A Small Zombie Problem Read online

  In reality, it was a small town on a sleepy bend in the river. But to a boy who had been cloistered for his entire existence, Pepperville felt clamorous and chaotic. The landscape of brick, stucco, and asphalt added a glaring harshness to the already stifling heat. The buildings felt narrow and tightly crammed together. The passing cars were deafening, and the smell of their exhaust made August light-headed.

  And the people! So many people! It seemed that every minute or two, August was yanking Claudette out of the path of another pedestrian (which obviously doesn’t represent that many people at all, but you get the point). Their progress was further hampered by numerous wooden posts supporting the two-story galleries that fronted many buildings, resulting in much dodging and weaving and declarations of “oops!” and “sorry!” and “excuse me!”

  While attempting to prevent his lurching companion from colliding into other people and things, August was scanning the shop signs on either side of Main Street.

  “Flowers by Fleur,” he read aloud. “Jean-Claude’s Cafeteria. Cinema Athénaïs. Black River Tattoo.”

  But there was no advertisement for services involving sorcery or ball gazing.

  “Hold up a minute!” said August, stopping so abruptly that he earned the grunting protest of a passerby. “Madame Marvell! What is it that her sign reads?” He frowned, rooting around his memory. “Yes, that’s it: Ball Gazing, Magic, and More.”

  He grabbed the zombie’s arm, his eyebrows high.

  “Let’s get home, Claudette,” he said with excitement. “We need to pay a call upon a certain wild child!”

  They turned back toward Locust Hole, but before taking a step, August was startled by a sudden hammering quite close to his ear.

  To his left was a large store window and, arching across the glass, painted lettering in a familiar font read “Grosbeak’s General Store & Soda Shop.”

  Beyond the signage, flattened against the window, was a pink palm. Beyond that was the face of Beauregard Malveau. And beyond that, seated merely feet away, were Beauregard’s companions: Gaston, Langley, and Belladonna. Their table sported festive-looking root beer floats, although only three, for Belladonna was cradling a tiny but serious-looking coffee cup, and scowling.

  “Cousin August!” Beauregard’s voice was muffled by the thick layer of glass. “Come, join us!” He made an invitational gesture.

  For a split second, August felt a surge of delight. Stella Starz and her friends also frequented a restaurant, where they would dissect the unlikely events of the episode, effortlessly wielding exotic-looking foodstuffs with chopsticks. Grosbeak’s interior was cluttered and poorly lit, entirely dissimilar to the airy, bamboo modernity of Sushi Yum-Yum. But the sociable, table-based gathering was thrillingly familiar.

  August’s glee, however, lasted only for as long as it took for him to recall the zombie at his side. He glanced at Claudette and succumbed to a wave of panic and despair.

  They could not meet her. They must not know her. They should certainly never associate him with this…this creature.

  August shook his head vigorously at Beauregard, then pointed at his wristwatch.

  “Running late!” he mouthed silently at the window. This was a device that Stella regularly employed to avoid interaction with her father’s disagreeable girlfriend, Hedwig.

  “Just for a minute!” responded Beauregard. “Bring your friend!” Then, half coaxing, half pleading and with an irresistible grin, he said, “Why, come on!”

  August could not simply walk away. To do so, at this point, would have been actively rude. He flapped his arms helplessly and headed inside.

  “Remember to speak up,” he muttered to himself. “And you!” he said to Claudette. “Keep that eyeball in its socket!”

  * * *

  * * *

  To the left of the front door was the small general store, sacks of dried beans and flour slumping on the floor; canned, jarred, and packaged goods cramming the shelves all the way to the ceiling. Somewhere high up, well out of his reach, August spotted the familiar navy-and-yellow packaging of his favorite treat.

  To the right of the door was the small, weary-looking soda shop. Swivel stools of spotted chrome with cracked pink vinyl seats ran the length of the counter while a handful of Formica-topped tables and peppermint-green metal chairs were clustered near the large window.

