Mutant Zombies Cursed My School Trip Read online

  Ian Iansson is a little bit worried about his school trip.

  Firstly, Ian doesn’t have any friends, plus, his mum has packed him ten pairs of pants for the two-day trip. But as it turns out, these are the least of Ian’s problems…

  Because when Ian’s class arrives at the spooky old house, there’s something very weird going on. Something that looks awfully like zombies; groaning, dribbling zombies that no one but Ian seems to have noticed.

  Contents

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Dedication

  SUNDAY

  A VERY LONG LINE OF IANS

  UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA

  THE ARMY OF THE UNDEAD (V)

  MONDAY

  A BIT TOO IAN-Y

  THE KID WHOSE NAME NO ONE COULD QUITE REMEMBER

  CLEAN TOWELS, PILLOW MINTS AND BEETROOT SURPRISE

  TUESDAY

  REAR GRAVE MAN

  MR GRIMBLE

  A HISTORIC THING

  DAISY, THE LEVIATHAN FAMILY PET

  THE GREAT FINGER DISEASE OF 1487

  A BED WITH HOT AND COLD RUNNING WATER

  BACKWARDS TROUSERS

  WEDNESDAY

  DARK MAGIC (YUM)

  MISSING KIDS AND A MISSING LEG

  THE LEVIATHAN FAMILY RECREATIONAL PICNIC AND SACRIFICE AREA

  GERTRUDE LEVIATHAN

  GERTRUDE LEVIATHAN’S EVIL PLANNING OFFICE

  THE LAST HOPE

  A VERY PAINFUL LOOKING SPA TREATMENT

  YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE ZOMBIFIED TO WORK HERE, BUT IT HELPS

  THURSDAY

  WHEN IS A MARSHMALLOW-ROASTING SAFETY PLATFORM NOT A MARSHMALLOW-ROASTING SAFETY PLATFORM?

  A HORRENDOUS PUDDLE OF AWFULNESS

  GOODBYES

  INCREDIBLE FACTS ABOUT DREARY INKLING PRIMARY SCHOOL

  FANKS (ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS)

  About Matt Brown

  Copyright Page

  Ian Iansson was in a tight spot. In fact, as spots went, this one was tighter than a pair of the tiniest tightest tights stretched across the most colossally colossialest bottom.

  He was sitting on a chair in the middle of a dingy, abandoned warehouse. His hands had been tied behind his back and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t seem to get free. He craned his head back to see what was behind him. The chair was millimetres away from falling into a cavernous pit of deadly animals who all looked like they hadn’t been fed for a while. A lion, three bears, a tiger and an enormous, bloodthirsty kangaroo all looked up, waiting for him to fall.

  “There is no point trying to free yourself, Ian,” said a voice from the shadows, dripping with danger. “The rope binding your hands is impossible to break. It is made from titanium and lasers and unbelievably strong glue like your grandad has in his kitchen drawer but won’t ever let you use because it is SO strong and dangerous and would stick your fingers together, FOR EVER.”

  Ian wriggled his hands again. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

  A gigantic man appeared. He had a large mop of green hair and was wearing a white suit and tie.

  “You! I might have known,” said Ian.

  “Yes, I must apologize for the inconvenience,” said the man, pulling out a bright yellow feather from behind his back. “But I’m afraid that you have some information I need. And I happen to know that you have very ticklish feet.”

  Ian struggled again. It was true, he had the most ticklish feet in the world. The gigantic man moved closer to Ian. He waved the feather duster and laughed a horrible laugh. Ian closed his eyes.

  “No, no, no, HHHHHEEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPP!”

  “Ian? Ian?”

  It was Ian’s mum. She stood in the doorway to his bedroom and looked at Ian, who was sitting on his desk chair with his hands behind his back. There was a pile of cuddly toys behind him.

  “What is it, my darling poppet?” she said. “Whatever’s wrong?”

  Ian took his hands away from the back of the chair.

  “Oh, er, sorry, Mum,” said Ian. “I was, er, just playing.”

