Dead Jed: Dawn Of The Jed

by Scott Craven

  We had plenty of time. Good thing, because once we knew what was on the Petri dish, we could prepare the rest of the plan, which we’d finalized just a few days before the fair in our last meeting.

  I returned to our own science experiment, pulling the Petri dish out of my pocket. I needed Luke’s finely tuned palate. When I told him why, he and his palate paled.

  “For being at a science fair, I can’t believe you’re scared to commit a little science,” I argued.

  “You know I’d put anything in my mouth,” Luke said. “But I draw the line at that.”

  “Seriously, this is coming from the guy who ate Silly Putty on a dare, and then had a second helping because he said it ‘tasted like rubber chicken’?” I said. “How else are we going to know for sure?”

  Anna shot Luke her patented, “I’m in no mood for attitude,” look, which has been known to heat skin to a point where foreheads begin to sweat. But Luke wasn’t having it.

  “You’re going to have to do better if you want me to put a drop of Jed in my mouth,” Luke said. “On purpose, anyway.”

  I looked at the glistening drop of what I was pretty sure was Ooze. It had the look and consistency of Ooze, but so did corn syrup. We needed to know exactly what it was, and that’s where Luke came in.

  If it was my Ooze, there was only two ways it could have been obtained. It could have come from the source, which was me. And I’d never donate Ooze to anyone, least of all the kids trying to prove zombies were brain-eating monsters who could raise the dead. Heck, I couldn’t even raise my grades. With just one week of school left, my grades were Bs and Cs thanks to all the stress caused by the NZN Network.

  Only one other person had Ooze—Mr. Landrum, who took a few drops off my biology test for possible testing. There was no way he would have given it away.

  But someone could have stolen it.

  I just had to confirm my suspicions that this was Ooze.

  “Luke, just a quick taste, let me know what it seems like,” I said. “Please.”

  “Why don’t you just touch it?” Luke said. “It’s your bodily fluid, after all. Wouldn’t you know what it feels like?”

  I knew I could touch it and probably know if it was Ooze or not. But this was more about payback than science.

  “I could do that, but Ooze permeates my cells in a process called osmosis, and if just one molecule of that drop touches me, surface tension would do the rest of the work and it would disappear.” That sounded good. “And I need to get this stuff back on the NZN Network table as soon as possible.”

  Anna nudged me. “Jed, you need to do whatever you need to do, and fast,” she said.

  I glanced toward the Tech Club booth. Each of the –ellas had an exasperated look on her face. They could only stand so much nerd talk, and they’d already been there five minutes. Geek-speak could go on for hours, but geek-speak tolerance was measured in minutes. And the –ellas were reaching the breaking point.

  I thought back on how we’d planned for this day. It began with the three of us in my garage just a week ago. Luke filled Anna and me in on the Tech Club’s plan. Once the rats were raised from their allegedly dead state, they would reveal the secret ingredient, and then produce photos of Tread, detailing just how Franken-canine was created, and by whom.

  Anna interrupted, raising that whole zombie-Frankenstein problem.

  “‘Frankenstein’ was about man’s foolishness to mess with nature,” she said. “Zombies are dead people rising through a virus or chemical spill or whatever. No body parts, no sewing, no electricity. Is the Tech Club really that stupid?”

  “What do you mean?” Luke said. “It’s all about going from dead to not-so-dead. Same thing.”

  “No it’s not the … never mind, not important,” she said, knowing the intellectual path was the one not taken by Luke.

  Anna urged me to create an “experiment” with Tread. She knew once the Tech Club finished, students were going to fear this dangerous Frankendog. At that point, with all eyes on me, I would bring Tread out from behind my own curtain and run him through a series of tricks, proving he was just a dog.

  An unattractive dog, yes, but a dog all the same.

  “What’s the science in that?” I said.

  “Jed, by the time everyone has heard about this so-called brain-eating Frankendog, no one is going to care about science,” Anna said.

  “No one said anything about brain-eating.”

