Dead Jed: Dawn Of The Jed

by Scott Craven

  I took a deep breath, which I rarely do because oxygen is not on a zombie’s “must have” list. But I found that every now and then, I would take on a human tendency, like taking a deep breath to relieve tension. It worked, most times.

  “Thanks, I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” I said. “Now, you think you can talk to Luke? He’s definitely not OK with what happened.”

  “Sorry, that’s between you two,” Anna said. “Besides, you and I have something to deal with. This anti-zombie flyer. But it’s getting late, and I’ve got to be home soon. Meet me early before school in the quad. Let’s see if we can figure this out.”

  We headed out of the bedroom, Tread right on our heels as we went down the steps.

  “Anna, thanks for being in my corner,” I told her as I opened the front door. “I thought this semester might be easier. Now I’m not so sure.”

  She gave me a peck on the cheek, and if zombies blushed, I did it right then.

  “No worries, Jed. You still have a lot of friends. We just have to come together and figure out who your enemies are.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Do you know the combination?” Anna asked as I spun the dial.

  “Yeah. And running into Robbie when I’m still sort of sleepy makes for a very bad combination.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “I know.”

  I kept working the lock, more out of anger than trying to open the dang locker. I hated using my left hand, which I needed only for tasks requiring both arms. Tying shoes, buttoning shirts, that kind of thing. I left the important stuff to my right arm. Eating. Throwing stuff. Holding Anna’s hand.

  I would give my right arm to have my right arm. Except my right arm was inside this locker I was attempting to open. My limb and I were separated by a flimsy bit of sheet metal made stronger over the decades by forty-seven layers of battleship-gray paint. Seriously, did any middle school built after 1980 even have lockers? Between laptops and tablets and smartphones, my workload comes down to about three pounds and fits easily in my backpack. The only thing in my own locker is a 1953 brochure called “You and Wood Safety: Staying Sharp Around Sharp Tools” handed out by Mr. Anderson, the Woodshop teacher. (“You will take this home. You will memorize it. It will one day save your life.”)

  Even worse, I had no idea who owned this locker. If anyone did.

  “Jed, isn’t it a bit too early to be a victim again?” Anna said as she unzipped my backpack and started digging for the necessary items to put the arm back in place. Assuming I’d get this locker open.

  “Ya think?” I pounded the locker with my left fist, not even making a dent. My right arm was probably laughing.

  “OK, sorry, I know how much this sucks,” Anna said as I felt her continue to rummage. “I’ve got duct tape, but no staple gun.”

  “You won’t find it because it’s not in there,” I said. “Principal Buckley sent us a letter over break. It had come to his attention I carried a weapon, and due to Pine Hollow’s zero-tolerance policy toward the packing of stapling heat, that gun would no longer be allowed on campus.”

  “That does that, then,” Anna said, zipping my backpack shut. “I’ll make sure to wrap the tape extra tight.”

  “That’s fine, except there is still the small detail that my arm is in there, and I am out here.” I pulled my left hand back but stopped in mid-slam, the futility settling in.

  “So how did you set off Robbie this time?”

  “The real question is, what the hell was Robbie doing here at seven fifteen? The guy is so unfamiliar with morning, he can’t even point to where the sun comes up, let alone that we call that direction ‘east.’”

  True story. Robbie arrived about five minutes after the first bell. It was as if he was the only student issued a hall pass on a permanent basis.

  I summed up the experience for Anna. I’d arrived early, just as we’d planned the night before. Maintenance had just opened the front gate, and as I walked into the quad—a spacious courtyard serving as the home of the Eighth Grade Lawn, named after the only students allowed to walk on its surface—I expected to be the day’s first arrival.

  But I was the second. Robbie leaned against the water fountain just inside the gate.

  Last semester, Robbie was never alone. He was always flanked by Ben and Joe, making for the Tiresome Trio. If Robbie was the CEO of Don’t Cross Me Enterprises, Ben and Joe were heads of the Whatever You Say, Robbie Division. But this semester, Ben and Joe weren’t as obvious. On a bully sabbatical, perhaps.

  I was pretty sure the football game had something to do with it. When it was over, Ben and Joe shook my hand without trying to pull it off. I will take begrudging respect anytime.

  Robbie, on the other hand (when I had another hand), still despised me. Some things never changed.

  I didn’t even know Robbie was at school until something tapped my chest. Looking down, I saw half a cigarette smoldering by my feet. I looked up, and there was Robbie, in my face. He was there so often I should’ve been charging him rent.

  It was the usual scintillating one-sided conversation. “How goes the deadness today? Love the scent, is that Eau de Autopsy? Loosen up Jed, you look a little stiff.”

  Blah blah blah. The usual script had Robbie tossing me over his shoulder and dumping me in the next available trash can. Then he ad-libbed. He put out his hand.

  “You know, just because I’m the bully and you are the bully-ee doesn’t mean we can’t get along.”

  Too tired to do anything but go along, I watched as my hand was swallowed by Robbie’s, felt a quick shake before the yank that nearly threw me to the ground.

  Crap.

  “My arm?” I said. “Really? That’s what this has come to now?”

