Zombie Dog (4 page)

That night, Becky dreamed she climbed the fence into the McNally yard. The yellowing lawn there sucked at Becky's feet, and she felt her shoe slip off as she struggled out of the muck. Dropping to her knees next to the sinkhole, she watched in dismay as her pink Converse sneaker disappeared into the ground.

Limping with only one shoe, she found herself climbing the porch steps up to the house. They were slippery and damp, the paint peeling in weird wet stripes, and when she got inside the house, it was all moldy. Green and white fungi sprouted from the walls and grew in thick, squishy pillowlike piles all over the floor. There was no one in sight. Becky
walked farther into the house, the floor disturbingly soft under her feet.

A horrible rotting smell, worse than a Dumpster on a hot day and strangely familiar, filled the air. Becky coughed and gasped, holding her nose to try to shut it out. Everything was wet with slime, and Becky let go of her nose and clutched her hands together, frightened of touching
anything
, not wanting to get that viscous, gooey slime on her hands.

There was a footstep behind her, and Becky whipped around. In the doorway loomed a tall figure, backlit by moonlight. Becky blinked, trying to make out its face. It was gaunt and pale, and as she caught sight of its staring, glazed-over eyes, Becky lurched backward with shock.

There was blood running down the creature, and there was something else wrong. It looked like its face was shredded. Its arms extended as it reached for her, and a soft, garbled moan came out of it, as if it was trying to talk through its rotted mouth.

Becky tried to run, but she couldn't make her legs work. She pressed back against the wall, and the slime dripped down over her shoulders, sticky against her back. The creature — the
zombie
, she realized with a sickening shock — shambled toward her.

 

When she woke up, sweating and disoriented in the dark, the first thing Becky realized was that the rotting, stomach-turning smell from the weekend — the same smell as in her dream — had come back, filling her room. The second was that Bear, who she'd snuck into her room again because he seemed lonely and restless, was no longer pressed against her legs, no longer in the bed.

“Bear?” she whispered. There was no answering woof, no shifting of doggy paws on the floor. She dropped her hand to the rug next to her bed: Maybe Bear had gone down to where she told him to sleep for once. But there was no big, furry sleeping dog there.

Bear was gone.

From outside came a long scraping noise, like claws against the side of the house. Becky held her breath. The smell in the house was so thick it almost felt solid, hanging in the air. The scraping came again, an eerie
screech
.

Nervously, Becky climbed out of bed and sidled along the wall toward the window, trying to keep out of sight. The room was chilly and it felt late. Glancing
at the clock on her bedside table, she saw that it was past one in the morning.

She peered out the window into the moonlit yard below. The McNally yard was full of shadows, and for a while she didn't see anything unusual despite straining her eyes.

Then something shifted in the shadows closest to the fence and there was a quick flash of green, an eerie color reflecting the moonlight. Becky moved closer to the window. There was a humped shape by the fence, moving up and down. The scraping noise was coming more frequently now, in time with the movement of the creature. Straining her eyes to see in the darkness, Becky tried to figure out what it was down there, and what it was doing. Too big to be a squirrel or a lab rat, whatever Paul had said. Too thin to be a raccoon, and the shape didn't seem quite right for a cat.

With a shudder, she finally realized what the creature, whatever it was, was doing. It was digging a tunnel under the fence. A tunnel into her yard.

As it began to work its way under the fence, Becky heard a whimper coming from downstairs. Her heart dropped.
Bear
.

The last thing Becky wanted to do was leave her room. It seemed so safe and cozy in comparison to the dark emptiness of the rooms downstairs right now. But the strange creature was going under the fence. What if it could manage to get into her house?

What if it attacked Bear?

She didn't believe in zombies, she told herself firmly. But whatever was out there, if it got in, even if it was only a stray animal, it could
hurt
Bear. He was just a great big puppy; he didn't know how to defend himself.

Making up her mind, Becky squared her shoulders and headed out of her room and down the hall. Bear needed her.

Going down the stairs, Becky stepped as lightly as she could and didn't turn on any lights. It seemed important not to draw attention to the fact that she was awake, or to where she was in the house. She tried to breathe slowly and evenly; her heart was pounding hard.

Down in the front hall, she stopped and listened. Was that a faint scraping noise at the front door? Could the creature have gotten under the fence so fast?

“Bear?” she whispered, padding quickly and quietly toward the kitchen. “Where are you, boy?” She could hear that her voice was shaking a little.