  “They don’t have to. It will be implied. And you have to be ready.”

  “With Tread.”

  “Right. Put him through the motions. Sit. Stay. Heel. You might want to skip that ‘play undead’ trick.”

  Dang, that was Tread’s best trick. I had him where he would take a few lurching steps before stumbling on his front legs.

  “Play it straight,” Anna said. “Everyone will see Tread’s just a normal dog, even if he looks like a chupacabra.”

  “He does not look like a chupacabra,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, he kinda does,” Anna said. “You’re just going to have to deal with that. Anyway, the Tech Club will look like idiots. And we have that rat kid ready to say those are his rats. Everyone watches him put them to sleep, then wake them up with not-so-secret pancake syrup. The ruse is exposed. We win. Happily ever after.”

  The plan was simple and effective. The day before the fair, Anna, Luke, and I set up our booth among the thirty or so teams competing. The table was just big enough to fit Tread’s crate, draping a large, white tablecloth over it to provide the perfect hiding spot.

  The Tech Club hung black plastic in front of its display, all mysterious-like. Jerks. Of course, members had the approval of Principal Buckley, who at one point stepped behind the curtain. “Very interesting boys,” I overheard him say. He was probably nodding slowly, stroking his chin, like any authority figure who mixes with a gaggle of butt-kissers.

  For our booth, Anna made a beautiful banner that said “Genetic manipulation,” giving the booth a real scientific feel. We filled the display boards with photos of farms and produce and infants. Luke, surprisingly, had the nicest handwriting, so he was responsible for all the text.

  As soon as I read, “This is corn. It is good for you. I like it best on the grill,” I stopped reading.

  So much for science.

  By the time we left, the black plastic was still blocking the Tech Club display. But now, getting a clear look at it, I had no idea what the fuss was. Jerks. At least they had no idea Tread waited out of sight, sleeping in his kennel behind our display. I’d snuck him in thirty minutes before the Science Fair began, going through the kitchen. It was as empty as I’d planned, since no one had the guts to see what went on in there besides the Lunch Ladies. I paused at the Wheel of Meat to give it a spin. It was a lot heavier than I’d imagined. It came up “Mystery Vat.” Figured.

  “Jed, you better do what you need to do and get the Ooze back where it belongs,” Anna said, snapping me out of my temporary daze. She pointed to the Tech Club booth where the –ellas stared back at Anna with “We are out of here in ten, nine, eight … ” looks.

  I had very little time left to return the “Secret Ingredient” before any of the geniuses/morons noticed it was missing.

  It was time to see if this was Ooze or not. I just needed a tiny bit on my finger, not enough that anyone would notice it missing from the Petri dish. I’d know instantly the second I touched it, still certain what it was. But part of me wished I were wrong. At this point, no Ooze was good Ooze.

  I inched my finger into the dish. I looked up quickly, just to make sure Ray and his geeksters were still engaged. They were.

  This was going to work.

  Until it didn’t and everything went to hell.

  Literally.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  My finger was poised over the drop of Ooze when my friends decided their two cents were needed.

  “Steady,” Anna said
, her eyes glued on the dish.

  “Slow,” added Luke.

  “Your obviousness is appreciated,” I said.

  I stared at the drop, my index finger millimeters away. I just wanted to barely graze the top—

  “So I see the Mayor of Loserville and his two loyal subjects are here at the Geek-A-Ganza. What a surprise.”

  Robbie. We were so immersed in the Petri dish, we never saw him coming.

  “What you got there?”

  There was a fleshy blur, and the Petri dish vanished without so much as an “Abracadabra.”

  Before I registered what happened, Robbie was smacking his lips. That’s when my zombie brain caught up on what had happened in the last three seconds.

  With one smooth motion, Robbie snatched the glass dish from my hand, plunged his index finger into the drop, and brought the goo-smeared digit to his mouth.

  All that was left was in the dish was a small, almost unnoticeable blemish.

  The evidence was gone, just like that.

