The Big Nap (8 page)

I snorted. "A service? Sure, every mom wants her kid to grow up to be a zombie. It's the good ol' American way."

"Every mother wants her child to listen up and do well in school," said Mr. Viesél. "And zombies are very obedient..."

"Yeah," I said. "They obey
you.
" I edged farther down the hall; weasel father and son stayed with me.

"We just order them to study hard, help their teachers, and be nice to their parents," Sammy said.

Our little group had wandered away from Natalie. She shot me a question with her eyes. I gave a small nod.

"So," I said to Mr. Viesél, "you're doing some kind of community service, eh? That stinks like leftover junebug casserole. What's your angle?"

Mr. Viesél smoothed the fur on his sleek belly. "Well, there's no flies on you."

I blinked. "Of course not. I eat 'em."

"I mean you catch on quickly," said Mr. Viesél.
"Yes, this community service, as you put it, does turn a tidy profit for us. You see, well-behaved children earn healthy allowances..."

I sidled a little farther down the hall. Then I heard it: A strange shambling sound, coming from beyond Natalie. "And well-behaved zombies give their allowance money to you," I said.

"Precisely. And now, I must ask you to—"

"One last question," I said, "for old times' sake. Where's the magic talisman that powers the video games?"

The shuffling drew closer. It sounded just around the corner.

Mr. Viesél glanced at Sammy. They laughed. "Surely," said the tall weasel, "you don't expect me to spill all my secrets, like some third-rate villain in a Hollywood action movie?"

"You were doing pretty good so far," I said. "Why stop now?"

I glanced back toward Natalie and saw the source of the noise. A small zombie army had just rounded the corner, stepping stiff-legged, with hollow, haunted stares.

"Go, Natalie!" I shouted. "Get some help! I'll keep these mugs busy."

She launched herself from the chandelier with one last worried look behind. Natalie flapped over
the heads of the zombie crew, heading for an open window somewhere.

I turned my attention to the gang below. It looked like about forty to one. Not good odds, even for a muscle-bound action hero. And I was no action hero.

The gathering crowd included a stupefied Meena Moe. Great. If I didn't cure her zombiehood, I wouldn't even get paid for this creepy caper.

But then, why worry about pay, with a hall full of hostile ghouls before me? I eyeballed the group. I was safe, as long as there weren't any wall-climbing lizard or frog zombies on hand.

Mr. Viesél surveyed his gang. "You, you, and you," he pointed at two chameleons and a tree frog, "go fetch me that gecko."

Uh-oh.

Time for this gecko to exit, stage left.

The frog and lizards climbed the wall in zombie time—slow but steady. I scuttled before them as fast as I could scut.

The zombie trio cut off any retreat. The weasels and the rest of their soulless gang paced below on foot.

I glanced ahead. The wall was ending. What waited beyond it?

I whipped around the corner, nearly losing my grip. But luck was with me. The hall opened up into a three-story stairwell.

While Mr. Viesél and company panted up the stairs, I zipped up the wall to the third level. Now I had a head start.

Leaping to the landing, I dashed along the third story, desperately seeking magic amulets, secret hiding places, or the odd cavalry troop to rescue me. If I could just destroy that magic gizmo, the odds would even up a bit.

If.
That was a pretty big
if.

Shouts echoed behind me as the weasels ordered their mob to spread out. What do you call a group of the undead, anyway? A gaggle of ghouls? A snarl of zombies?

I popped in and out of rooms like a prairie dog on a pogo stick. Anything remotely talismanical got the heave-ho.

A statue of a sad-eyed clown?
Kittssch!
It smashed against the wall.

An enamel Easter egg?
Skronnch!
It shattered on a baseboard.

A carved hand mirror?
Skrassh!
Better seven years of bad luck than a lifetime as a zombie.

Unfortunately, I couldn't tell if I'd broken the right gewgaw until I took a gander at the zombie search party—and if they saw me first, I'd be weasel bait.

At the next set of stairs, I took my one-gecko hurricane down to the second floor. I had just hoisted the bust of some old Greek guy, when a slight sound made me turn.

Mr. Viesél!

"Do you know why the fisherwoman married the flounder?" I asked.

"Eh?" he said.

"Because he was such a great
catch!
" I shouted, tossing the sculpture at him.

I shot from the room, with the weasel in hot pursuit. Down the stairs we scrambled.

"Zombies, to me!" he bellowed.

I raced along the hallway. My breath came in gasps. Starting tomorrow, I promised myself, I'd lay off the candy-coated wasps.

Assuming I made it to tomorrow.

I rounded a corner and found myself back in the room where the party had started. Two zombie toads stood beside the other door. They spotted me and shambled forward. Mr. Viesél was only a few steps behind.

I desperately scanned the room, and my eyes fixed on the monkey-and-weasel clock above the fireplace.
The talisman?

Quick as a monkey after a you-know-what, I flashed to the mantelpiece and lifted the clock high.

"Noooo!" cried Mr. Viesél, with his arms outstretched.

Ka-shazzz!

The timepiece shattered on the hearth.

"That ... was a family heirloom," snarled Mr. Viesél. "But not the talisman."

Sammy dashed into the doorway and cut off my escape route.

"Hold him!" he told the zombies. Before I could leap for the wall, they grabbed my arms.

My goose was cooked.

At their master's command, the zombies carried me over to a nearby table and pinned me down. Mr. Viesél picked up a video game and held it before me.