  A saggy-eyed elderly man with a red bow tie and thin wisps of hair protruding from his rimless cap was tugging weakly on the lever of a shiny silver tap, one of several behind the counter. On catching sight of the newcomers, his mouth opened slightly, and he stared until the sarsaparilla spilled over his fingers, demanding his attention.

  As Beauregard commandeered two more chairs, dragging them across the faded black-and-white linoleum tiles, August removed his helmet.

  “It’s for the butterflies,” he explained meekly, pressing Claudette into one chair and settling himself in the other.

  “You’ve met Gaston,” said Beauregard, still standing. The well-fed delivery boy nodded his ginger head. “And Langley.” The tall boy touched the brim of his hat. “And my sister, of course.” Belladonna glared over the lip of her cup.

  August smiled, acknowledging the assembly.

  But no one was looking at August. August and his helmet and his butterflies were apparently old news. Rather, their disconcerted gazes were fixed upon Claudette.

  No one spoke.

  “Beauregard Malveau,” announced Beauregard suddenly, as if abruptly remembering his manners, “of Château Malveau.” He leaned with an outstretched hand toward Claudette, who stared at it blankly, until a nudge from August caused her to clumsily reach out and grasp it.

  Beauregard sharply withdrew his hand with a gasp.

  “She’s so cold!” he said with mild horror.

  August thought quickly.

  “C-C-Claudette…,” he stammered, “is…um…an exchange student. From Lapland.”

  Stella Starz had once rescued an unwitting Laplander from making a catastrophic choice in the lunch line (the mac and cheese was notorious for resulting in bad breath and occasional diarrhea). The grateful exchange student had gifted Stella with a reindeer, the concealment of which had made for a particularly hilarious episode.

  “She just moved here.”

  “Looks like Claudette had a pretty rough journey,” chuckled Langley, glancing with amusement at the others.

  Claudette’s eyes loosely swiveled to the lanky youth, and Langley’s jaw dropped as, from the root beer float in front of him, the girl casually plucked the long-handled spoon and popped it into her own mouth.

  “Hey!” protested Langley. “That’s my…”

  He was interrupted by the grotesque sucking and slurping that ensued. Five pairs of eyes bulged as the spoon handle disappeared further and further into Claudette’s face, until, with a loud gulp, it was entirely gone.

  For a moment, there was utter silence, until Beauregard collected himself and delivered a broad—if forced—smile.

  “In these parts,” he said, “we welcome all strangers…and…eh, their…customs?” He glanced encouragingly at Claudette, then frowned at his friends, kicking one of Langley’s boots beneath the table. “Don’t we, guys?”

  Langley and Gaston nodded in obedient agreement.

  “Ha!” barked Belladonna, and without further explanation removed herself from the table and the establishment.

  “Claudette,” continued Beauregard, entirely ignoring his sister’s dramatic exit, “must attend the crawfish boil at Château Malveau.”

  “Oh, no!” blurted August, so abruptly that Beauregard blinked with surprise. “I mean, thank you, of course, but…um…I don’t think that’s Claudette’s sort of thing.”

  August glanced at the girl and gulped, his mind working furiously.

  “She’s unused to
crowds, you see, having lived mostly on the frozen tundra. With reindeer.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Beauregard, now fully recovered and his usual jovial self. “Who doesn’t love a party? We’ll give this chilly Lapp a warm Pepperville welcome, won’t we, guys?” He gave Gaston a hearty slap on the back.

  “What?” said a startled Gaston. “Why, yes. Sure. Pepperville welcome.”

  Beauregard looked August square in the face, grinning from ear to ear.

  “We’ll see you both there tomorrow.” He leaned over and gripped August’s wrist. “I absolutely, positively insist!”

