by Scott Craven
“No, not Jed,” the doctor said. “I was never told his name, but I call him Ron. Ron the Zombie.”
Dad smiled. “Not Rob Zombie?”
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
I knew Dad didn’t believe any of this, but I listened closely.
The doctor hadn’t even gotten to the jaw-dropping point yet. Even after my jaw dropped off.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“It may or may not have been a dark and stormy night when I met Ron,” Dr. Armendariz began. “I do remember it was seasonable, about what you’d expect that time of year.”
“What time of year was it?” Luke asked.
“Fall. Or spring. One of the in-between seasons. I’m not sure. What I do remember is that I’d just emailed my research to leaders in the paranormal field, who then invited me to present my findings at the BURP conference.”
I stared at Luke, daring him to interrupt.
“So this would have been four years ago, when the conference was in Mexico City,” Dr. Armendariz went on. “I finished my presentation to great applause. Or they were clapping for lunch, which had just arrived. Doesn’t matter.”
“I’d applaud for lunch.” Luke again. I shot him my “You need to shut up forever” look.
“I gathered my materials and went backstage,” Dr. Armendariz said. “I was headed back to the waiting room where I’d left some of my journals when I noticed a gentleman paging through the very journals I’d been on my way to retrieve.
“I was stunned, but marched over to him and snatched them from his hands. ‘How dare you,’ I said. And I will never forget what he said. He looked straight into my eyes and said, ‘Well, ain’t you as bent out of shape as a horseshoe on an elephant.’ Who says things like that?”
I knew exactly who said things like that. I pictured the jeans, the shiny belt buckle, the plaid shirt, and the cowboy hat.
I remembered how Spike had been focused on springing Tread from canine jail after he was arrested for impersonating a chupacabra. And how he was there to save us when the cops suddenly showed up, which now seemed much more than coincidence. Maybe that was Spike’s goal all along. It wasn’t about Tread. It was about luring me into a trap.
But why?
“Dude, you OK?” Luke asked. “You’re slightly grayer than usual, like your winter complexion just went to dead of winter.”
Snapping me out of it, I leaned toward Luke and whispered, “Spike.”
“That goofy guy in the big hat? And every time he speaks, you look for subtitles so you can understand him?”
“Exactly.”
I turned back to Dr. Armendariz’s story.
“After I snatched my journals out of his hand, he told me to, ‘Whoa down, podner,’” the doctor said. “Just like that. ‘Whoa down.’ He steals my work, and I’m the one who is supposed to relax. But a few minutes later, he had my attention.”
Dr. Armendariz swiveled his head to look from Dad to me, Luke, and Tread.
“I get it, we’re supposed to be in suspense,” Luke said. “Like right before we find out it wasn’t the butler who did it after all.”
I didn’t say a word, staring at Dr. Armendariz. I knew what came next, and still felt Ooze tingling along my forehead.
“This strange man told me that not only did he believe in my research, he had proof,” Dr. Armendariz continued. “He took off that ridiculous hat, reached into it, and withdrew a vial with a syrupy substance in it. The vial you have now, Mr. Rivers. And you all know exactly what’s in that vial.”
My mind spun. Four years ago, I had been just nine years old and still getting used to who and what I was. Ooze was more of an annoyance. When I exercised or became nervous, my clothes would go into the laundry with unsightly Ooze stains. Mom had to wash everything by hand.
“I’d write a letter to detergent companies asking them to add Ooze removers,” Mom had often said. “But the zombie market is pretty small.”
Maybe it had just doubled. But only if the tube contained authentic zombie-generated fluid.
At the mention of the vial, Dad took it out of his pocket and held it up to the light. “I have no idea what this is,” he said. “Vegetable oil. Corn syrup. Werewolf hair gel.”
“You do know,” insisted Dr. Armendariz. “So do I. There used to be twice the amount that you see now. The rest was sacrificed to dozens of tests and experiments.”
