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Teaching Zombies
Mar. 6th, 2007 11:17 am The teacher sat behind his desk every day, with a shotgun leaning against his knee. He acted like the desk was a wall. If he got there early, stayed behind his wood-and-Formica bulwark, and left very late, every day, the zombies couldn’t reach him.
They’d eaten the principal back in September, two days after Open House. Faculty meetings were unbearable now, with his brains all over the conference table. The secretary didn’t help, taking every opportunity to bite fingers, even after her lower jaw fell off at the homecoming dance.
The teacher wore armor now to get through the halls, heavy gloves and a collar to protect his neck. On Halloween, he had to blow away the student corpse president and four cheer leaders just to get to lunch. Thanksgiving break was blissful. All his family was still alive, except for the dog, and he was easy enough to tie out in the yard. He went shopping the day after, and saw former students at the Best Buy, selling iPods and taking quick bites out of their oblivious customers.
He was glad to get back behind his desk. The zombies shuffled and moaned in their desks while he tried to teach them, and he wasted shotgun shells on students who wouldn’t turn off their cell-phones. He had plenty, as long as he stayed behind his desk.
By Christmas break, they were failing their tests. “Rarrrglgh,” was not the answer to any question about Shakespeare or the Roman Empire. But they tried, so he gave them half-credit. He told them all to interview a local person of note over the break, and sent them off.
Christmas was pleasant, even when his nephews killed each other over what was left of the dog. He got his wife a Winchester and a 2x4 for his son, and they got him a Teflon jacket, guaranteed zombie-proof.
On New Years, the top news story was that the mayor had been killed and eaten in his office by a high school student. The teacher remembered the assignment he’d given his students and felt very guilty, even though no one said it was his fault. Two reporters interviewed him and a third tried to bite his knee, but he fended her off with a baseball bat.
His wife was bitten while she was washing the reporter’s rotting flesh out of his best blue shirt at the laundromat. The teacher took three days off before resuming his place behind his desk. She still made him lunch, but he couldn’t stomach brains.
The zombies’ grades kept getting worse. They failed their standardized tests (most of them just ate the pages), and he began to worry that none of them would graduate. He’d have them all again next year. They didn’t do their vocabulary quizzes, and one got his finger caught in the pencil sharpener when he should have been giving a presentation on Catcher in the Rye. The teacher had to shoot him; he was howling and getting the others upset. He gave the rest of the class an A for the assignment; they deserved it for not getting their fingers stuck in the pencil sharpener.
He kept finding excuses like that. Over Spring Break, he gave them the assignment “Have fun,” and wrote down a neat little line of As in his grade book when they came back more rotted and slack-jawed than before. Those who didn’t come back, he gave A+. Clearly, they were having more fun than the others.
April passed, and May, and all of his zombies aced shambling, moaning, and oozing while he stayed behind his desk. In June, only two failed their finals, and one had an excuse: his head fell off during the math portion. He let him graduate. The other, he shot. His entire remaining class graduated, and he lay down his head on his bulwark of a desk, the day after Commencement, and laughed until he cried.
They’d eaten the principal back in September, two days after Open House. Faculty meetings were unbearable now, with his brains all over the conference table. The secretary didn’t help, taking every opportunity to bite fingers, even after her lower jaw fell off at the homecoming dance.
The teacher wore armor now to get through the halls, heavy gloves and a collar to protect his neck. On Halloween, he had to blow away the student corpse president and four cheer leaders just to get to lunch. Thanksgiving break was blissful. All his family was still alive, except for the dog, and he was easy enough to tie out in the yard. He went shopping the day after, and saw former students at the Best Buy, selling iPods and taking quick bites out of their oblivious customers.
He was glad to get back behind his desk. The zombies shuffled and moaned in their desks while he tried to teach them, and he wasted shotgun shells on students who wouldn’t turn off their cell-phones. He had plenty, as long as he stayed behind his desk.
By Christmas break, they were failing their tests. “Rarrrglgh,” was not the answer to any question about Shakespeare or the Roman Empire. But they tried, so he gave them half-credit. He told them all to interview a local person of note over the break, and sent them off.
Christmas was pleasant, even when his nephews killed each other over what was left of the dog. He got his wife a Winchester and a 2x4 for his son, and they got him a Teflon jacket, guaranteed zombie-proof.
On New Years, the top news story was that the mayor had been killed and eaten in his office by a high school student. The teacher remembered the assignment he’d given his students and felt very guilty, even though no one said it was his fault. Two reporters interviewed him and a third tried to bite his knee, but he fended her off with a baseball bat.
His wife was bitten while she was washing the reporter’s rotting flesh out of his best blue shirt at the laundromat. The teacher took three days off before resuming his place behind his desk. She still made him lunch, but he couldn’t stomach brains.
The zombies’ grades kept getting worse. They failed their standardized tests (most of them just ate the pages), and he began to worry that none of them would graduate. He’d have them all again next year. They didn’t do their vocabulary quizzes, and one got his finger caught in the pencil sharpener when he should have been giving a presentation on Catcher in the Rye. The teacher had to shoot him; he was howling and getting the others upset. He gave the rest of the class an A for the assignment; they deserved it for not getting their fingers stuck in the pencil sharpener.
He kept finding excuses like that. Over Spring Break, he gave them the assignment “Have fun,” and wrote down a neat little line of As in his grade book when they came back more rotted and slack-jawed than before. Those who didn’t come back, he gave A+. Clearly, they were having more fun than the others.
April passed, and May, and all of his zombies aced shambling, moaning, and oozing while he stayed behind his desk. In June, only two failed their finals, and one had an excuse: his head fell off during the math portion. He let him graduate. The other, he shot. His entire remaining class graduated, and he lay down his head on his bulwark of a desk, the day after Commencement, and laughed until he cried.
