Return of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  Tread appeared, tail wagging as if permanently attached. And it was.

  Marisa thumped my chest, and I instinctively pulled away.

  “That dumb dog,” she said. “He started this whole thing, you know. My dad got a call from his border buddies saying a zombie-like dog had just been confiscated. We were finally getting over the Bob thing, all of us dealing with it in our own ways. Then it started all over again.”

  I recalled the night Luke and I broke in, thanks to Spike’s inside info. Now I know why he wanted us to get Tread. Tread would have been the perfect guinea pig for today’s little experiment.

  Until I came along.

  Another creak, but this time followed by a voice.

  “We’re all like a dog at a flea circus because we’re just itching to get started,” Spike said. “Come on, you two, we’ve got some very important people waiting.”

  I knew what they were waiting for as much as I realized it was too late to back out now.

  Besides, I knew it was what Dad wanted. And after what Marisa had just told me about her father, I knew how lucky I was to have such loving and caring parents.

  I couldn’t bear to disappoint them.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Marisa and I stepped out of the kitchen into an episode of “When Science and Apathy Collide” (which summed up every biology and geology class at Pine Hollow).

  To our right, Dr. Armendariz glowed under the spotlight. The light bounced off the gleaming contraption behind him, bouncing beams back into the otherwise dim cafetorium.

  Shading my eyes from the doctor’s amazing coat of one color, I counted nine, no, ten people scattered along the benches. The half-dozen men wore polo shirts, tweed sport coats, and khaki pants. The handful of women looked nice in nearly identical turtlenecks, black skirts, and black shoes. Apparently researchers of the paranormal variety had a very strict dress code.

  A gentleman sitting in the back, nearly concealed by shadows, didn’t fit in, with his denim jacket and blue jeans. He held something, which I assumed to be one of the flyers.

  “Our guest of honor has arrived,” a much-too-loud voice boomed. “Jed, please join me on stage.”

  I tilted my head toward Marisa and whispered, “Wish me luck.”

  She mumbled something back, and I hoped she hadn’t said what I thought I’d heard—“Too late for that now.”

  I walked slowly, my head down, as I counted my steps. At seventeen, I reached the first of three steps leading to the stage. At twenty-three, I shared the spotlight with Dr. Armendariz, its brightness nearly blinding, forcing me to keep my gaze to the side. Dad and Spike stared back from the wings, and Spike’s broad smile was nearly as bright as the spotlight.

  “Jed, would you like to introduce yourself?” Dr. Armendariz asked.

  “I think you just did,” I said, turning to the gathering that was too small to be considered an audience. I shielded my eyes for an instant, a big mistake when I saw the indifferent looks of the few who had bothered to show up.

  “I mean, tell us a little about yourself,” the doctor said. “Especially about what sets you apart.”

  “Sorry, of course,” I stammered a bit too quietly. “I’m Jed Rivers, I just finished seventh grade, and unlike most people, I’m not a fan of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I just can’t relate to ghosts because death may not ever—”

  “Jed, that’s not what I was referring to when I asked you to talk about your rather unique qualities.”

  “You mean juggling? Because I can’t juggle. Or play the piano. Or fart on command. No, wait, I can fart on command. Ready?”

  “Jed!” Dr. Armendariz yelled as a few people chuckled. “I’m sorry, it seems my young friend here is a bit shy. Fortunately I am not so afflicted, as you well know.”

  He paused, waiting for a reaction. I thought I heard crickets. Dr. Armendariz cleared his throat and continued.

  “Jed is an organic hybrid where life battles death each day on a cellular level. Neither can gain an advantage, rendering this fine young man in biological purgatory, perhaps existing rather than truly living.”

  What? I thought. Sure, I’ve been tossed in trash cans, shoved in lockers, and had limbs torn off as easily as one would pluck wings off flies. But I’ve also earned pretty good grades, excelled in football, and, on one occasion, made a bully scream like a little girl. If that’s not living, what is?

