by Scott Craven
Mom actually hated to travel. She’d go on overnight trips, and we’d hit the road on long weekends. But that was the extent of her vacation desires. She often said, “I worked years to build this perfect world around me, why would I want to leave?” As much as I wanted to, I never questioned her.
“Even though your mom is staying, I’m happy to come by and take care of Tread,” Anna said. “Go on walks and stuff.”
When Tread heard his name, he stopped sniffing under a bush and turned his head toward us. Anna called him, and Tread abandoned his search to hop over to us. He pushed his muzzle into the crook of Anna’s knee and lifted, Tread-speak for “Scratch me in that special way.”
Anna obliged, rubbing Tread behind the ear, but not so hard as to remove it.
“You are such a good boy, I could just take you home with me if my parents would not be totally freaked by a zombie dog,” Anna said. She looked at me. “No offense. They like you, you know.”
“None taken.”
The disappointment in my voice must have been obvious because Anna said, “What’s wrong?”
Here’s what I wanted to say, “So you don’t want to go a day without seeing my undead, at times, three-legged canine, but I tell you I’m going to be gone for two months, and all you can say is ‘Cool, take care.’ Do you see how that just might hurt my feelings?”
What I actually said was, “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the trip, all the time away. How much fun it’s going to be.”
“Yeah, totally,” Anna said.
What I wished she’d said was, “I’m really going to miss you.” I folded my arms across my chest, all casual, and mentioned, “Maybe we could Skype or something.”
“We’d better Skype,” she said. “You could show me Mexico.”
“Or just talk.”
“Stay in touch, definitely.”
“Like maybe once a week or something.”
“Or if stuff happens,” Anna said. She smiled. “Play it by ear, you know. Because I really want to know how you’re doing.”
“Cool, then. Maybe we could do it on sort of a regular basis so I’m not interrupting you or anything. We can expect it, and then it’s no big deal.”
“That would work. But you know what I really want? Postcards.”
“I think I’ve heard of those,” I said. “Pictures on paper. You write on them, you put someone’s name on them, put them in a box, and a few days later they show up in another box, one that’s really close to the person whose name is on it. Like teleportation.”
“Exactly! Like texting photos, only in a way that old people understand.”
“Done,” I said.
We hugged goodbye, and I let go way sooner than I wanted. Then again, if I hugged her as long as I really wanted, I’d still be hugging her.
The scene faded, and I was back in the Man Van with Luke, knowing how much I’d miss Anna, and knowing how much that was OK.
Chapter Six
We hadn’t eaten for about a million miles, so when Dad noticed a sign saying “Food, drink, gas ahead,” he had a question.
“You boys—?”
“YES!” Luke hollered, since he knew the next word out of Dad’s mouth was going to be “hungry.”
“The rude screams have it,” Dad said, veering to the right and taking an off-ramp that, shockingly, led to more desert. But there at the end of the pavement was an off-white shack (off-white because most of the white paint had gone missing years ago) with a row of windows along the front.
Along a sagging roof that existed only to disprove the usefulness of building codes were four large letters, each one on a steel sheet and losing the battle to rust—E, A, T, and S.
This place looked so familiar. According to Hollywood, it was where stragglers gathered in a last stand against the zombie horde.
Home sweet home. Tires crunched as the Man Van rolled across the gravel parking lot, kicking up a low-lying cloud of dust behind us. Dad steered around the scattered cars and took a spot between a couple of motorcycles because of course a place like this was going to have a few bikers inside. And if the zombie-apocalypse script went as planned, the bikers would be the first to lose their heads, figuratively and literally.
I turned on my phone to check the time, figuring we’d been on the road for at least half the day. My empty stomach said it was around 4:00 p.m., so when I read “11:43 a.m.” on the home screen, I knew something was wrong. No way was it just 11:43 a.m. My stomach couldn’t be that far off.
“Dad, time?” I asked.
“Quarter to noon,” he said, glancing at his watch, something only old people still used, like alarm clocks and newspapers.
“Did we go through some time zones? It seems a lot later,” I said.
“No, just crossed into Arizona, and it’s on the same time as we are. Only way hotter, so be prepared.”
I slid open the passenger door and was slapped in the face by air that had come straight from the sun’s core. I climbed out and checked my arms, my legs, my feet. Still intact. Zombies didn’t melt. So far. It wasn’t like I wanted to stay out here for a final determination. Science could wait.
