The Saga Of Tom Stinson (Book 1): Summer School Zombocalypse (2 page)

“
There’s Mr. Yee,” the pimple-faced kid broke the silence of the room. “He’s got a first aid kit.”

Mr. Yee was a paramedic before he became the gym teacher. He moved towards the pilot, his blue gloved hand waving back and forth as a signal to the pilot to stay where he was. He knelt down, pulling a silver blanket from his kit and shaking it out. Tom felt hopeful; he liked Mr. Yee. He’d been in his gym class for the past three semesters. He didn’t give them a lot of dumb things to do. His ‘Give me five’ routine was easy, five times around the school, then they would break and play basketball.

As Mr. Yee neared the pilot, he held out the blanket. The pilot shifted from one foot to another. He turned to Mr. Yee and swayed as if he would to fall over. Then his body coiled like a spring and he jumped on Mr. Yee, knocking him over and landing on top of him.

Mr. Yee’s arms went up in defense, and his face contorted in fear. The pilot’s head tilted up toward the sky, and then his jaw unhinged, like a wild flower waking with the morning sun, falling down and clamping onto Mr. Yee’s shoulder.

Mr. Yee howled in pain.

“
What is that? What
was
that?” the news camera kid demanded.

Half fleeing and half fighting, Mr. Yee jabbed at the pilot with his legs and hooked with his fists. He broke free in a flailing crab walk, scrambling to his feet. Free from the pilot’s grasp, Mr. Yee's mouth hung open as he staggered back; his white shirt was red with blood. He raised his eyes at the pilot, who rose up from the ground and stood before him.

The girl next to Tom screamed. She grabbed onto his shirt and buried her face in his chest. “The pilot bit Mr. Yee!”

Tom’s heart beat in his ears and his shirt felt two sizes too small. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Mr. Yee tried to run but the pilot lunged for him again, grabbing hold of his foot. He fell, twisted onto his back and kicked at the pilot again. The pilot was too fast and clawed his way on top of Mr. Yee.

Mr. Richards yelled again; he pushed students away from the window, “Get in your seats and calm down! Help is on the way.”

“
Don’t you see what’s happening out there?” Tom asked.

“
Sit down, Stinson.” Mr. Richards pushed him.

The faint promise of emergency vehicles sounded, or was it their imagination? No one moved. No one spoke. Astonished, the news camera kid raised his brow and faced the teacher. He spoke softly. “The pilot is eating Mr. Yee.”

Across the playground, three teachers ran to help. As they approached, their pace slowed, and they moved in cautiously. Mr. Yee held his hand out for help. The pilot stood up, his mouth red with blood, chewing a mouthful of Mr. Yee’s flesh. He stepped forward.

Bile spewed from between the leading teacher’s fingers as she saw what the pilot was doing and tried to cover her mouth.

Pushing her aside, the second teacher charged forward with his arms held up like a boxer, kicking the pilot away from Mr. Yee. The pilot's back folded in half and he crumpled to the ground.

The third teacher dropped down, kneeling by Mr. Yee’s side and putting pressure on his shoulder to stop the bleeding. The pilot, unable to stand, crawled across the grass towards Mr. Yee and the teachers. The teacher who knocked the pilot down circled around and grabbed him by the foot, pulling him away and disappearing into the thick black smoke from the plane.

Choking on the smoke, the teachers worked together. They picked up Mr. Yee to carry him to safety. Mr. Yee’s arms shot up, and he took hold of a teacher by the arm, tearing at her shirt. Her mouth opened wide to scream, but the howls of her pain were drowned out by the wails of fire truck sirens pulling into the parking lot. Dropping Mr. Yee, the teachers struggled to get free. They kicked and punched. They tried to pry his hands free, but it was too late.

In the parking lot the firemen and paramedics jumped into action, pulling hoses and carrying rescue gear. They rushed in, but their attempt was stopped cold as the first rescuers fell to the pilot and teachers. Suddenly, they turned and attacked the other firemen and paramedics, all of whom in turn attacked the police officers who just started to arrive. That’s when it got ugly.

Gunshots rang out; rescue workers and teachers fell and got up again, and again. Policemen stood their ground emptying clip after clip.

What the hell,
Tom thought. It was like an old movie he’d watched with his dad. He was held captive by the sight. Not only by what was outside, but what was inside too. It was delirium, confusion, and psychosis all at once.

“
What are they?” the girl standing next to him sobbed.

“
Zombies!” Tom said.

A staccato of rapid pounding on the door momentarily halted the calamity in the classroom. Miles the school security guard burst into the room. His uniform was torn and he was drenched with sweat. His arrival pulled the students’ attention back into the classroom, causing many to realize that what was outside could come inside. They backed away from the windows and the door into the rear corner of the room and huddled against the alphabet-stained wall.