  I remained silent, knowing Dr. Armendariz was trying to make a dent with his people. I wanted to do the same, with his head into the nearest wall.

  But this was not the time. There was no turning back, so I hung on for the ride.

  “Jed is, as you all are aware by now, a zombie. Though the majority of his vital signs qualify him for a death certificate, you can see he is animated. At least when he chooses to be.”

  Dr. Armendariz shot me the kind of look I get from my dad right before he grounds me. A warning shot, but I remained still.

  “A little history,” he went on. “Hollywood has led us to believe all zombies shuffle and moan and eat human flesh. And those first two qualities certainly apply to every teenager who has to get out of bed before noon.”

  Another pause. More crickets.

  “Nothing could be further from the truth. Jed is a bright young man who is a vegetarian and enjoys being out in the sun, attributes never associated with the undead—”

  “Uh, doc? I’m not a big fan of salad bars except the ones with garlic bread and bacon bits, because I can make a meal out of those two ingredients. And vampires own the sunlight-avoidance thing.”

  Dr. Armendariz shot me another stern look that said, “Zombies should be seen and not heard.”

  He went on, sticking to his prepared notes.

  “There are certain advantages to having less-than-vigorous life signs. Jed will never have to worry about high blood pressure, or heart disease, or sudden and catastrophic amputation. Imagine how little we’d pay for healthcare if we were a nation of zombies, if we needed healthcare at all. Doctors would have to find something else to fill the day. Good luck getting a tee time after the zombie apocalypse.”

  A few laughs flared from the audience. Dr. Armendariz beamed.

  “And speaking of the apocalypse, I don’t foresee the kind of world domination seen in movies, with cities falling into chaos and decay. Based on Jed’s characteristics, a zombie-based society would be consistent and orderly. I, for one, would invest heavily in twenty-four hour burger joints as well as the duct tape industry.”

  He paused again, this time putting his arm around my shoulders. His look this time was of sympathy as he gave me a slight squeeze.

  “We must never forget, however, that Jed is the exception, not the rule. He lives—or rather, is undead—with great disadvantages. He faces innumerable stereotypes that will haunt him to his grave, should he ever have one.

  “Already, he deals with peers who mistreat him based solely on his physical attributes. Those who don’t know him automatically fear him, since all they know about the undead is what they’ve seen in movies. Imagine the obstacles poor Jed will face when applying for a job, his resume immediately thrown into the ‘Zombie—potentially brain-dead’ pile. And when it comes to finding the right romantic partner, well, I doubt we will ever see a dating site called Zombiemingle.com.”

  I froze in place, not knowing what to do. Dr. Armendariz was verbally ripping from me things far more painful than any limbs. No amount of duct and staples could reattach the dignity and respect being shredded before my very eyes.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he’d stop and get to, well, whatever it was I had to endure next. Inject me, hook me to machines, throw a switch. Anything to stop what he was saying.

  A voice piped up from the crowd.

  “Doctor, are you suggesting this young man is actually a zombie?”

  I opened one eye, curious. A woman in the front row, who seemed far too pretty to be here, stood and p
ointed at him. “I’ve been abducted by aliens more than a dozen times, probed and examined by all sorts of intelligent extraterrestrial species. They’ve shared with me the world’s greatest secrets, from the true origin of life to the vast underground network of immortals that truly run our planet. And not once have I ever heard of anything as ridiculous as zombies.”

  Dr. Armendariz didn’t bat an eye. “Dr. Gable, I am well aware of your skepticism and will be happy to demonstrate.”

  I did not like the sound of that.

  Worried, I turned to Dad for support. He took a step toward me before Spike put out his arm to stop him. Spike whispered something to Dad, who took a step back and looked down, unable to meet my gaze.

  I heard a gasp from the crowd before registering a tug on my left wrist, as if Dr. Armendariz wanted my attention.

  At that point, he had more than my attention. He had my left arm, at least the part from the elbow down. He’d pulled it off so quickly I didn’t have time to react. He brandished my forearm across his chest like a weapon. All I could think was, “Armed and dangerous.”

