The Big Nap (4 page)

"
Shhh,
" I said. "Let's sneak into my office."

We tiptoed toward the clump of bamboo. My office sat just behind it, cleverly disguised as an old refrigerator box.

Beep-bop boop,
came a sound from just ahead.

Either extraterrestrials were phoning home from my office or someone was playing a video game behind the bamboo.

"Pinky!" I said.

She didn't even look up from her handheld game. "Hmm?"

"Pinky, get back in the house." As the firstborn gecko, I had bossing-around privileges. And I never hesitated to use them.

"Mmkay," she said. Pinky rose obediently and walked up to the back door, still playing her game.

"Wow. That was easy," I said. "We should give her video games more often."

Natalie and I entered the office and broke into my stash of sugar-coated cockroach eggs.
Mmm,
life is sweet. I was ready for action.

"Okay, what do we know? One, Eena is acting like a zombie."

"Two, so is Bo Newt," said Natalie.

"Three, somebody or something enslaved them—maybe a hypnotist."

Natalie scratched herself with a claw. "Four, Bo and Eena spend lots of time at the library, where the zombie expert works."

"And five...," I said. "Do we have a five?"

Natalie shook her head.

I paced while Natalie fluffed her feathers. We needed a plan, a plot, a course of action. What we had was more questions than a six-page math test.

Natalie looked up. "What's our next step, O prince of detectives?"

"Um ... I guess we try talking to Eena."

"We try talking to Eena?"

"Gee," I said. "You took the words right out of my mouth. And my tongue didn't feel a thing."

We decided to catch Eena the next morning, before class. Sometimes you can learn more if you grill someone in person (or in pig, as the case may be). If we played it right, maybe we could figure out how to get Meena's little sister out of her pickle.

If we played it wrong—well, no big deal. I wasn't in a hurry. I thought we had plenty of time.

I turned out to be wronger than a stuttering sidewinder at a spelling bee.

Next morning, the sun was chirping and the birds were shining. Or something like that. My sleep-starved brain was so groggy, it was hard to figure out which end to put the Cheerios in.

I dragged my sleepy self to Room 3. I didn't go inside, of course. I wasn't that sleepy. Facing a grumpy alligator first thing in the
A.M.
isn't my way to say "Good day, sunshine."

Instead, Natalie and I leaned against the wall outside, watching for a certain young zombie. We didn't have long to wait.

Shoof, shoof, shoof.

Eena shuffled down the hall like a rundown robot in a second-rate sci-fi movie. Of course, zombies
always walk like that. (This I knew from watching lots of second-rate sci-fi.)

We eased off the wall and into her path. "Hi, Eena," I said. "We'd like a word with you."

Her dull eyes barely saw us. "Must go," she said. "Help teacher."

"This won't take a minute," I said. "We just want to chat." I steered her gently off to the side.

"Eena," said Natalie, "do you feel okay?"

"Feel fine," said Eena.

"Your sister is worried about you," I said.

"Feel fine," Eena repeated. "Must go."

This wasn't going to be as easy as I'd thought. Eena seemed like a graduate of the Frankenstein's
Monster School of Speechmaking. We'd be lucky to get more than three words at a time from her.

"Why do you have to go?" I asked.

"Must help teacher. Teacher good."

She tried to walk away. I grabbed her shoulder.

"You didn't help the teacher before, did you?" asked Natalie. "Why did you start?"

The questions confused Eena. Her empty eyes moved in slow circles, like a lost bumblebee in the bottom of a glass. It was kind of spooky.

"Be good, get allowance," she said. "Must go."

The guinea pig pushed past me and plodded into her classroom. I drew Natalie down the hall.

"'Be good, get allowance'?" I said. "What's this, a money zombie? I thought they only haunted Wall Street."

Natalie smirked. "Maybe she's only a part-dime ghoul, eh? That makes cents."

I groaned and led us to the cafeteria. A stray muffin might wipe out the taste of Natalie's puns.

We leaned through the kitchen door. Mrs. Bagoong, head cafeteria lady, was sliding a tray into her oven. Before I could even ask, she said, "Too early, Chet, honey. Come back in ten minutes."

Timing is everything.

I turned to go, but something caught my eye.

Deeper in the cafeteria, Shirley Chameleon leaned
against a table, playing some kind of game. Beyond her, a couple of salamanders were sitting on the bench nearest the stage, watching a top-hatted Waldo the furball. (We never could figure out what kind of animal he was.)

A hand-lettered sign on the stage read,
THE GRATE WALDINI
.

Natalie and I stepped closer.

"Obserrrve the watch in my hannnd," droned Waldo. "Baaack and forth, baaack and forth. You're getting sleeepy..."

Natalie nudged me. "A hypnotist!" she whispered.

"What?" I said. "You don't think that Waldo...?" I chuckled. "Waldo couldn't hypnotize anyone. His magic is so lame, he couldn't put his foot to sleep if he sat on it."

But while we watched, the salamanders grew slack-jawed.

"Raaaise your right haaand," said Waldo.

Both of the kids raised their left hands.

"Yooour other riiight," said Waldo.

They obeyed. I looked closer at my classmate, the doofus in the top hat. I'd always thought of Waldo as just a garden-variety nerd. Did he really have the hypnotic power to make a zombie?

Or was he so clueless he couldn't make toast without an instruction manual?

The bell rang. We had to get to class. But I was definitely going to keep an eye on that furball.

Math class—what a way to start the day. If you ask me, it's a close second to bamboo shoots under the fingernails.