  “I’d say Mrs. Butterworth’s, reduced fat, maple flavored,” Robbie said. “Probably from the plant in Akron. Bottled—hmm, don’t tell me—fourteen weeks ago.”

  “Dang, that’s amazing,” Luke said, nodding his head in awe. “Dude knows his syrup.”

  At least my suspicion was confirmed. But without that drop, we had nothing to prove the Tech Club’s ridiculous sham as it attempted to frame zombies as potential world dominators.

  “There are some pretty lame displays among all this dweebery,” Robbie said.

  Anna leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Did he just say ‘dweebery’?”

  “Just go with it,” I mumbled back.

  “But I have to say,” Robbie continued, “yours is the most pathetic. What’s scientific about syrup tasting anyway? And that portion was way too small. You guys need to loosen up with your samples.”

  I turned toward Luke, ignoring Robbie. We had to go to Plan B, which was going to be difficult since our Plan A was pretty darn weak.

  I felt a meaty hand on my shoulder, which squeezed and pulled, whipping me around. There was Robbie, holding out the Petri dish.

  “So what do I win?” Robbie said.

  “What are you talking about?” All I could think of was the dish, how Robbie had destroyed everything in three seconds.

  “My prize for knowing my syrup, Zom-boy. I know you’re brain dead and all, but try to keep up.”

  “Just leave me alone, OK? You’ve done enough damage for one day.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Robbie countered. “I haven’t done nearly enough damage. I’m going to make this easy. What I won was a ticket to your next trash can dive, which you are going to perform in three—”

  “Robbie, I swear—”

  “—two—”

  “—do not—”

  “—one—”

  “—even try—”

  The fist came out of nowhere, landing squarely under Robbie’s jaw. His teeth clacked together, the sound echoing through the cafetorium.

  The force of the blow shot up my right arm, my knuckles tingling.

  That’s when it sunk in. That was my fist following through, continuing its upward arc as Robbie’s head snapped back.

  A split second later, I knew it was not going to end well, especially as Robbie quickly recovered. A zombie punch didn’t have a lot of power, but it can be deceptively quick.

  On the bully-victim futures market, that two-second moment of victory was going to sell for a dozen trash can dives, eight swirlies, and a handful of dismemberments. And it was worth every head-clanging, hair-dunking moment.

  Robbie wasted no time in cashing in, recovering quickly, and lunging toward me for what I was sure to be an escort to the nearest leftover-filled bin.

  Using the dodging skills I’d learned playing football, I shifted quickly to the left, my left knee and hip dislocating at just the right moment so Robbie leapt at suddenly empty space.

  I swiveled, my joints locking back in place. Robbie pushed off the floor and launched at me again, this time too high. I limboed backward, my skull just inches off the floor. I watched Robbie fly over me as if in slow motion. His head, chest, waist flew by, and it looked like I’d escaped.

  Until I felt a deep and abiding pain I had never experienced before. Robbie’s knee caught me down there, and along my spine rocketed a message that said, “This is a not a drill. Prepare for a world of hurt.”

  And there it was, an intense, throbbing pain that left me doubled up on the floor. The only thing to penetrate the fog was a collective, “Ooohhhh” from those watching.

  I tried to move, but my brain shut down, telling me I was on my own.

  When I finally opened my eyes, the world was sideways. Some sneakers and a few flip-flops began to come into focus. And then a flurry of legs doing an awkward dance flew past.

  That was odd.

  “Boys, boys, that will be quite enough.”

  I lifted my head to see Principal Buckley coming, his unfashionable black wingtips clicking across the linoleum. I twisted as best I could to follow his gaze.

  Luke was riding Robbie like a horse—a very angry horse. My best friend had wrapped his legs around Robbie’s considerable waist, his arms clinging to Robbie’s neck. They twirled and stumbled as if on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

  “Boys, please.”

  Principal Buckley stepped over me as if I were a zombie speed bump. Until I reached up and slapped his heel, tripping him.

  He hit the floor hard.

