Dead Jed: Dawn Of The Jed

by Scott Craven

  “You mean the way your skin flushes and gets splotchy when you’re lying or withholding something? It was probably best Luke didn’t tell you because it would be over when you turned fifty shades of gray.”

  The more I talked about Luke and his actions, the more it seemed to make sense in a weird Luke-ian way. Mostly he was just awkward, living five seconds behind the rest of us. When I blew my lips into a birthday cake so long ago—the first sign fingers should point at me when singing “Which is of these is not like the others”—most kids reacted predictably. They screamed or threw up. Luke was more concerned with the cake, carefully eating around the vomit and my lips.

  He never had to get used to my undeadness because it never seemed to bother him. He was fine with detached limbs and peeling flesh. Once he nearly convinced me to get a tattoo to see if it would be like an Etch-A-Sketch, disappearing when you shook me (we were stupid ten-year-old kids mostly looking for an excuse to get a tattoo).

  But the making of Tread threw him because for the first time, I did something truly unpredictable, upsetting the delicate balance between dead and undead. Sure, I could take my arm off and beat Luke over the head with it, but bringing a dead dog back to life was a violation of friend-zombie trust.

  Of course Luke would have issues with that. Why hadn’t I seen it before?

  I should have been more grateful he was still with me, even as a spy.

  Which I said out loud as it really hit me.

  “He was spying for me. That’s pretty cool.”

  “I’m not sure any of my friends would spy for me,” Anna said. “Then again, I’m not sure I would need anyone to spy for me. I consider that a good thing.”

  “Luke and I have been friends for years.” I needed to hear myself defend Luke. “I’ve always trusted him. Did I tell you the birthday party we went to a couple years ago and there was a really bad magician there? When his assistant didn’t show up, Luke convinced the guy I knew the secret behind the getting-sawed-in-half trick. The guy ran screaming when he found out he’d actually sawed me in half. That was priceless.”

  “Zombies as parlor tricks are always funny.”

  “And then Luke missed cake because he was helping me reattach my legs. Missing cake is a huge sacrifice for Luke. That’s love, man.”

  “That’s also having freakish eating habits. Like I said, it would have been a lot simpler if he’d clued you in.”

  “Not saying Luke is perfect by a long shot. But remember, he grew up with a zombie and thought he’d seen it all. And he’s seen some really weird stuff. But I’d never made another zombie. We both knew it was impossible. Until Tread.”

  I stared into Anna’s eyes, to see if there was just a sliver of understanding in there. She knew me well, but I was still a novelty to her. She thought Tread was cool, because he was nothing more than another zombie parlor trick, and certainly nothing to fear.

  But it was no simple trick to Luke.

  “I can see where he’d freak,” Anna said. “But Jed, I never questioned his friendship. Just the way he handled things. But this puts it in perspective. He needed time. I get that now.”

  “Good, because I was hoping you’d come over this weekend so we can plan for the Science Fair and get back at those NZN jerks.”

  “For sure,” she said. “Just give me the time and place.”

  That’s what brought us here, to the Rivers family garage or, as I liked to call it, the Secret Headquarters of NZN Resistance. And before I was beaten with my own limbs, it started off very well.

  Until it was clear that while I’d done my best to patch everything up, there were still some lingering resentment amid my two best friends. I thought it might be jealousy over who was getting a bigger piece of Jed—figuratively, since I can actually go to pieces.

  But no, it turned out to be a geek thing.

  “So the idea,” Luke said as we got down to business, “is to make the Tech Club and its anti-zombie booth look so ridiculous, people won’t pay any attention anymore. It’ll go back to being just another club whose members have a hard time relating with others. Like the Twi-hard Club and their teams Eddie and Jake. No offense, Anna.”

  Anna shook her head. “None taken, especially since that club hasn’t existed for more than two years. Besides, it was way more interesting than your Superhero Debate Squad.”

  “Excuse me? You still think Superman would beat Batman in a fight? Let’s take a few minutes so I can rip a hole in that theory the size of Planet Krypton.”