But my teacher, Mr. Ratnose, wouldn't agree. He stood before the class, burbling like a kindergartner who's brought his booger collection for show-and-tell.

"Okay, class, listen carefully," he said. "A man gave one son ten cents and another son fifteen cents. What time is it?"

Math is one mystery I don't care if I ever solve. I looked around—slowly, so I wouldn't draw the teacher's attention. I had expected Snooze City, but instead, most of my classmates were watching Mr. Ratnose like he was their favorite TV show.

"Shirley Chameleon?" he asked.

"Math good," she slurred.

"Uh, yes," said Mr. Ratnose, "it is. Anyone else?"

A paw shot up. "Let's see, ten plus fifteen is twenty-five cents ... the man gave a quarter to two ... so the time is one forty-five!"

I glanced over. It was Igor Beaver, professional teacher's pet. He and Mr. Ratnose chuckled together.

A math joke—yuck.

Our teacher addressed the rest of us. "Get it?" he said. "One forty-five ... a quarter to two?"

Deafening silence. Sammy the weasel smirked at me. Waldo frowned and fiddled with his pencil.

Mr. Ratnose's smile slipped from his face, bounced off the desk, and hit the floor, bruising itself badly.

"Open your geometry books," he snarled. "Let's get down to business."

As he prattled on about polygons, I eyeballed the class again. Many faces wore the same goofy stare as Bo Newt's. Math class could drive anyone around the bend.

But if my hunch was right, more than boredom was at work here. Someone sinister was enslaving my classmates.

Yesterday, I saw only a couple of stiffs, but today we had enough to cast a musical remake of
Flesh-Eaters over Broadway.

This case was bigger than Eena's problem. It was time to get off the dime.

I had to figure out who was behind the zombie epidemic before Mr. X figured out I was after him.

Or else this private eye would end up in a chorus line, dancing the zombie mambo.

Recess came not a minute too soon. I was itching for action like a warthog in poison-ivy pants.

First things first. Time to grill Waldo like a bug on a porch light.

I beat him out the door and waited down the hall.

At recess, Waldo usually liked to practice his dorky magic tricks down by the playground. But not today. He was going to spill the beans first, and no disappearing act could save him.

Waldo slouched down the hall with his big bag o' magic.

"Waldo!" I said. "Just the furball I wanted to see."

"
Hur, hur.
You want me?" he said.

I hooked an arm through his and led Waldo alongside the building.

"Oh," he said, "you wanna watch my tricks?"

I sneered. "No, mister, I've had enough of your tricks."

"What do you mean?"

"It's time to come clean ... Mr. Hypnotist."

Under heavy bangs, Waldo's eyes darted left and right, like frightened rabbits in a thicket. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

I crowded him against the wall. "Someone's been turning students into zombies around here—someone who knows hypnosis."

Waldo gulped. "Wasn't me," he said.

"Oh, no? How many hypnotists do you know at Emerson Hicky?"

I stared him down, eyeball to eyeball.

Waldo cracked like a mug you make your mom in art class. "O-okay! I
have
been practicing hypnosis. But not to hurt anybody."

"Tell it to the judge," I said. "You turned half our class into drooling zombies. And that poor little Eena—how could you?"

"Eena?"

My tail curled and snapped like a bullwhip. "You're dealing with powers you cannot comprehend. You've messed with the supernatural, buddy-boy, and now it's time to pay the piper."

Waldo hung his head, cowed. "I-I'm so-so sorry," he stammered. "I just wa-wanted to be in the school talent show!" He looked up. "But w-what piper? And who's Eena?"

"Oh, you know," I said, pacing before him. "That little third-grade guinea pig? One of your first victims, no doubt."

Waldo's face squinched up in puzzlement. "Wait—I didn't hypnotize any guinea pigs."

I stopped. "You didn't?"

"No," he said. "And I only tried hypnosis a few times." Waldo sighed. "Usually, they'd sing instead of dance, or pick their pocket instead of their nose..."

I gave him my best steely-eyed gaze. "Do you swear by the Golden Gopher?" (It's our school mascot. I think the gopher is kinda lame, but most of the fur-bearing students love it.)

"I swear by the Gopher," said Waldo. "I'm no hypnotist—I'm not even a very good magician. But I can do card tricks..." He rummaged in his bag.

I grabbed his arm. "No, that's okay. I believe you."

And I did. Waldo was about as good at lying as I was at skipping dessert. You could read his face like a book—the kind with very big letters and lots of pictures.

"Thanks for believing me," he said. "Now, what's this about zombies?"

I told Waldo what Natalie and I had learned so far. He might be a doofus, but no reason he had to turn into a zombie doofus.

"So keep an eye out," I said. "And if you see anything shady, let me know."

"You mean, like an oak tree?
Hur, hur.
"

I winced.

"Will do, Chet!" Waldo saluted clumsily. "Hey, you sure you don't wanna see me pull a scarf out of my—"

But before he could finish, I scooted off to find Natalie. Fun's fun, but a whole recess with Waldo would be too-too weird for words.

My partner waited in line at the tetherball court. A gangly crane was up. He swung at the ball and staggered off balance. The ball on its leash whipped around and around, neatly tying him to the pole like a string shish kebab.

While the crane's friends unwrapped him, I gave Natalie the scoop on Waldo.

She frowned and cocked her head. "So if it's not him, then who's the zombie master?"

"I can't say his name, but his initials are: Cool Beans."

"The librarian?"

"The same." I led Natalie away from the line. "He knows too much about zombies. It's time we
found out what's behind that closed door in the library."