Night of the Zombie Chickens (3 page)

“You're completely n-n-nuts,” she said through chattering teeth.

We finally dragged ourselves up and sat with our legs hanging through the metal railing. Medford lay spread out below us like a toy city, with little dollhouses and windup cars. A tiny freight train chugged by on the tracks below us, tooting its tinny horn. We watched for a while, and then Alyssa turned to me, grinning, and told me I was brilliant.

We ate granola bars and watched ant people scurrying along the sidewalks. Medford suddenly looked small, surrounded by so much wide blue sky. From way up there, the horizon looked so close and I knew Hollywood lay just beyond it, right around the corner, waiting for me to take the big leap when I was ready.

When it was time to climb back down, Alyssa took one glance over the edge and had a meltdown. “You are a nut job!” she screamed at me. “Why did you drag me up here? We are both going to DIE!”

I kind of wanted to have a meltdown, too. Looking out at the horizon was great. Looking straight down the skinny ladder where we had to go made me want to throw up. I tried to act calm, though, since the whole thing
had
been my idea. That first step was the hardest. My legs went shaky and my palms were sweating so badly I was afraid they would slip right off the rungs.

Alyssa never said another word on the way down; she just moaned every now and then. When we reached the bottom, she collapsed on the ground and kissed the sidewalk. I thought she was mad at me when she grabbed me and started screaming, but then she yelled that it was the most awesome thing she had ever done and she was never doing it again.

I think one day I'll make a movie about my growing-up years. I'll definitely have a water tower scene. It gives me a funny feeling, though, to think about casting girls to play Alyssa and me. It seems like
we
should play us. And then I realize, we kind of are. We're playing us right now in our own lives, which is sort of like one long movie with no rehearsals. And then I think about how one day my movie is going to end, so I should make every scene count. And I try to. I watch the amazing sunset. I listen when my mom goes on about chores and homework. I give my dad a hug. And then the phone rings or Derek calls me warthog or I get hungry, and I forget. I forget to pay attention.

Maybe
that
'
s
why I really want to make movies—because then I can freeze all those great moments and replay them over and over. No matter what happens, in a movie Alyssa and I would always be this age, we would always be climbing the water tower and laughing at the old couple in Mickey D's, and she would always be my best friend.

I
show Alyssa her scene so she can read it over. She never has many lines—it's mostly screaming and running—but she suddenly frowns. “Dude, we're shooting in the basement? Are you kidding?”

Oops. I meant to break that to her gently, but I forgot with the uproar about Lydia. Our basement is actually the perfect setting for a horror movie. It's dark and creepy and smells like an old dead person with really bad breath. My dad says we have mice, but I'm pretty sure they're rats, and the walls are always damp like they're sweating.

The problem is, it's a little too perfect for a horror movie. It's seriously scary. There's an old cistern, which is like an aboveground pool made out of concrete. It's way too disturbing to swim in, and there's no water in it anyway. People used it for storing water before indoor plumbing got invented. Now I'm pretty sure it's a rat condo, so I keep my distance. The entire basement is lit with two bare bulbs plugged into the ceiling, so it's got lots of dark, shadowy corners and huge, invisible cobwebs that stick to your face and make you want to scream and run upstairs.

Before she agreed to be Mallory, Alyssa made me promise there wouldn't be any scenes in the basement.

“I've run out of locations,” I tell her. “What do you expect after twenty-three scenes?”

“I'm not going in the basement,” she says stubbornly, “and not the woods, either. I keep getting burrs in my hair, and last time I think I got poison ivy.”

“Well, where am I supposed to put you, then?” I say crossly. I've already shot in every room in our house, the chicken coop twice, the woods three times, the road, the ditch....But now that Lydia's coming over, I suddenly don't want to shoot in the basement, either. She might decide to tell kids at school how disgusting it is.

Alyssa shrugs. “We could run through the corn. We haven't done that before.”

Just like that, she comes up with a brilliant idea. “That is perfect!” I shout, and Alyssa smiles modestly.

It's September, so the corn in the nearby field is way over our heads. It's already dried out, so it sounds shivery when it blows in the wind. I don't think Mr. Edgarton will mind. He owns the field, but he's nice and he was one of the picnic zombies. I figure he won't care if we knock down a few cornstalks for art's sake.

So I do a quick rewrite. Here's how the first part of the scene reads:

INT: MALLORY'S KITCHEN—DAY

Mallory opens the fridge door. Empty, except for a bottle of ketchup and an old sour cream container. She opens the sour cream, but it's full of gross globs of blue mold.

[My mother always has old containers of sour cream floating in the back of the fridge like handy horror movie props.]

She opens a cupboard, tips a box of cereal upside down, and shakes it. A few flakes fall out. The rest of the cupboard is bare.

MALLORY
(worried)

There's no food. What am I going to do?

