The Zombie Playground Read online

  The Zombie Playground (Grisly High No. 2)

  by

  Brian Rowe

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Brian Rowe

  http://brianrowebooks.com

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Prologue

  The two ninth graders were running at top speeds, but from what? The cranky cops weren’t chasing after them today, their teachers probably hadn’t noticed their absence at the nearby Grisly High, and Tristan’s gambling-obsessed mother most likely wouldn’t rat on her own son. There weren’t any rabid dogs chasing after them, no wolves, no ferrets, no crazy old men dressed in Sasquatch costumes. Tristan and Percy kept up an honorable pace as they sprinted through the woods, made all the more exhausting with the heavy bags on their backs. No, these two boys weren’t running from anyone or anything; they were racing. The first boy to climb over the fence and land feet first on the prohibited grounds would get the ultimate prize—the boast-worthy privilege of teeing off his golf ball first.

  They were neck and neck. Percy pulled out in front for a second or two, but his bag smacked loudly against an extended branch, knocking his seven-iron into a muddy ditch.

  “Sucks for you!” Tristan shouted, jumping over the branch and continuing on his way, his golf bag bouncing around so much that he was stunned he hadn’t lost a club yet.

  “Not fair!” Percy said, planting his arms and legs in the orange mud. He grabbed the club and slammed its head against the tree branch before he continued on his way. Percy was the chunkier of the two fourteen-year-olds, but he was also the smartest. He knew he wouldn’t be able to beat Tristan to the fence without a little inspiration.

  Tristan jumped past the final set of dead trees and pulled his golf bag up over his shoulders. He wanted to use it as a floating device in the roaring river below, but he knew the water only went three feet deep, at most. He hoisted the bag up over his head and submerged his feet in the wintry stream. He hated ruining his father’s pricy golf shoes, but Tristan was on a mission, and he wasn’t prepared to stop now.

  He turned around. “Percy? You give up?” Tristan didn’t hear a response. He bit down on his tongue and smiled with victory as he planted his feet in deeper waters, just steps away now from the top of the moat and the tall metallic fence that separated Tristan from the best kept secret in Grisly, Nevada. He knew it wouldn’t be in its best shape, but he didn’t care; Tristan couldn’t wait another day to test out Grisly’s first, and brand new, private golf course.

  “Percy?” Tristan looked back again. He didn’t hear a response, and more suspicious, he couldn’t hear Percy running through the forest. It was like the boy had given up completely, which was unlike him. While Tristan almost always won their petty little races, he was surprised at Percy’s acknowledgement of early defeat.

  Tristan climbed up the side of the hill and tightened his hands around the slimy fence, which was newly installed and lacked the kind of rust that made for easier climbing. But up he went anyway, with difficulty, sliding back down to the dirt ground four times before he could get a proper grip and climb toward the top. His heavy golf bag dangled from the index finger and thumb of his right hand. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to lift it over his aching shoulders.

  “I won!” Tristan yelled out as he reached the top of the fence. He pulled the golf bag up toward his face. “Percy, you at least could have tried—”

  Tristan’s jaw dropped when he saw Percy’s golf bag land on the wet grass before him. He looked up and sighed. He should’ve known.

  Percy had been crawling to the edge of a sturdy tree branch high above. “Not so fast, lame-o! It’s not over yet!”

  Tristan panicked, and almost dropped his golf bag. But he managed to push it up above his head with one hand and toss it over the fence.

  He looked up again. Percy was dangling from the branch, ready to drop down.

  “No!” Tristan screamed.

  “Oh yes!”

  “You’re too high! Don’t do it!”

  “I have to!”

  Tristan reached the top. He pulled his right leg over. He could’ve dropped then and there, but he didn’t want to break his neck.

  Percy let go of the branch and fell toward the grass. It was like a stunt out of a movie, but Tristan didn’t have time to watch. He needed to drop, too. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  He pushed off from the fence and waited to smash against the surface of the earth. But he didn’t hit the ground; he slammed his face and stomach straight back into the fence instead. Tristan looked back to see his left foot stuck in the top wire.

  He peered down. Percy had won, landing on his back mere inches away from the fence. But there was one problem: Percy wasn’t moving.

  “Percy?”

  Five seconds passed. Percy didn’t budge. Tristan glanced around the area for help. He was stuck, and his friend was lifeless, and both were sneaking onto private property. He didn’t know what to do. Nobody was around.

  Finally, Percy coughed.

  “Oh, thank God,” Tristan said, and he watched with great relief as Percy sat up, coughed once more, and smiled.

  “You thought I was dead, didn’t I?”

  “You’re such an ass! Help me down!”

  Percy wiped the dirt off his butt and reached out for Tristan’s hands. He pulled hard, twice, before Tristan’s foot broke free from the wire. He came crashing down on top of Percy.

  “Get off me!” Percy said.

  Tristan scowled. “Gladly.”

  “I win.” Percy pompously returned to his feet and strapped on his golf bag. It was light blue and more modern than Tristan’s, which was brown, slender, and ancient in appearance.

