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not to, you know …” pointed out Jermaine.
    “Oh!” said Mr. O’Hara. “I just meant they don’t like the noise a chainsaw makes. Real high and screechy, right? They don’t like loud noises that keep repeating. Hurts their ears, I guess.”
    “Okay,” said Jermaine. “We’ll be smart. And we’ll keep you posted?”
    “Yes!” said Mr. O’Hara, jumping up. “Here’s my card. Call anytime. And remember, don’t get bitten.”
    I looked at the little white card. It said
Walt O’Hara, Proprietor, Dictionary Emporium
.
    I looked up again. He’d gone. I’d have said it was like magic if I didn’t hear the ladder creaking and some cursing. Quite a bit of cursing.
    “I think he broke my dad’s ladder,” said Jermaine.

16
    Next day was Sunday.
    My family went to the Presbyterian Church on Sunday mornings. I used to think it was the Frisbeeterian Church. I was always waiting for the Frisbees. Not a one.
    Normally I don’t take a lot of notice about what’s going on in the service, but that Sunday, I really had other things on my mind.
    First thing, even before breakfast, I turned on the TV to see if there was any news about the ambulance. I switched around between channels, but mostly it was all about politics, sports and buying stuff only available for the next twenty minutes. I got to the channel the news had been on last night, but it was just a wrinkled old guy telling me how much Godwanted me to send money. Not to God. To the wrinkled old guy. I was still switching channels when Mom came in and told me to stop looking at cartoons and get ready for church.
    Have I mentioned how much adults really don’t pay attention?
    So, I had my church clothes on and my hair pretty much flat, and we were all in the car. I was looking out of the window in case I saw any zombies. I mean, I figured that by now we’d be seeing zombies everywhere, like in
Dawn of the Dead
. Jermaine had shown me that one after Mr. O’Hara had left. Lots of zombies everywhere. Especially the mall. In movies, zombies like shopping malls. Jermaine said that in the British zombie movies, they all want to go to the pub.
    No zombies on the way to church.
    “Hey, Larry,” said my dad. “You seem pretty quiet this morning.”
    “Yeah,” I said. I mean, what else was I gonna tell him?
Just watching out for zombies outside the Midas Muffler?
I didn’t think so.

KYLE:
Was it a zombie?
LARRY:
Maybe. I thought it might be, but I wasn’t sure …
KYLE:
Outside the Midas Muffler?
LARRY:
Actually, by the dumpster in back of the donut shop.
KYLE:
I don’t think zombies care for donuts.
LARRY:
Good to know.

    Sunday School came before actual church. My Sunday School teacher is Miss Foogler. She’s about a thousand years old. My dad says she went to school with Moses, but I don’t know how he could know that. We only moved here three years ago.
    Anyhow, we sang some songs, and I got in trouble for playing the tambourine too loud and not inthe places I was supposed to. We did crafts, and Jennalee Williams yelled at me when I got glue all down her leg. Miss Foogler said some stuff about Jesus and the parasites. They were smart-mouths and bullies from the sound of it, and Jesus told ’em so.
    Pretty much normal stuff.
    “Does anyone have any issues upon which the bright shining light of Jesus should shine?” asked Miss Foogler. She talks like that, I swear.
    So, I figured I should ask.
    “Hey, Miss Foogler!” I called out. “What if someone—a kid, say—notices that there’s something bad going on that all the grown-ups don’t take any notice of?”
    “Well, Larry Mullet,” she said. “You should politely bring the matter up to an adult and tell them what you know. Sometimes grown-ups aren’t fully aware of everything that concerns
young citizens
like yourselves.”
    “Right! Right!” I said. “But what if the adults just don’t take any notice?” I was thinking about the teachers and the coaches and the umpire. I gave Mr.