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I ONLY INVENTED ZOMBIE TAG three weeks ago, and we’ve already lost seven spatulas. For a while, I stole my mom’s, but now she’s completely out so I have to make my friends bring their own. Once our mothers find out where all their spatulas are going, they’re going to be so mad. They’re going to team up and form some kind of army against us, I swear. But we’d be totally prepared. A mom army is nothing when you’re trained to fight zombies.
Today is Anthony’s birthday, so we should be sleeping over at his house. But Anthony has an awful house for Zombie Tag. His place is like a museum. There’s all this great stuff, but you can’t touch any of it. And there’s nowhere to sit. My house still feels new and unfriendly, but, tonight, that’s a bonus. It’s fresh territory to explore.
But because it’s his birthday, we let Anthony be Zombie God. That means he’s the one who writes the words on the Post-it Notes—BARRICADE, BARRICADE, BARRICADE, BARRICADE, ZOMBIE. It’s pitch-black down here, so he’s using his phone for light. David’s using his to look up zombie fighting strategies, which is so dumb. I’ve read everything there is to read about zombies, and let me tell you, there are no little tricks for how to survive. It takes pure brute force. And courage.
And a really good spatula doesn’t hurt.
The air-conditioning is on too high because my dad is always hot, and here in the basement it feels like the tundra. We’re all jumping up and down and shivering while Anthony folds and shuffles the Post-it Notes.
Eben comes thumping down the stairs. “Dude, shut up,” I say. “My parents are sleeping.”
“All the lights are off,” he says. He’s panting from running through the entire house. He volunteered to do this, so he should man up and stop acting like he just ran a marathon or something.
Anthony clears his throat dramatically. “Okay,” he says, holding the Post-it Notes above his head. “We will begin. No trading, no showing, no sharing.” He passes them out. We peek at them and stuff the evidence into our pockets.
I can’t believe it. I’m Zombie. In our millions of games of Zombie Tag, this is my first time being the Zombie. It’s like it’s my birthday.
But no one would know from my face. I am the world’s coolest cucumber right now. They’ll all think I’m innocent until the moment I’m chewing on their brains.
“Okay, eyes closed,” our Zombie God orders. We snap our eyes closed, and I slowly open mine to make sure the others aren’t peeking. They have their fingers stuffed into their ears, just like they’re supposed to. I feel kind of proud that they’re following my rules so well. It’s not every guy who has a bunch of friends who really understand how sacred a thing like Zombie Tag is, you know? We’ve made up a lot of games over the years, especially me and Anthony, but ideas this good only come along once in a millennium. They’re smart to recognize it.
Time to fulfill my first duty as Zombie. I walk away from the circle as quietly as I can. I put all my weight on my heels before I lean onto each toe. When I was a kid, my brother told me that hunters used to walk like this so they didn’t get eaten by tigers. I totally believed him and put it in an early settlers history paper a few weeks ago, and Ms. Hoole gave me a C and wrote THERE ARE NO TIGERS IN THE UNITED STATES. Like that was even the point.
I keep my tiger-sneak walk going until I’m well out of the circle, then I run to the table and pick up the dinosaur. It’s this plastic coin bank my dad got me as a souvenir when he went to Russia with his boss to turn in all this paperwork on Time-Based Travel. He was all excited about going and kept telling mom that this was his big break but then he came home all depressed. I think the Russians are beating us at time travel or something.
Anyway, he had this whole stack of papers to work through and all these reports to file, like everyone on the trip gave their busy work to him. I asked if he was a spy just so he’d feel less lame, but then he said, “Quiet, Wil,” and that’s when he gave me this bank. And, it’s like, I’m not six, Dad, but at least it comes in useful for Zombie Tag.
It’s our Key. The other guys need to find the Key and then get to the front door in order to win. But that’s not going to happen. Sorry, guys. And if they don’t find the Key, I get to eat their brains.
I mean, they can try to defend themselves with the spatulas, but I’m going to be the scariest Zombie ever. They’d need, like, three spatulas each at least to fight me off.
I run upstairs and look for a good place to hide the Key. My parents’ room is totally out. If they knew we were still awake, they’d probably start putting tranquilizers in our food every time my friends stay over. It’s a good thing they’re heavy sleepers. Graham and I used to watch horror movies after they went to bed, and they’d hardly ever wake up.
I can’t do my room. Too easy.
I pause outside of the extra bedroom we don’t even use as a guest room. My friends aren’t allowed to sleep in there when they stay over. We all have to crash in the basement.
I’m pretty sure I’m not even supposed to go in there, because every time my dad or I step inside, Mom spends an hour fluffing the pillows and vacuuming over where we stepped. My mother set up all the baseball trophies and put my brother’s framed posters of girls in bathing suits, the ones she always hated, up on one of the walls. The room’s made up like any minute he’s going to come home and need it.
Dad tells me not to think about it. We had to put my brother’s stuff somewhere. It’s just a place.
I know Dad’s right, but I’m looking in there now and don’t want my friends tramping around in there, either. I guess Mom has brainwashed me.
So I hide the Key in the bathroom, behind the clothes hamper. It’s not the best spot, but it’ll still be hard to find in the dark and I’m running out of time to find anywhere better. There’s no rule for how long you can take to hide the Key, but it’s lame to be this slow.
I turn off my flashlight and scurry back downstairs. I run around the circle and tap each guy on the back, so they’ll know the Key has been hidden. I give Anthony a squeeze on the back of his neck just to scare him. They count to ten in their heads, and I’m back in the circle before their eyes are open. I blink stupidly and look around just like them. They have no idea I’m the Zombie, and it’s awesome.
“Okay,” David says. “I’ll take the downstairs.”
I say, “I’ll look with you.” He’s totally going to be my first victim. Poor David. So young.
We grab our spatulas, fighting over the best ones, but not for very long. We have to hurry up and separate. The fewer guys you’re with, the less chance you’re with the Zombie.
The other guys go upstairs to look for the Key. David switches on his flashlight and starts poking around behind the boxes we still haven’t unpacked. I pretend to search too, but really...