One termite can be squashed, but thousands of termites can raze a toolshed, or maybe a small cottage!
—DR. CRITCHLORE, IN A COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS
I didn't know what to do with the class after Coach left. I felt like I'd been given a test on a subject I'd never studied. I had to do something, but what?
I noticed that one of the zombies hadn't chased after Miss Merrybench; he'd stayed on the grass. On closer inspection, he didn't look like a zombie at all. He was tan, his long blond hair was clean, and there were no flaps of skin dangling from his body. Rather than wearing tattered clothes like the other zombies, he was dressed like me, only in a first-year jacket (purple with black sides).
As I neared him, he half smiled at me. "Hey," he said.
"Hi … um … who are you?"
"Pismo," he said.
"You're not a zombie."
"Sharp as a knife, aren't you?" he said, rolling his eyes.
"What are you?" I asked. He looked human, but then so did I.
He shrugged. I could tell this kid had attitude, which was a big no-no in a minion.
"Looks like you lost your master," he said. "What'cha gonna do now?"
"I was hoping to get the zombies to work together." Miss Merrybench had disappeared, and the zombies were now stumbling around the track like blindfolded kids trying to pin the tail on the centaur.
"These mindless mutts?" Pismo said, standing up and brushing grass off his cargo pants. "Good luck."
"Zombies are mindless for a reason," I said, remembering what I'd learned from my first-year Introduction to Minion Species class. "It's so they can be controlled by the person who raised them from the dead. They're usually under a spell of enchantment. That, or they were created by an infection, or an apocalyptic event." I looked up. Nothing but blue sky and a few birds. Not really apocalypse weather.
"I can't do anything if they were created by infection," I went on. "But if they are sorcerer-controllable zombies, all I need to do is give them a potion for mind control."
Pismo looked at me with raised eyebrows. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Do you have a potion for mind control?"
"I might." I began emptying my pockets, handing things to Pismo as I went. "Let's see, here's my class list, my rubber ball (for fetching), my school-issued DPS—"
"DPS?"
"Dungeon Positioning System—it's a labyrinth down there. A pack of explosive gum—"
"Wait," Pismo said. "Did you say 'explosive gum'?"
"Sure, unwrap-chew-spit-kaboom!" I pulled a piece of paper out. "Boris's locker combination—he always forgets it. My gargoyle action figure, a cool rock I found in the catacombs. A key, a whistle, some change. No potions."
"Check the other pocket," Pismo suggested.
"Right. A pack of wolf treats, the tooth I lost last week, my Critchlore Pocket Tool?. A package of Firstline flea medicine." I looked at Pismo, my face hot. "It's, ah, required for all minions with fur."
Pismo eyed me up and down with his eyebrows raised, probably because I didn't seem to have any fur.
"I'm a werewolf," I explained. I tried not to smile, because I hated to brag.
"Ah," he said.
I reached back into my pocket. "And my manticore antivenom," I finished. I'd grabbed that from my locker after almost getting jabbed earlier. "No potion," I said, taking my stuff back. Everything was snugly in place, but I felt a gap. I held my hand out to Pismo. "Hand it over," I said.
"What?" He gave me that innocent look that just screams "I'm guilty."
"The gum," I said. "I could get in big trouble if Coach found out I gave explosive gum to a first-year."
He shrugged and gave it to me.
"Let's check those Critchlorade? coolers," I said. We walked over to the sideline bench where Miss Merrybench had left the coolers. There, nestled between them, was a flask labeled "Zombie Mind Control Drops." Perfect!
I put a couple of drops of the potion in each cup and asked Pismo to swirl in a little Critchlorade? while I rounded up the zombies. We passed out the potion, and I raised my hands for attention. "Okay, my name is Higgins." I pointed to myself. "Since Coach Foley isn't back, I guess I'm in charge. So … um … I'm ordering you to take your potion." I tried to sound commanding.
They stood there holding the cups, but they wouldn't drink the potion.
"Drink!" I ordered. I drank my own cup of Critchlorade?, to show them what to do, but they just stared at me mindlessly. I felt like I was teaching a cat to fetch.
