Return of the Jed (30 page)

“So you’re not joking,” I said.

“No,” she said. “What was your first clue?”

“That mean right cross of yours.”

“Good. You’re not brain-dead at all. And neither is Bob. He’s a funny, kind-hearted kid I love to death. No pun intended.”

“Of course not,” I said, noticing then my knees were shaking. Ever since hearing the story behind Substance Z, I’d wondered about its source. Could there really be another zombie? And if so, why not ten, twenty, a hundred?

Those were just thoughts. Maybe even dreams. Without proof, they remained thoughts and nothing more.

Until now.

I hopped onto a steel table opposite Marisa, settling my undead rear end on metal that was about the same temperature.

I got comfortable, my body language telling Marisa I was ready to hear the story.

“I knew Bob was different when I was six, and he was nine,” she began. “We were playing hide and seek in the house, and it was my turn to seek. Bob was really good, so when I found him in the laundry room, I couldn’t believe he’d made the rookie mistake of leaving his hand sticking out of the washer.

“I grabbed his hand and pulled, expecting him to pop up and start counting as I ran to hide. But after a few steps, something seemed odd. I still had his hand. And that’s all I had. I was about to scream when I heard a voice from nearby. It was Bob. He said, ‘You have to find all of me for it to count.’ I’ll never forget thinking how cool it was to have a body part you could just pull off to fool people.”

As Marisa related the story of her childhood and various zombie adventures, it sounded much like my own, though I didn’t have any siblings. Life was normal even if Bob was not. It made perfect sense.

But not to Marisa’s dad.

Her dad hid Bob from society, home-schooling him, and forbidding him from venturing outside. On the rare occasions the family went to dinner or the movies, Bob spent an hour applying make-up to make him look like a norm. Bob also had to wear baggy clothes covering almost every inch of skin.

“The worst part was that my dad bought all of Bob’s clothes, so all of it was from online stores catering to old guys,” Marisa said. “Bob was so embarrassed going out in striped polos and shapeless dad jeans.”

Marisa and Ryan made the best of it, sneaking out with Bob when they could, to participate in a little zombie mischief.

“A lot of times we’d hang in a parking lot waiting for some old lady or a teen who looked like he’d just gotten his license,” she said. “After they got in the car, we’d sneak up behind it. Bob would hang his arm on the bumper, and as they backed out, we’d slap the trunk as loud as we could and ran. Oh man, the stuff people did when they got out and saw the arm. Yelling and screaming, and we’d walk up all casual, Bob would grab his arm, and we’d just walk away. Until the one time a guy didn’t stop and took off with the arm. That was a bike chase we’d never forget.”

Everything changed when Bob was fifteen, and they moved to Mexico. Marisa didn’t know for months that her dad was chasing rumors about a doctor who specialized in “post-life syndrome,” experienced by one-hundred percent of the zombie population (which, as I was learning, had just doubled). The term was used by her dad because it avoided the “z” word and implied it was a disease and, thus, required a cure.

Her dad used his government connections to keep an ear close to the ground. He’d disappear for days, Marisa said, always returning in a bad mood.

Until that day he came through the door with a huge smile. A few days later, he disappeared with Bob.

Spike found Dr. Armendariz
, I thought.

“Exactly,” Marisa said.

“Sorry, didn’t know I said that out loud.”

“No, I’ve been talking too much as it is, and we have to get back. But there’re just a few more things you need to know. Especially with what’s happening today.”

I should’ve been shocked. There’s no way Marisa and Ryan should have known what was about to happen, but everything fell into place once I’d heard about Bob.

Bob. What kind of name is that for a zombie? Fred was fine, Zed even better. I liked Jared. And Muhammad rolled off the tongue.

But, Bob? It sounded so normal.

“We never saw Bob again,” Marisa said, derailing my zombie-name train, which was a good thing.

“What do you mean you never saw him again?” I asked.

“What part of that sentence threw you? Never? Or saw?”

I almost said “Bob,” but luckily for me she kept right on going or my jaw would have been introduced to her left cross.

“Dad told us he ran away,” Marisa said. “He never talked about Bob again. Ryan and I were heartbroken. We left Mexico a few days later, and when we got back home, I stayed in my room for, like, months. I hated my dad. But that’s a story for another time.”

“What’s the story for now?”

“You. Tread. This whole program today with these idiot scientists who don’t even believe you exist, let alone need to be cured. This is everything my dad wanted. Except he wanted it for Bob, not you. Thing is, if this works, I mean, if it changes you, it could be a good thing for me and Ryan. We could see Bob again.”

“What does all this have to do with Bob?” I asked, knowing it was a stupid question as soon as I heard it out loud.

“This is all about Bob,” Marisa said. “What do you think my dad’s going to do if you leave here like just another kid? He’s going to track down Bob, bring him home, and cure him.”

Marisa’s shoulders heaved as she tried to stifle a sob. The tears flowed, regardless of her wishes.

I hopped off the table and put my arms around her. As long as I hugged her, I didn’t have to think of anything else.

A creaking noise behind me grabbed my attention. I glanced toward the kitchen door just as it started to close. A familiar jingling announced the arrival of my best friend. I looked down the aisle, waiting for him to come around the corner.

Tread appeared, tail wagging as if permanently attached. And it was.

Marisa thumped my chest, and I instinctively pulled away.

