Lots of them and Madaug was the first person on his list.
(Not that he had a list because that would get him thrown out of school and probably jailed—but should said hypothetical list exist, not saying that it did currently, or would in the future, Madaug was definitely target number one.)
CHAPTER 6
They tried for several hours to reach Madaug but he wouldn’t answer the number he’d left.
Flippin’ figures . . .
Nick watched as Mark hung up the phone again before he spoke. “I’m tel ing you, Fingerman, he was eaten by the jocks.
They could smel him from the few minutes he was here and they were hel -bent to get him. I think they ran him down and had a banquet.”
Mark smirked. “Zombies have dul ed senses, Nick. They’re not bloodhounds or werewolves. You don’t move, and they’l walk right past you, never seeing you. Believe me, on the scale of scary monsters, they rank way down the ‘crap in my pants ’cause they’re after me’ list. I’l take a zombie over a vampire or werewolf any day.”
“What about the duck urine then?” Nick reminded him.
“I was sweating in a swamp and the wind carried my scent.
That’s different. Their senses are dul ed, not nonexistent.” Nick started to argue the point, but real y … wasn’t whether or not a zombie could smel you the most ludicrous thing on the planet to fight about? Werewolves weren’t real and he stil wasn’t completely sold on the whole zombie thing either.
Something was up with the jocks, no doubt, but he didn’t believe in the supernatural. He never had. It was bunk made up by moms to scare kids, and Hol ywood to make a profit.
The true monsters in this world, the people like his dad, were real and human through and through. Which was what made them so dangerous.
You didn’t see them coming until it was too late.
Bubba, who’d been ignoring them, stood up from his stool to tower over both of them. He pointed to the clock over the door. “It’s four o’clock, guys. I’m going up to watch Oprah.
Unless the shop catches fire or we’re under massive zombie invasion, I don’t exist for the next hour.” He took a step, then paused. “On second thought, don’t even bother me if it’s zombies—I’l deal with them later. Today’s a special episode on how to make peace with people who piss you off. And I definitely need to find my Zen.”
Mark snorted. “Your Zen’s shooting stuff, Bubba. Embrace your inner violence.”
“Fine, then. My inner violence says I’l cut your throat if you bother me until Oprah ends, so sod off.” Nick laughed until the time sank in. “Ah, man, I gotta run.” Mark furrowed his brow. “For what?”
“My new boss was supposed to pick me up after school.” Which was thirty-five minutes ago and he’d forgotten al about it. “Ah, geez … hope I’m not fired my first day.” Bubba hesitated. “Want me to write you an excuse?” Nick shook his head. “Nah. I better run. See you guys later.
Let me know when you find Madaug.” Grabbing his backpack from the floor, he hit the door at ful speed.
Luckily he was used to running for streetcars, and his school was only five blocks away. Something he made in record time.
There was stil police tape cordoning off the front yard of the school and a couple of officers there to enforce it. They watched him closely as if expecting him to start biting on them or something.
Ignoring them, Nick slowed as he studied the cars that were lined up on the opposite side of the street. Only one had someone in it, and it wasn’t Kyrian.
I am so fired. . . .
Crap.
My mom will kill me. More than that, he’d probably have to pay the hospital bil —which at last check had already added up to more than his first two years of col ege tuition combined
—out of his own pocket.
Why couldn’t Alan have shot him in the head and ended it al ?
I was cursed from birth. Couldn’t he ever catch a break with anything? Disgusted, he hung his head and started back toward Bubba’s store.
“Nick Gautier?”
He turned at the unfamiliar voice to find the man he’d seen sitting in the black BMW, now stepping out of it. He was probably mid to late thirties. With dark blond hair and extremely clean cut (in other words he stank of serious money), he reminded Nick of someone, but he couldn’t quite place it. “I don’t know you.”
The man smiled. “No, you don’t. My son, Kyl Poitiers”—gah, he said that name like a true snotty blue blood: “Pwa-tee-aa”—“is one of your classmates. Kyrian asked me to pick you up after school and take you to his house. So here I am.” Yeah, right … “How do I know any of that’s true?” Other than the fact that he did look like Kyl, which was why he’d seemed familiar. That stil didn’t make him safe or friendly.