by Scott Craven
The phone buzzed about ninety minutes later. That text from Mom I’d been expecting.
Mom: Come down. Leave Tread in ur room.
I rubbed Tread’s ears, and he tilted his head and gave a groan in appreciation. His mouth curled upward in a half-smile. He loved having his ears rubbed, and I was careful not to press too hard because reattaching an ear would be a total pain in the ass.
“OK, boy, moment of truth,” I said, looking into his milky gray eyes that hid what was left of his very keen eyesight. “If Dad says OK, you are the newest member of the family. Wish me luck.”
As soon as I walked into the kitchen, I was given a very happy greeting.
“There’s me boyo,” Dad said in a really bad Irish brogue. “Hey there, Jed, big Jeddie. It’s the return of the Jedi.”
I didn’t need to see the empty bottle of wine to know what had been happening the last ninety minutes. Dad didn’t drink much, but when he did, he would get sloppy-friendly. Alcohol also brought up the Irish accent, even though Dad was about as Irish as Lucky Charms cereal.
“Hey, Dad, how you doing?” I asked, knowing the answer. I looked at Mom. “Really? Was it going to be this bad?”
“Now, Jed, nothing wrong with your father celebrating a little good news,” she said.
“That’s right, Jed the Jedi, a little celebration is in order,” Dad said, draining the last bit of red wine in one of our good crystal glasses, the ones at the back of the china cabinet that I am not even allowed to open. “Ai, tis a fine day, laddie, a fine day indeed.”
“Your father found out today that the company is hiring a few more people for his department,” Mom said. “How about that? Isn’t that great?”
“A grand thing on a grand day, truly,” Dad said.
“That’s, uh … grand. Sure,” I said. “Yay employment, right?”
“Right, boy, employment tis a fine thing,” Dad said.
At some point, Mom had made the decision Dad was not going to be happy about a dog. Any dog. And we didn’t just have any dog. We had a zombie dog. So she used the one thing that broke down all of Dad’s defenses.
I didn’t feel very good about it.
“Mom, really?” I said. “We couldn’t—”
“Jed, before you go on, let me just say there comes a time we must make difficult decisions,” she said. “And if the end justifies the means, it’s not such a bad thing. Especially when the end is so good for the family.”
She had a point, but it didn’t erase my doubts. At some point sobriety would return, and Dad would have to deal with changes without looking through a rose-colored wine glass.
“Now, Jed, if I remember, you too have some wonderful news to share,” Mom said.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Don’t be shy. Go ahead and tell your father. In fact, why don’t you show him.”
“But, Mom—”
“SHOW him,” Mom said, shooting me her “Don’t argue with me young man” look complete with arched eyebrows and crinkled forehead.
I turned and climbed to my room. I opened and door, and Tread shot past me and down the stairs.
I really had to get better at anticipating such moves.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard my father cry out.
“What the Jesus, Mary, and Joseph is this! Jed! Jed, what is this thing, and what is it doing in our house? Off, off, right I said get … OFF!”
I jumped the rest of the way down, skipping about eight steps and jamming both ankles when I landed. By the time I got into the kitchen, Dad was standing up and kicking at Tread, who was smart enough to stay just out of reach.
I knew it. This was going to take a lot more than wine and crystal glasses and a fake celebration. I glared at Mom.
“So this was your big plan, get Dad—”
And I stopped. Mom was crying, like, real tears. The last time I saw her cry was, well, I’m not sure. Maybe the first time I lost an arm and no one was really clear about how it went back on pretty easily.
“Mom, are you OK?”
Dad was no longer kicking at Tread because Tread had retreated under the table, but I didn’t care about any of that.
“Mom?”
I walked over and gave her a hug because I didn’t know what else to do. All of a sudden I felt Dad’s arm around me. A triple family hug.
That was something to celebrate.
After a few seconds—or maybe it was an hour, time pretty much didn’t matter—the three of us looked at one another.
Dad broke the silence.
“Is that what this was all about? A dog?”
Mom nodded. I leaned down and called to Tread, slapping my thigh. To my surprise, he came right to me, putting his muzzle between my legs.
Dad went back to his seat. “Let me see it.”
Putting my hand on Tread’s shoulder, I guided him toward Dad. At first, he was hesitant, since he wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with a guy who stood on two weapons. I gave him one last push, and he took the last few steps before sitting next to Dad.
“Does it have a name?”
“Tread.”
Dad sat back and studied Tread. He leaned to the right and to the left, never taking his eyes off the dog.
“Tread?”
“Tread.”
“Something to do with the tire mark?”
“Yeah.”
“I assume by that mark, those weird eyes, and the duct tape that appears to be the only thing holding his tail on, that this isn’t a typical dog?”
“Yeah.”
“Not just a mixed breed?”
“Yeah.”
“A dog that won’t be able to enter any shows until they add a ‘Zombie’ class?”
“Yeah.”
“And you had something to do with his current biological status?’
“Sort of. I mean, I didn’t run over him.”
“No.”
“But I saw him get run over.”
“Of course.”
“I ran over to see if there was anything I could do.”