The faint scraping noise came again. It
definitely
was not her imagination.
What if Bear's outside?
she thought suddenly. She didn't know how he could have gotten out, but he was an escape artist, after all. He'd gotten out of the yard loads of times. Reluctantly, Becky moved toward the door. She was going to have to look outside.

The hall light suddenly flicked on, and Becky screamed.

Her mother was standing in the hall in her pajamas, one hand on the light switch. She blinked at Becky in confusion. “Beck? What are you doing? It's the middle of the night!”

“I … uh.” Becky swallowed nervously and said, “I heard a weird noise outside.” As she spoke, she heard the scraping against the door again, louder this time.

Her mom walked over and opened the front door wide. A gust of wind blew in, blowing Becky's hair back and strengthening the thick rotting smell. But there was nothing unusual outside, no creature on the doorstep.

“Ugh, what is that?” Becky's mom coughed and covered her mouth and nose. “Did something die out there?”

“I don't know,” Becky said, straining to see past her into the yard. Was there something moving out in the shadows?

Her mom closed the door. “Let's get back to bed,” she said firmly. “We'll figure out the smell in the morning, if it's still there.”

Bear chose that moment to wander into the hall, the tags on his collar clinking against each other and his toenails clicking on the floor. When he saw Becky, he sped up and ran toward her, a happy doggy grin stretching his mouth wide.

“Bear!” Becky's mom shouted.

Startled, Bear lost his balance, his paws skidding on the hardwood floor, and lurched into Becky, who sat down hard. Immediately, she found herself with a lap full of concerned dog. Bear pushed his cold, wet nose into her face and, realizing she was fine, licked her with his warm, even wetter tongue.

“Crazy dog,” Becky said affectionately, putting her arms around him. Looking up, she saw her mom frowning.

“What is Bear doing out of his cage?” her mom asked. Her voice was angry.

“Uh …” Becky said, the scraping outside and the gross smell forgotten.

“Becky, you know Bear's supposed to sleep in his crate,” her mom told her. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, and she ran her hands through her hair distractedly. “If you keep encouraging him to break the rules, he's never going to learn to behave.”

“I'm sorry, Mom,” Becky said. She pushed Bear off her lap and got up. Sensing the tension in the air, Bear looked worriedly from Becky to her mother and whined softly.

Becky's mother sighed. “Put Bear in his crate and go to bed,” she said, more gently. “But we're going to have a talk about this tomorrow.”

Becky nodded and led Bear into the kitchen. He gave a small
woof
of discontent when she steered him into the crate, but he didn't fight her. He settled down on his cushion and rested his head on his big paws.

“Good night, my good boy,” Becky said, stroking his ears through the bars. “Sweet dreams.” Bear, his eyes already drifting closed, nuzzled her fingers, then thumped his tail once against the floor.

Becky's mom had already gone upstairs. Becky flicked off the hall light and was about to follow her when, once more, she heard a slow scrape against the front door, as if something was asking to come in.

Shivering, she hurried up the stairs. She tried to make herself believe she was imagining the sound and that, if there had been some creature digging its way under the McNally fence that night, it had been a stray cat or wild raccoon going about its private business.

There was no way it could have been a zombie.

The next morning, Becky sat at the breakfast table with dry eyes and a pounding headache. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep after shutting Bear in his crate, and it felt like almost no time had passed before her alarm went off and she had to get up again. She poked disinterestedly at her cereal.

The rotting smell was weaker but still lingering, and it was making her feel sick at the thought of eating anything.

“What's up with you?” Jake asked, staring at her. “You look like you're about to fall off your chair.” Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “Hey, did you tell Mom and Dad about the zombies?”

“Zombies?”
her mom asked, sounding highly
amused. Becky tuned out her little brother's explanation of what Paul had told them. Her mom looked like she was having trouble not laughing; she clearly wasn't going to take seriously any suggestion that there might be some kind of monster next door.

Becky's dad had gone outside to call Bear in from the yard. He reappeared at the door, frowning, and called to Becky. “Come out here. I want you to see something.” Becky groaned and got to her feet. She was just so sleepy.

Outside, Bear galloped over and pressed lovingly against her side. Becky's dad led her into the yard and pointed silently at a yellowed, dying patch of grass.

“Huh, weird,” Becky said, not sure why her dad was showing it to her. “It wasn't like this yesterday.”

