Dinkin Dings and the Frightening Things Page 2

  4. Zombaliens do not celebrate Christmas.

  5. Zombaliens have no weaknesses (or if they do, they’ve kept them really quiet).

  On the other side of the piece of paper, they wrote down the best ways of dealing with a zombalien encounter. So far they only had . . .

  . . . neither of which seemed to be very good solutions.

  “We need proof that the girl is a zombalien, and we need it fast. Otherwise, we’ll all be zombified before we even get to the weekend,” said Dinkin, marking the potential weak spots (ankles, ears, pigtails) on a drawing of a zombalien.

  “I can’t be zombified this weekend, I’ve got things to do,” said Arthur, nervously checking his diary.

  “I’m not sure the zombalien next door is going to put off her conquest of the world so you can go and play World of Poltergeists on your Hex-Box,” Edgar spat.

  “Well, exc-u-use me for having a hobby!” said Arthur, flying in and out of Dinkin’s pants drawer for no good reason.

  “Stop it, you two, this is getting us nowhere,” said Dinkin. “Herbert, any ideas?”

  The Frightening Things looked at Herbert. He had eaten most of Dinkin’s pens. He burped loudly and sprayed colored ink all over the wall.

  “Pardon me,” he said.

  “As I was saying,” continued a frustrated Dinkn, “we need to find a way to—”

  “Too late . . . ,” said Edgar. He pointed out the window.

  Far away, on the horizon, they could see the sun rising.

  “AAA-A-AAH!” said Arthur. “We lost track of time! Here comes the sun!”

  “But you can’t go yet, we don’t have a plan!” said Dinkin.

  “You know as well as we do that we can only come out at night,” said Edgar. “We are Frightening Things, after all.”

  “Fine, but don’t blame me if I’m a zombie the next time I see you,” said Dinkin.

  “Call for us at midnight . . . ,” said Edgar as he began to fade. And with that, The Frightening Things disappeared. Dinkin was alone again. He sighed and yawned at the same time, wondering how his zombalien-filled day could get any worse. Four seconds later, there was a knock on Dinkin’s door. It was his mother.

  “Morning, Dinkin, up already? Oh, good! That gives you plenty of time to get ready for school . . . ”

  HARD TO BELIEVE

  Time: 5:34 AM

  Time until school bell: 3 hours, 11 minutes

  Time until global zombification : ?

  “School? SCHOOL? I can’t go to school! There’s a zombalien on the loose!” cried Dinkin, peeking through the curtains. Now, normally, Dinkin didn’t bother telling his parents about his most terrifying fears. They tended to just say, “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” or “Here we go again,” which was obviously frustrating when Dinkin was being menaced by, for example, heat-seeking bananas or man-eating bicycles. At least The Frightening Things understood him. They were usually all he needed to get things back to acceptable levels of scariness. But this time things were different—the whole world was in danger from the zombalien. He had to try and make his mom understand.

  “I’m sorry, a zom-ba-what?” said Mrs. Dings.

  “A zombalien! A flesh-eating alien space zombie from beyond horror!” yelled Dinkin.

  “Oh, Dinkin, don’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Dings.

  “I knew you’d say that! It’s just like the bears! And the mind-control toothpaste! And the exploding dinner ladies, and the dinosaur-making machine, and the killer clouds! You never believe me!” cried Dinkin.

  “It’s not that we don’t believe you . . . it’s just that sometimes you’re hard to believe,” said Mrs. Dings. “And it’s so early for flesh-feeding zomb-a-whatsits from wherever. Now please get ready for school like a good boy.”

  “But the girl next door is going to turn me into a mindless slave!” cried Dinkin.

  “Well, that would certainly make my life easier,” sighed Dinkin’s mom. “You never know, using your mind just a little less might mean you don’t worry so much about everything. Now go to school—and no arguments.”

  As she ushered Dinkin into the bathroom to wash up, she spotted a couple of halfeaten magic markers on the floor.

  “Have . . . have you been eating pens?” she asked.

  “That wasn’t me, it was—,” began Dinkin.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Mrs. Dings, in the sort of voice grown-ups use when they think you’re lying. “It was The Frightening Things . . . ”

  TO SCHOOL AND BACK

  Length of bus ride to school: 720 seconds

  Length of school day: 23,400 seconds

  Length of longest thirteen seconds ever recorded: 168 seconds

  It had just turned 8:06 when the school bus arrived. Dinkin was rushing around the house collecting “equipment” to protect himself against a zombalien attack when his mother grabbed him and manhandled him out of the house.