“That dumb dog,” she said. “He started this whole thing, you know. My dad got a call from his border buddies saying a zombie-like dog had just been confiscated. We were finally getting over the Bob thing, all of us dealing with it in our own ways. Then it started all over again.”

I recalled the night Luke and I broke in, thanks to Spike’s inside info. Now I know why he wanted us to get Tread. Tread would have been the perfect guinea pig for today’s little experiment.

Until I came along.

Another creak, but this time followed by a voice.

“We’re all like a dog at a flea circus because we’re just itching to get started,” Spike said. “Come on, you two, we’ve got some very important people waiting.”

I knew what they were waiting for as much as I realized it was too late to back out now.

Besides, I knew it was what Dad wanted. And after what Marisa had just told me about her father, I knew how lucky I was to have such loving and caring parents.

I couldn’t bear to disappoint them.

Marisa and I stepped out of the kitchen into an episode of “When Science and Apathy Collide” (which summed up every biology and geology class at Pine Hollow).

To our right, Dr. Armendariz glowed under the spotlight. The light bounced off the gleaming contraption behind him, bouncing beams back into the otherwise dim cafetorium.

Shading my eyes from the doctor’s amazing coat of one color, I counted nine, no, ten people scattered along the benches. The half-dozen men wore polo shirts, tweed sport coats, and khaki pants. The handful of women looked nice in nearly identical turtlenecks, black skirts, and black shoes. Apparently researchers of the paranormal variety had a very strict dress code.

A gentleman sitting in the back, nearly concealed by shadows, didn’t fit in, with his denim jacket and blue jeans. He held something, which I assumed to be one of the flyers.

“Our guest of honor has arrived,” a much-too-loud voice boomed. “Jed, please join me on stage.”

I tilted my head toward Marisa and whispered, “Wish me luck.”

She mumbled something back, and I hoped she hadn’t said what I thought I’d heard—“Too late for that now.”

I walked slowly, my head down, as I counted my steps. At seventeen, I reached the first of three steps leading to the stage. At twenty-three, I shared the spotlight with Dr. Armendariz, its brightness nearly blinding, forcing me to keep my gaze to the side. Dad and Spike stared back from the wings, and Spike’s broad smile was nearly as bright as the spotlight.

“Jed, would you like to introduce yourself?” Dr. Armendariz asked.

“I think you just did,” I said, turning to the gathering that was too small to be considered an audience. I shielded my eyes for an instant, a big mistake when I saw the indifferent looks of the few who had bothered to show up.

“I mean, tell us a little about yourself,” the doctor said. “Especially about what sets you apart.”

“Sorry, of course,” I stammered a bit too quietly. “I’m Jed Rivers, I just finished seventh grade, and unlike most people, I’m not a fan of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I just can’t relate to ghosts because death may not ever—”

“Jed, that’s not what I was referring to when I asked you to talk about your rather unique qualities.”

“You mean juggling? Because I can’t juggle. Or play the piano. Or fart on command. No, wait, I can fart on command. Ready?”

“Jed!” Dr. Armendariz yelled as a few people chuckled. “I’m sorry, it seems my young friend here is a bit shy. Fortunately I am not so afflicted, as you well know.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. I thought I heard crickets. Dr. Armendariz cleared his throat and continued.

“Jed is an organic hybrid where life battles death each day on a cellular level. Neither can gain an advantage, rendering this fine young man in biological purgatory, perhaps existing rather than truly living.”

What?
I thought.
Sure, I’ve been tossed in trash cans, shoved in lockers, and had limbs torn off as easily as one would pluck wings off flies. But I’ve also earned pretty good grades, excelled in football, and, on one occasion, made a bully scream like a little girl. If that’s not living, what is?

I remained silent, knowing Dr. Armendariz was trying to make a dent with his people. I wanted to do the same, with his head into the nearest wall.

But this was not the time. There was no turning back, so I hung on for the ride.

“Jed is, as you all are aware by now, a zombie. Though the majority of his vital signs qualify him for a death certificate, you can see he is animated. At least when he chooses to be.”

Dr. Armendariz shot me the kind of look I get from my dad right before he grounds me. A warning shot, but I remained still.

“A little history,” he went on. “Hollywood has led us to believe all zombies shuffle and moan and eat human flesh. And those first two qualities certainly apply to every teenager who has to get out of bed before noon.”

Another pause. More crickets.

“Nothing could be further from the truth. Jed is a bright young man who is a vegetarian and enjoys being out in the sun, attributes never associated with the undead—”

“Uh, doc? I’m not a big fan of salad bars except the ones with garlic bread and bacon bits, because I can make a meal out of those two ingredients. And vampires own the sunlight-avoidance thing.”

Dr. Armendariz shot me another stern look that said, “Zombies should be seen and not heard.”

He went on, sticking to his prepared notes.

“There are certain advantages to having less-than-vigorous life signs. Jed will never have to worry about high blood pressure, or heart disease, or sudden and catastrophic amputation. Imagine how little we’d pay for healthcare if we were a nation of zombies, if we needed healthcare at all. Doctors would have to find something else to fill the day. Good luck getting a tee time after the zombie apocalypse.”

A few laughs flared from the audience. Dr. Armendariz beamed.

“And speaking of the apocalypse, I don’t foresee the kind of world domination seen in movies, with cities falling into chaos and decay. Based on Jed’s characteristics, a zombie-based society would be consistent and orderly. I, for one, would invest heavily in twenty-four hour burger joints as well as the duct tape industry.”