  “Whatever. Let’s just play.”

  The two boys sauntered over two hills, plus a field rich with lilies and daffodils, before finding the gargantuan clubhouse, and the first tee box, of the Macabre Golf Club.

  “So only the first nine holes are playable, right?” Percy said.

  “That’s what Crispin told me,” he said. “He got to test it out on Sunday with his dad and older brother. He said that all eighteen won’t be in their best shape until May, when the grass is green again. But still… to get to play a course less than twenty people have played…”

  Percy smiled. “For free.”

  “We’re gonna get in so much trouble.”

  “From who? Nobody’s out here.”

  Tristan dropped his golf bag at the corner of the tee box. “Nobody could ever be as crazy as us.”

  They both noticed the black clouds up above, as well as the thin layer of snow on the fairway, and the puddles in the sand boxes. If Percy and Tristan weren’t such die-hards, they might have waited until the official start of spring. But they knew if they waited too long they’d never get a chance to play the course.

  “Did you know that when Macabre is up and running, the standard price for eighteen holes for a non-member is going to be 185 dollars?” Tristan said.

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. That’
s what Crispin said.”

  “That’s crazy.” Percy teed up his Titleist 3 and grabbed his Big Dog driver from his bag.

  “You wanna know what’s even more crazy?”

  Percy took a few practice swings. He hadn’t played in almost two months and needed this nine-hole round to boost confidence in his game. “What?”

  “Now, this is all a rumor, but this is what Crispin whispered in my ear the last time we talked. He said it’s haunted.”

  Percy giggled, softly at first, but then loud enough to scare a flock of birds away. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “It’s true,” Tristan said. “He said he saw things, weird things, when he played here on Sunday.”

  “A haunted golf course? Jesus, I’ve heard everything.”

  “I’m just telling you. Watch out for—”

  “Can we just play? Please?”

  Tristan bowed and took a step back. “Go right ahead.”

  The air was cool and still, but Percy picked a hunk of grass and watched where it dropped to test the wind, anyway. He had won the race; he didn’t want to start his nine-hole round with a ball landing out of bounds. He took one more practice swing, then looked out at the curvy par five. He knew that hitting an iron off the tee was the safest plan of action, but he loved his driver; on a good day he could smash the ball over 300 yards.

  He crept up to the ball and settled into place. While three lackluster instructors had taught him three different stances, he decided to go with his instinct, and place the ball in front of his left foot.

  “Don’t mess up, don’t mess up,” he whispered, to nobody but himself.

  Percy brought the club up around his back and swung, with astonishing power, at the ball.

  “BOO!” Tristan screamed.

  Percy hit the ball, but it didn’t go far; his Big Dog driver slipped through his fingers and landed outside the tee box, almost as far as the ball itself.

  “You son of a—” Percy turned around to slug his childish friend, but he stopped, and smiled. “I’m gonna get you for that.”

  “Are you?”

  “Uh huh. That was a big mistake.”

  Tristan nodded with condescension and teed up. “We’ll see about that.”

  He swung his lengthy three-iron toward his Pinnacle before Percy had a chance to psyche him out with any well chosen words, and smashed the ball down the middle, at least 200 yards up the brown-and-yellow fairway.

  “Wow,” Percy said. “You got a hold of that one.”

  “I would say so. In fact…”

  Tristan prepared to put Percy down even more, but the boys turned around in fright when a trio of cars rumbled down the private road and pulled into the parking lot beside the clubhouse.

  “Shit,” Tristan said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Percy duffed his second shot, too, but managed a minor miracle a minute later when he knocked the ball over a tuft of trees and managed to salvage a par.

  The freshman boys bogeyed the next three holes, but then Percy birdied two in a row, and by the time they reached the short seventh hole par three, Tristan was losing.

  Percy teed up and looked out over the large lake. It was 140 yards to the green.

  “Look,” Tristan said, pointing past the green. “Is that Grisly Cemetery over there?”

  Percy squinted into the sun. It was a few minutes past noon, and while the air was piercing cold, the sun was illuminating his face enough to make him pull his lucky sunglasses out of his bag.

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  “My grandpa’s buried there,” Tristan said. “It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it? All those gravestones nearby.”

  “Uhh, not really.”

  “Do you think that’s why the course is haunted? Because it’s so close to the cemetery?”

  Percy shrugged, then shook his head. He hadn’t said a word about it, but he felt it cheap for Tristan to wear a sweatshirt over jeans, when Percy had actually dressed up for today’s illegal outing in a green, tucked-in golf sweater and a newly ironed pair of roomy Khakis.

  “Tristan, I’ve heard of haunted houses, haunted castles, haunted forests, even haunted school buses. But a haunted golf course? That’s stupid. There’s nothing scary about golf. Except getting a bad score!”

  “OK, then. Be a non-believer. I could have sworn I saw a ghost on the last hole.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “I did! I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to freak you out.”

