Lucy Frost must battle the vampires and her fellow zombies to protect one innocent mortal in a REAL clash of the titans!
Excerpt: smell the vampire before I see her, and stiff or not I'm up on the deck and approaching the rusty pool fence in two seconds flat - I told you zombies can move with the quickness when they want to - when Piper suddenly appears from behind the shack size pool house where they keep the grindy old pump and cleaning supplies. In the pre-dawn darkness she is even more hideous than usual, her violent yellow eyes more violent and yellow, her veiny skin a disgusting atlas of thick black lines that pulse and throb as all roads lead to her black, twisted heart and then right back out again, like a never-ending conveyer belt of just. Plain. Nasty.
That’s right, we are both here today because of… a paper towel.
Not a whole roll of paper towels, not some super special paper towels like with shiny silver foil undersides or some fancy holiday print in honor of fall or monogrammed with my initials or anything – just one regular, generic, public high school issued stinking paper towel.
Specifically, we are here today because the powers that be at Barracuda Bay High School decided to switch out the old-fashioned, minding-its-own-darn-business, plenty-good-enough metal paper towel dispensers and go all high-tech instead.
What’d they replace them with?
Those fancy newfangled deals with the little red light under the dispenser.
And what does the little red light do?
It senses body heat.
And why does it sense body heat?
Because that’s how it knows when to shoot out a new paper towel at you.
And what don’t zombies have?
That’s right; body heat!
So there I am, just popping into the C-wing girls room between 5th and 6th periods so I can “check my face” before sitting as close to Alex Foster as humanly possible in Chorus and, at first, I don’t even notice the newfangled towel dispensers hanging from the bathroom wall.
I mean, why would I, right?
Who looks at anything but the mirror in the bathroom anyway?
Now, here’s a little fun fact for you (you know, in case you’re keeping score or something): zombies don’t actually need to use the bathroom.
Well, think about it: we don’t eat human food, don’t drink human drinks and only eat fresh brains once a month or so, so… why would we?
But I do pop into the girls room to check my face every other period or so just to make sure the three layers of white pancake makeup I apply every morning haven’t smudged to reveal the slightly gray, drying cement tone of my true skin color beneath.
(Slightly gross, I know, but yet another thing you kind of have to get used to when you’re no longer among the living.)
Now, if no one’s around when I do my checking, I just walk out the doors and don’t look back.
I mean, I’m already dead!
What are a few million germs going to do to me, right?
But when people are around, live people, human beings – “Normals,” as we of the zombie persuasion call them – well, I have to play the part and that means washing your hands so girls don’t start spreading the rumor that you’re a non-hand-washer because that pretty much kills your dating potential right there.
And if it had been just a few of the knock-around girls from class I really wouldn’t have cared because, let’s face it, what they do in the bathroom is 50 times worse than not washing your hands (trust me on this one).
Also by Rusty Fischer on obooko: Zombies Don't Read