  “Wait! I don’t have everything I need! What if she’s at school, too? I’ll be defenseless! I haven’t even field-tested my Zombalien-Tracking Wrist Radar!” protested Dinkin.

  “Dinkin, I don’t think the girl next door has started at your school yet,” said Mrs. Dings as she ushered him onto the bus.

  “What? How do you know?” asked Dinkin.

  “Well, because she’s over there—look,” said Mrs. Dings. Dinkin looked over to the house next door. There, standing on the lawn of nextdoor’s garden, was the zombalien. She was playing with a small, brown dog and making it do tricks.

  “Mom, run! Run for your life!” shouted Dinkin as the bus doors closed, but she didn’t seem to hear him. As the bus set off, he rushed to an empty seat and stared helplessly through the window as his mother waved him off. Typical, thought Dinkin. Now I’ll get home and find my mom drooling slime on the floor and saying things like “Eat brains!” and “Graaagh!”

  The ride to school seemed to take forever, but once he was there, Dinkin was so worried about his mom being zombified that he completely failed to notice these four extremely terrifying things:

  8:48 am: Dinkin’s teacher, Ms. Feebleback, accidentally misses Dinkin on the attendance sheet. (Which, according to Dinkin, only happens when you suddenly cease to exist.)

  10:12 am: A butterfly flies into the classroom during a video on personal safety. (Which Dinkin would normally take as a signal of an all-out butterfly invasion.)

  12:33 pm: Dinkin is served carrots by the lunch lady, Mrs. Hogjaw. (Dinkin doesn’t eat carrots because they are the noses of snowmen, and Dinkin doesn’t like the idea of eating anybody’s nose.)

  3:03 pm: Boris Wack, the biggest boy in class 9D, tells Dinkin he smells. (Last time this happened, Dinkin sewed three hundred car air fresheners onto his school uniform. The school was closed for the rest of the week due to what the principal called “Pine Pollution.”)

  In fact, the whole day passed in a blur of zombalien-related anxiety. Before Dinkin knew it, he was back on the bus, chugging toward home and who-knows-what kinds of horrors. The bus dropped Dinkin off just before the zombalien’s house. It was eerily silent. Maybe she’s zombified the whole street already! thought Dinkin.

  He crept past the house as quietly as he could, but before long, the thought of being zombified from behind was too scary to bear. He began skipping, then jogging, then running, and finally sprinting for his life. He reached his house and banged on the door, praying that his mother had not become a mindless, brain-sucking pawn in the zombalien’s evil scheme.

  “Please not zombie, please not zombie . . . ,” whispered Dinkin to himself. He took out a hastily constructed anti-zombalien grenade (which was pretty much just an egg with the words “anti-zombalien grenade” written on it. At least it hadn’t broken in his bag, like the other five “grenades”. . . ). He waited for the longest thirteen seconds ever recorded. Finally, the door swung open and his mother appeared, not looking at all zombie-like.

  “Hello, Dink,” said Mrs. Dings.

  “Mom, you’re . . . you’re
okay!” said Dinkin.

  “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “How are you feeling? Have you been bitten? Are you showing signs of zombieness? Do you have a craving to eat brains?” said Dinkin, without taking a breath.

  “Oh, Dinkin, you’re not still going on about Molly, are you? Honestly, you haven’t even met her yet,” said Mrs. Dings.

  “Molly? Who’s Molly? You mean the zombalien?” said Dinkin, panicking.

  “I mean Molly, the girl next door. Now stop being such a nervous Nellie and come and say hello—she can’t wait to meet you!” said Mrs. Dings.

  Mrs. Dings stood aside. There, in the hallway, was Dinkin’s worst nightmare, pigtails and all.

  “Hi, Dinkin, I’m Molly. Do you want to play ‘ponies’?”

  MOLLY CODDLE (THE ZOMBALIEN NEXT DOOR)

  Human count : 4

  Canine count: 1

  Flesh-Eating Alien Space Zombie from Beyond Horror count : 1

  One of the many problems Dinkin has with his mom is that she’s nice to everyone, from old people to animals to total strangers. But inviting a zombalien into your house? That’s like asking to have your brains eaten!