  “Notice Jed remains pain-free, was even unaware he’d lost his arm until he saw me holding it,” Dr. Armendariz said.

  The crowd sat in stunned silence as he continued with this so-called demonstration.

  “Luke, if you please,” he said, nodding toward the back of the room. I heard a metallic zip followed by rummaging—he was searching for staples and duct tape.

  “No need for the usual supplies, young man,” Dr. Armendariz said. “I merely need you to hold the wayward limb in place.”

  I knew what that meant. My “healing” was about to start.

  Within seconds, Luke hopped onto the stage. Dr. Armendariz handed Luke my arm.

  With so many things happening so quickly, my mind shut down. For the first time in my life, I felt truly brain-dead. Like a robot, I lifted my left stub, remaining still, as Luke popped my forearm into place.

  “Perfect, Luke,” Dr. Armendariz said. “Please keep it steady for a few moments.”

  The doctor reached into one pocket and pulled out a familiar vial. From another pocket he withdrew a syringe. He held the vial overhead, the light bouncing off it and dancing along the walls. The needle sank easily through the rubber stopper, and the liquid slowly filled the syringe as Dr. Armendariz drew back the plunger.

  “This … is Substance Z,” he said with a dramatic flair. “In just a few moments you will see how it interacts with Jed’s own zombie fluid to counteract the undeadness.”

  As the needle approached my arm, I floated above my body, becoming a spectator instead of a participant. Closer and closer, until the sharp point touched flesh right at the point of separation before disappearing into my muscle.

  A sharp pain drew me back into reality. I’d never felt anything like it before, and wondered how norms tolerated scrapes and burns and other injuries. They were tougher than I thought.

  Next thing I knew, Dr. Armendariz held his portable electromagnetic device next to my arm. A strong tingling replaced the pain, a welcome relief.

  Then came a feeling I’d had before. A comforting warmth flared in my elbow, accompanied by a series of tremors. It was as if my muscle fibers stretched across the abyss of the dismemberment, seeking out their partners.

  The tremors were followed by strong cramping, my arm muscles tensing so strongly they felt like steel. I imagined tiny yet powerful men inside my elbow forging new muscle, bone, and flesh. My elbow thrummed with their efforts. A minute passed. Two.

  Until my elbow caught fire.

  I instinctively slapped at it with my right hand, hoping to put out the flames.

  Only there weren’t any. When I opened my arms and looked, I saw none of the charred flesh I expected.

  Just my elbow. Pink and fleshy, like a newborn.

  And in one piece. No cut, no seam, no scar.

  Just an elbow. A normal elbow.

  “Dude, what the heck,” Luke said, marveling at my new joint as if it were a newly discovered—and very delicious—source of protein. “No way I’d believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Or even your eyes. And you’re the one with a new elbow.”

  “Some things never change,” I said. “You still don’t make sense.”

  I flexed the new elbow, turning it this way and that. It felt better. Stronger.

  Is this what being normal was like? If so, how could that be a bad thing?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems our young zombie is pleased with the outcome,” Dr. Armendariz said. “Shall we continue with the rest of the procedure?”

  A man’s voice answered, “Absolutely. I had my doubts about you, doctor, but this is the most remarkable thing I’ve seen since Atlantis when the mermen took me into their trust.”

  Luke nudged me. “These people need hobbies where being crazy is not a requirement.”

  “Agreed,” I said, flexing my left arm again and marveling at its newness.

  Dr. Armendariz shoved past Luke and put his arm around my shoulder once again. “Shall we proceed?”

  I nodded.

  Luke patted me on the back. “Good luck. Hope this is what you really want.”

  I said nothing in return as he joined Dad and Spike in the wings. Dad grinned ear to ear, the first time I’d seen him do that since we came to Mexico.

  “Jed, if you would please remove your T-shirt so I can properly administer Substance Z,” Dr. Armendariz. “And Señor Vasquez, if you could bring out the gurney, I’d be very thankful.”

