
Joey laughed. “Oh, right. That guy was such a dingle-head.”
“Seriously, you forgot nothing?”
“Well, not that I remember anyway.” He started to laugh, then stopped. “No way. You forget something?”
“Max,” I said coldly.
“You forgot to feed Max again, classic.”
“No, I forgot him entirely; I didn’t even know I had a dog.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Still, that card was worth it, right?”
I didn’t reply.
On the way home from school, we ran into the trader again. He was just finishing up with some kids I didn't recognize.
“Care to do some more business?” he asked with this trademark smile.
“Don’t think so,” I said.
“I’m not trading cards. I’m offering cash today.”
“Cash?” Joey suddenly stopped.
“Yep, cold hard cash, in exchange for a few insignificant memories.”
“Go on Nick, I’ll catch up.”
“Joey, let’s just go. You’re liable to forget your own name.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You already got your signed Sosa.”
I tried to make him come with me, but I knew it was a lost cause. Joey really wanted those shoes.
The next morning, Joey didn’t show up at our usual corner. It wasn’t till recess that I caught up with him. He was wearing those stupid Kobe Bryant high-tops.
“Nice shoes,” I said sarcastically.
“Thanks, they're only making 100,000 pairs.” He twirled his shoe like a fashion model. “By the way, I’m Joey. Are you new around here?”
At first I thought he was joking,
then my heart sank. Even if Joey didn’t remember, I knew what he'd
traded to get those shiny new sneakers--I thought I was worth more, a
lot more.
* * * * *
"I hate the way this place smells," Jake said. Our shoes squeaked as we walked across the linoleum titled floor, down a sterile hallway to the last room on the right.
"Yep, menthol and vitamins--never a good combo."
"This is your fault, Alex. If you weren't so desperate to get close to Shelby Summers we wouldn’t have volunteered for old fart duty."
"How was I to know the girls would end up visiting female patients and we’d have to entertain some old geezer?"
We gently knocked on Mr. Fitch's door. "Could be worse. Least we got assigned an interesting old guy," I added.
"Maybe we can get him to tell us another war story." Jake opened the door.
The walls of his room were littered with old black & white photos. On his dresser he had a small case with military medals. Unlike the rest of the center, his room smelled like menthol and cigarettes.
Mr. Fitch was some sort of war hero. That is, before he turned into an old grumpy dude. He once complained the hospital wouldn't let him hang his M1 Garand on the wall.
"Hey Mr. Fitch," we both said in unison.
Slowly, he turned from the window. "You're late!" he pounded his cane with a loud thud.
If you could just get past his rude, angry exterior, he wasn't half-bad.
"Got any good war stories for us today?" Jake said.
"War stories. I'm not going to fill your little heads with stuff like that. It'll give you nightmares, that's what it'll do."
I hadn't said anything to Jake, but the last time we were here he told us a story, about the Battle of the Bulge, that really did give me nightmares. He was captured by the Germans and, well I don't want to give you nightmares, but they did some pretty awful things.
"You two lunkheads going to sit down or just stand there looking like Mormons?"
"I think you mean morons," Jake said.
"No, I mean Mormons. They're always coming around here being all nice, passing out those Mormon Bibles."
"This is my math book."
"Hmm, maybe you are a moron." He shook his head.
Well, today's visit was going well. I hoped Shelby was giving her granny a foot massage--it'd serve her right for tricking me into this.
"Did I tell you boys I had a boil removed last week?"
"Umm, no," I said, shooting a look of horror at Jake.
"Let me show you-" He turned around and grabbed his trousers.
"No, please! That's okay." He stopped, turned and glared at me. I quickly added, "It's just stuff like that makes me a little queasy."
"You mean blood? Why, you should have seen it on D-day the whole shore turned red."
"No, it's more sores on old guys' rears that make me want to puke," I whispered to Jake.
The three of us sat and talked about nothing in particular. Mostly we just listened to Fitch tell us how lazy kids are today. Jake kept checking his watch. He claimed it was a Rolex, I think it was a fake. Either way, it never left his wrist.
"So, what are you two dressing up as for Halloween?" he asked. "Let me guess, pimps or gangbangers. Isn't that what you kids are into today?"
"I'm going as Iron Man," Jake said.
"You mean a guy in an iron lung?" Mr. Fitch looked Jake in the eye. "That's just sick."
"I know, isn't it!" Jake said, bouncing up in his chair.
It looked like Mr. Fitch was thinking about taking a whack at him, so I cut in. "I'm going as a monster."
"What sort of monster? Not one of those comic book villains, I hope."
"No one reads comics anymore," Jake said.
I didn't mention that I still picked up the latest Punisher when I had enough spare cash. Jake just couldn't read well enough to get into them.
"No, just your standard evil monster. Going to paint my face green, get some fake scars, and lots of blood. It should gross the girls out."
"Sounds like a goblin. Did I ever tell you about the time I fought off a goblin?"
