Dead Jed: Dawn Of The Jed

by Scott Craven

  “Dude, if you are walking that dog and it sees a cat, you don’t want anything big enough to go racing down the street with your arm bouncing behind it.”

  He had a point. Even though it seemed a moot point now.

  My phone chimed.

  Luke: Here.

  Jed: Cool come up.

  Who needs doorbells when you can text?

  I heard Luke shout below. “Hey, Mr. and Mrs. R, here to see Jed.”

  Mom replied, “Hi Luke. He’s upstairs, but I’m not sure he’s awake.”

  “Nah, he texted me, we’re good.”

  “Oh, OK. Tell him I said hi since he hasn’t bothered coming downstairs to say good morning.”

  “Will do.”

  Pounding steps on the stairway. The door opened.

  “Your mom says—”

  “Yeah, I heard her. Whatever.”

  “Dude, seriously? Isn’t it a little too early in the morning for a nine on the jerk scale?”

  “Did you come to help or give me a hard time? I can use the help. But I’m done with hard time.”

  “Chillax, man. Remember, you asked me to come over. And here’s your problem. You’re missing an arm.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Obvious, for that diagnosis. What was the first clue? The way my shoulder ends abruptly? Or the limb that seems to be without a current owner?”

  Luke turned away and started toward the door.

  “Fine. Tell me when you stop running for the Mayor of Pissed-Offville and we’ll talk.”

  I grabbed my left arm off the bed, reached it toward Luke, and tapped his shoulder.

  “Sorry, yeah, I could use a hand,” I said as he turned around. I waved the limb. “This hand, to be exact.”

  “Better. Let’s get to work. Then we’ll talk about what’s bugging you. Anna, I’d guess?”

  “Anna? No. Not at all. It’s just that last night … look, let’s get me back together first. I’d feel much better armed. Get it? Armed?”

  “Yeah, and it sucks as bad as every zombie pun you’ve said.”

  “Even ‘I’m coming apart at the seams?’”

  “Especially that one. Shall we move on?”

  Luke plucked the arm from my grasp and examined it.

  “Based on the looks of it, I would suggest placing this particular body part on your left side. If you are going for a balanced look.”

  The staple gun and duct tape were still on my bed. Luke sat next to me and, holding the arm in one hand and the staple gun in the other, went to work at making me whole. He was very adept at staple placement. I felt each one going in, thunking solidly into muscle and bone. A dozen in all.

  He let go of the arm and it stayed in place. Then there was the familiar tingle and slight burning. I’d come to know those as good signs. It meant my body was stitching itself back together. Still, the staples needed help keeping it all together.

  Luke peeled a long strip from the roll and wrapped it around my shoulder joint once, twice, three times.

  “Duct tape,” Luke marveled. “Is there anything it can’t do?”

  I shrugged my left shoulder, then slowly rotated the arm. The staples and tape pulled, but everything remained in place. By tomorrow, I’d be able to take off the tape. The staples? I had no idea what happened to them. No matter how many times I lost a body part, staples were nowhere to be found when it came time for another reattachment.

  “Thanks. And sorry for being such a dick.”

  “No worries. If the undead can’t have an off morning, who can?”

  Luke was the only one to who I felt comfortable baring my soul (feeling very confident I had one, despite a distinct lack of vital signs). He listened, hardly ever judged unless I deserved it, and he was there for me when I needed him. He might show up late, and even vanish for a bit, but in the end, he always had my back.

  Luke nodded toward the dog bed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It’s nothing.” I stood and kicked it under the bed and out of sight.

  “I’m no expert in pet products, but it looks like a dog bed.”

  “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

  Luke slid off the bed, kneeled, and pulled the dog bed back to the center of the room. “It looks good there. But I guess your mom and dad don’t agree, and it has something to do with you having a temper that’s as short as you.”

  I really wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. This should have been the best time of the year. Christmas was just six days away. School was still thirteen days away, almost a lifetime of no Robbie, no trash cans, no trips to the boys’ bathroom wondering if I’d be able to go in peace and leave in one piece.

