Zombie Baseball Beatdown Read online

  “Looks like we’re going to get that fight after all,” Joe said. He didn’t sound scared. Mostly just curious about what would happen next.

  Just so you know, Joe is kind of crazy. His dad drinks a lot of beer and gets in a lot of fights, and the two things Joe seems to have learned from that are that he’s never going to drink alcohol and that nothing is as scary as his dad—so Joe does whatever he wants, and doesn’t worry much about the consequences. He’s always wearing raggedy clothes, and he cuts his blond hair with clippers without using a mirror, so it always sticks up in chunks. He thinks everything is a joke.

  Sammy took a drag on his cigarette and stood up. He pointed at me, real serious, like, You’re dead. His buddies all stood up, too. One of them had to be six feet tall. Rob Ziegler had been held back for, like, three grades.

  “They’re going to turn us into mango pulp,” I said.

  “Doesn’t your mom make that?” Joe asked.

  “You’re thinking of aamar payesh,” I said.

  “Oh yeah,” Joe said. “I love that stuff. I could totally go for that right now.”

  We were about to get pounded, and Joe was thinking about mango rice pudding. Like I said, Joe’s kind of crazy. My mom got really worried when I started hanging out with him, because she was sure it was the first step to me not going to college and not getting my engineering degree, which basically is the worst thing you can do to your mom if she’s a mom like mine.

  I grabbed Joe’s and Miguel’s arms. “Let’s go to Milrow Park,” I suggested. “They won’t bother us there.”

  “That’s because it smells like dead dogs out there,” Joe said.

  “You seriously going to let these idiots run us off?” Miguel asked, looking hard at Sammy.

  Miguel won’t back down from anyone who acts like a jerk. He’s like a samurai from ancient Japan that way. If he thinks something’s not right, he doesn’t back down, no matter what.

  Which is just how his dad used to be, too, and it didn’t do him any good at all. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree with Miguel. His dad made all kinds of trouble out at Milrow’s meatpacking plant. Even made a video of what it was like working inside the place and uploaded it to YouTube. He was crazy brave, like Miguel, but it ruined his whole family.

  Now I was afraid we were getting to that point with Miguel, where it didn’t matter how bad the odds were—Miguel would step up and fight, just because it wasn’t right to back down.

  “They’re not running us off,” I said. “It’s just being smart about the stats. You might be strong, and Joe might be crazy—”

  “I like to think of myself as inspired,” Joe said.

  “—but they’re all bigger than us. Even you, Miguel. And six against three doesn’t add up to anything other than a bloodbath.”

  “You can’t live afraid,” Miguel said.

  “I can’t live dead, either, so come on.”

  “You ever stop to think maybe we could win?” Miguel asked.

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “Like in X-Men. When the odds are against you, and you really step up.”

  “Quit with the comic book stuff,” I said. “You’re both nuts.”

  “You sure it won’t smell at Milrow?” Miguel asked.

  I wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.

  “Oh yeah. It’ll be totally fine.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “It smells like dead dogs, Rabi.”

  Miguel laughed at Joe’s wrinkled nose of disgust. “You didn’t actually believe him, did you?”

  “It’s not that bad,” I said, trying to make the best of it. “At least we’re not downwind of the feedlots.”

  We were sitting on our bikes, staring at the Milrow beef-processing facility, a whole series of big white metal-sided buildings and smokestacks puffing steam. A giant Milrow cow logo smiled out at us from the side of the nearest building, along with the words MILROW MEAT SOLUTIONS—MODERN FARMING EXCELLENCE MEETS ALL-NATURAL QUALITY.

  Beyond that, it was feedlots to the horizon, an ocean of cows all packed together, practically knee-deep in their own manure, feeding in long troughs full of whatever it was that Milrow gave its cows to fatten them up.

  We were told in school that Milrow makes beef to feed people in seven states, but until you see cows and feedlots as far as the eye can see, you can’t really understand how big a deal that is. Acres and acres of cows, all waiting to go in one end of the plant as mooing animals, and pop out the other end as cuts of beef that would get packed into refrigerated trucks, where they’d be taken to supermarkets all over.