She moves to the window, carefully draws back the curtain, and peers out. The yard is empty. She notices the tall corn in the field across the street. Her face lights up.

MALLORY

Lucky for me the farmers planted their crops before they turned into zombies.

But is it safe? She peers down the road. Empty. No zombies in sight.

EXT: MALLORY'S FRONT YARD—CONTINUOUS

Mallory tiptoes onto the front porch, then runs across the road.

Here's where I get stuck. How do I introduce the Lydia zombie? It has to be good. Then I get a pretty genius idea myself—the zombie will drive our old pickup down the road and squeal to a stop near Mallory. Of course, it would have to be my dad doing the driving. If I shoot it right, the reflections off the windshield from the sun will hide who's really driving. Then I can cut away to a shot of Alyssa's horrified face. The next shot would be Lydia getting out of the truck like she's doing the driving.

I'm excited at the thought of using my first-ever stunt car. Now I just need to convince my stunt driver.

My dad reads over the scene and purses his lips.

“I don't need a gaffer anymore,” I tell him. “But I really want you to help us today, so I thought this would be perfect.” I give him my pleading, fragile self-esteem eyes.

Finally, he smiles. “Sure, why not? It's not like we live on a major freeway.”

“Thanks, Dad!”

The rest of the script will mostly be Lydia chasing Alyssa through the corn and Alyssa screaming, but I have to come up with an ending. Mallory always kills the zombies that chase her, and it's always with a different weapon—that's a signature calling card of my movie. She killed all the picnic zombies by tricking them into falling into the pond in our backyard. Zombies can't swim, so they all drowned. (Hey, it's my movie, so I make the rules. If I say zombies sink like rocks, then that's what they do. Movies are so much better than real life.)

Luckily for me, Derek has a toy weapon arsenal that would equip an army. So far, Mallory's weapons have included pistols, machine guns, a knife, a sword, rope, a wrench, poisonous plants, rat poison, the lawn mower, a sharp stick, and a can opener, among others.

I try to think what might be in the field that Mallory could use. She's already killed a zombie with a large rock, so that's no good, and ears of corn hardly sound lethal. Then I have my second inspiration of the day—Mallory can jump in the pickup truck and run the zombie down.

My dad balks at the idea, but I finally convince him by explaining exactly how we'll do it. Using the right camera angle, it will be easy to make it look like the pickup hits Lydia without actually running into her. By then, there are only ten minutes left before Lydia is supposed to arrive, and I still have lots to do. Take the kitchen scene, for instance. The entire fridge has to be cleaned out, so I get Alyssa working on that. The food also has to be pulled out of the cupboard, and I need an empty cereal box. All our boxes are pretty full, so I grab a gallon freezer bag and dump my mother's organic Puffed Brown Rice Crisps into it. Then I put a couple little crispies back in the box so they can fall out when Mallory shakes it.

I hear the crunch of gravel outside, and my stomach does a one-eighty flip. My zombie has arrived.

S
ometimes people ask me why I'm making a zombie movie when I'm not even allowed to watch them. (My parents are movie Nazis and won't let me see R-rated movies, even though I've explained a million times that they're an important part of my professional development.)

The reason is real simple, and it's called Bad Acting. Nothing ruins a movie faster. Alyssa's pretty good, but most of my actors have never stood in front of a camera before, and let's just say they're not exactly ready for prime time. But even the world's worst actors can hold out their arms, roll their eyes, and moan.

That's why I feel okay casting Lydia as a zombie even though I don't know if she can act. And if anyone knows how to make noise, she does. Lydia doesn't even ring the doorbell; she just sticks her head in the door, sings out “Hello!” and waltzes in. You have to admire her nerve.

“Do I look like a zombie?” She pirouettes and makes a zombie face. Actually, she looks like a fashionable zombie. She's wearing torn jeans stuffed into black boots, and a T-shirt that's ragged in all the right places and probably cost a fortune. She's got on black lipstick and lots of dark eye makeup, which looks good on her, as I'm sure she knows. A few drops of fake blood ooze like tears from her eyes. I'm a little impressed. Most of my zombies don't show up ready for action.

“That's great!” I practically shout. It's amazing how loud people make you feel like you have to be loud, too. I've got nothing on Alyssa, though. She actually screams when she sees Lydia.

“Look at you! It's perfect! You are a total zombie. You're going to be the best zombie in the movie!”

Okay, that's going a little far. My dad scared Alyssa for real the day he played a zombie. We ripped up an old T-shirt and dripped fake blood all over him and smeared it all over his face. Then he agreed to mix baking soda and cola in his mouth, which made him foam up like a rabid dog.

So there was my dad, charging after Alyssa through the woods at dusk, bloody and gruesome, foaming at the mouth and making vomiting noises, which I think were real because of the baking soda and cola, which he said was the nastiest thing he'd drunk since college. Alyssa went screaming like a banshee and never stopped until she got back to our house. She said she didn't hear me call “cut,” even though I yelled it about twenty times. All the running made her tired and she didn't want to go back into the woods again. Luckily that first take was amazing.

