Zomburbia Read Free

my best to deflect it. “Because I didn’t know you worked here.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Hi.”
    Why was Sherri not taking their orders? Why was she not breaking this up and saving me from this terribly awkward situation? If I was on fire, she’d put me out, right? Actually, I might have to think about that one.
    â€œListen, Brandon,” I said, “it’s great to see you, but,” I waved my hands over the grill to indicate I had other, more important matters to attend to, “I have to get back to work.”
    â€œSure,” he said, nodding his head. “No problem. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
    Rather than reply, I just nodded and then shot daggers at Sherri as Brandon turned away from me and faced her, ready to give his order. Maybe if I stared at her hard enough, her head would explode all over Brandon’s letterman jacket.
    The cream of the school’s jocktocracy was about to give their orders to Sherri when I heard a voice behind me.
    â€œHey, there’s someone outside.”
    Phil stood behind me. He stared past us all and into the parking lot. The rest of us turned and looked.
    He was right: there was someone out there who hadn’t come in with the rest of the football team. This someone shuffled awkwardly, slowly, dragging one leg behind. His shoulder hitched in a weird way with every step.
    One of the boys said, “Shit.”
    Chacho moved fast for a big guy. He sprang up out of his bright plastic seat and started throwing on his body armor. The knee pads and shin guards were already on, so he got on his elbow pads and the pads for his forearms. He ignored the high-necked body armor and just put on the helmet. Then he scooped up his clear plastic shield and his club and he sprinted out the door.
    Sherri and I ran from behind the counter and stationed ourselves next to the picture window closest to the action. Phil was close behind us and the jocks came up more slowly; maybe they felt like they shouldn’t be watching this. But, really, how could they not?
    It was totally a zombie, a pretty fresh one, too. It was a dude, maybe my age, maybe a little older. He wore jeans and a M ELVINS T -shirt. He wore one Dr. Martens boot. The foot missing the shoe looked like it had been chewed on pretty well. Also, except for half of his face being gone, he was probably pretty good looking when he was alive.
    â€œIf I were a zombie,” I whispered to Sherri without taking my eyes off the scene, “I’d totally go with him.”
    â€œUh-huh,” she said.
    When the shuffler moved into the light, I saw that he had a death grip on a bloody stump of a leg. Someone somewhere was missing everything below the left knee. I shivered when I noticed that the foot was wearing a pink Chuck Taylor. Then I wondered if I knew anyone who owned shoes like that. I couldn’t think of anyone.
    Out in the parking lot, Chacho approached the shuffler. Zombies are slow and all that, but they can move surprisingly quickly when you least expect it. Chacho had been trained to deal with them, so he knew that better than most folks. He kept his shield in front of him and his club ready to swing.
    As soon as the undead kid saw him, he went into Classic Zombie mode—arms up like he wanted to give Chacho a hug, and he started groaning. He dropped the leg he’d been gnawing on. It lay there forgotten as the zombie eyed fresh meat. Something black and thick dribbled out of his mouth. Maybe he wasn’t as cute as I originally thought . . .
    Chacho shouted at the thing. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Probably cursing at him in Spanish. I’d heard it before; it was pretty entertaining.
    When it got close enough, Chacho did a pretty good head feint to the left and when the zombie moved that way, he slammed into it with his whole body, the shield between them. The shuffler stumbled back, grunting in surprise, and then Chacho brought his club