Oh, we had to hear this. "You mean an actual goblin?" Mr. Fitch sometimes made up inappropriate names to refer to Germans, Japanese, and anyone else that had fought against, or in his eyes, somehow offended the U.S.
"Well, a hobgoblin. Don't think there's no real goblins left. But don’t be fooled by their size; a hobgoblin's one fierce creature."
"Do tell." Jake was already on the edge of his seat, hands folded in his lap, like some sort of preacher's pet listening eagerly in Sunday school.
"It was right around Operation Market Garden. Montgomery had just about everyone tied up in the offensive. Those of us in Eastern France were spread thin and under supplied. A buddy and I, Smith, Second lieutenant Daryl Smith was his name. We were stationed way back in the hills outside the nearest city. The brass was worried the Krauts might cause trouble up there. "He stood up. "Did I ever tell you about the Werwolfs?"
"No, but I want to hear about the goblin, not about people turning into dogs," Steve scowled.
"The Werwolfs were dogs all right, but I'll tell you about them another time." Fitch scanned down the hall, then closed his door. He sat by the open window, got out a little flat pouch of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette.
"Smith and I had leave, just a day off really, but it took a whole day to get into town. So we decided to go look for some spoils of war."
"What are spoils of war?" I asked.
"To the victor goes the spoils. In war, the winner gets to take whatever they want. We just had to fill out a form and we could take just about anything back home. Some of the guys even brought back wives—poor fools."
"You mean you could walk up to someone and just take whatever they had?" Jake asked.
"No, no. Least not from the French. Though I once saw a GI, just a private too, rip an Iron Cross right off an SS officer's neck. Made me smile." He reached down under his mattress, pulled out a metal lighter, lit up his cigarette, and as he put it to his lips, his mouth turned up in a twisted, weather-beaten smirk.
We sat quietly while he took a couple deep puffs.
"When they retreated, the Germans tried to carry off as much as they could. But they ended up ditching a lot of the stuff. They'd burn it, or dump it in the bushes off the side of a road."
Jake and I sat there looking into his leathery wrinkled face like he was some sort of mad god. He'd seen more in his life than everyone else I knew put together.
"We were way back in the hills. I was a little worried myself. You never knew when you'd run into some trouble. We hadn't found a thing and I wanted to head back, so we could make it in time to grab a few pints."
Mr. Fitch broke into a nasty coughing spell. Jake looked over at me. These things were violent. Each time it was like rolling dice to see if he'd just fall over dead. I hoped I wouldn't be around the day he finally rolled craps.
"Maybe you should give up smoking," I said.
He looked at me, then down to his cane, and back into my eyes. Sure, he was like 100 or something, but he was a tough old fart. If he ever came at me with that cane, no question: I'd run.
"Smith wouldn't leave." He flicked the ash of his cigarette onto the floor. "Always listen to your gut -you kids remember that. Smith kept saying, 'I've got this feeling; something's out there, just waiting for me to find it.' It's just too bad…" Mr. Fitch took a long drag, then put his cigarette out. "Turned out he was right." He looked at his pouch like he was considering rolling another, but folded it up and put it away.
"Sure enough, a little way off the main path, we saw something sparkling. Smith ran over and snatched it up; a gold ring. 'See, I told you,' Smith bragged as he started walking back into the bushes." Fitch leaned in towards us and his face darkened.
"Now I had a feeling in my gut too. I said, 'come on let's go'. What if we run into some Jerries out here? He ignored me and disappeared into the brush.
“I was about to head back without him, when I heard a scream. It was a blood-curdling, begging scream. The kind a man only makes when he's dying. It's something that you'll never forget once you hear." He closed his eyes like he was trying to block out the sound.
"I ran through the brush as quickly as I could. When I got to the clearing, my heart stopped. Blood littered the ground and there was this little monster, at most maybe three and a half feet high. He had a small wooden spear, with a long metal tip, sharp as a razor. I don't even know how to describe what he did to Smith. Ribbons, just a pile of ribbons, like discarded bows on Christmas morning.
"I got out my sidearm and shot at him. But the little bugger was fast. He ducked and I just winged him. I tried to fire again, but my gun stove-piped."
"What's that?" Jake asked.
"It jammed. It only took a second to clear, but he was gone."
"No, way. I don't believe it," I said.
"Neither did I, at first. Kept telling myself I'd imagined it, that Smith'd gone AWOL. But you see hobgoblins hold a grudge. They'll stalk a man just for catching a glimpse of them. You can imagine how ticked this little toad was at being shot at."
"Did you kill it?" Jake asked.
"Heck no. Hobgoblins are magic. That's why no one ever sees one, or at least no one lives to tell about it."
"That's a great story Mr. Fitch. I think you might be getting a little senile, but still a great story," I said.
"If you were a year older I'd whup your butt."
"You'd beat me up if I was fifteen?"
He didn't take his eyes off me, but reached into his pocket, pulled out his tobacco pouch and started rolling another cigarette.
"You know, for a little turd, you're okay."