"This stuff smells terrible," Pismo said, sniffing a cup of the Critchlorade?. It was supposed to taste like orange juice, but the protein powder and vitamin enhancers added a chalky, medicine-y flavor. It was pretty bad. "Maybe try water?" Pismo pointed to the other cooler.
"Okay." We gathered up the cups, dumped the contents, and refilled them with potion. I held the first cup under the spigot, but nothing came out. I shook the cooler, and it felt full.
I opened the top and saw why nothing came out. It wasn't filled with water. It was filled with brains. That Miss Merrybench, I thought, smiling. She thinks of everything.
"I should have known," I said. "A fresh brain provides the electrical impulses a zombie needs to be controlled by the potion." Pismo looked at me funny. "Or something. It's science."
I scooped some brains into each cup. We swirled in the potion again and passed out the cups—but they still wouldn't eat.
"It's brains," I said. "Higgins"—I pointed to me—"brought you zombies"—I pointed to them—"brains"—I pointed to my head. "Zombies eat!"
Their expressions changed from mouth-agape confusion to mouth-agape "aha!" and they gobbled up the brains.
"What now?" Pismo asked.
"It says to wait ten minutes to take effect," I said, reading the bottle. "And then I guess I have to figure out what to do with them." We sat down on the bench. "One thing I learned in my Minion Species class is that you have to know the strengths and weaknesses of each type of minion. So, for the zombies—"
"Weaknesses: They're slow," Pismo interrupted. "And easy to kill."
"I wouldn't say 'easy,' " I said.
"Why not? Who doesn't know how to kill a zombie? Bullet between the eyes, decapitation, fire. Bam, slice, sizzle—dead zombie."
"Okay, how about strengths?" I asked. "They lack initiative."
Pismo laughed.
"What? That's a plus in a minion. As it says above the gymnasium: 'Yours Is Not to Question Why, Yours Is but to Do and Die.' Plus," I continued, "they're really scary looking, and I mean gruesome. And they're not afraid of anything, being already dead."
"They are somewhat determined," Pismo agreed. The zombies were swiping their fingers along the edges of the cups, getting out every last bit of brain.
"Come to think of it," I said, "what are you doing with the Class 5 minions?"
"Class 5?"
"Also known as 'Bodies, No Brains,' " I explained. "Unlike Class 4 minions, 'Brains, No Bodies'—you know, ghosts, wraiths, skeletons. 'Bodies, No Brains' are zombies, mummies, reanimated animals. The mindless types."
"Definitely not me—I'm all brains," he said. "Why would they put me with these guys?"
"Don't worry. It's just a mistake. They happen." Like my dorm assignment. "Someone'll fix it."
I turned my attention to the zombies, who were looking at me so intently that it was like they were challenging me to a staring contest. "Higginsbrains," one muttered.
"How am I gonna turn them into an awesome display of minion power?" I had to do something impressive, with or without Coach Foley's help. My future as a junior henchman depended on it. Everyone knew junior henchmen were rated on the performance of their minions.
I stood up and raised my hands for attention. "Attack the Cyclops!" I said, pointing to the Cyclops at the end of the field.
The zombies didn't move.
"Okay, follow me," I said. I led the way, but they didn't follow. I was getting really frustrated, so I practically whined, "You have to follow me."
And they did.
They followed me to the Cyclops.
"Attack!" I ordered, pointing at the Cyclops.
They stood there.
"Attack!" I said, with more vigorous pointing motions.
Nothing.
"Come onnnnnn," I said. "You have to attack."
They moved forward. They pulled the Cyclops apart, tearing and ripping and biting. Pismo laughed and joined them. I felt like crying, I was so proud of them. They were doing it.
The bell rang, ending first period, and there was still no sign of Coach Foley.
"Okay, good work, guys. Um, you're dismissed. I have to go to my second period, History of Henchmen class, so I'll see you tomorrow. Bye, Pismo."
"See ya."
"Bye, zombies," I said.
"Higginsbrains," they moaned, shuffling after me.
"No, zombies. Stay!" I blew my whistle and backed away.
"Higginsbrains," they moaned, a little softer.
"Stay," I said again, both hands raised. They stopped chanting "Higginsbrains." I took a deep breath, turned around, and ran for my next class.
And then I heard Pismo yell, "Bye, Higginsbrains!"—and the chanting started up again.