  Ian’s mum looked around the room suspiciously.

  “I suppose he’s in here, is he?” she said.

  The gigantic man with the green hair stared at her.

  “I have a name, you know,” the man said. “It’s Remington Furious III and we were in the middle of a scene that you have just RUINED!”

  Ian’s mum completely ignored Remington Furious III.

  “Because,” she continued, “I thought that we’d had a talk about him and how you’re a teeny bit old to have an imaginary friend.”

  Remington Furious III gasped.

  “Ian, I simply cannot work in conditions like this,” he said. “I’ll see you later when she isn’t here.”

  And with that he vanished in a puff of smoke. Ian sighed.

  “No, Mum, it’s okay, he’s not here,” he said.

  Ian’s mum smiled.

  “Good,” she said. “I’ve told you before, you’ve got to stop using your imagination. It gets you worked up into a terrible lather.”

  Ian nodded slowly. He’d heard all this before but he couldn’t help it – he had whole worlds that lived inside his head.

  “Yes, Mum,” he said.

  “Like that time when you ‘imagined’ the house was being attacked by vampires. Remember?”

  Ian nodded.

  “I woke up to find you rubbing garlic all over yourself and trying to catapult my best silver jewellery across the room.”

  “I was trying to protect the house,” protested Ian. “Everyone knows vampires hate garlic and silver.”

  Ian’s mum stared at Ian.

  “But it wasn’t vampires was it, love?”

  Ian’s shoulders sagged.

  “No, Mum,” he said.

  “It was a plastic carrier bag rustling in the tree outside your window, wasn’t it?”

  Ian looked at her.

  “It was very dark,” he said, quietly.

  Ian’s mum sighed and bustled over to his bed.

  “Look, my little angel, there’s so much going on in the real world that we don’t need to waste our time making things up, do we?” she said, sitting down.

  “No, Mum,” said Ian.

  “I used to have dreams, you know. I used to imagine I could do things and go to exciting faraway places. But your granny used to say to me, ‘Beverley, no good ever came of imagining things.’ So, I stopped and married your father.”

  Ian’s mum adjusted the sleeve of her grey jumper.

  “Now,” she said, a smile returning to her face. “I’ve been calling you for ages. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Oh, er, sorry,” said Ian. “I thought you might have wanted Dad.”

  Ian came from a long line of Ians. Ian’s dad was called Ian, Ian’s dad’s dad was called Ian, Ian’s dad’s dad’s dad was called Ian. In Ian’s family, it was Ians as far as the eye could see. Well, that’s not quite true because Ian’s dad’s dad’s dad’s dad was called Derek, but no one liked him much anyway.

  “Of course, I didn’t want him, you silly sausage,” said Ian’s mum. “He was called into work an hour ago. Some sort of emergency involving an out-of-date cocktail sausage and a packet of continental meat slices.”

  Ian’s dad worked for Widdle, the largest supermarket chain in the whole country.

  “But he just called with the most wonderful news that I simply had to tell you about. Dad’s got an interview on Tuesday. For a new job.”

  Ian felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach.

  “A new job?” he said. “Another one?”

  “That’s right, another new job.” Ian’s mum nodded. “Isn’t he clever?”

  In the last six years, Ian’s dad had worked in over thirteen different Widdle stores. They’d only recently moved to Dreary Inkling so that his dad could head up the deli counter at the out-of-town Mega Widdle.

  “Your father said the job would be in the biggest Widdle in the whole country, which would mean we’d have to move again.”

  “But we’ve only been in this house for three weeks,” said Ian, a familiar feeling of panic rippling through his body. “Dreary Inkling Primary is the third school I’ve been to this year. Nobody even knows my name properly yet.”

  But Ian’s mum wasn’t listening to him, she was gazing out of Ian’s window.

  “Won’t it be the most exciting thing ever?” she said.

  “Yes, Mum,” said Ian, in a voice so quiet it didn’t even really count as a voice at all.