  Robbie held my right arm, sheared at the shoulder. I knew what he was going to say, mouthing the words as he spoke them.

  “You should know better than to be unarmed.”

  He turned and entered A Hall, the door clicking behind him. I could have followed. Instead, I pictured the way it would normally turn out. I would plead, and having no effect, I would finally decide to stand up against him. By that time, of course, I was already upside-down in a trash can, or stuffed into a display case, or tossed into the Dumpster behind the cafetorium, ears ringing from the clang of the lid slamming down.

  Instead, I waited. In a few minutes, Robbie returned. Inches from my face, he said softly, “Locker 249. Have a nice day.”

  “With that, he walked across the Eighth Grade Lawn and disappeared between D and E Halls,” I told Anna. “That was about fifteen minutes ago. Now here I am, in front of locker 249, attempting to retrieve what was lost.”

  “Sorry. I just wish—”

  “I know, Anna. No big deal. I just want to get my arm back. That’s all.” The tone in my voice told her not to fight me on this one.

  I twirled the dial hopelessly. The only thing to do was wait for the owner—if the locker had an owner—and get my arm then. That meant thirty more minutes of waiting.

  “How did Robbie get this open?” Anna asked.

  Some kids believed Robbie had a master list of locker combinations, used to carry out dirty deeds for Principal Buckley. Like when Rod Baxter, self-proclaimed underachiever, was voted class president after he ran on the “D is a Passing Grade” ticket. The next day, a surprise inspection of Rod’s locker revealed copies of several upcoming tests. Since when does a student who is very happy being marginal start copying tests? Only the Mona Lisa had a better frame job.

  I’m not sure I bought into conspiracy theories, but it made me think now.

  “Maybe he really does have that list,” I said. “How much would that suck?”

  “All the way to graduation day. But seeing as how we have time to kill, why don’t we discuss this apparent anti-zombie movement? That’s why we came in early anyway.”

  I had forgotten all about that. Funny the things that slip y
our mind when someone rips your arm out of the socket. I slammed the locker again, denting my left knuckles. The locker was fine.

  This was not the way I wanted to start the new semester.

  “You’re right,” I said, calming down. “We need to get on top of that before it gets out of control.”

  Anna slung off her backpack, unzipped the top, dug into it, and took out a small notebook with a pen tucked into its spiral binding. Putting her backpack on the ground, she slipped the pen from the notebook, gave it a click, and said, “List of suspects.”

  “Robbie,” we said at the same time. She wrote it in near-perfect letters on the top of the sheet.

  That was a no-brainer, even for the allegedly brain-dead zombie.

  “But there’s one thing that bothers me,” I said.

  “Besides the fact our number one suspect is the guy who hates you more than a vegetarian hates the Burger Bucket?”

  “That’s just it. He already makes my life miserable and takes great joy in it. Why would he want me gone? On the TV of life, I’m his favorite channel.”

  Anna chewed on the pen. Took it out of her mouth. Circled Robbie’s name.

  “Maybe. But he is exactly the kind of guy who would cut off his nose to spite his face.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not sure, but my dad says it all the time when he talks about the stupid things people do just to get back at others.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “We leave Robbie on the list, No. 1 Prime Suspect,” Anna said. “Trust me.”

  We added a handful of other names, mostly because I insisted. Ben and Joe, because “begrudging respect” did not mean they liked me enough to back off. Dwight, a good friend of Robbie’s and one of the leaders of the Eighth Grade football team. Ray, whom I punched last semester in one of the few times I fought back, even though Ray was one of the few kids smaller than me.

  “Ray?” Anna said. “Ray Knowles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because he’s picked on almost as much as you are. Based on that alone, you guys should be friends.”

  “Probably, except for the day I punched him.”

  “You punched Ray Knowles? Geez, Jed, that’s like kicking the crutch of a one-legged man.” Anna paused, perhaps remembering how easily it was for me to lose a leg. “No offense.”

  “None taken. Let’s move on.”

  We rattled off another dozen names, but they either didn’t know me very well or didn’t have the motive to want to rid the school of its token zombie.

  “What if it’s someone you don’t know?” Anna asked. “What if it’s some kid hung up on horror movies? Maybe he’s seen one too many zombie movies?”

  “More like a hundred too many zombie movies.” Something about Anna’s suggestion sounded right. What if it was someone carried away by Hollywood, a person convinced I’m a slow-moving, flesh-eating, undead maniac?

  The scariest thing was that any person who put that much faith in movies, and was willing to act on it, was a far bigger threat than a zombie.

  But I had one more thought.

  “What if,” I said, “it wasn’t a student at all?”

  “Someone not from here? Or a parent?”

  “Worse. A teacher. Or, more specifically, an administrator.”

  Anna’s eyes widened. “Principal Buckley? No way. He’s paid to fix this kind of stuff. If he’s behind it, you’re … ”

  “Totally screwed.”

  “Right.”

  We stood there, quiet as the hallway began to buzz with conversations. The bell was just a few minutes away, students were on their way to class, and I still needed my arm. If it were my left, I could probably go without it for a day.

  But I needed my right arm.

  The bell rang, and the hall quickly emptied.