Coming from him, that was almost a complement.
"But that's not the end of the story. Lord, I wish it were. That mini-monster followed me all the way back to Kansas. Kept trying to get me alone. That's how they do it. They get you alone and then rip you to shreds."
"Couldn't you have killed it? I mean, when you were younger?"
"Not a chance, not by myself. These things are quick enough to dodge a bullet and vicious. Plus they use magic. Maybe with a few buddies we could have taken him, never by myself." He shuffled his feet nervously.
"But I never had any buddies. Anytime I'd get to know someone, he'd take them out." He looked down and for a second, I thought I saw something other than anger in those eyes.
"But you're always alone when we come to visit. Why doesn't he just get you in your sleep?"
"He's not going to come waltzing in here. No, goblins are afraid of civilization. Sure, they'll wait just off a lonely stretch of road, or the edge of a park. But they're too terrified of being seen or caught. That's why you don't catch me out taking walks with the others."
"I figured they just didn't like being berated."
Mr. Fitch puffed away, ignoring me.
"Sixty-two years I've stayed one step ahead of him. Occasionally, I've spotted him out of the corner of my eye. But you want me to tell yeah how I really know he's still after me?"
We both nodded. "He leaves bits and pieces of Smith for me to find."
"Gross, like body parts?" Jake yelled.
"No, nothing like that, not anymore. Usually just a piece of his uniform some fabric, a pin, maybe a button. I haven't heard from him in a of couple years. Maybe he's given up and is looking for someone else to torment." He stared out the window silently before tossing the butt of his cigarette, right as a nurse came in. "Just can't chance it."
She sniffed the air. "Mr. Fitch, have you been smoking again?" She put a hand on her hip as she sat down a stack of sheets.
"Me, no. It was these two hooligans. I told them it wasn't allowed. It was reefer, I think." Jake and I looked at each other, speechless.
"Don't worry, boys. We know all about Mr. Fitch's imagination." She walked over and closed the window. "It's probably time for you two to be going, though."
We both jumped out of our chairs. "Can you sign our volunteer card?"
"Sure," she said, taking our papers.
"Be sure to put on there that they were high on the pot."
The nurse rolled her eyes. "Come on, Mr. Fitch. It's time for dinner."
We walked out.
"What about my sponge bath?" we heard him say as we walked away.
"You believe that old fool thought we'd buy that rubbish?" Jake said, kicking a rock as we walked along the dirt path next to the road. We had a good mile hike back to my house.
"Just some story he made up to explain why he doesn't have any friends."
We'd only been walking a few minutes, when Jake suddenly plopped down on the ground.
"What the heck?" I said.
"It's a fiver. I found a five-dollar bill."
"Cool," I said, thinking how it could have easily been me who spotted it. "Come on, I bet we're late. What time is it?"
"Wait just a sec." Jake walked over to the bushes along the side of the road. "Look, a twenty -finders keepers," he sang.
"No way."
"Hey, there's a path back here. I wonder if there's any more."
Something wasn't right. My stomach started knotting up like a pretzel. I remembered what Fitch had told us about trusting your gut. "I don't think this is such a good idea. Let's get going."
"What? There could be a whole stash back there."
"Remember what Mr. Fitch said."
Jake laughed at me. "That old coot? You believe that bull? Come on. I'll share anything else we find."
He disappeared into a thick wall of bushes. "Jake, come on-"
A scream pierced the air. Instantly, I knew it was the same sound Smith had made all those years ago. I fought the urge to throw up.
I wanted to run, get away. But another desperate scream rang out and I knew I couldn't leave Jake. I grabbed a huge dead tree branch and plowed through the bushes.
He was already fleeing but I caught a glimpse: small, pale green, misshapen. Looking down, I saw this huge patch of ivy all covered in red, gooey blood, Jake wasn't anywhere to be seen. I threw up.
"Jake!" I yelled as I started walking backwards.
I walked to the edge of the road. It took me a minute, but I found my voice and hollered for him several more times. My whole body shook as I waited for a reply. Nothing.
I felt bad leaving, but Jake wasn't there anymore. He probably wasn't anywhere anymore.
I walked home in the middle of the street, only moving to the edge when cars came by.
I wasn't sure what to tell my parents. I was still shaking; they'd know something was wrong.
Turned out no one was home. I'd have to go around back to get the spare key.
I started around and hesitated. Our house backed to a greenbelt, overgrown and wild, just the sort of place a hobgoblin would find homey. I thought about waiting on the porch for Mom and Dad, but the light was fading and they'd probably be out for hours.
I kept my eyes down as I ran around back. I reached into the flowerpot for the spare key, but something else was there too. I took it out. Instantly, I knew what it was.
I dropped it and gasped in horror.
Jake's wristwatch, and like I said, it never left his wrist.
* * * * *
Super
Zombie Juice Mega Bomb – Extended Preview
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."
Goose bumps 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.
Chapter
4 – Zombie Snot
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.
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