by Scott Craven
I backed out of the bushes and whipped around. There, dashing over a berm toward the bathrooms.
Luke already was running after him. I was on his tail. Sort of. Luke was way faster than I was, and if I ran too hard, my hips would get loose and dislocate. Good for dodging a tackle in football, not so much when sprinting after a stray.
Just as I was about to crest the berm, I heard a horn, following by a high-pitched yelp. In between there was something.
A sound I heard every time Robbie slammed me into a metal trash can. A sound that sickened my heart.
The scene I was expecting, and hoping against, came into view. Luke, kneeling by a gray lump in the street.
“No no no no,” I tried to scream, but could not take the breath necessary to do it.
My legs kept going, getting me closer and closer.
I got to the street and slowed. Walked up behind Luke and looked over his shoulder.
“Guy just honked but didn’t stop,” Luke said. “Kept going as if nothing happened.”
The dog lay on the asphalt, tongue dangling. One of his hind legs bent at an angle. A bloody gash on his shoulder. I wasn’t sure if the car or the asphalt was responsible for the patches of fur that had been ripped away. Blood dripped from a dozen or so cuts and scrapes.
But the worst—a thick black tread mark across his ribs, his body looking like a deflated balloon.
“Oh god oh god oh god, I am so sorry, sorry sorry,” I said.
This was my fault. The dog was dead because of me.
“This is your fault,” Luke said. “We could have called. Gotten someone who knew what to do.”
I kneeled next to Luke. I could not take my eyes off the dog. Did this really happen? Was there a way to turn back the clock? What do we do now?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
“Pup, I am so sorry,” I said, reaching out my right hand and smoothing its ear. “I only wanted you to come home with me. That’s all. Not this.”
No turning away this time. I let the tears fall. I watched them drop, some mixed with the Ooze that slid from my forehead. Some of those drops fell into the dog’s wounds, glistening like tiny flashes of light. Almost like sparks, but that wasn’t possible.
I don’t remember how long I kneeled over the dog. I’m pretty sure a small crowd had gathered. I heard them talking, and one person said she would call roadkill retrieval to get the carcass.
I couldn’t stop crying. I never meant for this to happen.
I looked at his tongue, the way it flopped out. Pink with a black splotch in the middle. I stared at it because I couldn’t bear the rest.
It moved.
Not much. A twitch. And another. As if his tongue was having a minor seizure.
His eye fluttered. His floppy ear straightened.
I knew what I would see if I looked at the wound. I kept my eyes on his face, which gave all the signs as if he was waking from a nap.
His eye opened.
This could not be happening.
“Dude, you can’t do this,” Luke said, as if knowing what was happening before I did. “You need to stop. You need to let this poor dog alone, let it be what it’s supposed to be.”
Dead. I was supposed to let this dog be dead.
I tried to convince myself this wasn’t happening. I knew I couldn’t make anyone a zombie. And everyone knew if I could, Robbie would be the first member of my zombie army, just so I could tear off an arm and let him know how inconvenient that is.
But this dog was returning from the dead.
I could feel Luke staring at me. I knew I was doing it, but couldn’t stop. It wasn’t as if I could thrust out my palm and command, “Down, stay lifeless!”
I had no idea how I was doing it, only that it was happening. Was it the way Ooze mixed with tears? Did those sparks indicate some sort of chemical reaction? Or could this stuff that kept me alive somehow read my mind? Did Ooze know how much I wanted a dog? Did it decide to play Ooze Santa, bringing me the one gift I really wanted?
And did I want a dog this badly?
Yes, I did. I knew it, could feel it.
This dog had just fetched a big old dose of zombie and was headed back.
I looked along the dog’s body, could see it re-inflating. His tail thumped once, twice on the asphalt.
Another minute passed. I looked at the wound and saw a translucent goo working into the exposed muscle. If I saw it under a microscope, I would see muscles and veins stitching themselves together.
Ooze was bringing this dog back. But back to what?
“Jed, you can’t … ” Luke again. His voice was behind me now.
The dog tried to get up, but I kept my hand on its head. “Easy boy, relax.”
There were murmurs in the crowd. I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were about.
I put my ear on its chest. No heartbeat. But there was a muffled cracking sound. Ribs coming together?
I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the hind leg, the one bent backward, and gave it a sharp tug. A crack, and the leg was back in its rightful place.
I leaned in to whisper in his ear.
“It’s going to be all better, boy, I promise,” I said. “Being a zombie isn’t such a bad thing. You just have to trust me on this.”
He lifted his head, turned it. A dry, sandpapery tongue brushed across my cheek.
Knowing it was just a matter of time before he was able to walk home with me, I stood. The small crowd was still there.
But Luke was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Five
First rule of zombie-dog ownership: Be very careful when you teach him to shake.
Second rule of zombie-dog ownership: Teach him “Come” first.
“Tread, come, boy, come.” I’d thought I’d cornered him in the dining room, but he darted past me and up the stairs.
Maybe “dart” is too strong. More like “quickly hopped.” It’s difficult to dart on three legs, especially when he held his fourth leg in his mouth. The limb slammed into furniture as he hopped to his escape.