I doubt Lydia will be able to top that, but I swallow the thought. “Okay, here's the scene. Read it over and see what you think.” I pretend to be busy, but I'm nervously watching Lydia.

“Oh, cool, I get to drive a car!” she screeches.

My dad walks in and jingles the car keys. “Famous actresses never do their own stunts. That's why they have underpaid stuntmen.”

“Okay, let's get started,” I say nervously, because I'm afraid my dad will say something embarrassing if he keeps talking.

We shoot the kitchen scene first. It goes fine, except Alyssa is self-conscious with Lydia watching and keeps cracking up when she's supposed to look worried about not having food. We finally get it, I grab a quick shot of her peeking out the window, and then we move outside—it's time for Lydia's big scene.

My dad revs up our old pickup, which is a perfect zombie­mobile. It's a sun-fried blue Chevy splotched with rust, and the engine chugs like it's been raised from the dead a few times.

Just then, I hear Lydia scream, “That is so gross!”

She and Alyssa are laughing and staring at something on the ground. I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach as one of my mother's hens waddles away.

“It pooped!” Lydia announces. “I just saw a hen poop. This brown stuff squirted out of its butt onto the ground....” By then they're both laughing really hard. Lydia picks up a stick and pretends to flick the poop at Alyssa, who runs away screaming.

My dad gives me a look, like
Good luck with this
, and starts backing up the truck.

“Why do you guys have chickens?” Lydia asks. She's staring at them like they're alien life-forms.

“My mom raises organic chickens for upscale restaurants in the city.” I try to put the best spin on it. “Have you ever eaten at Burberry's? They use her chickens and her eggs.” Burberry's is the fanciest restaurant I can think of.

“Chickens are weird,” Lydia announces. “And that poop
stinks
.” She pinches her nose.

I decide to ignore the poop. Hopefully Lydia will forget about it with the excitement of her upcoming scene. I set my camera on its tripod, focus my shot, and shout,
“Action!”
Right on cue, my dad drives like a maniac zombie down the road. The pickup is supposed to squeal to a stop right next to Mallory. This goes perfectly. I stand behind Alyssa so the pickup is racing toward her and the camera. I shoot from a low angle so I don't even see the windshield, just the huge front grille barreling toward us. At the last second, Alyssa jumps out of the way. It's definitely one of my best action sequences.

Finally it's Lydia's turn. She jumps into the pickup and I instruct her to kick open the door, jump out, and give a zombieish moan. I set up the camera and shout, “Action!”

The pickup door opens, barely, and I hear giggling. Lydia pokes out her head. “I tried to kick it and I missed! Can we do it again?”

“Sure,” I call. We do two more takes. By the third, I start to get a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach. What happens next plays out more like a bad movie scene than real life, kind of like this:

EXT: COUNTRY ROAD—DAY

Lydia jumps out of the truck and ROARS like a demented lion. Lydia and Alyssa shriek with laughter. The director laughs, too.

DIRECTOR

Ha-ha! Cut! Maybe less roaring. I think zombies moan more than roar.

LYDIA

Got it. More moaning.

Lydia climbs into the pickup, swinging her hips and SNAPPING her fingers. Alyssa and the director laugh on cue.

Lydia jumps out of the car. She waves her arms and YOWLS like a rabid cat in heat. She and Alyssa collapse in the road, laughing. The director laughs, too, but not as much.

DIRECTOR

That's great. Once more, no laughing this time. Alyssa, you have to look afraid.

Alyssa starts to yowl, too. She and Lydia yowl a duet, waving their arms in the air.

LYDIA

How's that, Mrs. Director?

DIRECTOR

Uh, perfect. Let's shoot it again.

LYDIA

We should run through the corn now!

ALYSSA

Yeah!

DIRECTOR

We'll do that as soon as we—

LYDIA

Here, shoot this!

Lydia barrels into the corn, SHOUTING and waving her arms. Alyssa runs after her.

ALYSSA

I'm a zombie, I'm a zombie! I always wanted to be a zombie!

DIRECTOR

Uh, guys?

Loud SHUSHING noises, then SILENCE. The corn CREAKS in the breeze. A stifled GIGGLE. Loud SIGH from the director.

DIRECTOR

Okay, I guess we can shoot in the corn. We'll just get this other shot later.

The corn scenes don't go much better. Lydia reminds me of the chickens. She doesn't understand about camera angles or hitting her mark (which means stopping where I tell her to so she doesn't end up off camera). She doesn't seem to really get what
Action
and
Cut
mean, either. I explain things for the third time.