“You certainly did that.”
“But I didn’t mean to. I had no idea that would happen.”
Dad lifted his gaze away from Tread and looked me in the eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Jed, there are a million questions I have right now, and I know you can’t answer any of them. No more than I could answer them when you were born. But here is what I’ve learned over the years. Undead or alive, you mean the world to me. You’ve shown me that being different is something to embrace, to enjoy. To celebrate.” He winked at Mom. “The second you came into our lives, I knew it wouldn’t just be you who’d be different. It would be us. Our family. So in a family like ours, heck, I’d expect us to have a zombie dog, right? But I do have just one question, one I know you can answer.
“Does he always smell this bad?”
It turned out Mom didn’t need to prepare Dad for Tread, at least not with wine. Since Tread officially joined the family a few days before, he had fit in pretty well. Mom adored him and Dad tolerated him. Not bad for such a big change.
Dad had noticed the biggest problem with an undead dog, the deathly odor. Tread often smelled as if he’d been run hard and buried wet. I searched for a dog shampoo that eliminated lingering post-mortem odor, but settled for one that attacked rotting odors for dogs who rubbed in dead things. Close enough.
Tread’s bath did wonders in masking that post-death smell. And it only took me a few minutes to put his tail back on since I had so much practice.
I pulled the plug from the tub, Tread jumping when he heard the swoosh of water as it drained away.
“Easy, boy, let’s get you out of there and dried off.”
That’s when I learned you never let a zombie dog shake before you firmly wrap him in a towel. I was digging bits of Tread out of the grout, and my hair, for days.
The second I saw Anna on our first day of school after winter break, I wanted to tell her all about Tread. Until I remembered Luke’s reaction. If my best friend freaked out over something as minor as reanimating a dead dog, what would my pretty-much-girlfriend think?
For the first week of school I kept it to myself, and not just because I feared her reaction. Just how would I reveal this particular secret?
Maybe I could work it into the weather. “As cold as it is, it’s supposed to warm up nicely tomorrow. Speaking of cold things that suddenly warm up … ”
Perhaps at lunch. “This burger is so raw it could stand up and walk away. And that wouldn’t be the first time I saw dead meat take a stroll.”
Or talking about current events. “There’s a new poll that says most Americans believe in heaven. But you know who won’t be needing it after all?”
But seriously, what thirteen-year-old talks about current events unless they’re part of a class assignment?
Fortunately, sort of, Tread found a nice warm spot on the back burner when I found the NZN newsletter. That became the Number One topic of discussion, so Tread had to settle for Number Two (which reminded me, I needed more poop bags).
If there was a group spreading lies about me and my kind (population two, that I knew of), I’d need someone on my side. I knew Anna would happily wear the zombie team colors, which are black and white because that just makes sense.
I’d texted Anna about the “Say No to Zombies” notice just minutes after I found it. That was a violation of Pine Hollow’s “Keep phones turned off at school” policy, but that rule was so 2004. I could even pocket-text, sending a message without having to look at the keyboard. I was that good.
Anna’s reaction did not disappoint me when we met after school and I showed her the newsletter.
“Where do they get this crap? First, you don’t have sunken eyes. OK, maybe a little in the cheeks. Yeah, kinda gray, but nothing a quick spray-tan can’t fix. But ‘flesh-tearing teeth’? Really?”
Anna examined the NZN propaganda sheet. We were in my garage because I told Anna we made my dad uncomfortable when we hung out in my bedroom. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it would do for now. NZN now, Tread later.
The more she read, the angrier she became. She started to turn red, a color I was physically incapable of becoming. It was awesome.
At the top of the paper was a masthead, The NZN Network. Underneath the headline was what appeared to be a “Say No to Zombies” logo. It included a drawing of a hunched-over figure in torn clothes, blood oozing from his eyes and mouth, and red-stained hands reaching toward the reader. Blood was spattered across his torso, either from the gaping wound in his chest or from the many victims who’d fallen prey to his “flesh-tearing teeth.” Stamped over the figure was a circle and slash, the international symbol for “No.”
A smaller headline at the bottom said, “Ten ways to spot a zombie.”
“You know what really gets me?” Anna said. “Maybe only six of these apply to you.”
“Are you serious?” I said. “None of these apply to me. These are all myths and clichés from TV and the movies. This is ridiculous.”
“How about number five? You DO moan sometimes, especially when you don’t get your way.”
“There is a big difference between a moan and a whine. And I hardly ever whine.”
“Then there’s number eight. ‘Tends to be unresponsive to outside stimulus.’ That happened just last week.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The movie theater? You went unresponsive to outside stimulus less than halfway through.”
“I fell asleep because that movie was really boring, and we were out of popcorn. I told you I’d probably only make it as far as the snacks lasted.”
“Definitely number two. You do wander aimlessly in search of food.”
“That doesn’t say ‘food,’ it says ‘flesh.’ Now if it said ‘burgers,’ I would say there’s some truth in it.”
“The one I really am not sure about is the teeth,” Anna said. “Do you brush twice daily and floss?”