"Now, watch closely," he murmured in that chocolatey voice. The tall weasel pressed the buttons and
SUPER MEATBALL BROS
. appeared in green letters on the small screen. Sammy held my head so I couldn't look away.

But as I struggled against his grip, my attention was drawn by something dangling behind the game—Mr. Viesél's stethoscope.

Mystical figures and strange runes crawled all over it. If this was a stethoscope, I was Dr. Feelgood.

The magic soul-stealing talisman!

Quick as a roadrunner's rest stop, I shot out my tongue and—
sluuurrp!
—pulled the amulet into my mouth. Its chain broke like a store-bought gingersnap.

"Hey!" shouted Mr. Viesél.

At that moment, an amplified voice rang forth
from outside. "Attention, this is the police! We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up!"

Sammy's paws loosened as he glanced up at the window, distracted. I seized my chance. Like a hall-of-fame loogey hawker, I twisted my head and spat the talisman toward the fireplace.

It sailed, end over end, in a sweet arc.

Mr. Viesél watched, horrified.

Bimp.
The talisman landed gently in a rat zombie's outstretched paw.

Drat that rat.

Mr. Viesél grinned. "Now, where were we?"

"
Hur, hur, hur,
thought you could ditch me, eh?" Waldo slouched into the room and right up beside the rat zombie.

"Waldo, you don't—" I began.

"No more foolin'," he said. "This time I'm doing a real trick, and everybody's gonna watch. Now, I'll need some sort of household object..." Waldo plucked the amulet from the rat's paw. "Thank you."

The weasels and zombies stared dumfounded as my furball classmate wrapped the magic talisman in a grimy handkerchief, put it on a chair, and waved his hand over it.

"Alla-kazmallah and shibbidy-shmear, make this
doodad disappear!" he shouted. Waldo gave a half bow to the left and to the right. He squinted mysteriously.

Then, in a blur of motion, Waldo produced a hammer from somewhere and swung it with a vengeance. "Behold as this..."

Crunch!

The hammer smashed the amulet. Bilious blue smoke poured from the remains, stinkier than a sweaty warthog stuck in an elevator.

"Oops," said Waldo. He chuckled nervously. "Ur ... smashing performance, eh?"

My two zombie captors let go. They blinked and looked about with wondering eyes. I sat up.

The bullhorn voice blared, "Come on out, Viesél. It's your last chance!"

Sammy and his dad looked at each other. The jig was up, and they knew it.

Mr. Viesél glowered at me. "You repulsive little lizard," he rumbled. "I'll have your hide."

"You wouldn't like it," I said. "It's too small to fit you."

Fweeeet!

police whistles shrilled outside, ordering an attack. Two of Sammy's brothers tore into the room, all discombobulated. "Dad, the cops!" they shouted.

Mr. Viesél glanced at the hallway, then at the window. With a frustrated snarl, he bolted for the back door, his family at his heels.

I strolled to the window and flung it open. "Thanks, coppers," I said, "you really saved my—"

Shock stole my voice like a bully pockets your lunch money. Nobody was surrounding the house. Nobody was blowing police whistles.

Nobody except a bigmouthed mockingbird.

"My pleasure," said Natalie. "Any time."

The flatfoots (that's what we detectives call the police) finally did show up. That night they nabbed the Viesél family trying to sneak out of town disguised as nuns. The weasels could cover their faces but they couldn't hide their bad habits.

My school seemed back to normal the next day (well, as normal as Emerson Hicky gets). During recess I met my client, Meena Moe, on the playground.

She smoothed her unruly hair. "Well, I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude," she said.

"A few more quarters and some mosquito milk shakes would do the trick."

Meena rummaged in her book bag for coins.
With a shy glance from under long curly eyelashes, she pressed the quarters into my palm.

"You were so ... forceful at the weasels' house," she said.

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "That's how us private eyes get the job done, with knuckles and know-how. Now, about those milk shakes?"

Meena rested a paw on my arm. My skin crawled. "I was thinking," she said, "that maybe we could meet at the ice-cream shop after school. Settle up my account..."

She gave me the flirty eyes again.

Sheesh.
You do a dame a favor and she turns into a cootie factory.

I pulled my arm back. "Look, sister," I said, "just give the guy behind the counter a wad of cash and scram. I'll drink the shakes and let you know if there's any change."

Meena's buckteeth showed in a simpering smile. "Whatever you say, Chet."

I turned to leave.

"Wait," she said. "You're going, just like that? I haven't even thanked you properly."

Before she could come closer and lay a lip lock on me, I held up a palm.

"I'm going the way I always go, with a big smile and a quick wave, and the hope I won't be seeing you again anytime soon."

The memory of Meena's puzzled face made me chuckle through the rest of the day.

After school, Natalie met me at the ice-cream shop. We made sure that Meena was nowhere near, then we settled in and slurped our shakes.

"Ah, the sweet taste of victory," I said.

She toasted me with a frosty glass. "Here's chocolate in your eye."

Silence reigned until we'd finished our first milk shakes and started our second.

Then Natalie took the straw from her mouth long enough to ask, "So, what's the deal with those weasels, anyway? Why did they do it?"

I shrugged. "Love and money are the usual reasons. Mr. Viesél loved his work. And of course there's a lot of dough to be made from good kids' allowances."

Natalie snorted. "Yeah, like you'd know about that."

I let her wisecrack pass. I was feeling too good about myself, too good about the world. I'd pay her back tomorrow.