Why I Quit Zombie School Page 8

  She glanced away. “I just liked you,” she said. “It’s been so long since I hung out with a living kid. So I tried to help you keep your secret.”

  “But —”

  She raised a hand to silence me. “They’re going to be waiting for you,” she said.

  I swallowed. “You mean I can’t go back to my room?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “They’re going to be waiting for you in the morning. They said they’re going to give you the final test. The test to see once and for all if you really are undead.”

  “Oh, wow.” I shook my head. A cold shudder ran down my back.

  I grabbed her arm. “Franny — tell me. What’s the final test?”

  Her eyes locked on mine. “Okay,” she whispered. “This is the final test. First, they throw you in the old stone quarry and force you to stay underwater.”

  “F-for how long?” I stammered.

  “At least twenty minutes,” she answered. “But there’s a lot more, Matt. A kid from the high school is going to run his SUV over you. Then they will throw you off Leapers’ Cliff. You know — that rock cliff overlooking town?”

  My mouth hung open. I could feel the blood pulsing at my temples.

  “That’s the final test?” I croaked. “They drown me. They run an SUV over me. And they heave me over a cliff?”

  Franny nodded. “A lot of kids pass the test easily.”

  “But I can’t!” I cried. “I can’t pass that test. I’m alive!”

  She started walking toward the school. I hurried to catch up to her.

  “Franny,” I said. “What can I do? How can I survive that test?”

  She turned to me, her eyes wide with sadness. “I don’t know,” she said. “I sure hope you think of something. Good luck, Matt.”

  31

  I sneaked back into my room. I had a few bags of potato chips hidden in a dresser drawer. I gulped them down for my dinner.

  I kept all the lights off in case someone came looking for me. I climbed into bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep.

  My brain was churning. I could almost hear it chugging away in my head, sending out all kinds of crazy thoughts.

  There had to be a way to survive the test. If only it didn’t involve drowning, getting run over, and being tossed over a cliff.

  I was drenched in sweat. I jumped out of bed in a total panic. It was two in the morning. I knew I’d be awake all night. But I was too frightened to think clearly.

  I paced back and forth in my tiny room. Finally, my eyes landed on the rubber hand I’d used at the party. That hand got me out of trouble — at least for a while.

  Maybe … maybe …

  I began to get an idea.

  What if I distracted them? What if I used my horror makeup and all my horror stuff? What if I did it right this time?

  Maybe I could make myself look so much like a zombie, they wouldn’t bother with the test.

  That was my idea.

  A desperate idea, for sure. But what else could I try?

  I went to work. I wanted to turn myself into something horrifying, a creature of the undead.

  I ripped long gashes in my jeans and T-shirt. I painted a big, blood-soaked open wound on my chest.

  I studied it in the mirror. The bleeding wound looked so real, it made my stomach leap.

  I dragged out these funny trick shoes my dad bought me in a Hollywood costume store. The shoes were cut in front. They made it look as if my toes had been sliced off.

  I sat down in front of the mirror with my makeup kit and fake skin pieces. I worked slowly and carefully. I gave myself the best horror makeup job I’d ever done.

  My chin and cheeks dripped with decaying globs of skin. I gave myself one empty eye socket, just a deep black hole where my eye should be. I marked deep gashes in my throat. I put blood-soaked streaks in my hair.

  That was all good, but I wasn’t finished. I turned one arm into a bloody stump. Then I hid the other arm under my T-shirt.

  Nice touch, I thought.

  I studied myself in the mirror. “Disgusting,” I murmured to myself. “Totally gross and disgusting.”

  I had turned myself into the most zombie-looking zombie in the history of zombies.

  But would it be enough to impress the real zombies in my school?

  Would it be enough to save my life?

  I’d soon find out. It was morning. I opened the door. They were all waiting for me outside my room.

  I staggered toward them, my heart pounding.

  Could I fool them?

  32

  I lurched into the hall. I grunted like a zombie. I stared at them with my one good eye.