  “Thank you for proving my point.”

  That’s when I stepped between them, putting my arms out to get some distance.

  Bad move.

  Anna wrapped her fingers around my wrist and jerked down in misdirected anger, separating my arm at the shoulder. She held it up in shock, and it looked like she was about to apologize when I felt my left one pop off.

  “If you’re going to arm yourself, so am I,” Luke said, brandishing my limb like a club.

  “I don’t want to fight,” Anna said. “I just want to know why you’re such a traitor.”

  “What? I’m no Benedict Alfred.”

  “Arnold.”

  “What?”

  “You’re no Benedict Arnold.”

  “Then why are we fighting?”

  “Luke, you are hopeless. I have no idea why Jed even spends one minute—”

  Luke suddenly took a swing. I know because I smelled my own armpit under my nose as he missed Anna and hit me in the face with my arm.

  Anna elbowed me in the stomach. With my own elbow.

  Maybe, I thought, I could disarm them with my charm.

  “Let’s give the zombie kid a hand for trying to get you two together,” I said. “In fact, let’s give him two hands. Back.”

  Luke took a step to my right and tried to hit Anna with a left uppercut. Anna twisted out of the way as she brought my right down in a chop, hitting Luke’s shoulder with a sickening thud.

  At least it sickened me, because I was sure that blow did far more damage to my shoulder than Luke’s.

  It turned out to be a lucky shot. The two flailed away as if members of The I Hate to Fight Club, missing each other by a few feet each time. They traded more words than blows.

  Anna – “You fight like my grandma.”

  Luke – “She must be really good then.”

  Anna – “She is if you’re talking about her cooking.”

  Luke – “Really? What does she make?”

  Anna – “Tons of cookies, but she does a cherry pie that is killer.”

  Luke – “Has she made any lately?”

  Anna – “We’ve still got stuff frozen from her last visit.”

  Luke – “You think I can stop by for some samples?”

  They were as terrible with their words as they were with their aim. I had enough and put my head down, launching myself at Luke’s stomach and landing with his resounding, “Oooff!” He fell against a shelf, knocking over a few decades-old paint cans.

  “Jed, what the f—”

  “Luke, man, that hurt like a son of—”

  “Boys, really?” Anna interrupted.

  At least that broke the spell.

  “Are we done yet?” I asked, rolling away from Luke. I tried to sit up but without arms, but I squirmed like a turtle on its back. “Little help, please. Anything to end this humiliation would be nice.”

  “Jed, I’m sorry,” Anna said as she put my arm on a shelf. “Where’s the duct tape? We’ll get these back on you in no time.”

  “Dude, yeah, sorry,” Luke chimed in as he pushed off the floor with both arms.

  Showoff, I thought.

  Luke retrieved the duct tape and staples, knowing where I kept the essentials to zombie life. About a half hour later, I was re-armed, and we still had a lot of work ahead of us.

  “Can we get on with this now, because I could really use some help against the NZN,” I said.
>
  “Yeah, sure,” Anna said. She leaned against the workbench, her arms crossed. Her body language made it clear she agreed to a truce and nothing more.

  So we got down to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There they were. The rats. I knew them as soon as I saw them. And I wasn’t talking about the furry things in the cage.

  They stood under the banner for the Tech Club, but I knew what they really were. The rats of the NZN Network.

  It was Science Fair day, and Luke, Anna, and I were scanning the exhibits. At one of the larger booths in the middle of the cafetorium, members of the Tech Club set up their experiment.

  Or should I say, their blatant attempt to paint all zombies with a broad, brain-eating brush. Right then, I sure could have used the support of the ASPCASFEAZ (American Society for the Prevention of Cruel and Asinine Science Fair Exhibits Against Zombies). I reminded myself to create an organization like that. Only something like it with a few less letters.

  Sitting at the main Tech Club table was head of the nerd herd and its GEO (Geek Executive Officer) Ray Knowles, who I’d punched last semester. I was now mad for having felt sorry about it at the time.