  Better yet, it was two weeks of being around people who understood me, who accepted me for who I was—what I was. I was just a kid who didn’t happen to have a pulse, and maybe dropped a limb every now and then. What’s so strange about that?

  Instead, I felt alone. My parents knew I was miserable, but were acting as if nothing had happened. And the one thing that would accept me unconditionally, well, I wasn’t allowed to have that.

  I stood and shoved the dog bed back where it belonged. What I needed now more than ever was a friend.

  I looked at Luke. “Want to go for a walk?”

  “Sure,” he said. “You’re not going to put a leash on me, are you?”

  “Not at the moment. Unless you act out.”

  “Cool. How about a treat then?”

  “Shut up. Let’s go.”

  I slept in my gym shorts as usual, so all I did was throw on a shirt and some shoes, and I was ready to go. We clomped downstairs. The front door opened with a squeal of metal on metal.

  A voice came from the kitchen. “Jed, where are—”

  I slammed the door behind us, and it felt pretty good.

  Who knew that when I returned about an hour later, I’d be frantically searching for Mom and Dad, torn between joy and fear.

  Chapter Four

  It was a beautiful day. Sapphire sky unblemished by clouds. Just a bit of chill in the air, but not enough to see your breath. But my mood preferred dark and cloudy. A storm to rain on everyone’s parade.

  “You’re not cold at all with just shorts on?” Luke said as we crossed the street with no particular destination in mind. “Or is your good cheer keeping you warm and comfy?”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets, realizing my shorts didn’t have pockets. Stupid shorts. So I tucked my hands under my armpits instead, but felt my duct-taped shoulder give a bit, not ready to accept any other duties beyond barely staying together.

  Fine. I’d just be cold.

  Noticing my futile warmth-seeking attempts, Luke stopped.

  “Let’s go back to your room so you can put on something more seasonal,” he said. “I’d suggest pants, the kind that reach your ankles. You might even want to go as far as outerwear. A jacket, say. Studies have proven that such articles of clothing can keep you warm. Of course, research was limited to those prone to breathing. Not sure if it would apply in the case of the circulatory-system deficient.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” I said. “Your constant sarcasm, or the fact it’s been enhanced now that you know a little biology.”

  “I have to admit I thought biology would be worthless. Not anymore. It has really added an edge to my zombie trash-talking. Public education—it does a brain good.”

  I didn’t even want to think about school. Sure, the fall semester ended on a great note. But our football victory would only heighten Robbie’s anti-zombie feelings. Last semester he tossed me in trash cans, stuffed me into a trophy display case that was right across the hall from the principal’s office, framed me for smoking, and stabbed me. He stuck a screwdriver in my stomach as if I were a pincushion. Had he done that to any other member of the planet’s six billion people, he would have faced twenty years in prison. More if I’d died. But Robbie didn’t even get detention. That’s mostly due to the fact
I didn’t report it. Why would I? It left a mark no bigger than a pimple. Principal Buckley would probably say: “Don’t blame your acne on Robbie.”

  And now I didn’t even have my greatest weapon: fear. Robbie was convinced I was a zombie thanks to a few simple Internet tricks. A phony Wikipedia page filled with fake zombie-infection studies, which looked authentic. I also created several science-based Twitter accounts that announced various breakthroughs. For example, this one from @UndeadStudiesForum: “When cleaving zombie skulls, beware blood spatter near nose, mouth. #rapidcellinfection #youremeat.”

  Luke, Anna, and I pulled off the perfect prank in Woodshop. Using a finger severed by the bandsaw, I soaked Robbie in fake blood. Robbie took it for real blood and ran out screaming like a little girl. His answer when he returned to school? That stabbing. Simple but effective.

  Winter break was supposed to let me escape all that. Two weeks of late nights and bad TV and hanging out with Luke. The argument with Mom and Dad was bad enough. Now I had Robbie on the brain.

