Main Street was trashed and desolate, strewn with plastic bags and debris. Broken-down cars lined both sides of the uninhabited avenue, and most of the shops and restaurants had been demolished during the zombie attack. Goopy trails of zombie sludge baked on the blacktop. The junk-ridden road reeked of hot garbage. Amazingly, there were a few stores left untouched, like the lone homes remaining in the aftermath of a tornado.
Zoe slammed the brakes, and they lunged to a stop in front of their father’s local branch of Phoenix Savings and Loan.
“All in favor of Zoe never driving again say ‘aye,’” Ozzie said, still clutching the grab handle after their herky-jerky joyride through the Arizona suburb.
“Look!” Zoe pointed out the windshield.
Just down the street a majestic, tan-checkered giraffe nibbled at a treetop.
It must have escaped from the zoo, Zack thought.
The eighteen-foot beast swung its long neck toward the car, licking its chops. The giraffe stared at them for a peaceful second and walked away, whapping its black tail tamely.
The four of them hopped out from the Clarkes’ minivan, lifted the back door, and pulled Mr. and Mrs. Clarke across the sidewalk to the front of the bank. Zack swiped his father’s debit card, and the glass door opened.
Inside the sweltering ATM foyer, Zack tried the next set of doors, but they were locked. He riffled through the keychain until he found the right key, and then they dragged the zombified parental units into the main lobby.
Behind the tellers’ counter, they stood before a giant steel door with a big metal wheel and a keypad. Zack found the key he’d seen his dad use before and stuck it in the lock. The keypad lit up: ENTER PASSCODE.
Zack ducked his head under the cashier’s post and looked up at the underside of the countertop for the number. “Dad has a terrible memory,” he explained.
“Maybe you should give him some ginkgo,” Rice said, and nudged Ozzie.
Zack punched in the numeric code on the touch pad, and the dead bolt clunked. He spun the wheel counterclockwise, and the thick iron door eased open. The walls were shelved with blocks of crisp cash wrapped in plastic.
“Yo,” Rice said. “We’re loaded!”
“No, we’re not,” Zack said. He grabbed his father under the arms and dragged his catatonic pops inside the big safe. Zoe followed, dragging their snaggle-toothed mother. Mrs. Clarke snapped and snarled loudly behind the face mask of the football helmet.
“Zack…” Zoe looked down at their parents. “Are they going to be okay?”
“I hope so, Zoe. I really hope so.”
“At least we know Madison will give us first dibs on the antelope. I’m her besty.”
Zack turned to his undead mother. “We-yer go-ing to come back for you….” He spoke in slow, broken syllables, trying to make her understand.
“She’s not listening to you, dude. Maybe this will help.” Rice unloaded a half bottle of ginkgo biloba from his backpack. He tossed some pills into Mrs. Clarke’s mouth, and she choked them down. “Nighty-night, Mrs. Clarke,” he said softly.
“You guys almost ready?” Ozzie asked.
“Almost.” Zoe snatched her mother’s purse, ran through the lobby of the bank, and sat down behind Mr. Clarke’s desk.
“What do you need that for?” Rice asked.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Zoe said, pulling out a makeup case. The boys watched her flip open the compact and look nervously in the little square mirror. She turned away and began her post-zombie emergency makeover.
“Zoe, do you have to do that now?” Zack asked his sister.
“Yup.”
Rice and Ozzie filed out of the vault, and Zack cast one final look at his zombie parents. Mrs. Clarke snarled and hissed. “Don’t worry. We’ll come back,” he promised her before clicking the bank vault locked. Zack stood in shock, leaning with his back against the door. He was running out of ideas.
Zoe spun around in the desk chair. “Ta-dah!” Her face was painted up like she was a seven-year-old beauty pageant contestant. She looked like a finalist in the World’s Grossest Sister competition.
“Looking good, Zoe…,” Rice said. “But does your face still hurt?”
“Not really,” she said, slathering her cheekbones with another layer of beige gunk.
“Well, it’s killing us!” Ozzie shouted. He and Rice laughed and bumped fists.
“Will you three quit screwing around?” Zack said. “Don’t you realize that without Madison, our parents are goners? That everyone’s a goner?”
“It’s true,” Rice said, his shoulders slumping. “We don’t know anything about the zombie life span or the antidote time frame or the recombinant vectors for cross-immunization….”
“We need Madison,” Ozzie and Zack thought aloud.
“If we only had a plane,” said Ozzie, “we could get to Washington in no time.”
Rice’s mouth dropped open. “You know how to fly?”
“Of course I do,” Ozzie answered.
Zack rolled his eyes. Of course he does.