A Good Night for Shooting Zombies

  Jaco Jacobs is the most popular and prolific children’s author in Afrikaans. He has published more than 140 books, together selling over a million copies, among them A Good Day for Climbing Trees (Oneworld, 2018). Jaco is also a well-known columnist, blogger, freelance journalist and translator. He lives in Bloemfontein, South Africa.

  Kobus Geldenhuys is an award-winning translator who received the South African Academy for Arts and Science Prize for Translated Children’s and Youth Literature in Afrikaans for his translation of the third book in Cressida Cowell’s popular children’s series How to Train Your Dragon.

  Jim Tierney is an acclaimed book designer and illustrator. In 2011 he was awarded a New Visual Artist Award, and in 2016 he won a Regional Design Award for Amy Stewart’s Girl Waits with Gun. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Sara Wood.

  Illustrated by Jim Tierney

  Translated from Afrikaans by Kobus Geldenhuys

  For my dad,

  who can do long division in his head

  Contents

  1 Nicknames, a Punch in the Nose and the Death of a Show Chicken Called Kathleen

  2 Leghorns, an Uncle with a Broken Heart and Two TV Series You’ve Never Heard of

  3 Weird Groaning Sounds, Old Thrillers and Diseases Named after People

  4 Green Beans, Happy Numbers and a Bedroom Door

  5 Seven Plot Plodders and a Spluttering School Bus

  6 Vusi’s Movie

  7 Loitering Around, Getting up to No Good, Lotto Numbers and a Leather Jacket

  8 A Bike, an Escape and an Action Scene

  9 A Conversation

  10 The Word ‘Dead’ and the Number Zero

  11 Riding a Bicycle Around the World

  12 The Perfect Place to Hide from Zombies and Killer’s Unplanned Demise

  13 Problems

  14 A Bloody Scene

  15 Good Times and the Value of π

  16 A Chatty Old Lady and an Awful Silence

  17 My Dad and a Brilliant Plan

  18 Vusi’s Mum

  19 An Unpleasant Surprise

  20 A Conversation with Some Chickens

  21 Riding a Bicycle in the Moonlight

  22 Breaking In

  23 Long Numbers That Can Be Divided by Eleven, a Sore Shoulder and Two Policemen

  24 Puffy Eyes and a Conversation on a Veranda

  25 Zombies

  26 Einstein, Time and Another Newspaper Article

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Nicknames, a Punch in the Nose and the Death of a Show Chicken Called Kathleen

  Everyone thought it was because of the chicken that I gave Vusi a bloody nose, but that wasn’t really true. Sure, Kathleen was one of my best leghorns, but I wasn’t the kind of guy who would just punch people. Not even for a hen that had taken third prize at the previous Bloemfontein Agricultural Show.

  My name is Martin Antonio Retief. Back then I was thirteen years, eleven months and twelve days old. My mum called me Martin, but everyone at school called me Clucky. Even my sister and Uncle Hendrik called me that.

  My dad died when I was eleven years, seven months and six days old. At the time he was forty-three years, seven months and two days old. Next to him on the car seat was a frozen snoek because my mum had asked him to stop at Pick n Pay on his way back from work and bring us some fish for dinner. The lorry that cut right in front of him was carrying thirty new computers. The computers had been on their way to a school in a poor suburb. All the computers were destroyed in the crash, and Nelson Mandela Drive was brought to a standstill for more than half an hour. I knew that because that was what the newspaper said. I didn’t know whether those poor kids ever got new computers. My dad was buried four days later, on a Tuesday. There were sixty-two people at his funeral (not including the minister and the people from Doves Funerals).

  I have always loved counting things. But I was actually telling you about Vusi.

  This is what happened that morning before school: at 06:47 precisely, I knocked on our new neighbours’ door.

  Their dog came running round the corner, barked excitedly and jumped up on me. I gave him a death stare.

  A guy who looked about my age opened the door. I glared at him too.

  ‘Your dog killed my chicken,’ I said.

