Never Slow Dance with a Zombie - By E. Van Lowe Page 0,18

doing anything about it." I turned and started for the door.

"Wait," he called.

I turned back. Principal Taft reached into his breast pocket, pulled something out, and threw it on the floor in front of us. It was a sliver of raw meat.

"Eww!" Sybil cried. "Gross."

Principal Taft sighed. "Phew! You're not one of them. I had to make sure." There was relief in his words as he got down off his desk and collapsed into his chair. Just then the bell for first period rang.

"Don't try and get rid of us by telling us to go to class," I warned. "We want to know what you know." I stared at him long and hard.

"You're right. I shouldn't have pretended everything was hunky-dory. It's not." His shoulders slumped forward. "I'm going to need your help on this, young ladies."

The change in him caught me off guard, "Sure," I said.

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"How can we help?" asked Sybil.

"Here, sit," he said, gesturing toward two chairs.

"I went to the carnival last night," he said, after we were seated. "It was a glorious evening. The student body and faculty were all present, and everyone was having a wonderful time. Out of nowhere, dark clouds rolled in, filling the sky." His voice turned ominous.

"It was then I noticed some of the boys were becoming a bit surly. As the storm hit, more students began acting aggressively. I conferred with the carnival officials and decided to call an end to the evening. After that I left. But as I drove away I observed a change in all the students present. Their gaits had become slow and plodding, and their eyes were blank, as if they were sleepwalking/'

"It happened at the carnival last night," I said. I turned to Sybil. "That's why you and I are still normal. You left early and I never went."

"We have to contact the authorities about this," Sybil said. She reached for the phone.

"No, no. We shouldn't do that." Worry lines appeared on Tart's brow.

"But we need to do something," she said.

"Don't you see? They'll blame me. I was the major authority figure present." He beseeched us with his eyes.

"Just tell them the truth like you told us," said Sybil.

"I suppose I could," he said. "But I have a better idea. We continue as if nothing's happened."

We both stared at him.

"How is that better?" I asked. I couldn't believe what he was saying. He wanted us to ignore the fact that our classmates had all become zombies.

"I've been watching them," he said. "1 know what they like

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and don't like. I know what they fear. We could easily coexist with them if we wanted to."

"But why would we want to?" I could feel myself slowly losing it. He was asking us to take our lives into our hands and try to coexist with zombies.

"For me." There was a near pleading in the words.

I could tell that Sybil was feeling sympathy for him. But all of our classmates had turned into monsters. We at least needed to find out if we could turn them back.

I looked at Taft and shook my head. "I don't know, Principal Tart."

Desperation sprang into his voice. "I've been a high school principal for a long time--too long, in fact. And finally I'm less than a semester away from a promotion to district supervisor, and this happens. I deserve better." He put his head in his hands and wagged it sadly. Sybil and I looked at each other again.

"So we should just pretend this hasn't happened?" I asked.

"No, I'm not saying that at all." He lifted his head. "But would it be so bad if we did? Just until the end of the semester. There's only seven weeks left. That's practically no time at all."

"I know, sir. But the authorities need to know about this," I insisted.

"You know if we go to the police they'll blame me. Is that fair? Just allow me seven weeks to try and fix it." He stood and put his hands together as if in prayer. "Please!"

I was beginning to feel sorry for him, too. "Even if we wanted to keep this a secret, sir, somebody will find out."

"Maybe. But I don't think so. The students came to school this morning like they've been doing all semester, and right now I bet they're headed for first-period class."

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"Why would zombies go to class?" asked Sybil.

"Sense memory, I suppose. They're doing what they've always done. And they'll keep doing it every day until the end of the semester... or until I