My Zombie Hamster (5 page)

What to do?

Destroy it, said a voice in my head. You have to take it out
.

Yes. Destroy it. Good idea. Stop the infection from spreading. I looked around my room for a suitable weapon. The only thing within reach was
The Lord of the Rings
, the big hardcover version with the cool Alan Lee paintings. I hesitated. Did I really want zombie hamster splattered all over Tolkien?

But there was no other option. I reached slowly across to my bedside table. Snuffles’s head moved jerkily, following my movements. I picked the book up, hefting its weight. It should do the job.

I slowly stood up and approached the cage. Then I encountered a second problem.

How was I supposed to do it? Snuffles was standing on the lip of the cage entrance. If I just whacked the cage, I might not even hit Snuffles. I needed to get him out onto the table.

I tried nudging the cage with my foot, but it just slid across the table. Snuffles didn’t budge from his position. Just rode the cage like he was standing on a boat.

I tried again, and at that instant my door swung
open and Mom came in with my laundry.

I panicked and accidentally kicked the cage off the table. It tumbled onto the floor, sending Snuffles sailing through the air like an undead superhero hamster. He landed in the hallway, did a somersault on the carpet, then scurried away toward the stairs.

I’ll say one thing for zombie hamsters. They don’t move as slowly as their human counterparts.

“Matt!” shouted Mom. “What are you doing?”

“Snuffles!” I gasped, shoving past her.

Snuffles had curled up and was rolling down the stairs like a bouncing ball. I raced after him.

He bolted along the hall. Dad was carrying a huge pile of firewood inside, so the front door was wide open. I tried to get ahead of Snuffles to slam it shut, but I tripped on one of the stupid throw rugs Mom insists on leaving everywhere and landed on my stomach.

I pushed myself to my knees just in time to see Snuffles dart through the door and out into the front yard.

Was it my imagination, or did I hear a little undead squeak of triumph as he did so?

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31

8:00 a.m
. Right. Two things on the agenda today. First off, search for Anti-Snuffles (as I dubbed the new, evil version of my pet). And second, avoid the preparations for our New Year’s Eve party. It’s become something of a tradition over the years. A tradition to try to throw a good party, and a tradition to fail. Miserably.

My parents like to think it’s everyone else’s fault, but there comes a time (like, after the sixth year running) that you have to shoulder the burden of blame yourself.

If past parties are anything to go by, the sequence of events will be as follows:

There are usually slight variations to the theme, but that’s only window dressing, something to keep everyone guessing. Like the time Uncle Stuart and Aunt Bev were on a trial separation, and Aunt Bev brought her new boyfriend to the party. He was fifteen years younger than she was. Uncle Stuart challenged him to a duel outside on the lawn, and the police had to be called in.

9:00 a.m
. Uncle Stuart and Aunt Bev have arrived. Ten hours early! Mom is freaking out in the kitchen while Uncle Stuart and Aunt Bev sit at the dining
room table. Aunt Bev is in power-saving mode, staring blankly out the window. Uncle Stuart is reading an old romance novel.

10:00 a.m
. Dad brought the folding table in from the garage and started going through his CD collection. Dad is DJ every year, despite all our attempts to stop him. I think he looks forward to it. A few hours of power, where his decisions hold sway over tens of people. I tried to speak to him about entertaining Uncle Stuart (his brother), but he was singing something about it being “Safe to Dance,” so I just let it go.

11:00 a.m
. I spent most of the day checking the yard and house for Anti-Snuffles.

List of Protective Gear

I looked at myself in the mirror, then decided it wasn’t enough, so I put on Dad’s padded winter jacket as well.

The weight was a bit much. I tipped slowly over onto my back and rocked there like an upturned turtle. I kicked my legs, but it was no good. I couldn’t get up again. Had to call Mom. She helped me up, looked at my getup (paying close attention to her boots), and asked me if there was anything I wanted to talk about.

When I told her I was hunting zombies she looked relieved and said good luck.

No sign of Anti-Snuffles anywhere. Very worrying. What should I do? If I tell the Zombie Police, Dad will get into trouble. But I can’t just leave a deadbeat hamster running around Edenvale. Who knows what will happen? Nothing good, that’s for sure.

8:00 p.m
. Party off to a good start. Healthy turnout. I helped Mom scrape the burned part off the bottom of the appetizers, so at least there’s food. Charlie, Aren, and Calvin arrived at seven. Calvin just stood by the chips, stuffing one after another into his mouth. He would have done that all night if Mom hadn’t slapped his hand and moved him away.

9:00 p.m
. Horror! Dad decided to take to the dance floor.

My dad is … not a good dancer. You realize that’s an understatement? It’s like saying zombies like to eat brains. Have you ever seen a toddler trying to jump? They clench their little fists, bend their knees, screw up their faces in concentration, then try to make the leap. They launch, they jerk up, but their feet stay glued to the floor.

That’s how Dad dances. He picks a spot and doesn’t budge from it, dancing in his strange, jerky bounce with a fierce look of concentration on his face.

And pity the poor fool who tries to change the music while Dad’s away from his DJ table. His
normal, easygoing gaze turns on anyone going within two feet of our old CD player and freezes them on the spot. He doesn’t stop bouncing, just turns his head and shoots invisible hate rays from his eyes until the offender backs away from the music.