  For a moment he looked surprised. Then he screwed up his eyes suspiciously. It looked as if he hadn’t slept much the night before. There were dark bags under his eyes and his head was shaven. I wondered whether he’d shaved his hair to look mean.

  To my surprise, I watched him lift a video camera and shove it into my face.

  ‘How do you know it was my dog?’ he asked from behind the camera. ‘It could’ve been anyone’s dog.’ He sounded like a newsperson on TV.

  ‘Is this your dog?’ I asked and pointed to the tan-coloured mutt at my legs.

  He aimed at the ground with the video camera. The dog flashed a doggy smile at the camera, as if to show that he was innocent. That could have worked, perhaps, had it not been for the white feathers stuck to the side of his mouth.

  The boy next door also noticed the feathers. He lowered the camera.

  ‘Oh, not again, Cheetah,’ he said. ‘What have you been up to?’

  The dog gave a little yelp and lay down with his head on his paws.

  ‘Vusi, who are you talking to?’ asked a voice from inside the house.

  ‘It’s just the neighbours’ son,’ he replied over his shoulder.

  A woman appeared from one of the rooms. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said.

  I swallowed. ‘Er…hello.’

  She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, in real life or in any movie, TV show or magazine. She had blonde hair that came down to her shoulders, a small mole on her upper lip and green eyes that looked like the water in the pond behind our house when the sun was shining on it.

  ‘Vusi, you shouldn’t stay up for too long,’ she said and disappeared into the house.

  ‘Yes, Miranda,’ he called after her, secretly rolling his eyes at me. ‘Listen,’ he told me, ‘I’m sorry about your chicken.’

  ‘Kathleen.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Her name was Kathleen. And last year she won third prize in the leghorn section at the Bloemfontein Agricultural Show.’

  ‘OK, I’m sorry about Kathleen. I don’t know how Cheetah got out. If you want, I’ll ask my dad to give you money for another chicken.’

  And that was when I punched him?

  No, wrong. I was seriously peeved, but he didn’t give me a chance to tell him what he and his dad could do with their money.

  ‘You’re the guy who lives next door, in the house with the red roof?’ he asked and raised his camera again. ‘Isn’t your surname Retief?’

  I nodded.

  He lowered the camera and smiled at me. It wasn’t an ordinary kind of smile. It was the kind of smile that could mean something else. But I wasn’t any good at stuff like that – detecting when a smile meant something different to a normal smile.

  ‘I know who your mum is,’ he said.

  I gaped at him in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Wait here,’ he said and quickly disappeared down the passage.

  The dog and I eyed each other. Maybe I should have left. But Vusi returned almost immediately. He held something out to me. A piece of paper that looked like it had been cut from a magazine. I took the paper and looked at it. It did indeed come from a magazine. One of those magazines that make money from splashing gossip about soap stars and Hollywood actors. The headline read: What happened to the stars from yesteryear? And the article included a small picture of my mum.

  ‘The magazine offers a five hundred rand reward
if you can help them trace one of these missing stars…’ Vusi said and grinned.

  And that was when I punched him?

  Good guess.

  Leghorns, an Uncle with a Broken Heart and Two TV Series You’ve Never Heard of

  Leghorn chickens were named after a village in Italy. Most of them are white, but leghorns are known particularly for the fact that they can lay so many eggs. One hen can lay up to 280 eggs a year. That means she can lay on average about 0.767 eggs a day. Except when it’s a leap year.

  ‘Clucky, whatever possessed you?’

  No, that wasn’t me talking to the chickens.

  It was Uncle Hendrik, my mum’s brother, who was talking to me. I knew that, sooner or later, he would find me by the chicken coop. I always sit there when I have some thinking to do. Chickens are good company when you want to think.

  ‘I didn’t know the guy was dying,’ I muttered and watched Bertha, the oldest hen, chase a cricket.

  Uncle Hendrik sighed. ‘Clucky, since when do you hit other people?’