  There had to be at least fifty kids jamming the narrow hall. They had all come to watch me take the big test.

  They backed up as I staggered out of my room.

  No one spoke. No one made a sound.

  Were they shocked? Were they impressed? Was my plan working?

  I held my bloodstained stump in front of me and walked like a zombie. Some of the kids were staring at the open wound on my chest. Others studied my decaying, one-eyed face.

  Silence.

  Why didn’t anyone speak?

  I realized I had stopped breathing. The suspense was too much for me. I knew my life was on the line.

  I let my breath out in a long whoosh.

  Still silence.

  And then … a boy started to laugh.

  The laughter spread quickly. In seconds, everyone was laughing.

  I gasped. Waves of laughter rang out. Loud, high-pitched laughter that echoed down the long, narrow hall.

  “Hey — what’s so funny?” I choked out.

  But they were laughing too loud to hear me. And suddenly, I was being lifted off the floor.

  Angelo and his friend Mikey hoisted me onto their shoulders. My head nearly bumped the ceiling.

  Kids cheered and laughed some more. They clapped and bumped fists. Angelo and Mikey carried me down the hall. Everyone followed. Like a big parade.

  But — why? Why were they laughing? I was desperate to know.

  Did it mean I was okay? Did it mean they weren’t going to drown me, run over me, and toss me off a cliff?

  What was so funny?

  If only they would tell me!

  And then I heard something that made me choke. I heard a girl shout: “Take him to the Reviver Room!”

  That made kids start to laugh again. Angelo and Mikey gripped my legs and bounced me on their shoulders. We turned the corner and headed down the stairs.

  “The Reviver Room!”

  “Fix him! Revive him!”

  “Reviver Room! Reviver Room!”

  Their cheers and cries followed us down the stairs. Now we were leading the way down the hall past the gym.

  “Wait! Stop!” I screamed. I couldn’t hide my panic. My voice burst out high and shrill.

  I looked down at Angelo. “Why?” I cried. “Why are you taking me there?”

  “You’re totally messed up, Matt,” Angelo said. “You’re wounded and you’re decaying.”

  “You’re coming apart,” Mikey chimed in. “The Reviver Room will restore you. It will put you back together.”

  No, it won’t! I thought. The Reviver Room won’t restore me. It’ll KILL me!

  My makeup job was TOO GOOD.

  “Put me down!” I cried. “Come on, guys! Put me down!”

  The two big hulks gripped my legs tightly. They ignored my pleas.

  The door to the Reviver Room came into view.

  If only they’d put me down, I could make a run for it. Maybe hide in a closet or something till my parents came to get me.

  “Put me down! Let me walk there!” I screamed. I twisted and squirmed. I tried to kick my way free.

  But Angelo and Mikey held tight and refused to let me down.

  We stopped in front of the Reviver Room door. A girl pulled it open. And the two boys heaved me into the room.

  I stumbled toward the me
tal chair in the middle of the room. The red light washed over me as I struggled to catch my balance.

  In the hall, the kids cheered and laughed. Then the door slammed shut, and I was left in silence.

  My heart thudded in my chest. I turned to the door. I pounded on it with both fists.

  “Let me out! Let me OUT of here!” I screamed. “I quit! I QUIT zombie school! Let me out! I QUIT!”

  Could they hear me out in the hall? I don’t think so.

  I grabbed the door handle. I pushed it. Then I pulled it. The door didn’t budge.

  I gasped when I heard a cough.

  I spun around and glared into the red light. I wasn’t alone in there.

  An old man with a scratched-up bald head and a scraggly white beard stood watching me from the back wall. I squinted hard. Part of his nose was missing, and he had only one ear.

  He studied me silently. Then he raised a pair of handcuffs.

  “Who — who are you?” I stammered.

  “I’m the Reviver,” he replied in a scratchy old-man’s voice. “Sit down. Come.”

  He motioned to the metal chair with the handcuffs. “Sit down. Only take a few seconds,” he said. “Make you all better.”