  “Well, don’t just stand there, come in and say hello to Molly,” said Mrs. Dings, pulling Dinkin inside and bringing him face-to-face with the zombalien.

  Dinkin froze.

  “I like dolls and boy bands and combing my hair and my doggy, Princess Puppy-Face, but mostly I like ponies! I’m ‘100% Pony Crazy’, it says so on my T-shirt, look!” said Molly.

  That’s exactly what a zombalien pretending to be a human girl would say, thought Dinkin. Every instinct told him to run, but he knew that would give him away—the zombalien would realize that he knew her secret . . . and that would put him right at the top of her zombification list! He slipped the anti-zombalien grenade back into his pants pocket.

  “You see? I knew you’d get along. Now, come and say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Coddle,” said Mrs. Dings.

  Dinkin could barely breathe as Molly skipped past him. Mrs. Dings nudged him into the living room, where he found Mr. and Mrs. Coddle snacking on some fancy cookies. They were both ridiculously smiley. Mr. Coddle looked like Santa Claus (but with brown hair and without the beard), and Mrs. Coddle looked like a crossing guard on her day off. At Mrs. Coddle’s feet sat the small, brown dog, who immediately started barking when Dinkin entered the room.

  “AAAH!” screamed Dinkin, who was terrified of all animal noises. Even the sound of a cat purring gave him a nervous rash.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Princess Puppy-Face, she’s just grumpy because she hasn’t had her lunch,” said Mrs. Coddle. “Hello to you, young man—you must be Duncan.”

  “Dinkin,” whimpered a petrified Dinkin.

  “Pleased to meet you, Duncan,” said Mr. Coddle.

  “Dinkin,” said Dinkin.

  “Duncan?” said Mr. Coddle.

  “Dinkin,” said Mrs. Dings.

  “Dinkin?” said Mrs. Coddle.

  “Duncan,” said Dinkin. “No wait, Dinkin!”

  “Dinkin is a funny name,” said Molly, playing with her pigtails.

  “Maybe on your planet,” muttered Dinkin.

  “What?” said Molly.

  “Nothing,” said Dinkin.

  “Well, Duncan, I can’t tell you how excited we are about Molly having someone to play with,” said Mr. Coddle.

  Dinkin dabbed the sweat from his forehead. How could they not see that their own daughter was an undead creature from another planet? How long had this been going on? Had she been “replaced” recently? One thing was certain—only he had seen through the zombalien’s disguise.

  “Dinkin, why don’t you and Molly go and play in the garden?” said Mrs. Dings.

  “What? No! I mean, I can’t! Don’t make me!” said Dinkin, holding on to his mom for dear life.

  “Don’t worry, Duncan, Molly doesn’t bite,” said Mr. Coddle. This was too much for Dinkin to take. He ran screaming out of the living room and up the stairs.

  “Yay! Kiss chase!” giggled Molly, and she ran after him.

  ESCAPE ROUTE SEVEN-ZERO-SEVEN

  Cloud cover: 14%

  Comet threat: 2.2%

  Need for escape route: 100%

  Dinkin dashed into his bedroom and slammed the door. He could hear Molly behind him, giggling with bloodthirsty glee. There, in the corner of the room, was the Fortress of Ultimate Protection. Dinkin dived in and closed the Drawbridge of Absolutely-No-Entry-Whatsoever-Ness. He was halfway through activating the Force Field of Just-To-Be-On-The-Safe-Side-Ness when the roof of the fortress was lifted off.

  “Found you!” said Molly. She had somehow managed to get past security! Dinkin scrambled through the Secret Getaway Tunnel of You-Never-Know-When-You’ll-Needa-Secret-Getaway-Tunnel-Even-in-a- Fortress-of-Ultimate-Protection-Ness, which brought him out at the foot of his bed.

  “Kissy, kissy!” squealed Molly as she blocked the bedroom door. She puckered her lips as if she was about to bite his head off.

  “Stay away!” screamed Dinkin as Molly ran toward him. If only it was midnight, he thought. If it was midnight, The Frightening Things could save me! Or at least distract the zombalien with their terrified screams.

  But now, there’s no way out! NO WAY OUT!