Miles pleaded with the teacher, “Mr. Richards. You gotta come help us man. Help us figure out a way to get the kids outta here. We’ve blocked the west and south entrances, and Miss Betterly went to get one of the school buses and back it up to the north doors.”

Mr. Richards trembled and pointed to his chest. He stammered, “Why me?”

Miles pointed out of the window, his voice cracked in desperation. “Now. You gotta help. It’s madness out there.”

Mr. Richards seemed to come to his senses. “Stinson, bad kids know how to get out of trouble. You’re in charge.”

He pulled his wallet and car keys out of his desk, blankly turned to the class, then followed Miles out of the classroom. The click of the door shutting sent ripples through the class.

“
They’re not coming back!” the pimple-faced kid wailed.

Everyone turned to Tom.

Moments later, Miles and Mr. Richards appeared in the schoolyard, coming from the north doors and leading a small group of students toward the parking lot. They held baseball bats as weapons and folding chairs like shields. Mr. Richards had lost his shirt and Miles hobbled as he moved.

At the window, Tom edged up on his tiptoes. He could see the school bus with its blinkers flashing, moving in reverse toward the doors with the rear emergency door open. The bus bumped up the curb and pushed through the fence.

The news camera kid held his hands up to the sides of his head. “They’re leaving without us? They can’t leave us. We’re kids. They’re supposed to get us out of here.”

“
They’re not leaving us,” Tom said. “They’re going to make it out and then come back for us. That’s what Miles said they were going to do.”

Zombies appeared from behind the outdoor science unit trailer, halting their escape. Miles backed the kids up. Mr. Richards swung his bat wildly and pushed the zombies back with his chair. He lost grip of the bat and disappeared under the zombies. Acting fast, Miles jumped and kicked his way into the zombies, knocking them off Mr. Richards. He aimed his bat and swung with precision, but there were just too many. His leg buckled; he dropped to his knees and disappeared out of sight. The students scattered, running in every direction.

Panicked by what he saw, the news camera kid bolted out of the classroom, slamming the door shut behind him. “I’ll get a teacher.”

Seconds later, wails of terror came from the hall. Tom pressed his face against the classroom door’s window to see. Students stood in the doorway across the hall looking in the direction of the cry. They recoiled and shut their door. A zombie in a fireman’s coat came after them; it pounded on their door.

Tom fell back from the window. “They are in the school. This is bad.”

The pimple-faced kid pushed on the teacher’s desk. “We’ve got to do something or they’re gonna get in here. Block the door.”

Without a word kids helped; they strained against the desk’s weight until its legs, stuck to the floor from years of polish, popped free. The legs creaked loudly as it slid across the floor.

A horrible thought crossed Tom’s mind. “It doesn’t matter, the door opens outward. Blocking it isn’t going to do any good.”

“
Lock it, you gotta lock it,” the huddled kids said in desperation.

The big kid in the striped shirt twisted the lock and moved to the side of the door holding onto the handle. “Dumb locks busted. We can’t lock it.”

“The windows,” alerted a girl. “They’re coming this way.”

The clock: 8:43. Tom paced from the door to the windows. A flood of desperate voices followed him all wanting the same thing, to know what to do.

“
Please don’t let us die.”

“
Do something.”

“
The teacher said you knew what to do.”

The boy in the red shirt wailed. “We can go down the hall to the exit and run across the field.”

Tom waved his arms to get the class’s attention. “Into the zombies? No way. Everyone! Everyone listen! If we go to the class across the hall, we can go out of the window into the lunch area and get away. I’ve done it a hundred times.”

“
What if those things are on the other side of the school?”

“
It’s a risk we have to take,” Tom replied. “The sooner we go, the better our chances.”

Peering through the classroom door window the big kid said, “The zombie in the hall is still by the other door. We can get past him if hit him with a chair.”

The kid in the red shirt opened the window onto the playground. “I’m not waiting for you all to make a decision.”

“
No!” Tom yelled.

The red-shirted boy climbed out of the window and ran across the field.

“
He’ll make it,” called a girl, and went after him. “If we go now, we can too.”

“
No, wait!” Tom pulled her back in.

The red-shirted kid struggled past the zombies, jumping over debris, fire hoses, and the fallen. Then he slipped on the muddy field. The zombies instantly fell on him.

“
He’s dead,” the goth kid said.

Trembling, the pretty boy who used too much hair gel screamed, “No way! No way! I’m not going out there! They’re too fast!”

“
Listen up,” Tom said, imitating the teacher’s voice with all the authority he could manage. “He’s right, they are just too fast. We have to do whatever we can to make it until we get rescued. We can’t go out the windows, we have to hide.”

The goth kid sat down. “We’re dead.”

The pimple-faced kid stacked desks and chairs against the windows. “Nowhere is safe. Help me.”

