Chapter 10

The headline is the first thing I see after sliding the forged vampire-friendly doctor’s note across Mr. Thompson’s cluttered desk at school later that morning: “BREAKING: Zombies Are Walking the Halls at Barracuda Bay High!”

He’s on his sleek metallic cell phone, one crooked, hairy-knuckled finger still up in the air in the universal “wait right there until I get off the phone with this much more important person than you” position.

I wait until he turns around to consult his old school, big square and black numbers wall calendar behind him and slide the crisp, folded-over morning paper out from beneath his lukewarm cup of coffee.

At first I couldn’t see it, because it was right under Mr. Thompson’s coffee cup, but not only has stupid, naïve, has-no-idea-the-kind-of-vampire-beat-down-she-just-opened-up-on-herself Rutherford hasn’t just named me as the “Zombie,” but has also used my sophomore yearbook picture right.

Under.

The.

Headline.

So now there’s no mistaking it: Fiona has called me a zombie.

In print, out loud, and, in this day and age, no doubt online as well.

I shake my head, just shy of trembling, and begin reading:





Cold hands.

Pale skin.

A certain stiffness to her gait.

Could our humble little high school star in the next Living Dead movie?

Only time will tell. One thing is for sure, though: this reporter has breaking, firsthand knowledge of a new “zombie-like” virus spreading like wildfire around Barracuda Bay High.

Who is “Patient X” in this latest outbreak? None other than our very own junior Lucy Frost has come down with an “unknown affliction,” according to her doctor, that results in freezing cold skin and a pale, almost ghostly pallor.

In short, one of our very own COULD JUST BE A ZOMBIE.

Okay, maybe not really, but students are still urged to avoid all physical contact with Lucy until further notice, and to report to their teachers – or the school administration – if they see Lucy showing evidence any of the following signs: hives, trembling, nausea, vomiting, external bleeding, chafing, coughing or, of course, stumbling through the halls looking to snack on your brains!

Although no evidence exists – yet – that this new strain of bug might be contagious, cautious school officials were so alarmed by Lucy’s condition yesterday that they literally barred her from attending school until she could secure a doctor’s note. As of this printing, there is no word as to whether or not “Zombie Lucy” obtained a physician’s permission to attend school…





Zombie Lucy?

Really, Fiona?

Zombie?

Lucy?

I stop reading, snatch the 10-page edition of our stupid school newspaper and stand from the wobbly pleather chair across from Mr. Thompson’s desk.

He’s not done with his call but he sees me, sees the paper in my trembling hands, puts two and two together and slides the open cell phone across his shoulder so the other person can’t hear and stands up, too, saying, “Lucy, I’m sorry about that; it was… premature… to say the least. Not to mention immature and well, frankly, extremely catty. We’ll get Fiona to print a retraction in the next edition and—”

But it’s too late; I know it’s already too late.

A retraction?

A retraction?

What good is that gonna do now that the cat’s already out of the bag?

I ignore Mr. Thompson, who follows me all the way to his doorway but not a step further, and stumble out of the front office, across the hall and directly into the library, where the normally jovial Mrs. Klinger clings protectively to her desk as I stride right past her to the row of computers just south of the magazine rack.

It’s no surprise why she’s holding her breath and covering her mouth; a quick glance at the desk in front of her reveals today’s “cover story” and my beaming, gleaming yearbook photo from last year.

Great, so now even the “nice” teachers are going to be afraid of me?

Stupid Fiona and her stupid headline and her stupid, so-called “reporting” skills!

The library is crowded this time of morning with kids killing time in the last few minutes before homeroom Tweeting or updating their Facebook pages or getting the local surf report (‘cause that’s how we roll in Barracuda Bay), and as I stroll down the line of student desk chairs looking for an open seat at a live computer terminal I don’t find one.

Instead, I make one, literally dumping a timid freshman out of the last seat in line and taking his place.

“Hey,” he shouts with a squeaky freshman voice before I flash him one of my patented zombie growls and off he goes, scampering to slide into the arms of his Gamma Man backpack on his way to complain to Mrs. Klinger.

I ignore them both and Google the term “zombie + Barracuda Bay,” hoping against hope that the online edition of the Barracuda Bay Bugle hasn’t gone live yet – sure enough, there it is, the very first hit I get (naturally), posted less than an hour ago.

What’s more, several other high schools – looking for a quick and easy morning story without actually, you know, sitting down and writing one for themselves – have “lifted” Fiona’s “scoop” and posted it on their online editions as well!

I shake my head and step from the chair, storming past the still trembling freshman and even Mrs. Klinger as the kid looks from the morning paper to my face and says, “Hey, that’s the girl with the mysterious virus everyone’s talking about…”

I cringe and flee the library, not realizing until I’m almost to my locker that I’ve been balling the newspaper from Mr. Thompson’s desk into a golf ball size wedge of paper with every step.

Like overly protective grandparents, Ethan and Dana are hovering there, tripping over themselves to shove their own copies of the Bugle in my face and asking, simultaneously, annoyingly, cloyingly, “Have you seen???”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” I snap, not bothering to stop at my locker but instead storming straight to Fiona’s homeroom class.

They follow closely, shouting out warnings as we stomp through the crowded halls.

“You know the Council of Elders has a whole team of Sentinels who monitor the internet looking for crap like this,” says Ethan. “They’re bound to see it.”

“Maybe it hasn’t posted yet,” says Dana hopefully.

“It has,” I say, dashing her hopes. “I’ve just come from the library and it’s spreading; quickly.”

We round the final corner in the commons and dash down D-wing.

I see Mr. Simpson’s open door and barrel right through it.

At the first sight of me – Dana and Ethan don’t want to be seen as “guilty by association,” so they hang back, just out of sight around the corner – half the class flinches.

Flinches; it’s like half the class does the wave – with their faces.

Sheesh, I didn’t think anyone read that rag the Bugle; let alone the students!

As if she hasn’t just signed her own death warrant, Fiona sits in the middle of the class, basking – for once – in the positive attention of her classmates.

It’s like, overnight, she’s become Piper – of the geeks in homeroom, that is.

(And you can tell she more than kinda likes it.)

Her newfound fan base (most of whom have never even spoken to her before) now pepper her with questions and she volleys back answers like a pro.

Here is the quick snippet I hear before the rest of the class gets wind of my presence and shuts down like an old folks’ home after an early bird dinner:



• “Did you really get frostbite just from touching her, Fiona?”

• “Practically; see the blister on my finger?”

• “Do you really think she could be a… a… zombie, Fiona?”

• “You tell me!”

• “How’d you know which doctor she went to?”

• “I was right there in Mr. Thompson’s office when he ordered her to go. You should have seen her face, man she was sooooo ticked… oh hi, Lucy!”



She stands hesitantly when she sees me, and only then do I realize that the rest of the kids in homeroom have literally pulled their desks around hers in a kind of semi-circle, like she’s some strange new version of the campfire storyteller.

No wonder she’s happy to see me; I’ve made her popular!

“Fiona,” I say, managing to keep a lid on it (for the most part) and ignoring the questioning look from Mr. Simpson as he watches the proceedings with some amusement from his big brown desk at the front of the room, “we need to talk – now!”

“Mr. Simpson?” she asks, although she is already headed out the door with me.

He grumbles his permission and quickly goes back to reading the 900-page World War II book he has open on his desk; the same 900-page World War II book he always has open on his desk.

Fiona is smart enough to close the classroom door behind us, but not smart enough to anticipate that Ethan and Dana would be as ticked off at her as I am right now.

Not to mention standing right around the corner.