Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

“Is it looking for children’s brains to eat?”

“Maybe. Can’t say for sure. Wouldn’t doubt it. This particular zombie feller is the fiercest, most vicious creature Captain Pettimore shipped up here from Louisiana. Tall, bone-thin man with a dinosaur-style head, all jaws and teeth and eyeballs buggier than a bullfrog’s.”

Zack tried not to picture this beast while Davy kept describing him.

“On the hunt, he moves fast—like a two-legged cheetah. He can rip off your head and crack open your skull, lickety-split.”

Zack struggled to find his voice. “You can kill a zombie with fire, though, right? I read that in a book. It was a comic book, but …”

“Yep. Fire’s just about the only way to stop a zombie.”

“Just about?”

“Yep.”

“Is there another way?”

Davy looked around the backyard. “Well, maybe …”

Thunder rumbled across the cloudless sky.

Davy mumbled, “Dadgummit,” under his breath and quit talking.

Zack had already gotten into enough trouble with fire over the summer; he didn’t want to use it again if he didn’t have to. “If there’s some other way to stop this thing …”

Davy looked squirmy. He glanced up at the sky. “Zack, you know I can’t come right out and tell you what to do.”

Zack couldn’t believe this. “Because of the stupid rules?”

“Yep.”

“You’ve got an indestructible zombie with ginormous fangs and superhuman strength who could devour a whole school full of kids first thing Monday morning and you won’t tell me how to stop him without burning down the building?”

“Can’t, I reckon.”

Zack more or less pouted for a second. “Stupid rules,” he grumbled.

Zipper groaned in agreement.

“Well, I best be goin’.…”

Davy started to fade away.

“Wait!” Zack pleaded. “Don’t go! Not without telling me!”

Oddly, Davy lifted a foot, examined the bottom of his shoe.

“What are you doing?”

“I got me a hole in my … what do you call that thing?”

“Your shoe?”

“On the bottom there.”

“Your sole?”

Davy touched his nose. Held up two fingers.

“I have to guess a second word?”

Davy nodded.

Man! He couldn’t tell Zack how to stop the zombie but he had time to play charades?

“Dang, I like pickles because they come in a …”

“Sandwich?”

“Think glass, pardner.”

“Ajar?”

Davy touched his nose again. Gestured for Zack to butt the two words up against each other.

“Sole. Jar.”

“Hey, that sounds like a dadburn plan!”

“What? Wait a second. Are you trying to tell me I need to find the zombies’ soul jars to stop them?”

“Shoot, pardner. I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’. That’d be against the rules.”

And with a wink, Davy was gone.

71

At 9:01on Saturday morning, Zack heard a car tooting its horn in the driveway.

“There’s Ms. DuBois,” said Judy, waving out the window. “You all set, Zack?”

“Yeah.”

“She seems like a terrific teacher,” said his dad.

Yeah, she sure seems that way , Zack wanted to say just like Davy had said it. But for reasons still not clear, he was supposed to keep his mom, his dad, and all other adults out of this.

“Have fun,” said his dad.

“Come on,” said Judy. “I’ll walk you to the car.”

They went out the front door. Zipper followed.

“Well, hello again, Mrs. Jennings!” Ms. DuBois called out the driver’s-side window. Zack could see Azalea in the backseat. She looked kind of sleepy.

“This is such a neat idea,” Judy said. “Are you going to do headstone rubbings?”

“We surely are,” gushed Ms. DuBois. “I packed butcher paper and a box of black crayons.”

“Do one for me, okay, Zack?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Good morning, Azalea,” Judy called into the backseat.

Azalea opened an eye. “Good morning to you, too, ma’am.”

“Well, we best be going,” Ms. DuBois said very quickly. “Malik is meeting us at the school.”

“Okay,” said Zack.

Zipper grumbled.

Zack got a screwy idea. Zipper had been pretty helpful in the past when Zack had had to deal with demons. And since Zack had no idea what he was getting into …

“Can I bring my dog?”

Now Ms. DuBois blinked like a broken stoplight. “Pardon?”

“Saturday’s usually the day I spend a ton of time with Zipper.…”

“Fine,” said Ms. DuBois, obviously in a rush. “Bring your dog. It’ll be fun.”

“Cool. See ya, Mom.”

Judy looked a little puzzled.

“Um, okay …”

Zack wished he could tell her what was going on.

Then again, he didn’t really know.

Just that Ms. DuBois was a book with a phony cover and there were two zombies moving around underneath the school, but you could kill them with fire or if you opened up their soul jars, something Zack had researched on the Internet after playing backyard guessing games with Davy the night before, and Azalea was in some sort of grave danger and Zack was going to spend the day rubbing tombstones. Other than that, it was just your typical, normal Saturday.

The car pulled into the street.

“Finally!” said Azalea. “Who was that woman anyway?”

Okay. Azalea wasn’t very normal, either.

72

For whateverreason, when Zack, Zipper, Azalea, and Ms. DuBois walked into the school, the new janitor was in the lobby waiting for them.

“Good morning, Eddie,” said Ms. DuBois.

“Good mornin’, Daphne. You brought a dog?”

The janitor was apparently off duty. He was wearing khaki pants and a golf jacket instead of his usual green work clothes.

“Zack insisted.”

“Very well. Shouldn’t pose a problem.” The janitor tapped a bulge in the chest of his jacket. Zack didn’t like it when he did that. He watched a lot of movies. Jacket bulges, especially when tapped, usually meant hidden guns and shoulder holsters.

All of a sudden, Zack remembered the pair of ghosts who had been trailing the janitor down the hall: They’d both had bullet holes in their heads!

“Why’s the janitor here?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s an expert on graveyards,” said Ms. DuBois.

Yeah—putting people into them , Zack thought.

“Has Malik arrived?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Eddie. “But Mr. Sherman, the boy’s father, he swung by about five minutes ago.”

“My goodness. What did he want?”

“Well, the poor man says he cannot for the life of him find his son. Thought maybe he came over here. Seems they had a big fight last night. Something to do with money. Mr. Sherman kept mumbling how it was all his fault.…”

“Malik ran away from home?”

“So it would seem.”

Now Zack saw somebody nobody else (other than Zipper) could see: an African American man dressed in a World War II aviator uniform. Helmet on. Goggles up. Zack squinted so he could read the name patch sewn to his flight jacket: SHERMAN.

Malik’s guardian ghost! Probably his great-granddad, the one who’d flown fighter planes with the Tuskegee Airmen.

While Ms. DuBois and the janitor kept jabbering, Zack casually strolled across the lobby and pretended to be interested in the baseball trophies on display in a glass case.

Because Mr. Sherman was standing inside it.

“You’re Zack?” the airman asked.

He nodded.

“Malik’s in trouble.”

Zack raised his eyebrows.

“He went through that hole you boys found. He’s looking for the treasure. Wants to sell the gold and buy his mom the medicine she needs.” The airman shook his head. “Bravest and craziest thing the boy’s ever done. Sure his heart’s in the right place, but he isn’t using his head. You have to go get him, Zack. Malik doesn’t stand a chance down there on his own. Who knows what he’ll run into?”