His left front leg detached during our first attempt at “Shake.” He snapped it from my hand before showing absolutely no aptitude for the command, “Come.” He had a much better talent for running on three legs.
He wasn’t the only one adjusting to a new situation. So were Mom and Dad.
I honestly did not expect my parents to accept him. But I knew it was worth a shot when I helped him out of the street and to the curb, gently holding onto the scruff of his neck. I sat with him for ten minutes as the crowd dispersed, the show over (most having no idea what they’d just witnessed, and one man offering me a ride to the emergency vet, though I knew this dog would not need a vet now or maybe ever).
I stroked him along the black streak on his spine, but he really loved when I scratched under his neck, his tail thumping so hard it came off (I picked it up and tucked it into my waistband).
I never thought, I have to name him. It just happened.
“I’m going to call you Tread,” I said, looking at the tire track across his ribs. “Some dogs might make fun of you, call you Dead Tread, but don’t worry. You’ll learn to live with it. Or at least be undead with it.”
I just knew he would follow me home. There was already a connection forming, I could feel it in my Ooze.
Tread was slow at first so I took my time, making sure I was no more than a few steps ahead. Within five minutes, he picked up the pace, and pretty soon I was at a fast walk as we continued side by side. Every now and then he’d nose his tail, wanting it back.
When we got to the driveway, I gave him a nudge with my knee to steer him toward the front door. He jogged ahead, waiting for me on the porch. Maybe he remembered having a home. While death can be pretty inconvenient, I was glad it didn’t wipe out his memory.
I slowly twisted the knob and eased open the door. Peeking inside, there was no sign of Mom.
“Tread, you need to be really quiet,” I said. “Mom isn’t going to be thrilled with me bringing home a dog. Especially one that was dead at one point.”
I opened the door a little more, keeping Tread behind me. I took one step, two, and Tread went right by me, his nails clattering on the hardwood floor. She was going to hear that for sure.
“What’s that smell? Jed? Is that you?” Mom’s voice came from the kitchen.
So much for the stealthy approach.
“Yeah, Mom, just me.”
“I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, but you need to get in the shower now,” she said. “You know how I hate you trailing the stink of … Just get in the shower, hon. OK?”
I knew what she was going to say. “The stink of death.” It was true. Every now and then it popped up, a bad case of dead-body odor. I blamed puberty.
But this time, it was Tread.
“C’mon, let’s get you a bath, clean you up before introductions,” I urged Tread. “First impressions are so important.”
I looked again at his distinctive tread mark.
“And that’s the kind of impression that may make this pretty tough.”
I nudged Tread toward the stairs. He climbed ahead of me and stopped at the top, unsure where to go. I eased past him, stepped into the bathroom, and started the bath.
“Tread, in here, boy,” I said, barely above the sound of the rushing water. “Tread, come. Tread? Tread!”
I peeked out the door.
No Tread.
“Jed, you need to come here night now. Jed! What the—!”
If we had a curse jar where you had to put in a buck for every swear word, Mom’s rant would have paid for a trip to Disney World.
I ran downstairs, skipping three steps at a time, and took the curve at the bottom as quickly as I could. My right leg flew off below the knee but I kept my balance as I hopped into the kitchen.
Mom stood on the counter by the fridge. Tread stood in the middle of the kitchen looking at her. His butt moved in a way that suggested he was wagging his tail, if it hadn’t been tucked into my waistband.
This was not how I envisioned introduction.
“Mom, let me explain—”
“No, you will get that beast out of here first. And then you bet you will explain, young man. We said no dogs. Were you aware that meant no dogs? As in none. Not one. And certainly not, not … three-quarters of one. What happened to his tail?”
Way too many questions, so the best thing was to follow her first order. Get Tread out of there and reattach the tail. I pulled the errant limb from my shorts to get his attention. “I think you dropped this.”
He snatched it from my hand and took off toward the stairs. I was just introduced to his favorite game.
I turned on my remaining heel to hop after him.
“Wait one minute, Jed,” Mom said, climbing down from the counter. “What is going on? And where is your leg? I swear you’d forget your own head if it wasn’t screwed on, and I’m not sure it is.”
“I lost the leg running after Tread. It’s somewhere—”
“Tread? You gave it a name?”
“Yeah, you see there’s this—”
“I saw the tread mark. I get it. But we need to discuss why Tread is here, and how he got to be dead.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
“Hard not to when I saw you pull his tail from your shorts. I’ve had my experience with such things over the last thirteen years. Thinking it over—”
Oh no.
“—I’m not so concerned about how Tread got to be dead—”
Here it comes.
“—but how he got to be undead.”
Yeah, so was I. I wasn’t going to tell Mom that. I had to be all cool, like I expected it, as if it were no big deal. I was not going to tell her that no matter how friendly Tread seemed, the way he came back to life scared the hell out of me. I mean, I read Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. I know how all those dogs and cats came back “different.” Curling on a lap one minute, ripping out throats the next.
But that was just a story. This was real life. Huge difference.
Right?
“I thought you might be curious,” I said. “You might want to sit down.”
“I’m fine right where I am,” she said. “Go ahead.