Lydia earnestly nods. “I keep forgetting to stop! I just love running through the corn and screaming. Don't worry, Mrs. Director. This time I'm going to get it right.”

She salutes me. Alyssa snickers.

“You're not supposed to laugh when you're running, Alyssa!” I bark, sharper than I mean to. But she's starting to bug me. This is Lydia's first time, but Alyssa knows better.

“I'm sick of being Mallory,” she whines. “I want to be a zombie. They have more fun.”

“Zombies have all the fun,” Lydia agrees. “I think it would be cool to be a zombie and go around biting people's heads off.”

Lydia grabs an ear of corn and rips it apart like a crazy woman. She tries to bite it, but the corn is hard, so she spits it out and says, “Bleah.”

It's funny, but I'm not in the mood to laugh. Alyssa grabs an ear of corn and copies Lydia exactly, and this I find hugely annoying.

“Zombies don't bite people's heads off,” I mutter, but they're already running away, screaming and ripping up corn. I can hear cornstalks crunching and trails of breathless laughter. A part of me wants to grab an ear of corn, run after them, and forget about the movie. But I'm the director. They're supposed to be doing what I tell them to do. And the shots of the pickup looked great, so I don't want the day to be a bust.

I trail after them with my camera. The corn is so tall and thick I can only see a couple of feet in front of me.

“I'm lost!” Lydia screams off to my left somewhere. “Alyssa, where are you?”

“I'm here!” Alyssa yells, somewhere off to my right.

“I'm here,” I call, trying to get into the spirit of things.

“Marco!” Lydia bawls at the top of her lungs.

“Polo!” Alyssa shrieks back.

“Marco!”

“Polo!”

I call Polo, too, but it's clear they're only trying to find each other. I've become the third wheel, the pain-in-the-butt director they have to run away from. Resentment simmers inside me. I didn't expect much from Lydia, but Alyssa's behavior feels like treachery. They finally find each other, and I manage to find them.

“That was
so
scary,” Lydia says, although she's clearly not afraid at all.

“We could get lost and die out here!” Alyssa squeals. “They wouldn't find our bones until next year!”

I roll my eyes. “The farmers harvest their corn in October. You'd barely be decomposed by then.”

Alyssa shrugs. “Whatever.”

I smile and try to take control of the situation. “Okay, let's shoot it once more. I just need you guys to run by the camera a few times, only do it in frame this time.”

Lydia glances at Alyssa, and, just like that, I can tell neither of them wants to work on my movie anymore. Lydia groans. “I am so tired. Is there anything to drink? I did way too much running.”

“Too bad I don't have any of it on camera,” I mutter.

Lydia stares up at the sky. “Where, exactly, is your house?”

I glance around, but the corn towers over us—acres and acres of corn. We've done so much running I've lost all sense of direction. I jump up and down, and then we're all jumping up and down, but it doesn't do any good.

We grin at one another because it's kind of funny that we're actually lost in a cornfield. It will make a great story at school on Monday morning. Who knows? After Lydia gets done telling it, maybe the whole seventh-grade class will want to be zombies in my movie. I feel cheered.

“I know,” I say. “You two get on your hands and knees, and I'll climb on your backs and see if I can see anything.”

“You're the shortest,” Lydia says.

“I'll be the lightest,” I explain.

Lydia sticks out her lower lip. “Are you calling me fat?”

Now, Lydia never means what she says. It's all about getting laughs. If I were smart, I'd say something like,
Yeah, fatty,
and she would probably snicker. But I'm still a little nervous and resentful, so I say, “Uh, no, you're not fat,” which is pathetic and not funny at all.

“Well, I'm tallest,” she says, “so you two get down and I'll look.”

She and Alyssa are the same height, but Alyssa hits the ground like a dropped brick, so I get down, too. Lydia climbs on, and she's a lot heavier than she looks. She can't just look and hop off; she has to do a little jig up there like she's losing her balance, digging her heel into my spine. And she didn't bother to take her boots off, so now I've got dirty footprints on my back.

“See anything?” I call.

“Nada. Corn's too tall.”

Well, Mr. Edgarton did say it was a bumper crop this year. A last dig in the spine and Lydia jumps down. She snaps her fingers. “I know. You ladies give me a leg up and I'll stand on your shoulders. That should work.”

“I'm the lightest,” I point out. “I should climb up.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

There's so much giggling and protesting that it takes me ten minutes to wriggle onto their shoulders. I didn't want to leave my camera on the ground, where they might step on it, so I'm still holding it in one hand. It bangs against their heads as I climb up and they think I'm doing it on purpose, but I'm not. Not really.

“Are you taking a siesta up there, or what?” Lydia bellows, because I'm still crouching on their shoulders, hanging on to their heads. I don't really want to stand up, because I already feel pretty wobbly. I make them grab on to my legs, and then I finally raise myself up. Sure enough, I see our house and it's farther away than I thought.