Return of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  If a natural disaster did not happen soon, I was facing some time in Mexican prison. For what? I figured “Escaping While Undead” was enough. Racial profiling was unacceptable, but apparently zombie profiling was fine, if not encouraged.

  In all that time I’d been urging Mother Nature to give a zombie a break, the officers had advanced another twenty feet. Either I was thinking really fast or they were walking very slowly.

  Yes, it was the second one.

  One of them stopped and reached for his handgun, flicking the safety strap. His buddies stopped, forming a semi-circle around him. I noticed several stripes on his shoulders. Must have been the commanding officer.

  It was so quiet I could hear the metal slide against leather as he pulled the gun from the holster. The others also had their various firearms out, pointed at the ground.

  The officer with the gun raised his index finger toward me and smiled.

  “Alto,” he almost whispered. He spoke the next word softly, slowly, deliberately. “Po-lee-see-ya.”

  Police, yeah, got it. As if I’d missed seeing the weapons and patrol cars.

  I knew it was impossible, but I saw his finger tighten against the trigger. I braced, knowing I wouldn’t die, but I’d be in a world of hurt.

  A strong pressure on my left shoulder, my legs scraping against the wall as I was pulled up and over. I hit the ground hard, and if there had been any air in my lungs, it would have been forced out with the hard landing.

  A familiar face hovered over me.

  Spike.

  “Hola, amigo,” he said, putting a hand on each side of my ribcage and gingerly lifting me to my feet. “Looks like you’re in bigger trouble than a zebra at a crocodile pool party. Let’s say we vamos, eh?”

  I wanted to ask about Luke and Tread, but Spike was right, at this point we needed to vamos. I heard shouts from the other side of the wall, and they were going to be able to climb it a lot easier than a one-armed zombie.

  A street loomed ahead, a steady stream of cars crossing back and forth. Figuring that’s where we were headed, I put it into overdrive. Which was when Spike shoved me against a door, which swung open as soon as I hit it.

  Tucking instinctively, I hit the floor, rolled, and pushed up with my left arm, returning quickly to my feet. Where the heck was that kind of move when I needed it?

  The rectangle of light that was the doorway disappeared with a slam. The darkness vanished when lights flickered overhead. I gazed at a large room filled with tires, engines, and the scent of oil and grease. Cars came here to either die or be given a new life. In this situation, I hoped for the latter.

  And there were Luke and Tread, Luke holding my missing limb.

  “I knew you’d give your right arm for your dog,” he said, “but this is ridiculous.”

  I smiled, not at a line I’d heard dozens of times before, but because Luke and Tread were here. When I hung from the wall, I thought the next time I’d see them was through a Plexiglas window on visiting day.

  “First, thanks for waiting,” I said, still beaming so I really couldn’t muster any genuine anger at the way my best friend had bolted. “Second, how did Spike know—”

  “Hold on,” Luke said. “On that first thing, as you were getting directions from Marisa, I knew our only option was getting to that wall and disappearing into a crowd. And there was this guy straddling it and waving to us. He looked like he could help, and I was in no mood to think of the consequences.”

  “Nothing new there.”

  “I knew you’d follow because that’s what you do.”

  “Harsh.”

  “And on that second thing, who’s Spike?”

  “The guy who pushed me in here. I am pretty sure it’s the same guy who waved to us from the fence.”

  “Oh, him. He told me to wait here until he gives the all clear. I’m happy with that, knowing how he saved our bacon.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Mmm, bacon,” Luke said so predictably my teeth hurt.

  I hated to rain on Luke’s food parade, but I had to be straight with him.

  “You know there’s a good chance Spike set us up to take a fall in the kennel, right?” I asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Luke said. “But right now, he’s the only guy standing between us and a long ride in the back of a police car. And I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be taking us to lunch.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “And thinking of lunch, I’m getting pretty hungry.”