“That means nothing,” Dad said. “If this is what you say it is, there’s only one place on this Earth it could have come from. And I know it didn’t because I’ve been with the source since I changed his first diaper.”
“Dad, really, now with the diapers?” I said. “I want to hear more from Dr. Armendariz. I need to hear more.”
My body stiffened involuntarily, Ooze forming small pools behind my ears. I wanted to know only one thing, but I was too scared to ask knowing what the answer could be. My heart revved, beating five miles an hour. Maybe even ten. Every twenty seconds, another thud in my chest. I could barely hear myself think.
If I didn’t say it now, I never would.
“You met him, didn’t you? Someone like me. A zombie.”
“I did,” Dr. Armendariz said. “In a way. I saw photos. Videos. I was convinced.”
“You’re also convinced a 1920s silent film is proof of vampires,” Dad scoffed. “Forgive me if I think you’re full of it.”
“I’m not buying it either,” Luke said. “Jed is one in a million. No, wait, there are three-hundred million people in the United States, so that means there would be three hundred Jeds. How many people live on the planet? Because Jed is one in however many of those.”
“Luke, thanks, I get it,” I said. “Dad, I know you’ll never believe it, that I’m a fluke, a genetic mutation that couldn’t happen again in a billion years. I also know you love me for who I am. But I need to know more. If there is even the slightest chance of there being someone else walking around dead, I’d do anything to meet them.”
I thrust my hand toward Dad. “First things first. If that stuff isn’t Ooze, we’re done.”
Dad moved to return the vial to his pocket. “Jed, we’re not going to humor this lunatic—”
“Dad, please.” I waggled my fingers. “I need to know.”
Dad heaved a sigh and placed the vial in my palm. “Son, I hope you realize the implications. One way or another.”
I did. If the liquid wasn’t really Ooze, but instead was some sort of pseudo-zombie substance produced as a hoax, I remained alone in my undeadness.
But why would someone fake Ooze? Or even know there was such a thing to fake?
Nothing made sense.
If this really was Ooze, did I have company? And if there were two zombies, couldn’t there be three? Ten? One hundred? An entire zombie village and not one boarded-up window?
I pulled the rubber stopper from the glass tube, as I had in the hospital. I knew it felt like Ooze, even tingled like Ooze. It still needed to pass the final test.
I gave it a sniff, for absolutely no better reason than to look as if I knew what I was doing.
“Is it Ooze?” Luke asked.
“No idea yet,” I said. “I don’t smell anything.”
“It should smell zombie,” Luke said. “Trust me, I know that odor up close and personal. Smells like raw hamburger left in the sun for a few weeks. You know. Undead. Uh, no offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “But that smell doesn’t come from Ooze. That’s from me not showering for a while.”
“Good to know.”
Time for the true test. Reaching a hand behind my ear, I scooped some of the gathering Ooze onto my index and middle fingers. I then scraped the glass rim along my fingers.
A dab of my Ooze slid down the glass, leaving a slimy trail.
With each second, it approached the gelatinous liquid resting at the bottom. I’d know for sure in just a few seconds.
Was I alone on t
his great big planet? Or possibly just one of many?
And was I sure I wanted to know?
I knew this much. I couldn’t take my gaze off the test tube, watching the Ooze trickle down. Closer and closer.
Suddenly the two substances met, each reaching a tiny tendril toward one another, forming a narrow strand between the two before the Ooze disappeared into the gel at the bottom.
Had I really seen them “shake hands,” or had I imagined it, hoping so strongly for a connection that my eyes were deceived?
Either way, I felt as if a new path had opened, and at the start of it was a sign that read, “This way to a brand new world.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I pored over the journals one more time, pages filled with cramped notes from edge to edge. I skipped over the mathematical formulations since I understood those about as well as Luke grasped why people chose to be vegetarians.
“Voluntarily limiting yourself to certain foods?” he often asked when we passed a vegan restaurant. “Do they know how great bacon tastes on salad?”