  33

  “Uh … I don’t belong in here,” I choked out. I was shaking so hard, I could barely speak.

  The old man stared at my face. I guess he was looking at the deep ruts, the decayed lumps of skin, the missing eye.

  “I’m not a zombie,” I said.

  “Fix you up,” he repeated. He waved the handcuffs. “Sit. Only hurts a little while. Then, make you all better.”

  He stepped closer. “What’s a little pain, kid? You already dead — right?”

  He didn’t give me a chance to answer. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me down on the chair. He looked old and feeble. But he had amazing strength.

  I glanced around the tiny closet of a room. Nowhere to run. No way to escape.

  “Make you all better,” the Reviver muttered again. “Only hurts little while.”

  I froze in panic. I couldn’t move. I shut my eyes. I really didn’t want to see what happened next.

  Next thing I knew, I was handcuffed to the chair with a metal helmet on my head.

  I twisted around and saw the Reviver step up to a big black switch on the back wall. “I be more careful this time,” he said.

  “Huh? Careful?”

  He nodded. “Too much power. Last boy end up as burned toast. I be more careful.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to reply.

  He raised his hand and pulled down the switch.

  34

  I shut my eyes. I gritted my teeth so hard, my whole jaw hurt.

  I heard a loud hum.

  Then I gasped as a buzz shot through my body.

  Whoa. Wait. It was weak. It didn’t hurt at all. Just a mild tingle. It died after a few seconds.

  I opened my eyes. I started to breathe again.

  “No juice!” the Reviver screamed angrily. He slammed the wall with his fist. “No juice! No juice! The machine — busted!”

  He stepped up to my chair and raised the helmet from my head. Then he clicked open the handcuffs.

  “No juice,” he repeated, shaking his bald head. “I use it up on burned toast kid.”

  I started to jump up. But he pushed me back into the chair.

  “Sit still,” he said. “I fix machine. I fix. A few minutes. Then we will try again.”

  I hunched in the chair. I felt weak from fright. I had survived — so far.

  But now what?

  Every once in a while, a kid has to be brilliant — right?

  Every once in a while, a kid has to have a brilliant idea.

  Now it was my turn to be brilliant. I had an idea.

  I jumped up from the chair. “It worked!” I cried happily.

  I did a little dance. I leaped up and down. I pranced around the chair. “It worked!” I shouted. “I’m revived! Look! I’m all fixed! I’m revived!”

  I wiped the black makeup off my eye. I poked my hand out from my shirtsleeve.

  The old man looked up from the controls on the back wall. He squinted at me. “It worked?”

  “Yes!” I cried happily. “Yes!” I jumped up and down some more. I pumped my fists in the air. “Thank you! You saved me!”

  The Reviver stepped up to me. He pinched my arm. Then he pinched my nose.

  “Yes. You are fixed,” he said. “I see you are like new.”

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  “Go, go, go,” he said. “Go back to class. See you again.”

  I don’t think so, I thought.

  A week later, I started my new school.

  How did I convince my parents to let me out of zombie school?

  It wasn’t easy. But come on. I was clever enough to fool the zombies. So I was also smart enough to convince my parents I needed out.

  Actually, I just begged and begged till they said okay.

  Now here I was walking down the shiny, bright halls of my brand-new boarding school. Safe and sound. No undead kids following me around. No zombies anywhere in sight.

  Wow.

  A fresh start. New kids. New teachers. A whole new life.

  Was I happy? Was I excited? Do you even have to ask?

  I stepped up to a shiny silver water fountain and bent my head to take a drink.

  Whoa. Wait. I jerked my head back as a thick red liquid poured from the faucet.

  Was the fountain rusty?

  I stepped away from the fountain and continued walking. The Dining Hall was at the end of the corridor.

  I peeked inside. Kids sat at tables drinking from big bowls. I stepped closer. The bowls all contained a red liquid.

  Weird.