I told her. The walk with Luke, the accident, the Ooze. How Tread followed me home almost as if by instinct, as if we had a bond. By the end, she was sitting down.
“Go get it, let me see him,” she said. “Hop to it.”
With one leg, that is exactly what I did.
Chapter Six
“Tread, if you don’t stay still, I seriously will take the ‘un’ from in front of ‘dead,’ I am not kidding,” I said, trying to figure out a safe place to grab him. Not the tail, even though it was the most convenient. Duct tape was wrapped thickly at the base, and Tread would set off alarms if he were to walk through a metal detector. His tail had more staples than bone at this point.
It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, a pair of zombies were getting thoroughly doused. They should have been tucked so tight in their beds, but life is so short when you’re thoroughly dead.
That poem—at least my version of it—kept doing a sugarplum dance in my head as I gave Tread the bath he needed since arriving. I was collateral bath damage, getting soaked with residual water as I struggled to keep Tread in place.
I learned how impossible it was to handle shampoo, sponge, and zombie dog at the same time. Tread hated to be washed just as much as a not undead dog (un-undead?), wriggling and twisting as he let me know exactly where he stood with this bath business.
Wrapping my left arm around his ribs (and hoping Tread’s struggles didn’t rip that arm off, because that would leave a fine mess of zombie everywhere), I squirted shampoo on his head and down the back of his neck, nearly emptying the bottle. Without releasing my grip, I massaged the shampoo gently into his fur.
I stopped, checking the water for chunks of fur. My own experience taught me to be very careful when bathing. If you rub too softly, the distinct zombie smell stays behind. Rub too hard, and you’re wearing a baseball cap for a week until your scalp grows back.
Nothing floated on the surface. The water was nearly as gray as Tread’s fur, so I had no idea what was lurking within. Fortunately zombie flesh floated, something I learned the first time I went swimming (and yes, I would have noticed that without all the screaming, thank you very much).
I buried my nose in Tread’s neck fur and inhaled deeply. I noted hints of shampoo (“Desert Spring,” which smelled exactly like “Mountain Breeze” and “Summer Storm”) and Tread’s familiar post-accident scent. Equal amounts bouquet and decay. Worked for me.
Twisting on my knees, I released Tread with my left arm and wrapped him quickly with my right. Time to work on the back end. I poured the rest of the bottle along his spine, across the wad of duct tape, and along his tail. I massaged again, gently, gently, following his back to the duct tape, to the tail and—
Dammit! The tail released with a plop. Must have been a combination of pressure and wet tape.
Tread was very delicate in a “quick to lose a limb” sense. Mom watched as I continued to work on the “Shake” command, laughing when Tread’s front leg shook free. I’d then spent the next fifteen minutes chasing him. Tread still was very agile when down a limb—sometimes I wanted to leave him a limb short.
Mom, however, said that was zombie-animal cruelty. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she was becoming attached to Tread, forming a bond that was probably stronger than the ones he had with his own limbs.
“Maybe the next time you lose a body part, we should just let you go around without it,” Mom said as I chased Tread, telling her he deserved to go tripod for a while. “Most times, the easy thing to do is not the right thing to do. By the way, it’d be a lot easier if you used t
hese.”
She reached into the cupboard and took out an orange box that said in big black type “Dog Beefies” and below that, in much smaller type, “Any beef content in Dog Beefies is purely coincidental.”
“When did we get these?” I asked.
“I just found them up there,” Mom said. “Maybe from the people who owned this house before us. Don’t worry, they’re still good for another few years.”
“For a box that must be at least fourteen years old, these look pretty fresh.”
“The power of chemical preservatives, I suppose. Now go on, see how he likes them. And let me know. You know, just in case we need to pick up more.”
Mom was growing fonder of Tread every day, but she was not about to admit it. Despite the house’s strict “Only two-legged zombies allowed on the furniture” rule, I caught her petting Tread while he lay next to her on the couch. She pushed him off when she saw me, explaining, “I thought he only had two legs on when he jumped up, but apparently he is intact. Innocent mistake.”
“Sure, Mom. But I hope when you invite him on the couch again, he doesn’t have to lose a couple of legs so he doesn’t violate the rules.”
“We’ll see.”
Letting him on the couch, buying him treats—proof that Mom had a soft spot in her heart, and Tread was curled up in it.
Dad had been another story. On the day Tread followed me home, Mom told me to take Tread and stay out of the way when Dad got home. “I’ll text you when I want you to come down. It might be an hour or so.”
Tread and I kicked back on the bed. I put on my headphones and cranked my music, including “Time of the Season,” by The Zombies, an old song Dad played for me years ago. “The coolest zombies until you,” he’d said. I sealed myself away, not wanting to hear Dad’s reaction when Mom told him about Tread.
I spent the time on my laptop, searching for “zombie dog” and finding everything from people dressing their dogs as zombies to owners who thought their dogs looked like zombies. Not that I thought I’d find something as helpful as “What to Expect When Your Dog is a Zombie,” but I was hoping for something a little more informative than “Russian Experiments in 1940s with Zombie Dogs” (that is seriously messed up, Russia).