  “Anna, you better head to class, I got this.”

  “I don’t mind, I can miss a few minutes—”

  “Only one of us needs to be tardy. And I have a way better excuse.”

  “True,” Anna said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at lunch. Hope you have your arm first.”

  “Me too.”

  Anna pushed through the doors and into the sunlight. I was alone now. Waiting. Five minutes. Ten. My first class was Woodshop, and Mr. Anderson was not going to be happy, even though there was no way I could operate machinery with one arm locked in a locker.

  A shaft of sunlight burst into the hall. A figure was coming toward me, casting a shadow, but I couldn’t make it out.

  “Jed, trouble as usual?”

  Principal Buckley. In my mind I heard threatening musical chords—Da da da daaahhhhh.

  “I’ve been informed by various witnesses that you—ah, I see they were not exaggerating. You do seem to be missing a limb. Not the first time, is it, Jed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where might you be keeping this particular limb, Jed? Normally I would excuse a student due to spontaneous amputation, but we know you are a special case.”

  I spun the dial of locker 249. “In here.”

  “If I am not mistaken, this locker does not belong to you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How is it the missing limb wound up here?”

  I had two very good reasons for not sharing the truth. First, Robbie would rip off the other arm when he found out. And secondly, what if Principal Buckley were part of this thing? What if Robbie was his henchman, and this was all part of their plot to ditch the zombie?

  Wow, that was crazy. Still, I wasn’t going to tell him what happened.

  “Not sure, sir,” I said. “I lost it, then heard it might be in here.”

  Principal Buckley reached into the inside pocket of his dark blue blazer and withdrew a notebook, one that looked a lot like Anna’s.

  “Let’s see here,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Yes, this is it. Excuse me, Jed.”

  I stepped aside as Principal Buckley worked the dial. In a few seconds, he lifted the handle and opened the locker. There was my arm, fingers curled except for the middle one, which pointed up.

  “Hmmph,” he said, turning to look at me. “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “No Principal Buckley, I had nothing to do—”

  “I will make this simple for you. You are suspended for the day, and in detention for the rest of the week. I will not tolerate pranks, Jed. Particularly ones involving such extreme lengths. Shall I summon security, or can I trust you to find your own way out?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  I grabbed my arm and resisted an overwhelming impulse to beat Principal Buckley over the head with it.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Seriously, though, your arm flipping off Principal Buckley … that’s pretty awesome. Wish I could’ve seen it.”

  “Maybe if I saw you more often, you could’ve been there. But it all happened a week ago. Old news.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry about not coming by earlier,” Luke said. “Time gets away. To be honest, I never even heard about your detention until yesterday. I wanted to drop by to see what the heck happened, since I was pretty sure what I was hearing wasn’t true.”

  “And what have you been hearing?” I asked.

  Until Luke dropped by, it had been a quiet Saturday morning. I got up early, took Tread for a walk while the streets were still empty, and then washed the ManVan—now with wall-to-wall shag carpeting, from a rug Dad recently pulled from a Dumpster. Now the van smelled as bad as it looked. If Detroit knew about this, it would beg Dad to scrap it, putting the van out of its ever increasing misery.

  I was just about to call Anna when the doorbell rang.

  Cool, she’s reading my mind, I thought, opening the door.

  But it was Luke, holding his skateboard.

  “Hey, Jed, I was in the neighborhood and thou
ght I’d stop by.”

  “You’re always in the neighborhood,” I said. “You live next door.”

  “Pretty convenient, huh?”

  I didn’t smile. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Busy times. So, can I come in?”

  “Whatever.” I had no idea why Luke decided to suddenly drop by, but I sure was curious what was on his mind. Because something was definitely on his mind.

  I turned and headed up the stairs, hearing the front door close, and Luke’s steps right behind mine. Tread waited for me at the top of the stairs, and I slipped past him and into my room.

  “Jed, a favor please?” Luke called from the stairs. “Call your dog?”

  I went back and Tread was still in the same place, but Luke stopped about halfway up, staring at the dog.

  “Come on, Luke, he’s harmless,” I said. “Go around.”

  “I don’t think so. Can you just call him? Or put him outside? Please?”

  “Are you kidding? Even if he did bite you, you wouldn’t feel it because his jaw would snap out of place. Trust me. That’s why you don’t see any chew toys lying around.”

  That was true. In the battle of Tread vs. rubber bones, the bones always won. And I had to snap his jaw back into place. He’d curl up on his dog bed each time as if in shame. It wasn’t easy being an undead dog.

  “Please. Just this once.”

  I put Tread outside, making sure he had plenty of water. I also put out his favorite treat, beefy Jell-O (made with plain Jell-O and beef broth, which I would have marketed if the world had more than one zombie dog).

  I returned to find Luke sitting at my desk. I stretched out on my bed, waiting.

  “How are things?” he asked.

  “Really, I haven’t seen you in almost a month and that’s it?” I said. “What things, exactly? The thrown-into-trash things? The anti-zombie-campaign things? The getting-my-arm-yanked-off-and-detention-at-the-same-time things?”

  “Maybe I’ll just move on,” he said, standing up. “Doesn’t seem like the best time.”