  I turned back to the door. A man in a brown suit strode up to me. “I’m the dean of students. Are you Matt Krinsky?” he asked. When he spoke, small, pointed fangs pointed down from his upper lip.

  “Uh … yes,” I said.

  He stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Dracula Middle School,” he said.

  WELCOME BACK TO THE HALL OF HORRORS

  Well, Matt. Fangs for telling me your story. Bad news. Sounds like your new school may be a pain in the neck!

  Sorry. I like to have my little joke. Your zombie school may not have put you on the Honor Roll. But it certainly put you on the Horror Roll.

  Thank you for bringing your story to me. I am the Story-Keeper, and I will keep your story here in the Hall of Horrors where it belongs.

  And now, here comes a new guest. What is your name? Jack Harmon?

  Why did you bring that cell phone, Jack?

  “There’s someone inside it. Someone in the phone telling me to do horrible, dangerous things.”

  Maybe it’s just a wrong number, Jack. But sit down. You’ve come to the right place. In the Hall of Horrors, There’s Always Room for One More Scream.

  Preview

  Ready for More?

  Here’s another tale from the Hall of Horrors:

  DON’T SCREAM!

  1

  “YOWWWWWWWWW!”

  That’s me, Jack Harmon, screaming my head off. I was on the school bus, heading home, howling in pain. As usual.

  You would scream too if Mick Owens had you in an armlock. Mick shoved my arm up behind me till I heard my bones and muscles snap and pop.

  “YOWWWWWWW!” I repeated.

  Nothing new here. Big Mick and his friend Darryl “The Hammer” Oliva like to beat me up, tease me, and torture me on the bus every afternoon.

  Last week, our sixth grade teacher, Miss Harris, had a long, serious talk in class about bullying. I guess Mick and Darryl were out that day.

  Otherwise, they would know that bullying is bad.

  Why do they do it? Because I’m smaller than them? Because I’m a skinny little guy who looks like a third-grader? Because I scream easily?

  No.

  These two super-hulks like to get up in my face because it’s
FUN.

  They think it’s funny. It makes them laugh. You should see the big grins on their faces whenever I beg and plead for them to pick on someone their own size.

  And then, as soon as I start to scream, it’s belly-laugh time for those two losers.

  One day, I complained to Charlene, the school bus driver. But she said, “I’m a bus driver—not a referee.”

  Not too helpful.

  And so here we were in the narrow aisle at the back of the bus. Mick with a big grin on his red, round-cheeked face. Me with my arm twisted behind my back.

  Darryl watched from his seat. The other kids on the bus faced forward, pretending nothing was happening.

  “YOWWWWWWW!”

  Mick swiped his big fist at my head—and tugged off my Red Sox cap.

  “Hey—give it back!” I cried. I made a grab for it. But he sent it sailing across the aisle to Darryl.

  Darryl caught it and waved it at me. “Nice cap, dude.”

  I dove for it. Stumbled and fell halfway down the aisle. Darryl passed my cap back to his good buddy.

  I turned, breathing hard. “Give it back.”

  “It’s MY cap now,” Mick said. He slapped it onto his curly blond hair. His head is so big, the cap didn’t fit.

  I dove again, hands outstretched. I almost grabbed the cap back, but Mick heaved it to Darryl. I swung around to Darryl, and he tossed it over my head back to Mick.

  The bus slowed, then bumped to a stop. I bounced hard into the back of my seat. I glanced out the window. We were at Mick’s house.

  “Give me my Red Sox cap,” I said. I stuck out my hand.

  “You want it?” Mick grinned at me. “You really want it? Here.”

  He held the cap upside down in front of him and spit into it. A big white sticky glob.

  “Here,” he said. “You still want it?”

  I stared into the cap. Stared at the disgusting white glob of spit.

  Darryl hee-hawed like a donkey. He thinks everything Mick does is a riot.

  “You still want your cap?” Mick repeated. He held it out of my reach. “Tell you what, Jacko. Give me your watch and you can have your cap.”

  “That’s totally fair,” Darryl said.