chapter Twenty
Mrs. Conrad led us toward the rear of the house. We
We passed the den, where we glimpsed Dirk's father sitting, watching TV. "Let's not disturb Mr. Conrad," she whispered as we passed. "Lately he's become very serious about his TV watching."
We glanced in the room as we eased by the door. Mr. Conrad sat as still as stone, staring vacantly at the TV. I shot a quick look in Sybil's direction. I know we were thinking the same thing. Mr. Conrad was a member of the living dead. We continued down the hall.
"Mmmmmph." A guttural groan from the den. We all froze.
"Coming, dear. I think he's ready for his dinner," Mrs. Conrad whispered. "Dirk is in the basement. He has a weight room down there. That's where he spends all his time lately. You kids go on down. I have to see to Mr. Conrad."
She pointed to the basement door, then scurried off to the kitchen.
Her husband and son were both zombies, and she had no idea. I felt sorry for her. Overnight her world had changed,
and yet she ignored all the signs, clinging to how it once was, how she needed it to be. I'd heard about people like her, parents whose kids were killers and yet they blindly clung to the sweet image of their sons or daughters when they were innocent four-year-olds. Women whose husbands had lost all interest in the marriage and ignored them, yet the wives pretended that life was a bed of roses. Denial.
"Gimme the walkie-talkie." Milton's words brought me back. He was holding his hand out to me.
"No way!" I said. "I'm the one who's going up to Dirk's room." Can you blame me? I couldn't allow these strangers to pick over my boyfriend's things. Not before I had a chance to pick over them myself.
"You can't. You're a girl. It's too dangerous. There could be other zombies up there," Milton said.
"No problem. I'm the zombie master, right?"
Baron chuckled. "That's my girl."
Milton stared at me. Then he sighed. He could tell from the look on my face he wasn't going to win this one. "We need his hairbrush and his toothbrush," he said, clinging to authority.
"Got it."
"And if you get in any trouble call us."
"I will."
"So, I guess we're going down to the basement," Baron said. Milton eyed the basement door, fear dancing in his eyes.
"You go. Somebody's gotta be the lookout," he said, his eyes never leaving the door. "Lookout's a dangerous job, but I'll do it. I'll wait here, and if any zombies attack, I'll handle them while you guys are having your look around."
"That's a good idea," Baron said, allowing Milton to save face. He looked at me. "Be careful, beautiful. And give us a holler if anything goes wrong. Trouble is my middle name."
"Thanks," I said with a nervous smile. He squeezed my hand, and I felt myself blushing, which seemed strange. I attributed it to mixed-up emotions. Any girl would be a ball of raw nerves visiting her boyfriend's bedroom for the first time. I started upstairs.
When I reached the second-floor landing my ears were assailed by the sound of thumping pop music. I looked down the hall. There were three doors. One had a sign that read keep out! this means you. The loud music was coming from behind this door. Dirk's sister's room, I thought. The next door had one of those do not disturb doorknob hangers you see on the doorknobs of hotel and motel rooms. It was flipped around to the maid service side. The parents' room no doubt. The doorknob hanger was to keep the kids from entering without knocking. Been there, done that. The third door had no markings, nothing to distinguish it from any other bedroom door in America. I knew it was Dirk's.
I don't know what I expected to find in Dirk's room, yet still I was surprised by what was there--nothing much, really. 1 guess 1 envisioned his dresser and shelves overflowing with trophies and medals. After all, he was one of the best athletes in the state. I pictured his walls covered with posters of all his sports heroes. Wrong. The room was surprisingly free of ego-stroking paraphernalia. There was only one tiny trophy on his dresser. It was from Little League. Next to the trophy was a photograph of ten-year-old Dirk in the classic batter's pose. He stared into the camera with little-boy charm. He was sooo cute. I was proud he was my boyfriend.
On his wall hung his science fair certificate along with two framed magazine photos of famous sports stars. One of John Elway and the other of Magic Johnson, but neither featured the sports stars in their uniforms. Instead both were wearing
business suits. The framed articles that accompanied the photos were about the athletes after their careers were over and they had become successful businessmen.
A strange feeling washed over me. There was more to Dirk than just sports. Being here in his room allowed me to see into his soul. He played the role of jock in school for his friends and classmates. He played it well, but he'd actually given some thought to his life after his sports career was over. I felt vindicated for believing that Dirk wasn't a complete bubblehead. I envisioned us sitting on the edge of his bed and chatting about our futures. But that could never happen if he remained a zombie.
I moved to his dresser, found his hairbrush, and yanked out the hairs snagged between the bristles. I folded them into a slip of paper and put it in my purse. Now all 1 had to do was stop by the bathroom on my way downstairs and grab bis toothbrush.
I was starting for the door when I noticed something on his bed. It was a button--one of those photo buttons you have made at carnivals. I moved to his bed, picked it up, and stared at the photo. Dirk and Amanda Culpepper stared back, it had obviously been taken at the carnival before everyone became zombies. My heart skipped. Dirk looked so happy. How could anybody be happy dating Amanda? I told myself it was too early in their relationship for him to know what a cow she was. Amanda's eyes burned defiance at me. It was as if she were saying, See how happy he is with me? Hell never be that happy with you.
Suddenly I felt I didn't belong there. It was like the air was being sucked from the room and I needed to get out or I'd never breathe again. I stuffed the button into my purse and hurried out.
As I stepped from the room into the corridor an icy zombie
hand sprang from nowhere and seized me by the throat. I tried to scream, but the vise-like grip pressed against my windpipe.
"Hhhhh." The grip tightened, stilling whatever sound I was trying to make. I wriggled and writhed in an attempt to break free, but it was no use. The zombie had the strength often men.
I'd gotten careless. I knew better than to step into an empty corridor when zombies were around. I'd given my meat scraps to Sybil, and the walkie-talkie in my purse was useless since I couldn't scream. The end was near. I gasped and sputtered as my air supply dwindled. A thick fog settled over my mind, blanketing my thoughts. One thought was clear, though. In a moment I'd be dead.