  I went to the door I’d crashed through and pressed my ear to the metal. I heard muffled voices, all in Spanish, all very angry. One voice stood out. Spike’s?

  “What do you hear?” Luke said.

  “A bunch of ticked-off police officers,” I said. “But it sounds like they’re getting farther away. Yeah, I can barely hear them now.”

  I still didn’t trust Spike. I turned from the door and ran down one of the aisles, looking for another way out (the Hollywood stereotype always provides one).

  And there it was. A door identical to the one in front. Only this one was in back, making it the back door. Perfect.

  I twisted the knob and pushed, peering through the crack. People, traffic, no cops, a trifecta of good news.

  “Luke! Back here!”

  Tread’s claws clicked along the concrete floor. Luke joined me, taking a peek outside.

  “Looks good,” he said. “But a one-armed kid who may or may not be a zombie is bound to attract undue attention. Let’s say we make you a righty again.”

  Of all the times not to bring my backpack. But surely this was among the ninety-nine percent of warehouses that had duct tape as part of its standard equipment.

  Sure enough, within a few minutes Luke had tracked down several rolls hanging from a pegboard. Soon I was back to normal, zombie-style.

  I gripped Tread’s leash with my left hand as Luke opened the back door.

  A voice echoed down the aisles.

  “Hey, y’all, coast is clear, so let’s disappear like a duck on the first day of hunting season … Hey there, Jed, where you at?”

  I slipped out the door with Luke on my tail. We were out of there like a zombie and his best friend who didn’t trust a guy with a terrible collection of backcountry metaphors.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Life settled into a comfortable routine in Guadalajara. Too comfortable for me, except for my almost-daily chats with Anna, who filled me in on the latest news back home, which was dominated by the rebuilding of the cafetorium.

  And the reconstruction efforts had been dominated by word of the missing Wheel of Meat. I kept my mouth shut, knowing Pine Hollow was better off without a device that encouraged the serving of items not found on the food pyramid.

  Still, regular chats with Anna could not lift the heavy weight of boredom, no matter how many aguas frescas we could consume in a day.

  Ever since Luke discovered these delightful drinks featuring colors found on and off the rainbow, he was more than happy spending long afternoons draining one bottle after another, his preferred way of exploring Mexico’s pleasures.

  Which was how we found ourselves on yet another quiet Monday, sitting outside the bodega sipping our aguas frescas. I chose strawberry from the case near the front counter, but Luke ventured into an area of the store marked off with yellow tape with bold black letters saying Peligroso.

  “I’m not sure what flavor peligroso is, but if I had to guess, I’d say ‘Something left in the sun to rot,’” Luke said, taking another sip of the grayish liquid in the unmarked bottle.

  “Then why don’t you toss it?” I asked. “This strawberry is awesome, and the lemon is the best.”

  “Getting an ordinary flavor takes the fun out of being in a different country. I can get strawberry and lemon at home. But in the million times we’ve been to the Shop ‘N’ Drop back home, I’ve never seen peligroso.”

  I knew I should
tell Luke that “peligroso” meant “danger,” having tapped the word into my English-Spanish translator app. And while I had no idea what the clerk said to Luke when he plopped the bottle on the counter, it was pretty clear the guy was telling Luke to put it back. Instead, Luke slapped a dollar on the counter, the going price for agua fresca (thank goodness the bodega took American money), and stalked out.

  “If it’s bad, I really think you should pour it out,” I said. “Maybe it’s not meant to be ingested.”

  “Do you know how limited my diet would be if I cut out stuff not meant to be ingested? I paid for it, I’m finishing it.”

  “Fine.” With that kind of attitude, I wasn’t going to share my suspicion that he was enjoying dirty dishwater, or something very close to it.

  As I watched Luke choke down the big bottle of peligroso, I assumed he was as bored as I was. What else could drive a guy past the caution tape to seek anything out of the ordinary?

  “Luke, do you ever think we should do something different?”