  Gurney? What gurney?

  “The one I’m placing you on to ensure a smooth process,” Dr. Armendariz answered, letting me know I’d reacted out loud again.

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  Metallic rattles and squeals interrupted our conversation. Spike rolled out the gurney, a thin mattress supported on an aluminum frame. “Here you go, doc,” he said. “Looks like things are going as smooth as an oiled track at a NASCAR race.”

  It shocked me how Spike’s folksy saying made sense, until I envisioned cars careening on a slippery track and the disaster that would result.

  It didn’t strike me until it was all over that Spike knew exactly what he was saying. As if he were the only one to know where this was headed.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Before I was secured to the gurney, my heart kicking in as the last buckle snapped home, Dr. Armendariz explained to everyone what was about to happen. As I listened, I wished he’d let me know first.

  “First, our subject will remove his shirt to allow physical and visual access to the transformation about to occur,” Dr. Armendariz said.

  I stood still, a zombie deer in fast-approaching headlights. A slight sheen of Ooze cooled my forehead.

  “As I said, our subject will remove his shirt, an important step before we begin proceedings.” Dr. Armendariz rephrased his statement.

  Thoughts buzzed through my head. What would kids call me when this was done? No Longer Dead Jed? The Zombie Formerly Known as Dead Jed? But what if they didn’t call me anything at all? What if it was, “Remember that zombie? Whatever happened to him?”

  Dr. Armendariz’s voice pierced the fog. “Perhaps our subject needs assistance in this mundane yet vital step.”

  My shirt, right. Remove it. I started with the top button, undoing each as quickly as I could. Which wasn’t very quickly at all.

  On the third button, I turned my head toward Luke, who’d retreated to the wings after helping reattach my arm.

  Sure enough, his fingers were curled in front of his lips, ready to unleash a wolf-whistle as I stripped down. I stopped my hands and slowly shook my head side to side.

  Luke dropped his hands too.

  After undoing the last button, I slid off my shirt and tossed it to the side. A cold breeze appeared from nowhere and rippled across my chest. I looked down to see Ooze oozing. Which was why I called it Ooze.

&nbs
p; A movement at the back of the room caught my eye. The man in denim stood and stepped into the aisle, the flyer still rolled in his hand. He took a step forward and stopped, as if unsure of what he was doing. He swiveled his back to the stage and disappeared into the shadows, the bright lights in my eyes making it impossible to see where he’d gone.

  A fleeting thought—was it Bob the zombie, driven by curiosity? Could he have possibly resisted the urge to see another member of a very exclusive club?

  “For our patient’s comfort, we will place him on this gurney,” Dr. Armendariz said, putting the wheeled bed between us and bringing me back to the current situation. “All I need to do is tilt it just so to provide the best viewing angle.”

  He knelt and fiddled with the various knobs and pegs, but the gurney stayed in position. More twirling, more shaking, but the gurney stayed flat.

  “I’m sorry, I’m good with bedside manners, but not so skilled with the beds themselves,” Dr. Armendariz said. “Señor Vasquez, might you be able to assist?”

  Spike bounded onstage, almost too excited. He flipped a handle, and in seconds tilted the gurney to a forty-five degree angle.

  Before exiting, he gripped my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “This will make you a new man. If that’s what you want.” He winked and disappeared into the wings.

  “Jed, if you will take your position on the gurney, we’ll get started,” Dr. Armendariz said, still looking at the audience as if I wasn’t there.

  And in a way, I wasn’t. I felt myself carried along by currents, no longer in control of my own fate.

  I just wished I knew where it was headed.

  I stepped into the gurney and leaned back. A calmness settled over me.

  Until I felt the first strap go across my ankles.

  I snapped upright. “Doc, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Jed,” he said, turning again to the audience. “I am securing the subject for his own safety. The process can be a bit, let’s say, unnerving, as muscles may involuntarily tense, some perhaps violently.”