  “Uh oh, you just got that look,” Luke said, bringing me back to the land of the living (dead).

  “Huh?”

  “That ‘Robbie on my brain-dead brain’ look. You get a little slack-jawed, then your eyebrows go up, and your eyes slowly close,” Luke said. “But the clincher is that fine sheen of Ooze on your forehead. Oh, hey, that’s new.”

  “What?”

  “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think your nose is slipping.”

  I grabbed my nose between thumb and forefinger. It was a little loose, like a tooth about to come out.

  My nerves acted up again. Mom, Dad, Robbie. I needed to clear my mind.

  “I’m going to the park,” I said. “I need to sit down, relax, and get past this stuff.”

  “Want company?”

  “Sure.”

  “Cool. But are we just going to talk about your feelings? Which is OK. I just want to be prepared.”

  “You know what I really want to talk about? What a d-bag you can be sometimes.”

  “Sweet. My efforts have not been in vain.”

  We walked in silence to the park a few blocks away. This wasn’t one of those awkward I-wish-I-knew-what-he-was-thinking silences. More like I’m-OK-with-you-shutting-up-for-a-while silences.

  I sat at an aluminum bench next to a playground that was oddly empty for such a nice day. I wished again I were wearing something more substantial than gym shorts.

  Luke sat across from me. After a few minutes, I broke the ice.

  “We had our Christmas list family meeting last night,” I said.

  “I figured that,” Luke said. “Normally on the sixth day before Christmas, you’re telling me the incredibly stupid presents your Dad asked for. Who can ever forget such requests as ‘Miracle Tan in a Can’ or ‘Swiss Army Grill.’ If I remember right, the grill could cook meat twenty-nine ways, none of them any good. I still regret Christmas dinner at your house that year.”

  “I can say he didn’t disappoint. But it’s what happened when I gave them my list.”

  Luke shook his head. “You knew what they were going to say. Why did you think this year would be any different?”

  Luke thought my dog wish was pretty cool when he first heard it. But that was six years ago. He has a very low tolerance for it now.

  “I thought it might be different this year,” I said. “I’m thirteen and at the height of personal responsibility. I put my clothes in the hamper. I take a shower without being ordered to. And I had a tough semester at school and thought they might cut me a break. I really thought this was the year.”

  “Let me guess. They had no idea you bought a dog bed.”

  “Right.”

  “Dude, sorry about this, but you brought it on yourself. They’ve never lied to you, like promising you a dog if you get good grades and behave.”

  “I get that. But last night it went a little farther than a dog. Mom said I couldn’t have one because of my ‘condition.’ That’s what she called it. A ‘condition.’”

  I looked Luke in the eyes. I knew he was preparing a smart-ass zombie remark. Maybe “If dead isn’t a condition, what is?”

  But he surprised me.

  “I’m sorry. That truly sucks.”

  I turned away just in case a few tears snuck out. Dead guy crying. No one wanted to see that.

  “Not that it means anything,” Luke said, “but you make life a lot more interesting. And your ‘condition?’ If everyone had it, do you know how much cheaper healthcare would be?”

  “No kidding, right? I was just thinking about that the other day.”

  “If I could zombify myself, I would. Totally. We could get a zombie place and start a zombie business. Walk dogs, maybe. Call it ‘Two Zombies on a Leash.’ Our ad could say ‘Searching for a lurching? Two Zombies will go out on a limb for you.’ Well, we can work on it.”

  This is why I called Luke. The guy can bring anything back from the dead. Even my mood.

  For the next fifteen minutes we did what we always did six days before Christmas: made fun of my dad for his ridiculous requests.

  I stood up and stretched. The duct tape pulled at my left shoulder, but it was getting better. The tingle was still there, but the burning sensation was almost gone.

  “I should probably get home and start my Christmas shopping,” I said. “That Flopchopper isn’t going to buy itself.”

  “The Flopchopper doesn’t even sell itself,” Luke said. “Let me know how it goes.”