“Every now and then. But I stay away from chewy stuff. I could lose a lot of teeth that way. But apparently teeth that aren’t up to gummy bears can tear flesh pretty easily, according to these guys.”
We laughed. It felt really good. But it didn’t erase the really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“You know what bothers me as much as this list?” I said. “It’s pretty obvious someone took a lot of time to do this. Look at the drawing. And it’s in color. That’s not cheap.”
“Jed, anyone could’ve whipped this up on their computer in five minutes,” Anna said. “Hit the ‘Print’ button, and you have fifty copies just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “My guess is Robbie. The guy just can’t let go of a grudge.”
“I don’t think so. If Robbie is one thing, it’s lazy. When he wants to take it out on me, all he needs is a trash can. Or wrestling, right in front of a teacher. He can humiliate me in less than a minute on most occasions. But this, this is energy intensive. And look, each word is spelled correctly, and the grammar is solid.”
“You got me there. But I’m not crossing Robbie off the list just yet.”
Anna turned the sheet over, peering closely. She held it up to her face.
“What are you looking for?”
“Some of the nicer paper has a watermark. Something you can only see real close, or in the light. It tells you who the maker is. If we know that, we can go online and see who around here sells it. We head to the store and ask them for a list of people who purchased it in the last month, and we take that list and cross-reference against the people who have a grudge against you. Then we visit each of them to look at their printers and match up the specific shade of ink to find our perp.”
“Anna?”
“Yeah?”
“You have been watching way too much CSI.”
“For sure.” She put down the paper. “Besides, no watermark. This is plain old cheap paper. You can get it anywhere. I’ll bet every teacher uses it.”
I nodded. “If it’s cheap, Pine Hollow has it, guaranteed.”
At this point, it wasn’t so much the “Who” as the “Why.” Zombies didn’t seem to be much of a problem at school, considering I made up a club of one. What good is it spreading a bunch of crazy zombie rumors? And why did somebody feel the need to name an entire network after it?
“Any ideas what NZN means?” Anna said.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“No idea.” Anna picked up a hammer from the workbench, one of my dad’s three tools. She pounded an imaginary nail. “But there’s something else that’s bothering me.” She paused, hammer in the air. “What’s up with you and Luke?”
“Huh?” I feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“Last semester you were inseparable. Now it’s like you hardly know one another. You’ve hung out, what, once so far since winter break?”
“I guess so, yeah. I don’t … ” I looked down.
“Jed, what is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s wrong. Please. It’s pretty easy to tell.”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Yeah. It’s something. Now if you don’t feel like talking about it, fine. But don’t lie to me.”
“Yeah, OK, stuff is bothering me. Stuff with Luke. But I was pretty sure it was not that big a deal.”
I’d been looking forward to winter break, hanging out with Luke, and having fun like old times (what Luke started calling BA Times—Before Anna). Anna, as it turned out, spent most of the break visiting family in Colorado. So it was just me and Luke.
“I’ll tell you about it,” I said. “But if you could do me one favor, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Jed, you know me. Anything.”
“Whe
n you meet Tread, just don’t let anyone know. Yet, anyway.”
“Tread? Who’s Tread?”
“Tread is more of an it. But he’s still my friend.”
There it was. I’d been waiting for the perfect time to tell Anna about my newfound ability to raise the dead (at least one dead body in particular), and I’d just blurted it out in the cold of the moment (zombies don’t have heat in their moments).
The emotional dam inside me burst open, flooding the garage with Tread. I started with Mom and Dad saying no to a dog, then walking with Luke to the park, seeing the stray dog. I left out the details of the accident, the dog’s injuries. I couldn’t bring myself to picture that scene again.
I watched Anna’s eyes closely when I told her about the Ooze, the tears, and tiny flashes of light. I was unsure what I wanted to see, but I knew what I didn’t want to see.
Fear.
Anna remained silent until I was done.
“So it just came alive? Did you ever think it wasn’t all the way dead?”
“That’s all I thought about,” I said. “I kept telling myself that. Tread was never really dead. Just knocked out or something. He just happened to wake up, saw me, and bonded with me instantly because I’m instantly likeable. But since then, with as much duct tape as he’s gone through, it’s pretty clear death took a bite out of him. So to speak.”
I knew I would feel a lot better if I hadn’t turned anything into a zombie. It was ironic in a way. Luke, Anna, and I spent weeks convincing Robbie I could do just that—turn people into zombies. The coordinated Internet attack had worked perfectly. I could tell because Robbie soon practiced safe zombie encounters, making sure I didn’t splash any fluids on him.
“You remember the Woodshop incident, of course,” I said.
“You mean the greatest prank in Pine Hollow history, even better than the one three years ago when seventh graders used grass killer to burn ‘Eighties suck’ on the Eighth Grade lawn?”
“That was good, except everyone wondered why seventh graders hated a decade they never saw.”
“A shame,” Anna agreed. “But ‘Eighties suck’ sounds stupid. The Woodshop incident was historic. It will remain a Pine Hollow legend long after we’re dead. Or un-undead.”