  Ian wandered into the spare room and looked at the cavernous suitcase that lay yawning open on the bed. A stack of freshly ironed T-shirts, shorts and other assorted clothes were piled in a perfect tower next to it. Suddenly, in a puff of smoke, Remington Furious III appeared. He was wearing a gold, sequinned spacesuit.

  “So, what do you want to do now?” he said, brightly. “We could finish building that rocket and go to Mars?”

  Ian shrugged his shoulders. “No thanks,” he said, sitting down on the bed with a flump. “I’ve got to help pack for my school trip.”

  The perfect tower of clean and ironed clothes teetered and then toppled over.

  “Do you think I’m too old to have an imaginary friend?” Ian asked.

  Remington Furious III looked at Ian and smiled.

  “I’m part of your imagination,” he said. “I think what you think. The question is, do you think you’re too old for an imaginary friend?”

&nb
sp; Ian let out a big sigh.

  “I don’t know, maybe I am. But I never get the chance to make any real friends because we move around so much.”

  Remington Furious III chuffled out a long, squeaky fart that sounded like air being let out of a party balloon.

  “Do you remember when we first met,” said Ian, “after the third time we’d moved house? There was a boy, Geoffrey Speen, who lived next door. I thought we could be friends because we both liked the same chewing gum flavours in the exact same order.”

  Remington Furious III smiled.

  “Spearmint, peppermint, doublemint, triplemint, berrymint, mintymint,” Remington said, blowing a huge spit bubble and letting it explode all over his face.

  “But before I could get to know Geoff, Dad went and got a new job as Deputy Head of Biscuits in another store, and we moved away again.”

  “But that’s when you started to imagine me,” said Remington Furious III as he attempted to lick his own eyeball. “And now you always have someone to play with, right?”

  Ian watched as Remington Furious III accidentally got his tongue stuck in his eye socket.

  “I’ve only been going to this school for two weeks,” he said, running his fingers along the zip of the suitcase. “I thought this trip might be a good chance for me to really get to know some people.”

  Remington Furious III stood up and pulled his tongue out of his eye with a loud POP.

  “It’ll be a brilliant chance,” he said. “I could help you. We could workshop some friendship scenarios together.”

  But before even a whiff of any workshopping could take place, Ian’s mum hurried into the room carrying an armful of pants and socks.

  “Right then, my little pickled onion,” she said. “Let’s get packing.”

  Remington Furious III glared at Ian’s mum.

  “Well thanks very much for interrupting,” he said. “We were actually just about to begin an exciting acting project. And now you’ve barged in like a stupid great big blundering pile of dog plops and spoiled it all. AGAIN!”

  He walked over to Ian’s mum, who had no idea he was there, picked his nose and smeared a trail of silvery snot right down the side of her face. Ian sniggered and Remington Furious III disappeared in a triumphant puff of smoke.

  “Now then,” said Ian’s mum, who couldn’t feel the snot trail because that was also part of Ian’s imagination. “Shall we pack alphabetically or by body zone?”

  “Mum, the school trip isn’t until Tuesday. Do we really have to do this now?”

  Ian’s mum stopped sorting through socks and looked at him. She had a strange faraway look on her face. A bit like the sort of face Ian made when he went for a secret wee in the sea.

  “It’s the very first time you’ve ever spent a night away from home,” she said. “How on earth are you going to cope without your mummy to look after you?”

  She paused for a moment.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know? You could back out if you wanted and stay here with me.”

  Ian sighed.

  “Mum, I want to go. I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am nearly eleven years old. I can cope with being away from home for a couple of days.”

  Ian’s mum was always acting like this, like he couldn’t handle anything without her.

  “Well, in that case, let’s begin,” she said, looking back at the clothes on the bed. “Pants.”

  She handed Ian seven pairs of pants.

  “Seven pairs?” he said. “Are you sure? The trip only lasts two nights.”

  Ian’s mum looked at him in horror.

  “Two nights?” she said. “Good point, my little walnut whip. Better make it ten pairs. You never know when you’ll need them.”