  I had to admit the booth was impressive. There were about a half-dozen beakers filled with different colored liquids, each bubbling over Bunsen burners fueled by a propane tank hidden behind the black cloth stretched across their table. It looked like a mad scientist’s lab, which fit the theme of the experiment.

  Two things really caught my eye. The first was a Petri dish labeled “Secret ingredient.” The second was a large cage placed front and center. In the cage were two large rats, one white, one brown.

  The large sign behind the table said it all: “Franken-beasts.”

  I didn’t have to read the fine print on the display boards set up on either side of the table. Thanks to Luke’s undercover work, I already knew their plans.

  The rats confirmed his story.

  “Are those the rats Ray used for the experiment?” I asked, pointing to the cage? The cafetorium was filling up, so Luke waited until he got a clear look through the passing spectators.

  “I think so,” he said. “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean maybe?”

  “All rats look pretty much the same to me. I bet even rats can’t tell one another apart.”

  “Look at the color. The size. The way they, I don’t know, sniff around.”

  “Seriously? Do I look like a rat ID professional? Want me to get their claw prints and run them through the rat database that I keep in my pocket?”

  “OK, I get it. But could those be the rats?”

  “Yeah, those are definitely the same rats.”

  “Thanks, rat whisperer.”

  “Anything I can do to make your rat life easier,” Luke said.

  Since those were the same rats, I knew what was going to happen, based on what Luke told me. The Tech Club was going to show how creatures that were recently deceased could be brought back to life using a secret ingredient (it had to be referring to Ooze, and not the coffee that brought my dad back from the dead every morning).

  The illustrations posted around the booth were filled with the fake-science details. They showed how the secret ingredient pierced the walls of the dead cells (invasion), consumed the nuclei (eating the brains), and brought the cells back to semi-life, just enough so the previously dead being could move, but not really think (stumbling, shuffling zombies.)

  No one bothered to tell the NZN Network (sorry, the Tech Club) that urban zombie legends had absolutely nothing to do with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. In her story, a mad scientist sewed body parts together to create a rather clumsy man brought to life through electricity. Nor did I understand all the moaning voices looped through iPod speakers. They sounded as if someone recorded Tech Club members reacting to reports that Doctor Who was being canceled.

  Official scientific verdict: their project was a bunch of Franken-crap.

  But the planned demonstration was what really got under my pale, undead skin.

  I turned to Luke. “So tell me again how he reanimates the so-called dead rats.”

  “The rat was on a table, not moving a muscle,” Luke said. “Ray poked it a few times, and I was thinking, ‘That rat is either dead or has some really enviable sleep habits.’ Ray put a small drop of maple syrup on his finger—yeah, syrup, right from the bottle—and rubbed it on the rat’s nose. And that rat came back to life, hopping around and running in circles. I’ll bet Mr. Butterworth had no idea his wife could do anything more than make pancakes tastier.”

  That was when it hit me. I knew the “secret” behind the secret ingredient. The rats. Specifically, Chris Fenske’s rats.

  I remembered meeting Chris outside Principal Buckley’s office. I hadn’t really paid all that much attention to his odd story about rats and putting them to sleep by rubbing their stomachs. And didn’t he say his rats would continue to sleep until he poured water on their heads?

  I bet smearing their noses with syrup did the same thing. It wasn’t hard to figure out just how the Tech Club got those rats, since I happened to see Chris a few days before the fair.

  I really didn’t give a rat about his rats, but we ran into one another in the boys’ room. He stood at the urinal right next to me, as if there were no such thing as personal space.

  “Jed, I heard all about Frankendog,” he said, violating the second rule of the boys’ room: no talking while business was being conducted.

  I shot him a disapproving look, zipped up, and washed. He joined me at the sink, away from the conversation-free zone.

  “But I don’t think it’s a Frankendog,” he said. I nodded, glad at least one kid came to his senses. He paused as if building suspense. “It’s a chupacabra.”