Looking at the grass, she realized the patch led from the fence between their house and the McNally house, across the lawn, and toward their front door. In fact, it wasn't so much a patch as a
trail
. A trail that seemed to begin about where she had seen the creature tunneling under the fence last night.

Below the fence, just where the dead grass began, was a space, one that might have been scraped out
by paws. Becky gasped, remembering what Paul had said about plants dying around zombies. The creature
had
been scratching at their front door last night.

“Look,” her dad said accusingly. “Look what Bear's done now.”

Becky stared at him. “Bear didn't do this,” she said.

Her dad spread his arms wide, indicating the spread of yellowed grass. “Honey, look around,” he said. “The grass is dead where that dog goes, over and over again, pacing between the fence and the front walk. I'm sure he doesn't mean to, but he's just destructive. This is exactly why I didn't want to get a dog.”

Becky stared sadly at the dead grass. Then she saw something move. She bent closer, but pulled back in disgust. A big black beetle crawled across the dirt beneath the grass. Beside it, worms squirmed past the stalks. All through the patchy grass, insects and worms twined together, thick and revolting, covering the entire path below the yellowed, patchy grass. Bear snuffled next to her, then pulled back, snorting.

“Dad …” Becky said, wanting to point out the squirming insects, but her father wasn't looking at
the grass anymore. He was staring straight at her, his face heavy with concern.

“Becky, if you can't figure out how to keep your dog under control,” he said, “we can't keep him.”

 

Her dad's words echoed in Becky's ears all morning, making her anxious and snappy. She had trouble paying attention in her classes, and her English teacher yelled at her for spacing out during second period. By the time she got to the library for study hall, where she tripped on the carpet coming in, Becky felt like she was going to cry.
Worst day ever
, she thought. Usually, she would have sat with Charlotte, Lila, and Tonya, but she couldn't talk to them about the weird things happening at her house. Today she just wanted to talk to Nate. He was smart, and he lived on her street, so the McNally house was his problem, too. And he liked Bear.

“There's something weird going on,” she told him bleakly, dropping her books on the table next to him. “I need you to help me.”

Nate pushed his long bangs out of his eyes and frowned at her with concern. “What's wrong?” he asked.

Becky told him everything, feeling a tightness release in her chest just by being able to let it all out: everything from first seeing the animal in the yard next door, to its flashing green eyes, to just how
wrong
it had felt. About the creature tunneling under the fence, and about the bugs and worms wriggling through the dead grass where it had walked. Worst of all, about her dad's threat to get rid of Bear.

“They always blame everything on him,” she said, her eyes filling with hot tears. “It's not fair. He's a good dog. He is.”

“I know he is,” Nate said. He stared at her for a minute and then said slowly, “You think Paul's story about the mad scientist and the zombies is for real?”

Becky shrugged helplessly. “It sounds crazy, but it's starting to
feel
real, you know? I just want to figure out what's going on.”

Nate tapped his pencil against his lips thoughtfully. “So, what do we know about zombies?” he asked.

Relaxing suddenly, Becky let out a breath. These were crazy things she had been saying, she knew, and she realized that if Nate hadn't believed her, hadn't accepted that there was
something
going on, she wouldn't have known who else to turn to.

“Well,” she said, opening her notebook, “the whole brains thing, right?” She glanced up and held her arms up stiffly in front of her for a second, letting her eyes go wide and vacant. “Braaaains, like in the movies. Only Paul said that wasn't always true, not in all the stories.”

“Right,” Nate said. “And getting bitten by a zombie turns you into a zombie. That's in movies, too. Only Paul said
that
wasn't always true, too.”

Becky shivered. “But what if it is?” she said, panicked. “What if the creature bites someone? It might turn the animals around our house into zombies, or Bear. Bear's always roaming around! Or someone on the street. If getting bitten turns you into one, then no one is safe!”

Mrs. DaCosta, the librarian, shushed her from her desk, frowning, and Becky realized her voice had risen. Glancing hurriedly around, she saw a couple of kids staring at them from the nearby tables.

“Take a deep breath,” Nate said. “But you're right — we need to assume that the bite of a zombie
can
turn you into a zombie, since there's no way to prove that it doesn't. That makes this a dangerous situation. So if we figure out how to get rid of the zombie, we can keep everyone safe.” He huffed out a
quiet laugh, his hair falling back into his eyes. “This is the craziest conversation.”

