THE ZOMBIE PLAYGROUND

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Did she hit?”

The sun was shining into the four players’ eyes, so Ash had to extend his hand out to block the blinding light.

“Yep!” Ash said. “We’re good to go! Who’s up first?”

Per the usual with the last few holes, Paul didn’t say a word. He just stood back, content to be the fourth player to hit.

“I got a par on the last one,” the thirteen-year-old Crispin said. “Anyone beat that?”

“Bogey here,” Martin, the pockmarked friend of Clyde, said. “Although it should have been a damn par. If I weren’t surrounded by so many young ones, you’d be hearing a lot more descriptive words coming out of my mouth right now than ‘damn,’ trust me.”

“I trust you,” Ash said. “All right. You’re up, Crispin.”

The four players hit. Ash couldn’t stop hooking every shot off the tee, and this one was no different. He topped the ball, too, and watched as it rolled into the rough fifty yards ahead. Crispin and Martin both hit decent but unspectacular shots down the middle of the fairway. And then Paul approached the tee.

“All right,” Martin said, dropping his driver back into his bag in frustration. “Let’s see you do it again.”

“OK, I’ll try,” Paul whispered, still uncomfortable to be surrounded by (mostly) strangers. He knew Ash a little bit, but they hadn’t exactly been best friends up to today. Ash didn’t think it made sense for Paul to live with Brin, and he certainly hadn’t changed his mind.

Paul teed up his ball half an inch higher than everyone else, and then placed the edge of his club to the right of the ball. He didn’t take a practice swing, and he didn’t stretch out his arms. He just stared down at the ball, as if he could move it with his own eyes, before finally taking his swing. The trio watched in amazement as Paul’s drive ignited into the air, down the middle, fading down the right side of the fairway.

“My God,” Ash said. “You must’ve hit that 300 yards!”

“How long have you been playing golf?” Martin said.

“A hundred—” Paul stopped himself. “A while.”

Crispin picked up his golf bag and stepped toward Paul. The boy—a whole foot shorter than the vampire—looked up in total astonishment. “I think you’re my hero.”

“What?”

“You’re really good,” the middle schooler said. “I wanna be like you.”

Paul seemed embarrassed by the boy’s comment. “Uhh, no you don’t.”

“I want your life.”

“Trust me, kid,” he said. “You don’t want my life.”

Paul picked up his clubs and started walking down the fairway. Crispin wasn’t backing away. Short, rail thin, with a face close to Colin’s, but with dirty blond hair instead of brown, he was definitely curious about who this Paul was and where he came from.

“Do you practice every day?” Crispin said.

“I haven’t practiced in a while, actually.”

“Have you ever gotten a hole-in-one before?”

“No.”

“Do you know what an albatross is?”

Paul shook his head and pointed forward. “Go hit your ball.”