  He sounded decidedly out of breath after that ‘long’ sentence. Uncle Hendrik wasn’t a man of many words. My mum said he was a good orator at school and he was even the master of ceremonies at her and my dad’s wedding. But then someone broke his heart and since then he had lived in a small flat outside our house and helped out on the smallholding, or plot as we called it. And not spoken much.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said.

  Uncle Hendrik nodded. I knew he would understand.

  ‘Fine,’ he said and put his cap back on his head. ‘But you have to go and apologize. That’s what your mum said.’

  Bertha pecked at the cricket just before it could escape among a pile of bricks. Immediately, the other chickens came rushing up. On average, a chicken lives for up to eight or ten years. Bertha was already eleven. I was two years old the year she hatched. She was the only one left of the B chickens. Bigwig, the white rooster, had died the previous year. Every year, my dad used to give his chickens names that started with a different letter of the alphabet. Charlotte and the black rooster, Chopper, were a year younger than Bertha. My dad died during the K year, the year when Kathleen hatched.

  That morning while I was at school, Vusi’s dad had been to our house. He’d talked to Uncle Hendrik. I think I would have punched Vusi even if I had known that he was sick. To teach him to shut his mouth and leave my mum alone.

  The day I hit Vusi, my mum was forty-three years, eight months and twenty-two days old. When she was younger, my mum acted in two TV series and a commercial. If I told you the names of the two TV series you’d probably think I’d made them up but they’re the actual names – Spring in the Bushveld and This Winter. My mum always joked that if someone had made a series with ‘autumn’ or ‘summer’ in the title, her career would probably have lasted longer. The commercial was for Sno-D-Lite ice cream. Chances are that you’ve never heard of it – I mean, neither the TV series nor the ice cream. Both series were on television before my elder sister, Cindy, was born. And Sno-D-Lite was taken off the market ages ago.

  The day my dad was buried was the last time that my mum left the house. Mrs Moosa from the cafe said that my mum had become too anxious to face the world. She said she had read about it in a magazine, and that you call it agoraphobia. Cindy said Mrs Moosa should stop poking her nose into other people’s affairs.

  Lena, the one-eyed hen, watched me with her head tilted.

  ‘What?’ I grumbled.

  She slowly blinked her only eye and made a buk buk buk buk buk bwaaak sound.

  I sighed. ‘Yes, sure, I know. The sooner I get it over and done with, the better.’

  Weird Groaning Sounds, Old Thrillers and Diseases Named after People

  Vusi’s father looked surprised when he opened the door. Actually, surprised isn’t the right word – he looked more disappointed. Maybe he’d been hoping the child who’d given his son a bloody nose was at least slightly bigger.

  I swallowed. ‘Afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’ He wasn’t exactly oozing friendliness, but I supposed that was to be expected.

  ‘Er… could I maybe speak to Vusi, sir?’

  A woman joined Vusi’s dad in the doorway. I assumed it was his mum. She didn’t look very friendly either.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m looking for Vusi, ma’am.’

  ‘Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day?’ asked the woman. ‘I can’t believe you have the audacity to come here again! Typical of you children from the plots. Vusi is seriously ill, and you–’

  ‘Hang on, Thandi,’ the man interjected.

  I was surprised that the woman’s name was Thandi. Thandi is a friendly name.

  Vusi’s dad beckoned me inside. ‘Vusi’s room is the one at the end of the passage, next to the study.’

  Hesitantly, I ventured down the hall. It felt as if the man and woman’s eyes were burning holes in my back. I peeped round an open door – seeing a bookshelf and a desk, I assumed it was the study. The next door had to be Vusi’s room.

  Suddenly I heard a groaning sound from the room that I presumed was his. A horrible, drawn-out groan. I swung around and shot Vusi’s dad and mum a worried look, but the sound didn’t seem to bother them. A sick feeling crept into my throat. Maybe Vusi’s parents were used to the groaning. What on earth was the matter with him?

