Stanley fought and squirmed, but Knuckles’ grip was like iron ... His teeth were inches from Stanley’s neck....
With his last drop of strength, Stanley swung the bat—
And with a loud crack!, it splintered against the side of Knuckles’ head!
“Now, boys,” Mrs. Plumdotty tutted. “Use words, not sticks.”
Knuckles wobbled backward, holding his temples like someone with a splitting headache. He staggered to a halt in front of the swings. He growled at Stanley with eyes full of hate, bared his teeth, and lurched forward. . . .
Into the path of a zombie swooping down on the swings!
Knuckles was knocked backwards—toward the roundabout, which a couple other zombies were steadily and robotically spinning.
Knuckles’ belt loop caught on the roundabout, and like someone sucked into a tornado, he spun around, and around, and around. . . .
“Ouch!” Stanley winced. “Turbo wedgie.”
Stanley started sweeping the Widow’s taffy back into his knapsack
“Did you see that?” Stanley bragged to Miranda. “That’ll teach him to pick on Stanley Nudelman!”
“Uh-oh . . .” Miranda said beside him.
“‘Uh-oh’ what?” asked Stanley, looking up.
“Uh-oh that—”
29
THEY WERE SURROUNDED by an army of zombies. A sea of zombies. Or a bunch of them, anyway. All staring at Stanley with blank, hungry looks.
“Hrnrgrghnrr,” remarked one of the zombies.
“Yarrghhhh,” commented another.
Then the whole crowd started hrrgnghrring and yaarghing—and suddenly they all surged forward, snapping their jaws like hungry nestlings fighting over a worm.
Stanley was cornered.
“The slide!” Miranda called to him from the other side of the mob.
Zombies came grunting and groping, groaning and moaning, snapping and snarling toward Stanley on every side, closing in around him with their awful zombie eyes and their even awfuerl zombie breath . . . .
Stanley started to back away and bumped up against the play structure—trapped!
He was zombie food. A Stanley sandwich. A lunch buffet for the walking dead. A—
Wait a minute . . . . What was Miranda doing on the other side of the mob?
“Use the slide,” she repeated calmly. “Just climb up and escape down the slide.”
In a flash, Stanley understood. Well, maybe it took a couple of flashes. Actually, maybe it was more like when you’re trying and trying to take a photograph and finally somebody points out that you forgot to turn the flash on. But eventually Stanley figured it out; that’s the important thing.
He spun around and started scrambling up the crisscrossing ropes behind him. Zombies clutched and clawed at his legs, stretching their mouths to chomp into them like drumsticks. One got hold of his shoelace and started pulling Stanley back down with the strength of ten fourth graders. The mob below let out a hungry moan as Stanley slipped—back—toward them—Luckily, his shoelace came untied and slid through the zombie’s grasp. (Good thing he was never very good at tying double knots.) And with the last of his strength, Stanley pulled himself to safety.
Stanley shimmied along a wooden beam toward the slide. A few of the zombies tried to follow him up the rope ladder but got tangled like fish in a net. The rest were so slow-moving and slow-thinking that by the time they caught on what Stanley was doing, he had swooped down the slide to join Miranda.
But the two of them weren’t out of trouble yet. They were still trapped in a playground full of zombies, cut off from the only gate leading out of the yard. And it wasn’t long before the crowd under the play structure realized they’d been duped and came stumbling and staggering after them, moaning angrily.
Stanley and Miranda made a dash for the back door with the angry zombie mob right on their tail. Stanley barely had time to stop and tie his shoelace....
They reached the back door just as the recess bell rang....
“It’s locked!” Miranda cried.
30
STANLEY YANKED AND yanked on the handle, but it was no use. He pounded on the door, but there was nobody inside to hear . . . . “I sent Russell in to open it,” Mrs. Plumdotty said cheerfully, appearing beside them. “I wonder what’s keeping him. I do hope he isn’t dawdling.”
By now every zombie in the whole playground was schlepping and schlumphing toward them—some chasing Stanley and Miranda, the rest just obediently staggering into line by the door.
“Mrs. Plumdotty, we have to get out of here!” Miranda blurted out. “These kids are all zombies!”
Stanley’s heart sank. He knew they must be in bad trouble if Miranda was asking for help from a teacher.