  As we walked across the grass, I noticed activity had picked up. Walkers, joggers, some kids playing Frisbee, and—

  “Luke, wait,” I said, putting out my arm (the good one) to stop him. “The bushes over there.”

  “Dude, there are bushes everywhere.”

  “Maybe the ones I’m staring at right now?”

  “Oh, makes sense.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Luke’s gaze shift to a small stand of oleanders lining a block wall that separated the park from the neighborhood homes.

  There was a patch of gray. And white. It moved ever so slightly.

  Then peeked its head out.

  A dog. Medium sized, maybe forty pounds. We were about one hundred and fifty feet away so I couldn’t really tell anything else.

  The selfish Jed kicked in right away.

  “Mom and Dad said I couldn’t get a dog,” I said. “But they didn’t say anything about a dog following me home.”

  I took a few steps, but Luke remained rooted where he was. “Not a good idea, Jed,” he said. “It’s not about getting a dog. It’s about having a dog.”

  I couldn’t believe what my best friend was saying. “I thought you were behind me on this?”

  “I am. Of course. But that dog could belong to someone. Even if it doesn’t, it deserves a home where everyone wants it and will take care of it. Right now, only thirty-three percent of the Rivers’ household wants a dog.”

  “Nice math skills.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But it still doesn’t change my mind.”

  I took off toward the dog. Maybe I could carry it, sneak it into our yard, and leave the gate open just a crack. I’d go in the front door, make small talk with Mom and Dad, and walk by the patio door. Wait, what’s this? A dog in the back yard? I must investigate. Why, he must have snuck through the side gate, see how it’s open? He seems to be so friendly. Mom and Dad, you must come out here and fall in love at first sight. Keep him? Really? Of course.

  All I had to do was catch him.

  As I got closer, his features became a bit clearer. Forty pounds at most. Medium-haired, cream-colored coat but with puffs of gray, like a leafy shadow. Pointy ears, one up, the other bent in half. Longish tail curled upward slightly, but not wagging. I was fifteen feet from him when he lowered his head. He took a step back. Another.

  I took a step forward. Another.

  A few more deta
ils came through. His short, roundish muzzle featured a gray streak of fur that cruised right between his eyes before making a slow left turn, giving him an eyebrow. The hair along his sides was thick and matted, stitched together with leaves and twigs. And the smell—let’s just say if there was a Febreze for dogs, I’d need ten cans of Lilac Meadow just to keep the comic-book stink lines down to a minimum.

  “Good boy, everything’s OK, I just want to say hi.” I assumed he was a boy, but at this point it was a mystery.

  He didn’t have a collar. So much for Luke’s theory that he (she?) belonged to someone.

  He backed up again, his tail against the brick wall. There was about a six-inch gap between the bushes, just enough so that if I moved quickly enough, I could snatch his front legs and scoop him up.

  I leaned and put my hand out, palm down, just like the K9 officer showed us in third grade. “Want to sniff, check me out? Here, no harm meant.”

  Another step.

  “Dude, you need to back off, you are scaring him to death.”

  Where did Luke come from? I turned my head briefly, noticed Luke about ten feet behind me, and went back to the dog, which hadn’t moved.

  “I could use some help then,” I said. “See how he’s facing left? Go that way. I’ll go straight in. If we flush him, he’ll head right to you.”

  “Maybe we should call someone.”

  “Really? He has no collar. He’ll go to the pound, you know what’s going to happen then.”

  I knew Luke was thinking about it. He liked dogs almost as much as I did. He’d do the right thing.

  “I’ll help, but only because he’s not safe running around here.”

  I pointed left, and Luke took his position. The dog didn’t move. This was going to be easy. And I noticed just how cute he was. Not a puppy, but not very old. Thin, but not starving.

  “On three, I’m going to go in after him,” I said. “If he runs, he’ll be coming right at you. Set?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One. Two. Three.”

  I ducked and went in fast, shooting my arms out, expecting to hit muscle and fur.

  But he was gone. All I saw was a flash of gray. He’d run right past me. Luke never even had a shot.