Return of the Jed (2 page)

Tread was far cooler than any old legendary sucker of souls. He was part terrier (I thought) and 100 percent zombie, just like his number one human companion. While I always had to explain what kind of dog he was, no one ever questioned his name once they noticed the black tread mark on his ribcage, left by the car that hit and killed him.

In our family, death is temporary. At least for me. Despite Hollywood’s insistence that zombies multiply through bites, I’d never been able to turn anyone into an undead companion. Nor had I ever wanted to. Imagine the appetite a zombie would need to take over the world. I usually couldn’t finish a two-pack of Pop Tarts.

But Tread, well, that was different. My undeadness had a remarkable effect on the canine, who had expired before my eyes. Luke and I were hanging out at the park when I had first noticed the dog who would become known as Tread. I was still hurting from when, for like the umpteenth Christmas in a row, Mom and Dad refused to let me have a dog.

The one in the park acted skittishly, running from anyone who approached. Proving he was wholly unfamiliar with traffic patterns, Tread ran into a nearby busy street and into the path of an SUV.

The SUV drove away, as if the driver had little regard for car-on-canine violence.

When I saw this dog lying in the street, I knew it was my fault. If I hadn’t tried to catch him, he may well have lived out the rest of his life as a stray. I raced to his side, cradling his head as I cried.

Then it happened.

Looking back, I firmly believe my Ooze—the odd substance I secrete when I’m nervous or injured or overly emotional—brought Tread back to life, or at least removed enough of his death to reanimate him. A few Ooze drops fell into Tread’s wounds, and there was this spark and glimmer as if a chemical reaction was taking place.

Next thing I knew, I had a zombie dog follow me home. Sort of. OK, I carried him much of the way, but did put him down on our driveway, calling to him as I walked to the front door. Tread was still adjusting to life (?) as a zombie, so it took almost fifteen minutes for him to make the last fifty feet. But at least I could honestly tell my parents Tread followed me home.

Sort of.

I wondered what the Mexican authorities would think if they knew Tread’s secret. Maybe they would prefer he be a chupacabra. At least they’d know what they were dealing with. But a zombie dog? That was a whole ‘nother paranormal thing.

Tread continued to gnaw on his tail, which he’d removed once again. Normally he’d bury it, but that was impossible, even for a chupacabra, given the concrete floors.

“We’re going to get this gate open soon, boy, just hang on,” I whispered, glancing down the hall at the rusty, impenetrable gate that was the key to the keys.

Had we known Mexico’s low tolerance for chupacabras would seriously mess with our border crossing, I would have left Tread home when Dad invited Luke and I to go with him during his summer job in Guadalajara. I thought it would be a nice break for Tread, allowing him a whole new country to sniff.

Things didn’t quite turn out as planned. Instead, we were in doggy jail, attempting to spring Inmate 206.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

A week earlier, when I’d gone to see the doctor for my annual exam to make sure I was at the peak of my undeadness for the big trip over the border, the possibility I’d be breaking into a doggy prison never entered my mind. Right then I had a bigger problem. Shots.

There is only one thing kids hate even more than any parental speech beginning with, “When I was your age …”

Right, a needle-happy doctor.

Flesh-piercing staples were one thing. They kept me together. But using a narrow pointy object to make biological deposits or withdrawals seemed unnatural. I wasn’t a big fan of using my body as some sort of organic bank.

“Geez, I hit bone again, your biceps have so little needle resistance. Jed, you need to stop squirming.”

Dr. Moseby gave me one of his “If you don’t behave, no sticker for you” stares, which stopped working on me about eight years ago. Seriously, how could I have ever been bribed with a dinosaur sticker? Now it would take at least a ten-dollar bill.

“I’ll stop squirming when you put the needle away,” I said.

“Really, Jed, I would expect such a fear from someone with vital signs,” Dr. Moseby said. “But as we know, your pain thresholds are rather high. Remember when you came in here after falling off the roof?”

Oh no, not this story.

“I still tell all my young patients about the boy who was warned by his mother to get down from the roof, otherwise he’d fall and break his neck. But the boy, did he pay attention? Did he, Jed?”

“No.”

“The boy got his Frisbee and thought everything was fine until … what, Jed? What happened next?”

“He fell.”

“That’s right. And?”

“Broke his neck.”

“Yes, he broke his neck, just as his mother warned. And do you remember what you said to me when I saw you?”

I heaved the big sigh I always heaved at this point of the story. But I was not going to say it in my little-boy voice anymore. “Doc, can you fix it so I don’t see the world sideways anymore?”

Dr. Moseby laughed his usual laugh, one that came from his large belly, over thick lips, and cut its way through his thick moustache and beard.

“There you were, your neck broken at a ninety-degree angle, your mother screaming ‘I told you so’ over and over,” Dr. Moseby said. “Just remember—”

“I know. When she tells me to stop doing something because I’ll poke my eye out, stop doing it.”

That laugh again.

“That’s why I don’t get the needle thing,” he said. “I have the feeling that if I needed to look inside you, it would probably be faster and easier to cut you open and poke around, and you wouldn’t mind a bit, saving me tons of money on CAT scans. But a little needle, go figure.”

I couldn’t explain it myself. Dr. Moseby was right; I’d never need an x-ray because a doctor could more easily peel back my skin for a good look. I’d be fine with that.

