Page 82 of Wicked Hungry

Andres moves to his window, moves the curtain back for a moment, then looks at us. “That’s Robert Johnson from the football team. And I recognize a couple of others. But why are they twitching like that?”

“Because they’re zombies,” I say.

“How many did you see?” asks Jonathan.

“Maybe a dozen.”

“Did you see a blond kid, kind of short?”

He shakes his head. “But someone just chalked: ‘I’LL BE BACK.’ You can take a look yourself, if you like.”

Karen is wicked strong and wicked fast. She can take care of herself, right? I’m sure she can take care of herself. But if I’m so sure, why are my fists clenching?

r /> “Tell us about your friends,” Jonathan says.

“We call ourselves ‘the brothers,’ or ‘the brotherhood,’” Andres says. “Actually, your brother Carver is in it, too.”

“Man,” Jonathan says, making a fist. “I just knew he was up to something.”

“Yeah, well,” Andres says. “We have to keep it real secret. We don’t need people thinking we’re some group of crazy kids planning to attack our school or something. They suspect us of enough as it is.”

There’s a knock at the door. Andres turns off the closet light and shuts the door in two quick, fluid movements. “Show’s over,” he says.

“Andres? ¿Viste a tu hermano y a sus amigos?”

“They’re right here, Mom.”

“Tell them to come eat some more tamales. The fridge is already full.”

“They’ll be right there,” Andres says, and waves us out of the room. He follows us back down to the kitchen.

“Get them while they’re still hot,” he says.

Chapter 29: HOT BEEF TAMALES

All the tamales are covered with the same cornhusk wrappers. But they smell different, and I can smell which ones are filled with beef. I open one and basically? I inhale it.

“Dude, you are wicked hungry.”

“Nothing compares to my mother’s tamales,” Enrique says. “Just admit it.”

“I’m going to have to trust you on that,” Jonathan says. “Right now, I could eat a whole chicken.”

“How about a wild turkey?” I ask.

“Now you’re talking,” Jonathan says.

“Yeah,” Enrique says, a tamale halfway to his mouth. “Talking instead of eating. So shut up and eat.”

Each of us puts down a half dozen tamales. Andres looks up, “What, your own mothers don’t feed you?”

“Are you insulting my friends?” Enrique says, standing up and dropping his tamale to the table.

“You got a problem with big eaters, dude?” Jonathan asks.

“You want a piece of me?” I say. “Or of my tamales?”

“Bring it on,” Andres says, standing up.