  Luke and Robbie continued their awkward dance, encouraged by the shouts of the Science Fair competitors.

  Awesome.

  A hand slipped under my shoulder and pulled, attempting to lift me.

  “Jed, come on, we’ve got to break this thing up,” Anna said, bringing me to my knees.

  “Just give me a minute,” I said, filling my lungs and blowing out, knowing how that helped the living. Didn’t do much for me, though.

  Still, I was mesmerized as Luke held onto a bucking Robbie. Until something snapped me out of it.

  You know how you can see five seconds into the future when disaster is about to strike? It always happened to me in the store with Dad, and an old song started playing over the loudspeakers. As soon as I saw the light on his eyes, I fled to the dairy section before his hips started to sway, and he went into one of his old-man dances.

  That sort of tragedy unfolded as I watched the Luke and Robbie rodeo.

  “Luke, stop, get off!”

  They crashed into the Tech Club’s table, which buckled under the weight. Papers and glass went flying, and people scattered as beakers exploded on impact, hot liquid and shrapnel flying in all directions.

  The Bunsen burners spun downward, the blue flames licking at all sorts of flammable material. I wanted to say to Anna, “Whose idea was it to allow open flames at a public school event?” Instead I screamed, “Get out, now!”

  Blue jets of gas turned orange and yellow as they ignited paper, cardboard and fabric. People ran for the exits, their flying knees and elbows knocking the Tech Club’s fiery display into an adjoining booth, flames spreading as one panel clashed into another like dominos.

  Luke and Robbie lay on the collapsed table, stunned as fire leapt around them. Suddenly I felt fine. Nothing cleared the head like the impending deaths of people you care about. And Robbie, sort of.

  Anna and I rushed over. As Anna slapped at Luke’s face to rouse him, I did the same to Robbie.

  Only a lot harder.

  “Dude, snap out of it, we have to get out of here,” I screamed. I slapped him again. And again. One more time.

  “Geez, would you stop hitting me, I got it already,” Robbie said, sitting up.

  By this time, Anna was helping Luke toward the back door, as the fire had now spread to seal off the main exit. Every display was now on fire, the smoke getting thicker by the s
econd.

  “I’m going to help you up, and we’re going to follow Luke and Anna, OK?” I said, motioning to my two friends stumbling away. “Quick, before we lose sight of them.”

  Robbie held out his hand and I lifted him to his feet. He wobbled before I steadied him, tucking my head under his armpit. Robbie began to cough, what with having to rely on air. Being alive can be a bitch sometimes.

  Each step brought us closer, closer. As Robbie got weaker, I got stronger. We caught up to Luke and Anna just as we burst through the back door and into the fresh air. The three of them collapsed on the pavement. Principal Buckley was out there, too, and maybe a third of the rest of the Science Fair students. Most of the Tech Club too.

  All this because of their stupid experiment. I should would have loved to see how it have turned out because—

  Oh. No. No no no no.

  Tread.

  He was still in his crate. No way out.

  I rushed back in, everyone too dazed to notice.

  Thick black and gray smoke swirled in the cafetorium. I got on all fours, lower to the floor where the smoke was not as dense, and crawled to our booth.

  I made fast time since I didn’t have to depend on oxygen. There, I could see his crate. And more smoke.

  But no flames.

  “Tread, boy, you there?”

  An eerie sounding yip, one that touched on pain, responded.

  Sounded like his old self.

  A few seconds later, I reached through the cage, my fingers greeted with the familiar sandpaper grit of Tread’s tongue.

  “Hey, boy,” I said, unlatching the door. I heard his tail thumping against the metal grate. His tongue dragged across my cheek. “Glad to see you, too, but right now we’ve gotta get out of here.”

  I got on my feet, knowing the general direction to the back exit. We had to make it quick because it was getting hotter by the second.

  I leaned down, putting out my hand for Tread. Yes, there, his muzzle, going back a bit, I felt for his collar. Gripped it.

  “Let’s go,” I said, knowing we were going to make it.