I learned much more from the photos and videos of Ron, the alleged zombie Dr. Armendariz had never met. Ron did all the things I could do. In one video, he popped off an arm and waved it around, then popped it back in effortlessly, which had never been my experience.
Two things struck me wrongly. Ron wore a short-sleeved shirt, hiding his shoulder socket. And the video jumped several times as if heavily (and poorly) edited. It was as if the filmmaker wanted you to question whether the footage was real.
The journals documented Dr. Armendariz’s methodical experimentations with what he called Substance Z (how original). He incubated it, microwaved it, electrocuted it. He injected it into small mammals, then dissected those same mammals (sorry, mammals).
He fed it to rats and insects, analyzed it with a gas chromatograph, even tasted it. The result?
Complete bafflement. Until his last experiment.
In the later entries, Dr. Armendariz questioned the wisdom of believing an odd man armed with easily doctored videos and photos. Substance Z was nothing like the doctor had ever seen, as it didn’t mix with anything, nor could it be thinned. It didn’t react with electricity, though nearly every liquid on Earth conducted electricity.
The entries made it clear Dr. Armendariz was obsessed with proving reanimation was achievable, at times blaming the experiments for any failures, rather than seeing them as evidence reanimation was impossible.
That’s when he’d decided to work on a much smaller level. Substance Z clearly worked on Ron, not surprising, since his body created it, Dr. Armendariz concluded. What might happen if you used a relatively large amount of Substance Z on a relatively small subject? Could volume make a difference?
“Oct. 28: Why is this paper so darn sticky?” the journal read. “No need for so much adhesive when trapping a fly. It’s just a fly! Now on sixth set of flypaper, fourth set of gloves and fifteenth fly …
“July 30: Fly was set, proceeded to remove left wing. Success. Leaned over to get Substance Z, tie fell onto flypaper, predictable results. Note: Dress more casually when experimenting. Too frustrated to try again …
“Oct. 31: Got very little work done, doorbell ringing every five minutes. Each time children in silly outfits demanded food. Refused to give in. Now have plenty of toilet paper if I can only figure out a good way to remove it from trees. Every year, same dang thing. What is this phenomenon?
“Nov. 3: Fly immobilized, wing removed and placed to side. Applied Substance Z to area of separation. Glowing? Positioned severed wing. Tiny flash of light. Sparking? Fly begins to buzz. Both wings seemed to be operating. I brushed nail polish remover on paper to neutralize adhesive, and fly lifted off. Success. Note: Close windows before experiment to catch fly for further examination.”
I put down the journal and rubbed my eyes. I marveled at the ineptness Dr. Armendariz displayed at almost every turn. Based on the fly experiment, Substance Z could just as well have been super glue. Or maple syrup, for that matter. And how do I know it happened anyway?
His methods, however, convinced me his journals were real. Who gets a tie stuck in flypaper, and then writes about it?
Either way, I couldn’t shake what had happened when I dropped a bit of Ooze into Substance Z. Even as my Ooze slid down the glass, I felt part of a greater community, even if that community had only one other resident.
I heard a knock at the door.
“Yeah, come on in,” I said.
Dad stepped into the room with Luke. Tread, napping by the bed, raised his head slightly but went back to sleep.
“Anything?” Dad asked.
“Nothing really,” I said. “I have no idea what Substance Z is. I know what I’d like it to be.”
Dad pulled up the room’s other chair and sat by me. “And what’s that?”
My expression told him all he needed to know.
For the last several hours, I’d been alone in this hotel room trying to make sense of Dr. Armendariz’s journals and experiments. Fewer than twenty-four hours had passed since the two substances combined, and Dad convinced the doctor to let me examine his work over the years. It was more of a trade. I gave him half the Substance Z, and several drops of Ooze, knowing it would keep him occupied for a while.