“You believe me about the thing in the yard, though, right?” Becky asked.

Nate looked straight at her, his blue eyes shining with sincerity through his shaggy bangs. “Of course I do,” he said simply, and Becky felt better. “Let's make a list of everything we remember from Paul's report,” he said, and she looked back down at her notebook.

She started writing.

“They come because they want something, or someone calls them,” Nate added, and Becky wrote:

“What else?” she asked.

“What did Paul say?” Nate said, remembering. “That Dr. McNally made zombie animals when he was trying to use herbs to cure cancer, right?”

Becky wrote:

“Anything else?” she asked.

Nate shrugged. “I don't know a lot about monsters,” he said. “Do we want to ask Paul more about this? He's obviously the expert.”

Becky shook her head. “I'd like to keep this kind of quiet,” she said. She couldn't help remembering the looks of disgust and pity on Lila's and Charlotte's faces when they had called her house creepy. “And I'm sure he put everything he knew into his report.”

“Let's try looking online, then,” Nate said. “We're supposed to use library period for doing research, anyway, right?”

Becky followed him to an empty terminal and pulled up a second chair. Nate typed
zombies
into the browser's search bar. Then he gave a low whistle.

“There are a
lot
of computer games about zombies,” he said. “And movies. I'm not seeing much real information here.”

“Try
herbal cause for zombies
,” Becky suggested. Nate typed it in.

“Huh,” he said. “Here's some stuff from the Voodoo Museum in New Orleans.” They both leaned forward to read. This website described several different kinds of zombies: spiritual zombies, which were reanimated corpses; bargained zombies, where people offered to let the voodoo master take their souls in return for protection; and, lastly, herbal zombies.

“Herbal zombies — that sounds like what Paul was talking about,” Nate murmured. “Ew, through their feet.”

The website said that voodoo practitioners would first poison their victims with a paralyzing nerve poison that came from blowfish, which they would secretly put in their targets' shoes to be absorbed by the sweat glands in the feet.

“Yikes,” said Becky. “I hope that's not what Dr. McNally did to the lab rats.”

She wrote down the facts in her notebook, anyway, under the heading
Voodoo Zombies
. Looking at
her neat list of the information they had so far, she felt a little pang for the study sessions she'd shared with Charlotte last year; Charlotte had always complained that Becky needed to make organized lists and outlines to study efficiently.

“Let's try another search,” she said, typing in
getting rid of zombies
. They scanned the results. “Yuck, I am
not
cutting off anything's head.”

Unfortunately, any real information about zombies was buried among a ton more sites about games and movies and books. After a while, they found a little more advice that looked relevant on a website that seemed to be mostly about magic.

“It says here that a paste made of poppy seeds and cloves can help put a zombie to rest,” Becky said, her eyes taking in the words onscreen. “And it says that if it's the kind of zombie that wants something before it goes away, it can't be put to rest until it gets what it's looking for. Like, if it lost something important to it.”

“It was some kind of animal, though, right?” Nate said. “What could it be looking for? Was it a squirrel?” He crossed his eyes at her, then held his arms up in front of him in a zombie pose. “Aaaaacorns,” he said. “Aaaaacorns.”

“What're you guys doing?” Charlotte's voice said behind them, and Becky turned toward her. Charlotte was smiling and looked like she was about to start laughing at Nate's zombie squirrel impression. But then her eyes fell on the computer screen in front of them and she frowned instead. Becky glanced over to see what Charlotte was looking at.

On the computer screen a gray-skinned monster, flesh stripping off its bones, lurched toward the viewer, its mouth open in a moan. Above it flashed in glaring red letters “
ZOMBIE DEATH RACE: RUN, DEAD MEN, RUN!”
Becky felt her face start to heat up.

“It's a role-playing game,” Nate said smoothly. “I've been trying to get Becky into it.”

Charlotte looked at Becky's neat list of things like
some zombies eat brains
and
the bite of a zombie could turn you into a zombie
and made a face, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “You guys are so weird,” she said. “I'll talk to you later, Becky.”

They both watched as she crossed the library back to the table where Lila and Tonya sat and said something to them. Lila glanced over at them and laughed.

“If we don't get rid of this zombie, not only am I
going to lose my dog, I'm going to have no friends left at all,” Becky said glumly.

Nate nudged her with his elbow, his face sympathetic. “You'll still have
me
,” he said, and Becky, feeling warmed, nudged him back.