  My heart was hammering wildly as I opened the door. I was almost too scared to look… Vusi was lying on a white bed, his eyes glued to a large TV screen. Again I heard that eerie groan. But Vusi wasn’t making it – it came from the TV. Vusi could probably hear my sigh of relief, because he looked in my direction.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said, as if he’d been expecting me. He pointed at the TV screen. ‘This is the best part.’

  I didn’t really have a choice. I sat down next to him on the spotlessly white sheet and desperately hoped that there was no chicken poop on my clothes or shoes.

  A black and white movie was playing on the TV. It looked very old. There were grey lines across the screen and the actors sounded as if they were speaking through their noses and reading their words off a script.

  Vusi pressed pause on the remote control. ‘Those guys are zombies,’ he explained. ‘And that one is their master. It’s Bela Lugosi, one of the most famous horror actors ever. He controls all the zombies. They work for him in his sugar mill. The guy who’s talking to him is a rich man who lives on the island. He invited a young guy and his fiancée to come and visit him. But he’s going to ask the zombie master to change the girl into a zombie.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then her fiancé will think that she’s dead,’ said Vusi. ‘And once he’s left, the sly rich guy can marry her.’

  That sounded very complicated to me.

  ‘What movie is this?’

  ‘White Zombie,’ answered Vusi. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard about it. It’s a classic. 1932. The first ever zombie movie.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that popped into my mind. ‘1932 was a leap year because you can divide it by four.’

  Vusi pressed another button on the remote.

  Two men started talking while a guy with disgusting goggle-eyes watched them.

  Only then did I see the posters on Vusi’s bedroom wall. Dracula. Scream. A Nightmare on Elm Street 4. Friday the 13th. Child’s Play. Along one wall there was a shelf with rows and rows of DVDs. It didn’t look like the room of someone who was very ill. It looked like the room belonged to someone who loved weird movies. The only thing that gave away the fact that Vusi was ill was the drip stand next to his bed. I tried not to look at the needle inserted into his arm.

  He paused the movie once more. ‘I’m Vusi.’

  ‘I know. I’m Clucky. That isn’t my real name,’ I quickly added. ‘But it’s what everyone calls me. Except the teachers at school, of course.’

  Vusi sat
up. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about your chicken. And I’m sorry for what I said about your mum. I won’t really let the magazine know where she lives.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m sorry about your nose. It was the first time I hit someone, honest.’

  He grinned and rubbed his nose. ‘Really? You punched me like a pro.’

  I didn’t have an answer to that. Again, my eyes wandered to the needle in Vusi’s arm.

  ‘Feel free to ask,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I asked guiltily, pretending not to understand what he meant.

  ‘Feel free to ask if it hurts.’

  My cheeks felt hot. ‘Does it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, it only hurts when she sticks the needle in. I mean, Miranda. She’s my nurse.’ He gave me a challenging look. ‘So ask whatever you want to know.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Like what’s the matter with me.’

  I said nothing. But I felt like an idiot for having thought that his head had been shaved to look mean.

  ‘Lymphatic cancer,’ he continued. Strangely enough, he said it the way you would say any ordinary words.

  ‘Is it bad?’ I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. And I was scared that he would tell me again that I could ask him anything.

  He nodded. ‘It’s a kind of blood cancer. There are many types of lymphatic cancer. The type I have is called Hodgkin’s disease. I think it’s quite dumb.’

  ‘What?’ I asked for the third time. I was sounding like one of my mum’s old-fashioned records that had got stuck.

  ‘To call a disease after yourself. Why did the Hodgkin guy do such a stupid thing? And it’s the same with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s – all those diseases were named after people.’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it like that. If you discover a disease and name it after yourself, everyone who gets it will hate your name.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  We watched the movie for a while.

  The zombie master was giving the rich man something to put into the girl’s wine. Then he stared into space. ‘Send me word,’ he said with an affected voice, ‘when you’ve used it.’ And then the weird groaning started once more.