A Small Zombie Problem Page 12
Claudette raised her finger, as if to say “Hold on a moment.”
“Yes?” said August, eyebrows raised.
Claudette stood and, oblivious to her freshly washed and mended burial dress, descended the steps into the shallows, scattering minnows in all directions. She reached into the water and, tossing a slime-covered rope over her shoulder, began with little effort to pull. Behind her, onto the grassy bank beside the gazebo, slithered the sunken canoe, water spouting from holes in its sides.
The girl pointed at the canoe. She pointed at August. She pointed at herself. She pointed down the canal, toward the river.
“You want us to row a patched-up canoe,” laughed August, half-amused, half-incredulous, “all the way to Croissant City?”
The zombie flexed her biceps.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” August shook his head in wonder. “You are, I must confess, crazy strong.”
Claudette grinned.
August grinned too. Were they really going to do this?
Suddenly the small zombie swung her open palm into the air.
August hesitated for a second, then smacked it heartily with his own.
And just like that, for the first time in his life, August DuPont exchanged a high five.
One hundred and seven miles east of Locust Hole’s gazebo, at the heart of boisterous, colorful Croissant City, lay a curious little store. It occupied a leafy, shaded alley so narrow, it was rarely noticed or explored by the throngs of passing tourists.
Those that did venture off the sunny avenue discovered, halfway down, a tiny house dwarfed by neighboring structures of grander design. The storefront had a single door and a single window, and the shutters of these covered most of the visible, crumbling stucco. A small hinged sign hung from the eaves that read “Leech’s Camera Botanica.”
Inside, the intrepid explorer would discover a space more cramped even than the exterior might suggest. The low ceiling lay somewhere behind clouds of drying herbs and plants. The walls were entirely concealed by a boggling array of labeled jars and bottles filled with a rainbow of powders and potions. In the deepest recesses of the store, behind the stand of books about spells and magic, hung a black velvet curtain.
At the very moment that August’s and Claudette’s palms high-fived back at Locust Hole, an unearthly blue light was escaping from around the edges of that curtain, and voices were drifting from the chamber it concealed.
“You claim to have experience in necromancy, Mr. Leech?” said the sturdy lady with coiffed pink-gray hair and a large purse.
“Professor Leech,” the man opposite corrected her politely with a pointed look over his thick black spectacles. “I believe you will find no one in this state more skilled in the dark arts, madame.”
They were the only people in the space. Indeed, it could not have accommodated more, for it was mostly filled by a draped table and the two occupied chairs. A shelf on the rear wall was crowded with bric-a-brac, reminiscent of a certain cluttered table on a certain perilous houseboat: jelly jars filled with keys or candies, a silver bowl of silver coins, yellow candles.
All was bathed in the milky luminance emanating from the mists swirling at the center of a large crystal ball resting on the table.
“What do you see, Mr….I mean Professor?”
Professor Leech was peering into the luminous sphere. Lit from beneath, the shadows of his round, babyish face took on a horror movie appearance.
“Do you see my husband? Do you see my Henri?”
Silence.
“Do you see anything at all, Professor?”
“Oh, rest assured, madame, I see something.” The professor’s bulbous, pug-like eyes remained intensely focused on some scene visible only to him. “In all my years in this field, I have, in fact, never received a vision so vivid, so clear.”
“Is it Henri come to me from the other world? What does he say?”
The professor sat back, removed his glasses, and wiped them.
“It is not your husband, madame,” he said apologetically. “In fact, I can hardly believe this message is for you. Which means”—his brow furrowed in puzzlement—“it must be…for me.”
“For you?” snapped the woman, surprised and a little irritated. “Well, that’s a fine thing! What makes you think so? What do you see?”
The professor fixed the woman’s gaze, and she saw something unexpected in his eyes. Was it excitement?
“I see an alligator,” said the professor, “of extraordinary length; perhaps forty feet, or more. It is pure white…and it is headed this way!”
Rick Fields
K. G. CAMPBELL was born in Kenya, but raised and educated in Scotland, where he graduated with a master’s degree in art history from the University of Edinburgh. After trying on several careers, he eventually returned to his early passion of writing and illustrating stories. K.G. is the author and/or illustrator of numerous books, including Lester’s Dreadful Sweaters, and Flora & Ulysses by Kate DiCamillo. He lives in Malibu, California.
kgcampbell.com @artbykgcampbell
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