  The bank beneath Locust Hole’s gazebo had, over time, slumped into the canal, taking the steps with it. August and Claudette stood inside the open-sided structure, merely inches above the lapping waves that cast shimmering, dancing ripples across the ceiling. Once the shaded, breezy site of summer pleasures, the gazebo had fallen into sorry disrepair, its posts crooked and lacy fretwork shattered. The interior echoed with the feathery flapping of wings as a curious pigeon investigated the hole in the roof.

  Grabbing the rail for support, August leaned out over the water. Beneath him, a shoal of tiny minnows hovered sleepily in the protective embrace of a partially sunken canoe. The bow still protruded from the water, providing a perch for an iridescent dragonfly.

  Only a few yards away, still alarmingly angled, bobbed the makeshift houseboat. From this proximity, August could see that Madame Marvell’s sign was weathered, cracked, and old and most certainly predated the young resident.

  “You ought to be careful,” instructed a sudden voice from behind them, causing August to almost lose his grip and plunge into the canal. “There’s a giant alligator prowling these parts, so folks are saying.”

  The wild child herself was perched on the gazebo’s rear rail, hugging a post for balance. With her free arm, she was clutching the familiar plastic colander, which was half filled with plump slime-colored frogs, gently croaking and clambering over one another.

  The girl had a pert little nose; small, dark eyes, bright like a squirrel’s; and a ragged mop of tow-colored hair that had clearly not seen a comb any time recently. Her limbs were skinny but looked strong and well designed for clambering in trees.

  “Have you seen it?” asked August. “The alligator?”

  “I’ve seen something,” responded the girl, “deep in the water. Huge and white. I reckon that must have been it.”

  She leaped lightly to the floor.

  “You’re the boy who lives in the roof of that ramshackle old house,” she informed August. “Don’t look so surprised; you think you’re the only person who owns a telescope?”

  August flushed. She had been observing him, just as he had been observing her.

  “Folks in town,” the girl continued with her head tilted, “say that you’re a ghost. But I’ve never known a ghost who needs a helmet to protect himself from bees.”

  “Butterflies, actually,” mumbled August, prompting a dubious look in return. And then quickly, to change the subject, he said, “Are you Madame Marvell?”

  The girl twisted her lips and looked at her toes.

  “Kind of,” she said. “I had another name once, I think. But I forget it.” She swung her hips from side to side in a childish manner. “The first Madame Marvell was my grandmother. She up and died a long time back. I reckon she wouldn’t mind me borrowing her name.”

  “You live alone?” August was shocked.

  Madame Marvell shrugged and nodded, like it was a thing of little significance.

  “But not,” she added, fixing August with a stern look, “if Child Services comes asking. You understand?” She took a step forward and poked her index finger into August’s ribs. For a little thing, she was quite intimidating (which, when you think about it, isn’t actually that uncommon: possums…hungry babies…bad-tempered poodles…).

  “If the folks from the county come around, you tell them that my mawmaw’s fetching groceries at Grosbeak’s. I’m nearly ten years old. I can look out for myself. Got it?”

  August got it. He nodded dutifully.

  “Hey!” objected Madame Marvell. “Stop that!” She defensively switched her colander to the opposite hip. “Can you tell your zombie to leave my frogs alone?”

  August was flabbergasted.

  “H-H-How…,” he stammered. “I mean…you know she’s a zombie? How…”

  “She’s licking my frogs,” said Madame Marvell, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Her eyes are all googly, and she looks like she just dug her way out of the grave. What else is she going to be?”

  “Have you met many zombies before?”

  “None at all,” admitted Madame Marvell. “But my mawmaw knew a bit about magic, and I’m familiar with the concept.”

  “Concept!” repeated August, impressed. “Do you know anything about magic?”

  “Not a whole lot. My mawmaw taught me a thing or two.”

  August went on to explain his predicament and to express his pressing desire to return Claudette to wherever it was that she came from.

  Madame Marvell listened, considered, then nodded toward the canal.

  “I’m not sure how I can help,” she said. “But you best come aboard.”