All of us were exhausted when we left Dr. Armendariz’s office, so when Dad offered to spring for a hotel room rather than drive an hour back to our apartment, we crashed at the first dog/chupacabra-friendly hotel we saw, which happened to be right across the street.
As soon as we woke up, I had asked Dad and Luke for some alone time. I’d needed to study the journals without interruption.
Before starting my studies, I cleared a workspace on the bed, which meant removing my napping dog from a nest of pillows. I snatched his collar and pulled, and for the next few minutes Tread played his favorite game, “Keep the limb from the zombie.” My hand slid right off at the first tug, remaining attached to Tread’s collar.
Once I taped it back on, I dove into the notes as if cramming for a test. His experiments were both ridiculous and nerve-wracking, and I could feel the Ooze pooling in my armpits.
Every now and then I’d take a break, walking around the room and do some pull-ups on the doorframe. By the third set of pull-ups, it hit me.
I not only had arms, but they were still attached. An hour before, my hand had come off as easily as unsnapping LEGO blocks. Now my arms endured my full body weight, and I tipped the scales at all of ninety-five pounds, not bad for a lifetime member of the undead club.
Nerves and fear were the two most active stimulants of Ooze production. The more Ooze, the more likely I was to stay in one piece. Fear was good.
The self-discovery swirled in my not-so-dead brain when Dad and Luke returned. I looked at my phone. Six hours had passed.
“You doing OK?” Dad asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Tired.”
“Dead tired,” Luke said.
“Of course,” I answered. “Is there any other kind of tired a zombie can be?”
“Nope, no more than you can wake up in the morning and not be stiff.”
“Good one, Luke, haven’t heard that before.”
“Of corpse you haven’t.”
I laughed. Normally the undead puns would be tiresome, but I knew it was Luke’s best attempt to cheer me up.
“Well, hey, guess I’ll go out and get us all some aguas frescas, you know?” Luke said. “The boring kind for you guys, of course. Strawberry, lime. Flavors that are naturally occurring.”
“Luke, I’m done, you can stick around, we can go get some ice cream.”
His eyes lit up at “ice cream,” but he shook his head. “Nah, I’m good, see you guys in, you know, text me or something.”
Luke slipped out the door.
Between my dad’s look and Luke’s refusal of ice cream—his favorite thing to eat if you only count food served frozen�
��something was wrong.
Very wrong.
“Son,” Dad said, “We need to talk.”
There are only two reasons for dads to say that to their sons. They either found something in their kid’s sock drawer signaling it was time for the discussion about the birds and the bees, or they had some very bad news.
I knew all about the birds and the bees.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“Dr. Armendariz called,” Dad said.
“When?”
“An hour or so ago. Luke and I were in the middle of eating.”
“So Luke didn’t hear a thing?” I asked, though it was more a statement of fact.
“He was involved in his third order of fries when my phone buzzed,” Dad said. “What do you think?”
“But he knows now,” I said, recalling my friend’s awkward exit.
“Not the details, but enough to know it’s important.”
I wanted to know right away, and I didn’t want to know at all. My thoughts raced at a billion miles an hour. Dr. Armendariz could have reached any number of conclusions about my “condition,” none of them any good:
—Repeated removal of limbs has been known to cause cancer in lab rats.
—Daily exposure to near-death experience has been clinically proven to shorten life spans in seventy percent of undead males ages thirteen to fifty-five.
—Zombies who drink more than two aguas frescas a day are subject to health complications involving the liver, spleen, kidney, and other internal organs operating at less than twenty percent capacity.
I’d never been concerned about my health before. When you can take off an arm and hit someone over the head with it, or swim ten lengths of a pool without taking a breath, or actually swallow a sword until it pokes out your belly, you rarely worry about mortality.
All that had changed in an instant. I took a huge, unnecessary breath.
“Spill it,” I said, looking straight into Dad’s eyes with the death stare only a zombie could master.
Dad sat on the edge of the bed. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”