Zombiekins - Kevin Bolger [17]
“Yeah, but that’s just from one little bite,” Stanley said. “What if Knuckles didn’t get away so easily? What if . . .” Stanley added, lowering his voice, “. . . he didn’t get away at all?”
“Oh, stop letting your imagination get so carried away,” Miranda scoffed.
Stanley aimed his next shot—but just as he was launching it, a bunch of kids ran in front of him, and the ball slipped from his hands in a weak arcing lob.
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!” the kids screamed as they stampeded past.
Stanley turned to give a dirty look to whoever was chasing them ...
. . .While his ball bounced limply off the backboard, rolled around the rim, then fainted through the hoop in exhaustion.
“Nice shot !” Miranda exclaimed.
But Stanley wasn’t even looking. He was staring across the yard.
“The sixth g-g-graders . . . ” he stammered. “They’re . . . they’re . . . they’re all zombies!” “How can you tell?” Miranda asked.
Sixth graders slouched and shuffled all over the playground, stiff-limbed, with pale, vacant faces and cold, lifeless eyes.
Speaking only in grunts or snarls, they trod on flowerbeds and barged through four-square games as though oblivious of their surroundings, attacking any kids who didn’t get out of their way fast enough. . . .
“So?” Miranda said. “They’re always like that.”
The recess bell rang. Instantly, the sixth graders stopped biting and mauling each other, lurched stiffly to attention, and started shuffling obediently into line by the door.
“Wonderful, Grade 6,” Mrs. Plumdotty praised. “You’re setting such a good example for the younger children.”
Up and down the line, the sixth graders moaned and bellowed happily like petted dogs.
“You’re right!” Miranda exclaimed. “They are a bunch of zombies!”
25
AS THE SIXTH GRADERS TRUDGED UP THE STAIRS, a slow-moving line of growling, grumbling monsters, all the younger children scattered from their path in terror. Not because the other kids realized they were zombies—just because they always stayed out of the sixth graders’ way.
“Oh, man,” Stanley whimpered as he climbed the stairs with Miranda. “I am in soooo much trouble.”
“Don’t panic,” Miranda said. “As long as it’s just the grade 6s, maybe no one will notice.”
But an even bigger surprise was waiting for them when they reached the third floor....
All of their classmates had been turned into zombies! They staggered mindlessly around the room, bumping into desks and knocking over chairs. Sarah was licking the homework off the chalkboard. Carlos had his hand stuck in the pencil sharpener. Big Tony was sitting on the floor, mooing plaintively while zombie
Fiona and zombie Kathleen whackedhim with yardsticks.
Stanley and Miranda halted in the doorway, frozen with fear—terrified, that is, that their teacher would notice something out of the ordinary.
But when Mr. Baldengrumpy told the zombies to sit at their seats, they sat at their seats. When he told them to take out their books, they took out their books. And when he said, “Write your name at the top of the page,” all the zombies tried to write “Your Name”—but between their zombie handwriting and zombie spelling, he never noticed. In fact, for the rest of the period, as far as Mr. Baldengrumpy was concerned, the zombies were model students. They didn’t speak without raising their hands. Or interrupt his lessons with pesky questions. Or finish their work so quickly he had to find something else for them to do.
Still, Stanley and Miranda thought they would be discovered for sure when Mr. Baldengrumpy called on Marcus to do his oral presentation on “Personal Hygiene in the Middle Ages.”
Marcus stood at the front of the class, slumped and swaying like a barn door off its hinges. He was holding a poster the wrong way up and drooling down his shirtfront.
“Ummm hrng grgl ummm glrrrrdddll umm . . . ” he groaned.
“Stop right there!” Mr. Baldengrumpy barked.
Stanley felt a surge of panic. He was certain his teacher had noticed something wrong.
“Start again,” Mr. Baldengrumpy