  The houseboat’s interior was overly warm, small, and as you might imagine, far from even-keeled. August purposely lingered at the front end of the “cabin,” for fear that any more weight added to the stern might cause the listing craft to finally slide, casually and silently backward, with merely a bubble or two, into the murky water.

  On the starboard wall, the wall facing August’s bedroom window, stood his old friend, the mustard-colored television. Beside this, a gas-powered camping stove and empty frying pan sat upon a dented mini icebox. Opposite, a mere three feet away, a weary tweed sofa lay somewhere beneath a mess of blankets and pillows.

  At the far end, the end where any runaway Ping-Pong balls or marbles would certainly have gathered, a table was cluttered with a jumble of seemingly random objects: a large rusted iron key, hard candies wrapped in foil, strings of iridescent beads, and purple candles. At the center of this colorful hodgepodge sat the crudely fashioned cloth doll that August had often seen seated beside Madame Marvell on deck.

  But the most arresting feature of this floating home was its walls, which were entirely concealed behind a collection of posters, postcards, playbills, and programs, all featuring the acts of illusionists, magicians, and wizards. The material was of varying age and condition and had obviously been amassed over many years.

  “Don’t most people,” said August, gazing around, “pin up pictures of athletes or actors or musicians?”

  Stella Starz had many oversized images of her idol, the one-eyed xylophonist Yuko Yukiyama, on her bedroom walls. Yukiyama was celebrated almost as much for her creative and glamorous eye patches as she was for her extraordinary percussion skills.

  “They’re not mine,” said Madame Marvell, pumping a foot pedal beneath a steel sink and washing her hands in the resulting stream of water. August would have washed his hands too, if he’d been handling frogs. The amphibious creatures had been left outside in their colander, and August wondered if they’d still be there when the girl went to retrieve them.

  “My mawmaw, she dabbled in magic, like I told you.” The girl grabbed a towel. “And when you’re keen about a thing, you admire the folks that do it real well, right? Like ballplayers, or singers, or race car drivers.” She joined August in gazing up at the fading images of theatrical performers long dead.

  “But my mawmaw’s heroes were all conjurers and whatnot, especially those with distinguished magic skills.”

  “Hey!” exclaimed August suddenly. “I know that man.” He moved toward the wall, and lifted his helmet net to peer more closely. “I believe we’re related.”

 
The poster was certainly among the oldest, for its once rich colors were faint and dull, and much of it was papered over with later additions to the collection. August wasn’t sure if the artwork was the product of photography or illustration or something in between.

  In any event, it depicted a familiar, mustachioed man with a tasseled hat and unusually large, round eyeglasses that magnified eyes of the palest gold, like late-summer marsh grass.

  This was a much larger picture than that on the playbill in Orchid’s tea table. In this image, Orfeo DuPont’s full figure was easily accommodated, and his gesture was courteous and attentive, as if inviting the viewer into the poster itself.

  From the skull-shaped fossil in his wand, a mysterious green vapor rose and swirled around several richly costumed figures in the background. And it was these who provided the most absorbing aspect of the scene.

  The men, women, and one child struck mannered poses that were reminiscent of an elegant dance, but simultaneously unnatural, stiff, and unsettling. The angular, awkward postures reminded August of Claudette. And indeed, the “dancers” were similarly cadaverous and ragged, as if freshly disentombed.

  They were zombies.

  But unlike August’s undead admirer, the eyes of these zombies were glazed over, glowing with a milky light, as if deeply entranced.

  “ ‘DuPont’s Dance of the Dead,’ ” said August, reading the bold and decorative typeface above the picture. “ ‘The world’s premier necromancer employs the Zombie Stone to reanimate the deceased for your diversion and delight.’ ”

  “Orfeo DuPont,” exclaimed Madame Marvell, incredulous, “was your kin?”

  August nodded absently, still transfixed by the haunting tableau. The girl looked at the poster, then at August, then back at the poster. “There is some resemblance,” she admitted.

  “So I’m told,” muttered August. “What’s a necromancer?”