  “With our lives? Because I’m pretty set on becoming a competitive eater. Everybody knows you can earn money, but were you aware the food is free? How is that not a win-win?”

  “Not with our lives. With our time. Here.”

  “I don’t know. Until this rather warm bottle of peligroso, everything seemed OK.”

  “That’s just it. We’re seeking thrills at the bottom of an agua fresca bottle. Does that seem right to you?”

  Luke answered with a long, low burp, and I noted a hint of soap behind scents of beans and enchilada sauce.

  “So what were you thinking?” Luke asked.

  “I was thinking you could use some mouthwash. But mostly I was thinking we need some wheels.”

  “Pinwheels, those marshmallow kinds?”

  “Seriously, I say ‘wheels’ and you think of food? Can you get off that topic for just five minutes?”

  “You got five minutes. Go.”

  “Wheels. Transportation. A way we can explore this new, totally amazing country.”

  Luke shook his head. “I don’t know much about history, but I do know Mexico isn’t new. I’ve heard rumors it goes back to ancient times. Even before the 1950s.”

  “I didn’t mean new, in a historic sense. I meant new to us. And if we could find a way to get around besides just on foot, we could do cool stuff every day instead of drinking peligrosos.”

  “So you mean like hitching a ride with people who don’t speak our language. So we go from boredom to every horror movie we’ve ever seen.”

  “If we were picked up, you’d be the only horror show on board, especially if you just ate beans.”

  “That’s true,” Luke agreed. “And awesome.”

  “I was thinking maybe buses.”

  “Me and public transit don’t go together. Beans, remember?”

  “We still need to find a way to expand our horizons that won’t put us at risk of your digestive system.”

  Luke put his nose in the air, sniffed a half-dozen times. “Wait, I think I have something. Two blocks over. One block down. Seasoned meat simmering in a thick stew.”

  “Hey, my five minutes of food-free conversation aren’t over.”

  “No, but there’s more. Right next door. Hold on.” He sniffed the air a few more times. “A bike shop. With lots of wheels.”

  “Luke, you have the most amazing nose of anyone I know. It’s like a rescue dog’s, the kind that can find people buried fifty-feet deep from a landslide.”

  “That’s true, but this time I just remembered there’s a bike shop next to the meatateria I wanted to try some time.”

  “I’m less impressed, but still, your brain held on to a nugget of information that did not involve food.”

  “Not quite. I put it away as a chicken nugget of information.”

  I hoisted myself to my feet and tossed my empty agua fresca bottle toward the nearest trash can. It thumped on the rim and clattered to the ground. I remained zero-for-summer on that particular toss.

  Luke stood gripping his half-full bottle of peligroso. I noticed his face had turned the same color as the water. Right then, he could have passed for a zombie.

  “Hang on,” he said, opening the door to the bodega. “I only drank half so I’m going to see if I can get half my money back.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said to the spot formerly containing Luke.

  A few minutes later, he stepped out, still holding the peligroso but teetering ever so slightly.

  He walked to the trash can and dropped the bottle inside.

  “Jed, did you know that was gray water?”

  “Yes. I’m brain-dead, not color-blind.”

  “I mean it was literally gray water. Runoff. The clerk walked me back there. Showed me. They had to bail a clogged sink. They used old aguas frescas bottles.”

  “So,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “Shall we go to the bike shop?”

  “Absolutely. But first we stop at the meatateria for some beans. You know why.”

  I did, as much as I wished I didn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “We’re close,” Luke said. “Very close.”

  He didn’t have to say a word. Even if I had a nose as dead as my brain, I’d be picking up scents of charred beef mixed with burning pork mixed with roasting chicken mixed with, well, that last one I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Probably a part of the cow very few people knew existed.

  If Pine Hollow’s Lunch Ladies ever discovered this place, the Wheel of Meat would never be the same. Their ever-changing menu made clear their goal of meat domination, serving a different livestock part every day. I was pretty sure I found hoof in the Stew Swirly, a sludge so thick they actually pumped it from the ice cream machine.