“
Everyone, plan B,” Tom said. “The library is on the second floor and only has one door. If we can get there, we can use the shelves to block it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom caught the pretty boy gazing at him. He cringed as the boy freaked out and moved toward him. “What are you thinking?” he squealed. “We can’t go out in the hall. They are everywhere. We have to stay together here.”

A semi-circle of students gathered around as Tom pushed the pretty boy away and back pedaled for time. “What am I thinking? I’m thinking that we can’t stay here. We have to take care of ourselves until someone can come and get us. We’re dead if we don’t leave.”

The goth kid crossed his arms. “I knew this would happen.”

Tom picked up a chair and glared at the goth kid. “Shut up. I’m responsible, and we aren’t going to die. We’re going down the hall and upstairs to the library. Get ready. When the door opens I’ll pin the zombie against the door on the other side of the hall, and you guys run for the library. Got it?”

“
You’re not responsible. No one is,” the goth kid yelled in a paroxysm of angst.

Several kids picked up chairs, ready to follow. Tom nodded to the big kid, and he opened the door. A shudder splintered down his back as he charged out.

The chair legs stuck out like horns, leading Tom’s desperate charge. He ran headlong into the zombie fireman, smashing the chair into his back. Faces from of the other class gazed at him through the door’s window.

Tom yelled over his shoulder to his class. “Run. Get out here. Go!”

Screams echoed down the hall. Smoke clouded the hall, and zombies ambled towards him. His class, instead of pushing out into the hall, retreated.

The chair clattered on the floor as Tom ducked the grasp of a zombie and ran back into the classroom. The door slammed shut behind him.

“
What happened?” he yelled, “We could have made it there and now our chance is gone!”

The big kid took hold of the door handle. “They freaked out.”

“
We can’t go that way. We’re trapped now,” Tom said.

A fist smashed against the door, cracking the window.

“
I don’t know if you can fight,” the big kid said gravely, “but you’re going to have to. I can’t hold this door for long.”

Tom nodded.

The door bent inward, the hinges popping off the frame with the crunch of metal. Tom and the big kid jumped back.

“
We have to fight!” Tom yelled. “Fight!”

Zombies charged in fast. Reflexively, Tom dodged to the side and pushed the first zombie down as it passed. It was like dodging in basketball. The zombie fell to the floor, stopping at the pretty boy’s feet. A chair skidded across the floor to Tom’s side; he turned.

Another came for him, swinging its arms wildly. He ducked in time to avoid the first grasp, but the second caught him by the shirt, pulling him in. The zombie’s mouth opened wide, and he froze. It’s warped teeth pointed outward, and its swollen tongue twisted, licking at his face.

Above the zombie’s head, the flash of a chair came down. The zombie collapsed to its knees, pulling Tom down to the floor. The big kid stood above him, smiled, and swung the chair at another zombie. Tom kicked three times in rapid succession. The zombie fell back, and he tore free of its grasp. He pushed himself away across the floor.

Recovering, the zombie lunged at him. Kicking out, he caught it in the throat with his heel, and it squished. His foot sank deep into the chest cavity, and its head sagged down so its chin rested on his calf, its jaw snapped at him.

He pushed with his other leg and pulled his foot free. His hand came down on something soft. Underneath him the body of the pretty boy twitched, his skin pasty blue, and his eyes peeled open. The pretty boy zombie tore at him. It wrapped its arms around him, pinning his own arms. His feet covered in ooze, slipped on the floor as he tried to push away.

The other zombie was more agile than he thought. It sprang at him with its jaw open inhumanly wide. From one side, the big kid cried out and tackled the zombie in midair. They tumbled across the floor into the desks and chairs by the window; the zombie landed on top.

Straining to get to his feet, Tom grabbed a chair and brought it down on the zombie’s head. He struck again and again. It collapsed in a heap, pinning the big kid. Not stopping, Tom carried the momentum of his attack onto the next. Holding tight to the legs of the chair, he hit the pretty boy zombie with a broad swing. The big kid grinned as Tom jumped over him and offered him a hand up.

On his feet again, the big kid grabbed Tom’s shoulders and pulled him back as more zombies filed into the classroom; they were trapped.

With their backs to the smart board Tom looked at the big kid for what to do next; blood poured from his smashed nose. The big kid grabbed a dry eraser and threw it at the zombies, and a lesson began to play. "There isn't much to do about this now."

A knot of tension gripped Tom’s stomach. “There are too many to fight.”

“
Everyone’s dead,” the big kid said.

Around the room, their fallen classmates were starting to stand. The new zombies closed in. Tom pulled the big kid by the arm.

“
Out the window?”

The big kid kicked out the air vent at his feet. “Get in. I’ll hold them back.”

“
You’ll never fit,” Tom said.

“Yes, I will. Now go!”