Zombie Read Online Free PDF

ask.
    “Something like that.” Zink adjusts the weight of his book bag from one shoulder to another. “We’re teammates, not friends. Huge difference.” He extends his hand to me. “What’s your name, freshman?”
    “Jeremy,” I say, noticing the sweet perfection of his Windsor knot.
    We shake hands. Classroom doors slam shut in a staggered crescendo down the hallway. Bodies disappear. Lockers rest in their tiny frames. A short, fat, old man with thin, white hair appears. He wears a blue tracksuit and carries a clipboard. The hallway suddenly seems smaller.
    “Mr. Zinkle,” he barks.
    “Coach O’Bannon,” Zink says, startled to see this ogre of a man, this tree trunk of a dwarf, the only one not wearing a tie.
    “Are we lollygagging like a Miss Fairy Mary? Let’s get on to class.” He slaps the clipboard with his other hand and continues down the hallway.
    “Soccer coach?” I ask.
    “Cam and Coach and me—we’re one big happy family,” Zink says. “You got class?”
    “Algebra, supposedly,” I say. “You?”
    “Calculus waits for no man, Barks.” Zink adjusts his perfect Windsor knot. “How do I look?” he asks. He looks like he doesn’t necessarily belong at this school. A little too well dressed. A little too nice. A little too much of everything. “Smile, Barks. Keeps you looking fresh-faced and full of zest.”
    More guys pass by and knock into me, guys flowing in both directions, late to class, rushing, careless, dead to anyone else. I adjust my Limp Dick, and dust off the elbows of my sport coat. Blue feathers stick to the bottom of my shoes. When the hallway empties, I see my secret slip of paper, crumpled on the floor by a row of lockers, torn with only the last number left behind—1.
    I am spit-covered and sick.

7
    T he bathroom by the gym is quiet and empty, a perfect place to skip my first day of Algebra. Not even a leaky spigot drips in the background—the cliché of all high school bathroom clichés. The bathroom actually smells like it has recently been cleaned, maybe disinfected is the right word. An antiseptic smell holds the air hostage. The stall walls crack unfunny mother jokes back at me. Swear words angle and curve around diagrams of drug use. Stick-figure illustrations of sexual positions fill the space between. According to my stall, my mother, as in the universal usage of
your
mother, sucks semen through a straw. This particular message is accompanied by an interesting illustration that looks less like the image and more like a walrus with a party hat. The creativity and artistry signal a higher calling—a prison-wall scribe, a graffiti tagger.
    The bathroom door squeaks open as feet shuffle across the tile. Whispers spit from lips, eager and immediate. I lift my feet from the floor to the toilet seat and hug my knees to my chest.
    “Check the stalls,” a guy says.
    “No one’s here, Paul,” the other guy says in a deeper voice.
    “Please.”
    The first stall door slams opens. Whether the door was pushed or kicked, I can’t tell, but judging by the force, the heavy sound, I’d say kicked. With aggression. The second door slams open. Followed by the third.
    “See,” the other guy says. “Nothing.”
    “Don’t forget to check the last stall.”
    “You’re so paranoid.”
    “I’ll feel better once I lock this door.” Then, a loud
click
echoes as the bathroom door locks into place.
    Class, please note, the following will be on the final exam. This situation is not only theoretically, but also technically referred to as
being fucked
. This is not to be confused with
getting fucked
.
    A hand grips the top of my stall and pushes it open, but not all the way and the guy never looks in. He walks back across the bathroom.
    “Paul?” he says.
    Paul shushes him.
    “Paul?” he says softer.
    “What?”
    “How was your summer?”
    “Not long enough,” Paul says.
    “Go on any trips?”
    “The beach. Twice.”
    “With?”
    “My parents,” Paul says.