  Then he remembered Escape Route SEVEN-ZERO-SEVEN. Because Dinkin expected that danger lay around every corner, he had figured out ways to escape from every room he’d ever been in—from the kitchen, from his classroom, even from his Aunt Hattie’s weird underground bathroom. He had worked out over a thousand escape routes, but the seven hundred seventh was a particular favorite.

  Dinkin reached for the window. He unhooked the latch and it swung open.

  “What are you doing?” asked Molly as Dinkin climbed onto the window ledge.

  “Looks like you’re going to go hungry, zombalien!” cried Dinkin . . .

  . . . and then he leaped out the window!

  THE NOT-QUITE DEATH OF DINKIN DINGS

  Pollen count: 35 (moderate)

  Not-Quite Death count: 1 (so far)

  “Mommy! Daddy!” screamed Molly as she raced downstairs. “Dinkin’s dead!”

  “What?!” cried Mrs. Dings.

  “Duncan’s dead? How?” said Mr. Coddle.

  “He jumped out the window!”

  “Oh, my! Dinkin!” said Mrs. Dings. Everyone ran out of the house into the front garden. Dinkin’s bedroom window was open, but there was no sign of him. Mrs. Dings ran around the garden frantically calling out “Dinkin! Dinkin!” She searched behind the tree, in the hammock, even in the bed of nearly award-winning begonias. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped in her tracks. It was as if she’d just remembered something.

  “Wait a minute . . . did Dinkin jump out his bedroom window? The one by the tree?” asked Mrs. Dings. She pointed to the old oak tree that stood on the front lawn.

  Molly nodded. Mrs. Dings looked at the window, then at the old oak tree. She saw a long, thick rope dangling from a high branch. It was just long enough to reach Dinkin’s window.

  “Not Escape Route SEVEN-ZERO-SEVEN again . . . Dinkin! Come down from there this minute!”

  Sure enough, there, perched in the tree, was Dinkin. He was gripping the trunk of the tree with one hand, but with the other, he held what looked very much like an egg.

  “Hey, zombalien! Eat anti-zombalien grenade!” he yelled.

  “Dinkin Danger Dings, don’t you dare throw that!” shouted Mrs. Dings in a surprisingly stern voice.*

  *(Yes, Danger really was Dinkin’s middle name. Who would have guessed?)

  But it was too late. Dinkin threw the grenade right at Molly!

  Well, he meant to. In fact, the grenade missed Molly by a good foot or so, and landed—SPLAT!—right in Mrs. Coddle’s face.

  “AAAH!” yelled Mrs. Coddle.

  “Dinkin!” screamed Mrs. Dings.

  “Mom, run! That was my only grenade!” said Dinkin. He began to climb hi
gher up the tree. He would have reached the top, too, if he hadn’t spotted his dad, driving home from work. He screamed and waved both his arms . . .

  “Dad! Turn back!”

  . . . And then fell out of the tree.

  THREE MINUTES LATER

  Time taken for Dinkin to come to: 3 minutes

  Time needed for Mrs. Coddle to clean egg out of hair: 18 minutes Time needed for Molly Coddle to zombify whole street: 1.6 days

  When Dinkin came to, his parents’ faces loomed over him.

  “Are you all right, Dink?” said Mr. Dings.

  “Wh-what happened?” said Dinkin, rubbing his head.

  “You fell out of the oak tree again, Dinkin. And knocked yourself out, again. How many times is that? Eight?” said Mr. Dings.

  “Nine,” said Mrs. Dings.

  “You see, this is what I don’t understand,” continued Mr. Dings, taking off his glasses and wiping them with a cloth. “You’re too scared to wear socks, you have nightmares about sliced bread, and you can’t even look at a picture of a kitten. Yet you’ll happily throw yourself out of an upstairs window! It doesn’t make sense!”

  “Well, wouldn’t you rather jump out of a window than be forever transformed into the mindless slave of a flesh-eating alien space zombie from beyond horror?” said Dinkin as if he were stating the ridiculously obvious.

  “Well, you can’t argue with that, I suppose,” sighed Mr. Dings. “What is this zombo-thingy business, anyway?”

  “Don’t get him started, dear,” said Mrs. Dings. “He’s been going on about Molly being a zomb-a-whatsit all day.”