  “You’ve already freaked me out,” Percy said, “with the way you’ve been playing today!”

  Tristan grabbed his nine iron and crossed his arms in anger. “To hell with you. This game isn’t over yet!”

  “You better score some birdies, man, or you’re done for.”

  They stared at each other, not saying a word, when they heard it—a low growling noise that could have come from anywhere.

  “Stop it,” Percy said.

  “What? That wasn’t me!”

  “Sure it wasn’t.”

  “I swear.”

  “Whatever. Let’s finish this.”

  Percy took his stance, the ball closer to his right foot than his left because of the short length of the hole, and brought the club back up over his head. The growl returned. Tristan looked back at the sixth hole green, but Percy could tell where the strange noise was coming from—beneath the ball, beneath the grass, beneath the ground.

  He should have stopped half-swing, but he didn’t. Percy brought the club down and topped the ball with an awkward follow-through, knocking the ball straight into the lake just yards in front of the tee box.

  “Damn it!” he shouted. “Damn it! No!”

  “Ha-ha. Two strokes for you!”

  “No. Not if I hit it out of the lake it’s not.”

  “What? How are you gonna do that?”

  Percy rolled up his pants sleeves and started walking down toward the back edge of the lake.

  “Come on,” Tristan said. “You’re not serious.”

  Percy didn’t respond; he was already ankle deep in cold, murky water.

  “Do you see your ball?”

  “I see it!” Percy shouted. “It’s not that deep!”

  Tristan chuckled and started swinging his eight iron around. He hadn’t even teed up his ball yet. All of his focus was on the potent dose of comedy currently taking place below. Tristan couldn’t help it; he started to laugh.

  “Shut up!” Percy said.

  “Dude, that is an impossible shot.”

  The ball lay on top of a rock but was submerged a few inches underwater. Percy took his stance and attempted a few practice shots. He had to bring his shoulders up to the side of his head to even manage a stroke that didn’t send the shaft of his club into the black, murky depths.

  Tristan chuckled some more. But, much to Percy’s relief, the laughter dissipated.

  “I can do this,” he whispered. He bit down on his bottom lip and brought the club up over his head.

  Tristan’s mouth was wide open. He hadn’t quieted down to allow Percy to hit his next shot; he had quieted down because he saw something strange wading through the center of the lake.

  “What the hell…” Tristan brought his hands to the side of his mouth and yelled, “Percy!”

  The boy was in mid-swing. He nearly fell forward into the lake.

  “Are you crazy?” Percy shouted. “I’m trying to hit my ball!”

  “Get out of there! Percy, there’s something in the—”

  “Goddammit, Tristan! For once, can I get through a round of golf without you making me shank half my shots?”

  Tristan took a step forward. He wasn’t in a joking mood anymore. “Listen to me! There’s something in the water!”

  Percy shoved his hands against his ears. “La-la-la! La-la-la! I don’t wanna hear it!”

  Tristan took another step forward and peered down to see a figure swimming toward Percy. It wasn’t colored like a fish, nor like a human; it was
lilac-yellow, small and silent. He thought he could see two arms, but he wasn’t sure. The figure wasn’t coming up for air; he or she or whatever it was was picking up speed and heading straight for Percy.

  “I can’t just stand here,” Tristan said to himself before charging down toward the lake.

  Percy was back in his stance, the club up in the air. The figure in the water was feet away. Tristan didn’t know what it would do: lash out at him or just keep on swimming. The latter didn’t seem probable. Tristan feared only the worst.

  Percy committed to a full swing, striking his ball in the sweet spot, and sending it up out of the water past the lake and toward the green. Tristan didn’t see where the ball landed, though; he was busy crashing against Percy’s back after tripping on a rock.

  “Whoa! What the—”

  “Oh no!”

  Percy acted like Tristan’s cushion when Tristan banged his head against his best friend’s abdomen and crashed on top of the rocks. Tristan jumped up instantly, unhurt, and immediately pulled Percy back up to his feet.

  “What the hell is wrong with y—”

  “Jump!” Tristan shouted. “Goddammit, jump!”

  Percy could have asked questions, and he could have put up a fit, but he didn’t. The boys raced to the tee box. Tristan looked back at the lake to see that the yellow figure was gone. But Percy wasn’t concerned with the supposed man-shark; he jumped up high to see the magnificent placement of his golf ball.

  “Yes! Oh yeah, bitch! Beat that, baby!” Percy performed a goofy disco dance; his ball rested five feet from the pin.

  “Nice shot,” Tristan said, trying to calm his nerves.

  “You see? No matter how much you try to distract me, whether it’s shouting or literally slamming into me, you can’t stop me. I win this round, baby, and you lose!”

  “Hey! We’re not done yet. We still have two more holes to go.”

  “Your only chance of beating me now? A hole in freakin’ one.”

  Tristan glared at his friend, who seemed to be getting cockier with each passing day. Tristan had his egotistical moments, but he sure didn’t expect to get a hole in one. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to get his shot on the green.