  So much for anyone coming to their senses.

  “You know you have to be careful with that,” he continued. “Chupacabras can’t really be domesticated.”

  “No, it’s not a—” I began, but I was not going to go there again. I was so tired of chupacabra denials.

  “Actually, it’s not just a plain old chupacabra,” I said. “He’s a watch-chupacabra, and he’s really good at what he does.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Eats goats, mostly. If any goats ever try to attack me, my chupacabra is going to take them out. Go ahead, send your meanest, angriest attack goats against me, see what happens.”

  “That’s pretty awesome,” Chris said. “And I thought my rats were cool.”

  I wadded up the paper towel and tossed it, ready to get back to class. I was in no hurry, since being out of class was always better than being in class.

  “So what happened to your rats?” I asked. “Did Principal Buckley take them for his own pets? Which would kind of make sense. He sure didn’t come off like a dog person.”

  Chris shook his head. “That didn’t turn out too well. He had no right. Whitey and Ratty never hurt anyone.”

  “Whitey and Ratty?”

  “I was never too good with names. I have a dog named Brownie and a cat named Creepy.”

  “Well, Creepy is pretty creative.”

  “Not really. He’s really creepy. Anyway, Principal Buckley took Whitey and Ratty. Said they were a danger and that I should have known better.”

  As I now stared at the Tech Club’s Science Fair booth, it all became very clear. Principal Buckley was behind it all, maybe even convincing the Tech Club to do its dirty work as the NZN Network. Robbie was the muscle, explaining why I ran into Robbie when I was at school early to meet Anna. The Tech Club was having a meeting, with Principal Buckley’s blessing, and Robbie was there to make sure no one interrupted.

  Luke may not have seen Robbie at the meetings, but that meant nothing. Robbie had to be a part of it. Like a used car dealer can sniff out a recent lottery winner who’s just walked onto the lot, Robbie had my scent and was always going to terrorize the undead when he co
uld. This zombie was not going to beat up himself.

  I focused my attention on the Petri dish. “Secret ingredient” my puckered, undead butt. I knew exactly what was in that dish, and it wasn’t maple syrup.

  But I needed to test it to make sure. That meant stealing it. I needed a distraction.

  There were only two sure-fire ways to hold the attention of geeks. The first was to say, “Android is so much better than iOS.” Or the other way around, it didn’t matter, because either would start a lengthy, passionate, and meaningless debate.

  Even better, insert a few girls into their world. Yes, it was sexist, but no girls had joined the Tech Club. Years ago several girls who joined the Tech Club nicknamed it the Wreck Club. They left and formed the Supergirls Power Science Squad, which was open to everyone and now was one of the most popular clubs at Pine Hollow.

  “Anna, see that dish on the Tech Club table?” I whispered.

  “The one cleverly labeled ‘Secret Ingredient?’” she said. “It’s like they stole a page out of the Babysitters Club. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Are you thinking we need to get it?”

  “Yes. Are you also thinking we need to distract Head Geek and the Loser Squad?”

  “Absolutely. Are you thinking we can distract them with—”

  “—a few of my lady friends? You bet,” Anna finished my sentence, shooting her sly “I am so your girlfriend” smile. At least that’s the way I interpreted it.

  In a few minutes, Anna would dispatch her three goth friends I’d met last semester. Once I got to know them, they were pretty cool, but I still referred to them as Bella, Della, and Stella. Not in front of Anna, of course, because she’d kick my butt.

  The trio walked over to the Tech Club display like geek-seeking missiles. It was a direct hit.

  One of the –ellas started asking questions, while another ran her fingers through Ray’s Justin Bieber-like hairstyle (the younger, mentally stable Bieber). Ray’s whole world collapsed in on the three, and the rest of Tech Club followed his lead.

  I walked over to the table and slipped the Petri dish into my pocket. It was that easy. As I left, I heard Ray say, “No, just a comb, I swear.”