Return of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  Scott Craven

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2015 by Scott Craven

  DEAD JED 3: RETURN OF THE JED by Scott Craven

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Month9Books, LLC.

  Cover illustration by design by Zach Schoenbaum. Cover design by Najla Qamber. Cover branding concept by Victoria Faye of Whit & Ware

  Copyright © 2015 Month9Books

  For mom and dad, whose gift to me was a childhood full of laughs and love. The best mom and dad a kid—living or undead—could have. “Thank you” will never be enough.

  Scott Craven

  Chapter One

  I trusted Luke with my life. But with my arm, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Dude, if you drop it, there goes my career as a professional basketball player,” I whispered. Luke strained against the bars, holding my left arm in his right hand, my disembodied fingertips just inches short of its goal.

  “First, you don’t have a chance at becoming a professional anything involving sports because you suck at almost everything athletic, especially basketball,” Luke said. “Second, if you had a little more muscle, your arm would be a lot easier to hang onto. Now shut up and let me do this.”

  Luke angled his body slightly and shoved his shoulder farther into the narrow gap between the bars. My fingers—which at this point were about eight feet away from me, so it was odd thinking of them as “my” fingers—closed in on the target.

  Two inches away. One inch. A half-inch. So close.

  Yet so far, because my middle finger was still a quarter-inch from the small metallic ring that held our prize.

  We were lucky to get this far through a combination of inside information, a dad who was a very deep sleeper, and an unlocked window.

  When Luke and I spotted what we were looking for in this small room at the end of the hall, we were shocked. The door was unlocked, as I’d been told, but swung open to reveal rusty iron bars, the kind you see in pirate movies when the hero is trying to pop an ancient padlock.

  And yes, there it was, a huge rusty padlock locking it securely. Electronic locks with keycards were probably more secure, but nothing says “impenetrable” like iron bars and padlocks.

  Past that gate, seven, maybe eight feet in and dangling on a nail on the opposite wall, was what we were looking for—a ring of keys, one of which would unlock the cell holding my best friend.

  Or at least that’s what Luke and I were thinking. And if that turned out not to be the key we were looking for, I was going to be pretty unhappy about having allowed Luke the use of my arm to reach for it. Thank goodness my backpack carried all the supplies for reattachment surgery—staples and duct tape.

  “Dude, I’m not sure this is going to work,” Luke said, pulling my arm back between the bars. “I overestimated your physical abilities. Again.”

  “Sorry the arm I was born with didn’t measure up to your standards,” I snapped. “I should have checked the ‘Arms, extra long’ box when I was choosing my body. Oh, wait, then I could have checked the ‘Not a zombie’ box too, and you wouldn’t be able to pull my arm off to start with.”

  Luke shook his head.

  “I like your zombie ways,” he said with an edge to his voice. “You’re like an undead Swiss Army knife. When I need a limb, there you are. If we ever get lost in the wilderness, I’m going to rub your two legs together to start a fire.”

  “Exactly, as if I came into this life in an undead state so you could use me in ways you see fit.” I nodded to the second arm he was holding. “Did you even ask before dismembering? Ripping off a limb without permission is a catastrophic breach of zombie etiquette.”

  “Fine, whatever. You’re pretty touchy for a guy who uses acne medicine to cover up signs of decay.”

  “At least I have a good reason to explain this face. There’s no explaining yours.”

  Luke met my angry stare. “Geez, why so personal?”

  Sometimes the zombie in me just came out. I could have eaten somebody’s brains right then.

  “Why do you think?” I said. “Let me count the reasons. One, you just rip my arm off without so much as a ‘Thank you.’ Two, if we get caught, we’re in prison, and not just prison, but Mexican prison. Three, even if we’re not caught and we don’t get the right key, I lose my best friend. Four—”

  “I thought I was your best friend.”

  “Four,” I repeated, “this is the crappiest summer vacation ever, and it hasn’t even started.”

  Luke turned around and went back to work, realizing I was in no mood to be talked down from the angry-zombie ledge.

  I sat on the cold concrete in the darkness, lit only by the glow of moonlight bouncing through the row of high windows running the length of the hallway.

  The only sound, besides Luke’s grunting—about his only bodily noise not accompanied by a rotten stench—was the smacking of tongues with the occasional snap of rawhide against teeth.

  I could not see the dozen or so dogs who were happily snacking in the chain-link kennels lining each wall of this dark, dank canine prison. I was unsure of what offenses brought these furry inmates here, but most probably had to do with an expression of personal freedom, perhaps daring to go leashless in public.

  But I did know the charges some of Mexican customs officials wanted to bring against my dog Tread, now known as the inmate in Kennel 206. Apparently it was against the law to bring in a mythical goat eating, soul-sucking beast without a license or other proper documentation.

  Sentence? No idea at this point, but I’d bet it would be no less than a life behind chain-link, broken up by visits to doctors who take him apart piece by piece to see what makes him tick (hint, he doesn’t tick). Maybe they put him back together, maybe not. Mexican officials seemed to have some very strict anti-chupacabra laws, since it is a monster known to steal children and create other beast-related headaches in small towns.

  Pushing to my feet, I walked back to Kennel 206, passing the few dogs still happy—and quiet—with their jumbo-sized rawhide bones, gifts from the two kids visiting during off-hours and more than willing to trade treats for silence.

  This was more than a visit, of course. Luke and I were here to bust out one of the accused—the so-called chupacabra that I knew had never eaten a goat or stolen a child. He wasn’t even allowed out of the house without a leash, let alone loosed upon a countryside to wreak havoc.

  “Tread, hang in there, boy,” I said, poking the fingers of my remaining arm through the gate. Tread stood, dropped the bone, and licked my fingers with his sandpapery tongue.

  Tread hardly looked like a chupacabra, at least the ones that turned up on fuzzy YouTube videos. Those beasts had long snouts, thick shoulders, and coats that could definitely use quality time with shampoo and a sturdy brush.

  Tread was smaller with a short, rounded muzzle and compact, sturdy body. Not so sturdy that he didn’t lose a limb when he cut too sharply, as he often did when chasing a goat (a stuffed one, which my dad could not resist buying when a few people had asked if Tread were a chupacabra). He did tend to lose f
ur in clumps, giving him a look that people could mistake for being chupacabra-ish. I hated when people mistook his forlorn appearance for demonic qualities. It was a wholly familiar feeling to me. Some students at Pine Hollow Middle School had even formed a group to spread rumors and lies about the undead. The No Zombies Now Network warned students the undead were capable of death and destruction, and should be avoided at all costs. As the school’s only zombie, I took it personally. Attitudes had changed when I pulled the founder of the NZN Network from a flaming cafetorium, saving his life and my reputation.

  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.

  Chapter Two

  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?”