  “Whew,” Joe said, covering his nose with his shirt. “I’ll sure be glad when they’re all steak instead of stink.”

  I had to agree there. My family doesn’t eat beef, because my mom’s Hindu, but looking at all those sad, packed-together cows, it seemed like they’d sure be better off once they were turned into chunks of shrink-wrapped steak instead of a bunch of mangy and gross animals spattered with manure.

  When I thought about it, though, it was kind of disgusting that this was where all that bright, clean-looking supermarket meat was coming from.

  A big old semitruck was coming up the road, packed with more cows for the feedlots. We rolled our bikes out of the way as it rushed past in a blast of smelly wind and dust and loud mooing from inside the metal trailer. We all gagged from the stink.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go hit some balls before we get run over.”

  “It’s going to be just as nasty on the grass.”

  “Look at it,” I said. “It’s a nice park.”

  Milrow Park stood just a little way off from the processing plant, and it really was nice. Emerald-green grass, perfectly manicured, with picnic tables and clumps of trees scattered around for shade. Of course, it was also a ghost park, because feedlots and a meatpacking plant don’t make for a great view at your average Sunday family barbecue and touch football game.

  My dad said Milrow only made the park because it had to clean up a huge sewer lagoon from its feedlots. There was some kind of tax deduction for turning a big lake of cow poop into a park, so they made Milrow Park and called it open space. At first, all the trees and grass died, but they’d finally figured out how to make things grow, and now, if you held your nose and just focused on the park, it was actually pretty nice—that is, if you’d run out of all other options.

  “If you want to complain, go ahead,” I said. “This is the only place where Sammy and his thugs aren’t going to bother us. Better get used to it.”

  “I’m getting sick and tired of Sammy pushing us around,” Miguel said. He was looking at the meatpacking plant as he said it, but I knew he was thinking about his mom and dad. And if he was thinking about his mom and dad, that meant he was thinking about Sammy’s dad, too—the guy who ran Milrow Meats, and who had probably been the person to go after Miguel’s family after Miguel’s dad posted the meatpacking video on YouTube.

  “Just be glad you were born here in America,” I said. “Otherwise, they might have gone after you, too.”

  “Milrow doesn’t care about me. Just people who make trouble in there. They don’t bother us when we’re being cheap, quiet workers, but as soon as you stand up… Bam!” Miguel drove his fist into his palm. “They bounce us right out of the country.”

  “You don’t know for sure that’s what happened,” Joe said.

  “My dad made that video of the plant, and the next day, ICE raided. That wasn’t a coincidence. That was Sammy’s dad, sweeping out noisy workers.”

  “Yeah,” said Joe, “but still, your dad was illegal. He was breaking the law. It was bound to happen sometime.”

  “Nobody at Milrow cared about that before,” Miguel said. “He worked there for fifteen years. But as soon as he started saying the line was getting sped up too much and that people were getting hurt, suddenly he’s a troublemaker. And next thing you know, Milrow sics ICE on my family. There’re still tons of people working in there who don’t have p
assports or green cards or anything, and Milrow doesn’t mind them. Just my dad and my mom. Milrow threw them away like garbage.”

  I didn’t know what to say. For sure, Miguel’s dad had been making trouble at Milrow, and for sure, he and Miguel’s mom were both illegal immigrants, so when the department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement raided, they hadn’t stood a chance. They’d gotten swept up and thrown into detention, then thrown out of the country. Miguel ended up living with his aunt and uncle—who hadn’t been making trouble at the plant, and hadn’t been raided.

  “Well,” Joe said, “at least you’re a citizen. At least they can’t deport you.”

  Miguel shook his head. “You never know with ICE. Sometimes they don’t seem so picky. If they get my aunt and uncle, what happens to me then? Foster home? Or maybe ICE dumps me over the border, too, ’cause I got no family here.”

  “Forget that!” Joe said. “If you needed a place to live, you’d live with me.”

  “With your dad?” I said. “No way. Miguel would live with me.”