But the whole thought of a sharp pointy thing piercing my skin—gross. Which is why I hated going to the doctor.

The first part was always easy. Dr. Moseby weighed me (“Death keeps you thin, my boy,” he always said). Then he’d take my blood pressure (three over two) and listen to my heart (perhaps a beat or two a minute, just above “Clinically Dead” on the “How healthy is your heart” chart).

This visit was worse thanks to all the shots I needed. Apparently foreign countries contain germs found nowhere in America. I doubted any country had bacteria-resistant borders, nor could I imagine any germs finding my undead body very cozy.

No matter, because Dr. Moseby said rules were rules.

A few days after school was over in a blaze of glory—literally—Dad announced he’d taken a temporary job studying geology in Guadalajara. It made sense since he was a geologist, probably the most boring job on (and in) Earth. When I was in fourth grade, he spoke at career day about igneous this and sedimentary that. I’m pretty sure three kids went blind due to glazed-over-eyes syndrome.

When he brought his temporary job up at dinner, I listened to every word.

“Blah blah blah assignment blah blah blah research,” he said over meatloaf. “Something something something, Jed, want to go to Mexico?”

Mexico? Dad may have had the most boring job in the world, but it had cool aspects.

I probably wouldn’t have been as excited to go if I had known it would include a very special extended version of my annual physical.

At least Dr. Moseby was pretty cool with me being a zombie, once telling my dad, “I am only going to charge you half my usual fee, since I only half understand about treating the undead.” He then reconsidered. “If I give you a zombie discount, other zombies will be breaking down my door, so to speak. I don’t want to be known as the pediatrician to the undead. No offense.”

None taken. But I still hated these visits.

“Isn’t there a pill I can take instead of a shot?” I asked.

“Jed, all I can say is you need to pull on your big zombie pants,” Dr. Moseby said, gripping my upper right arm and bringing the needle in for a second attempt. “Just turn the other way. You won’t feel a thing.”

“I bet you tell that to all the breathers.”

“Breathers? You mean all my other patients who are un-zombies? To them, I am lying. But in your case …”

I watched the needle slide in, and Dr. Moseby was right, I didn’t feel a thing. So why did I feel like fainting?

A voice said, “OK, and … we’re …”

The room went white.

“Jed? You in there?”

The voice came from the end of a tunnel, all echo-y and hollow. I wanted to answer, but it was as if I’d left my voice in my other pants.

“Jed, snap out of it, we’re done.”

The voice was getting closer. The whiteness dissolved into a bunch of dots and lines. And a fluorescent light.

The ceiling.

A firm hand grasped my shoulder and lifted. My body folded at the waist, and I saw Dad and Dr. Moseby.

“Jed, you back with us?” Dad slipped his hand under my chin, gave my head a wag. “Hello?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” I said, brushing Dad’s hand away. “No big deal.”

“Who knew zombies could faint?” Dr. Moseby said.

Not this zombie, that was for sure. I finally knew what people meant when they said dots swam before their eyes. I didn’t remember ever passing out before. And Hollywood never showed any fainting zombies, just the ones who fell to the ground after being shot in the head. I thought about asking Dr. Moseby if I should be worried, but I wasn’t going to do anything that would keep me there longer.

The doctor chuckled. “A fainting zombie, that’s something,” he said. “Next thing you know, I’ll meet a vegetarian werewolf.”

“There are no such things as werewolves,” I said.

“About thirteen years ago, I would have believed you. Now, one more shot. This one’s for, well, does it really matter?”

Dr. Moseby picked up the remaining full syringe from the stainless steel tray that was way too close to me. He flicked it with his index finger and pushed the plunger until a fine liquid thread fountained from the tip.

Now he was just trying to annoy me.

“Do I really need all this stuff, just for a trip to Mexico?” I said.

“No,” Dr. Moseby said, surprising me. “You have a lazy heart, very little blood, and literally nothing that can carry infection. In my thirty-five years as a pediatrician, I’ve found death to be impervious to most, if not all, diseases. I could shoot you full of typhoid, and you would probably be fine. But these shots have nothing to do with health and everything to do with regulations. I’m just doing what the health department tells me to do.”

And with that, the last shot went in my arm. I think. I kept my eyes shut.

I raced across the street as soon as I saw what Luke was dragging across his lawn. Sure, I’d told him he could bring whatever would fit in the Man Van, but I never expected this.

I should have known Luke would pack irresponsibly for an eight-week stay in Mexico. I also had second thoughts about having talked Dad into letting him join us.

I hopped the curb to take a better look at the charred monstrosity creating a lawn groove Luke’s dad was not going to like.

“Dude,” I said, leaning in for a better look. “Is that the Wheel of Meat?”

“Indeed it is,” Luke said. “Can you believe they were going to throw it away?”

The wheel, roughly four feet in diameter, reached five feet tall with its pedestal. It looked largely intact, save for a few missing pegs and the soot covering all but the inner part of the wheel. The flames had erased most of the words, but you could still make out “Pork,” “Sweepings” and “Formerly potted mystery.”

The wheel had been the prized possession of Pine Hollow Middle School’s lunch ladies, a proud bunch whose official motto was, “Dishes just like your mom would serve, if your mom had to serve 300 kids in forty-five minutes.”