  Ian made a face and took the pants. He noticed his mum had packed a pair that had a cartoon alien, with the words TAKE ME TO YOUR TOILET written on the front. There was no way he’d be able to make friends if the person he was sharing a room with saw those, so he quickly hid them under the bed. As he put the rest of the pants in the suitcase he picked up a strange-looking bundle that was inside.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a special hand-hygiene parcel, just for you,” said Ian’s mum. “To make sure you’re all clean and safe I’ve put in a mini, pump-action, hand-sanitizer gel dispenser. Wrapped around that is a packet of wipes to wipe the mini, pump-action, hand-sanitizer gel dispenser, and then wrapped around the wipes is a packet of extra wipes, to wipe the first packet of wipes.”

  Ian groaned inside. His mum always overreacted to everything and fussed around him all the time. Sometimes, Ian imagined that life would be so much easier if he was some sort of mutated human, who could remove his ears and pop them in his pocket so he didn’t have to listen to her any more.

  The sound of a car pulling up outside interrupted the chat about hand sanitizer.

  “That’ll be your father,” said Ian’s mum.

  A minute later, the front door opened and Mr Iansson came rushing up the stairs and burst into the spare bedroom. His face was bright red, contrasting perfectly with his extremely green Widdle uniform.

  “This is it, Bev,” he said, unable to contain his excitement. “This is the flippin’ big one.”

  Ian’s mum clapped her hands together in anticipation.

  “The job is to be the voice of the self-service checkout at the biggest store in the whole flippin’ country,” continued Ian’s dad, smoothing down the few strands of straggly hair that he combed over his otherwise bald head. “They want someone to do the voice ‘live’. I’d have to stand by the checkouts, with a sparkly suit and a microphone, and say things. Get this…” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Unexpected item in the bagging area!”

  Ian’s mum clapped her hands again.

  “Oh, Ian, that’s wonderful,” she said. “The job is as good as yours.”

  Ian’s heart sank at the thought of his dad getting a new job and having to move again. He knew he had to do something that would show his parents how much he wanted to live in Dreary Inkling. Perhaps if he made some actual, real-life friends then his mum and dad would change their minds and decide to stay. But Dad’s interview was in two days, which meant that the school trip could be his very last chance. It was a long shot but it was the only shot he had. As Ian tossed the hand-hygiene parcel into the suitcase, he heard the distant rumble of thunder.

  A thin blanket of white mist, glowing in the light of the nearly-full moon, swirled and whiffled on the ground. A man with pale skin, the colour of bone, put down a lantern and leaned on a shovel. His dark, soulless eyes looked around the graveyard and a thin smile flickered across his lips. He heaved the shovel up to the lip of an unmarked stone tomb and began to prise off the lid.

  The sound of stone scraping against stone echoed in the cold evening air before the lid finally clattered to the ground. Inside lay the body of a woman wearing a long black lace dress. The skin on her face was baggy and wrinkled. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyes were closed. The man reached into his long grey overcoat and pulled out a small silver flask. The eyes of the woman suddenly opened.

  “‘Tis time, m’lady,” said the man, slowly unscrewing the cap of the flask before handing it to the woman.

  She slowly sat up, her body creaking as she did, and took three large gulps. Colour immediately flushed into her cheeks and, around her neck, a jade-green amulet began to glow faintly.

  “Delicious,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a thin ribbon of slime flapping from her chin. “Dragon mucus?”

  The man nodded.

  “I ordered some in,” he said.

  The woman smiled and reached behind her head.

  “Would you mind, Grimble?” she said, holding up her long and tangled grey hair.

  Grimble nodded and walked around behind her. He took an enormous clip out of his pocket, then grabbed a big, sagging flap of skin at the top of her neck and pulled hard. The wrinkles on the woman’s face immediately disappeared. With a great effort Grimble opened the clip and snapped it shut to hold the skin in place.

  “There,” he grunted.

  “How do I look?” said the woman.

  “You look beautiful, as ever, m’lady,” smarmed Mr Grimble. “Not a day over one hundred and three.”

  A laugh spluttered out of the woman’s mouth.