  “No. He’d live with me. I’ve got the comic books.”

  “Yeah, well, my mom makes all the good food,” I said.

  “TV dinners are great!” Joe said.

  “How come you’re always sniffing around my house at dinnertime, then?”

  “I’m just trying to be nice. Miguel eats meat. All you vegetarians eat are nuts and berries.”

  “We’re not vegetarians,” I said. “We eat chicken and fish. And you know it, because you stuff yourself every time you come over.”

  “Yeah? Well, my house is the one with the bacon.” Joe grinned. “Bacon and comics. You can’t beat that. Baaaaacon. MMMMMMmmm.”

  Miguel started to laugh. “You guys are both crazy. If I had to pick, I’d take Rabi’s mom’s cooking and your comics.” He seemed to have shaken off his funk, though. “Come on. Let’s go play some ball,” he said.

  We went out onto the park’s green grass and started practicing, with Joe pitching and Miguel helping me with my swing. After a while, we barely even noticed the smell coming from the feedlots or the mooing of the cows.

  Miguel watched me swing and miss.

  Swing and miss.

  Swing and foul one off.

  Swing and miss.

  “You always tense up at the plate,” Miguel said. “You got to stay loose.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a ball flying at me,” I said. “Of course I tense up.”

  “No. There’s a ball flying past you.”

  Joe laughed at that. “Except that one time, remember? When Rabi got beaned in the head? He fell right over. Just like in a cartoon.”

  Joe pretended to be me, splatting on the grass, his arms and legs spread out in a big X, and his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth, like he was unconscious.

  “We’re supposed to be building up his confidence,” Miguel reminded him.

  Joe opened his eyes and sat up. “Come on, you got to admit it was funny.” He fell back and threw out his arms again. “SPLAT!”

  “Aaanyway,” Miguel said, making a big thing about ignoring Joe, “that’s why you got the batting helmet, right? It’s armor. Just like with Iron Man in Joe’s comics. You got to think like you’re armored, like you’re a baseball-killing machine.”

  “You ready or not?” Joe called.

  I nodded. Baseball-killing machine, I thought. Not afraid of the ball, or how fast it was going, just hunting for it, wanting it—

  Joe whipped a fast one at me.

  WHACK!

  I totally got a piece of it. The ball blasted across the field, fast and low. It bounced and bounced and then rolled into the shade under a couple of trees that Milrow had planted.

  Miguel and Joe both cheered. “Nice shot!” Joe said.

  “Would have been a hit, for sure.”

  Miguel declared it was good to end on a high note, so after that we just started throwing the ball around and talking.

  Joe told us about a new stack of comic books that he’d ordered using his mom’s credit card when she wasn’t looking, and he was supposed to get delivery in a couple of days.

  “I just hope she’s not home when the package shows up. If I’m there for UPS, she’ll never even know.”

  “You’re going to get busted,” Miguel said.

  “Nah.” Joe hucked the ball, fast and hard, to me. “She orders tons of junk on Amazon all the time. I already deleted the receipt from her e-mail, so she might not even notice it’s on her card with all those other charges.”

  I sent the ball to Miguel, and Miguel fired it off to Joe. Thwock, solid in his glove.

  “So what did you get?” I asked.

  “X-Men, and a new Spider-Man, and I got another Transmetropolitan.”

  I perked up at that. Transmetropolitan is this crazy comic about a journalist named Spider Jerusalem who lives in the future and investigates all these stories about corruption. He’s kind of burned-out, so it’s not really, you know, good role-model stuff. When my mom caught me with it, she gave me a big lecture about drugs and drinking and violence and girls and all the other things in the comic, and how these things weren’t supposed to be glorified. Then she threw the comic away.

  I didn’t mind, really, because I knew she meant well, but all she would have had to do was point at Joe’s dad if she wanted to talk about what drinking or drugs got you, because walking into that guy’s house when he was drunk was scary enough that you never wanted to drink, ever.