  I didn’t miss the Stew Swirly.

  Tread strained at his leash, enjoying all the meat and near-meat odors. At first I’d worried Mexico’s Most-Wanted Chupacabra would have to go into hiding, and I’d made sure he stayed inside for our first week in Guadalajara.

  Watching TV news shows I didn’t quite understand, and picking up newspapers I couldn’t quite decipher, I found no mention of mythical beasts (goat-eating demons or zombies). We’d fallen off the radar, making me very happy but a little suspicious. Luke talked me out of the suspicious part.

  “Dude, we can spend our entire time inside watching these Spanish soap operas while I make up dialogue, which I know you find way less hilarious than I do, or we can enjoy ourselves and cross Mexican prison if we come to it,” he said.

  Luke was right, I hated when he spoke for all the soap opera characters, and not just because of his terrible accent. We’d come here to experience a new culture, and we were not going to do that watching TV (sorry, TV, I know how much you enrich lives).

  I took a few precautions with Tread, like stuffing him into a dog sweater that hid his tire mark and patchy fur, soon giving up on that since even zombie dogs are smart enough to know how stupid they look in clothing. I also painted the duct tape attaching his tail to better blend in, though his appendage soon was good as new.

  I felt no qualms when Luke and I picked him up at the apartment we now shared (and so much better than a hotel room where privacy, even when going to the bathroom, was a fantasy). I knew Tread would enjoy an adventure, and walks were definitely adventures based on our lazy schedules.

  “We make a right at the corner, down three blocks, and we’re there,” Luke said. He stopped and put his nose in the air, taking in a vast amount of air through his nostrils. I knew what was coming. Luke was a master at work, bringing images of da Vinci dabbing at a canvas, or Michelangelo chipping away at white marble.

  “Amazing,” Luke said. “Not only did they incorporate the two parts of a pig most butchers have yet to discover, they blended them in a way to fool the human body into thinking they’re digestible. There will be some pain, but it will be well worth it in the end. So to speak.”r />
  Chills ran down my spine, mostly due to Luke’s uncompromising talent to interpret food scents and their meanings. But some of it was due to learning about pig parts that sounded like they should be outlawed. Or at least discarded.

  Luke picked up the pace even though I reminded him we were headed to the bike shop, not the meatateria.

  “Bet we have time for both,” he said. “I’d even guess this country is more open to allowing dogs inside, the humane thing to do.”

  “I hope so. I really don’t want to leave him outside, especially if any roving anti-chupacabra squads spot him.”

  “I thought we talked about easing up on the paranoia.”

  “Sorry, it’s just at the back of my mind.”

  “The back of your mind needs to shut up. In fact, that’s not a bad idea for the front of your mind too. Let’s enjoy this while we can.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, unwilling to let it go.

  “I’d be more worried about the professionals working at the meatateria. They’re probably some of the most talented butchers around, and they may not look at animal companions the way you and I do. If you know what I mean.”

  I did. I didn’t even realize I’d reeled in the leash, wrapping it around my left wrist and pulling Tread closer to me.

  Wrapping anything tightly around a joint is not a good idea when you’re a zombie, especially when the other end is tied to something mobile.

  Two things got my attention when we turned the corner. Just ahead, an amoeba-like mass of white and gray blocked the intersection, a long line of motorists waiting to pass. I pointed it out to Luke, his nose still in the air drinking in the meat, when the second thing became apparent.

  My left hand was missing. And Tread along with it.

  My always-too-curious dog was running toward whatever was in the middle of the intersection. My left hand bounced merrily behind him.

  When will I learn to keep a better grip on my limbs when walking Tread?

  I bolted down the street, having no idea if Luke was behind me. I kept my eye on my bouncing hand, hoping its (my) grip remained strong.