  To me at least, Spider Jerusalem’s craziness never seemed like the point of the comic. The point was that the guy was always trying to fight the good fight and uncover corruption, even though everyone around him was too lazy or greedy or stupid to care. Kind of like Miguel, or even Miguel’s dad, when he stood up for things and got socked for it. It was that whole samurai thing: too much honor to sit and lie low. Spider Jerusalem kept on fighting anyway.

  Also, Spider Jerusalem had a cat with two faces, and he ate things like takeout monkey burgers and cartons of caribou eyeballs for breakfast.

  How cool is that?

  So anyway, I wasn’t allowed to have those comics at my house, but Joe’s mom hardly paid attention, and if we avoided his dad, we could go over to Joe’s and read them there.

  We kept chucking the baseball and talking about nothing in particular. And I think that’s the most important thing: We were doing something that felt so normal, and at the same time, everything around us was already starting to get weird. Things were normal… and then they weren’t.

  “What’s that smell?” Joe asked.

  Miguel and I sniffed. Nasty. “Is that the feedlots?”

  “I think it’s coming from Milrow.” I gagged.

  “Whoa!” Miguel said. “That’s just wrong.”

  The smell was definitely coming out of the meatpacking plant, and it was bad.

  But telling you the smell was bad is a complete understatement. It smelled like a combination of cow manure and rotten meat.

  Even that doesn’t describe it, because, basically, manure and rotting meat is what Milrow smells like a lot of the time—it’s disgusting, but it’s totally normal.

  This was worse.

  Bucket-of-puke-that-you-left-out-in-the-sun-and-then-poured-over-hot-coals worse. Ashy-barfy-rotten-meat-dead-cow-manure-sewer nasty.

  “Oh my god!” We were all gagging. “What is it?”

  Joe retched. “I thought you said it wouldn’t stink out here, Rabi!”

  I was covering my mouth with my T-shirt. “It never smells like this.”

  We all started for our bikes, holding our shirts over our noses, covering our faces with our baseball gloves. Anything to cut the stench.

  “Agh! It’s killing me!” Miguel said.

  As we climbed onto our bikes, we suddenly saw a bunch of workers scrambling out of the meatpacking plant. I saw Miguel’s uncle and aunt and a whole bunch of the other Mexican workers all piling out the door and running for the parking lots.
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br />   A siren started going off, and more people came pouring outside.

  Miguel’s uncle caught sight of us staring at the commotion. He changed direction and hurried over.

  “What are you niños doing here?” He was holding a blood-covered apron over his face. Cow blood, I guessed. He hadn’t even changed out of his work clothes before he ran out of there.

  “We were just playing baseball.”

  Mr. Castillo glanced back at the plant. I swear he looked frightened. “You shouldn’t be here. Go play by your school.”

  “Why?”

  I mean, it was pretty obvious why. The whole place smelled like rot-poop-dead-cow-puke—but, you know, other than that.

  Mr. Castillo just shook his head and didn’t answer. “You shouldn’t be out here. This air is very bad. Muy malo. Muy muy malo.”

  “Why’s everyone running?” Miguel asked. “What smells so bad?”

  But Miguel’s uncle wouldn’t say. He just made urgent shooing motions at us like we were a bunch of chickens or something.

  “¡No más preguntas! Just go on! ¡Váyanse!” he said, and he looked so serious, we didn’t dare to ask any more questions. We stood on our pedals and got out of there.

  But this smell wasn’t like other smells. It didn’t get better as we pedaled for town; it chased us the whole way, making our eyes tear up and making us cough and gag.

  It was the kind of stink that made you want to hunker down under a blanket to keep the air out. It made you want to duct-tape the windows closed and hold your breath, praying the smell would just pass you by—because, if you were honest about the thing that was billowing over the cornfields and chasing us back to town, there was only one name that fit:

  Pure Evil.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mom opened the door ahead of me, making a face at the outside air. “Where have you been, khoka?”

  “We were at the park. Over by Milrow.”

  “Is that where this smell is coming from?”

  I was gagging as I ducked inside. “Yeah.”

  Mom shut the door quickly, but the smell followed me in. We turned up the AC to try to filter it out, but it didn’t help.