I heard the back door slide open, followed immediately by four syllables that included the king of all curse words.
“Oh my God, do people live here?” Luke added as he climbed out of the van. “If so, why? Some sort of evil punishment?”
“First, it’s just a little heat and why Mother Nature gave you sweat glands,” Dad said, joining Luke and me at the front of the van. “Second, I realize your proficiency in profanity grew exponentially during your time in seventh grade—”
“Whoa, check out Professor Big Words,” I whispered to Luke.
“—but neither of you are mature enough to safely wield such vocabulary, so keep it to yourselves. And thirdly, let’s get inside because it is hotter than a—”
He stopped, and I mentally filled in the same word Luke had used just a few seconds ago. I exchanged smiles with Luke, knowing he was thinking the exact same word.
I reached into the back and undid the latches on Tread’s crate, being sure to clip on his leash before he leapt out of the van. For a split second I worried about his paws on the hot gravel, but if he was half the zombie I was, his flesh wasn’t going to be affected by something as minor as scorching ground. But it was still way too hot to keep him in the van. I’d definitely hear from the SPCUA (the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Undead Animals), if such a thing existed.
Tread pulled me toward the restaurant’s porch. Despite seeing no signs that said “Zombie animals prohibited,” I tied Tread to a convenient hitching post, an addition that didn’t seem odd at all, making a mental note to grab a table by the window so I could keep an eye on him.
Once I made sure his leash was secure, I peered through the window. I thought a fog had moved into the diner before realizing it was a visual effect created by the glass and its fine coat of grease mist.
“Hope you guys are hungry,” Dad said as he steered me toward the door.
“You’d have to be pretty dang hungry to want to eat here,” I said.
“Speak for yourself,” Luke said. “Look at the windows. It takes years of quality frying for that kind of buildup. I’m in.”
Dad turned the dull brass knob that probably lost its metallic sheen by the time the U.S. landed a man on the moon (July 21, 1969, baby; who has two thumbs most of the time and paid attention in history? This guy). As he pulled open the door, a horrible squeak came forth just like in a thousand horror movies.
And all eyes were on us. Four bikers in the corner, in leather vests that probably had skulls on them. Three men at the counter, wearing jeans and cowboy hats. Two old guys at a table, wearing fishing hats, plaid shorts, thigh-high black socks, and sandals. The server stood behind the counter wearing a pink dress with a wide black belt. I couldn’t read her nametag, but I’m sure it read “Blanche” or “Alice” or “Molly,�
�� or some other waitress-appropriate name. And I was sure she called everybody “Sweetie.”
The whole place reeked of stereotypes. So why not join them?
I hunched over, put my arms in front of me, and relaxed my face for the classic, and expressionless, zombie stare.
I took one lurch forward. Another.
“Brains,” I muttered. Another step and half stumble.
I was louder this time. “Braaaiiinnnsssss.”
I snapped my head up, locked stares with Brenda or Mabel. Slowly tilted my head.
My voice bounced off the tiles and linoleum. “Brrrraaaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsss!”
“I can see if we have any left, but I’m going to be honest, rude behavior is not going to get you very far here,” Polly or Bertha said. “Take a seat anywhere, and I’ll be right with you.”
Putting my arms down and snapping out of undead mode, I noticed everyone had gone back to their own business, chatting and such.
“Troy, another coffee?” asked Ethel or Janice.
One of the bikers answered. “Thanks, Elena, I’m good for now.”
Troy? For a biker? And Elena? What was she doing calling people by their real names instead of insincere endearments? Where were the “Sweeties” and “Hons”?
What the heck was happening to my stereotypes?
“Jed, let’s grab that table over there,” Dad said. We settled in not too far from the old guys, where I heard just enough to realize my expectations were all wrong.
“Glad our kids never stumbled into diners screaming about brains,” one said.
“We raised them right, that’s why,” said the other. “And we didn’t let them play video games all day, rotting their minds to the point where etiquette means nothing. Not to mention making them look as if they never got any sun.”
It seemed the closest thing to a stereotype here was me.
“I’m Elena, welcome to Eats,” the server said, handing us laminated menus. She looked at me. “Before I get started on those brains, would you like anything to drink? A nice hot mug of spinal fluid, perhaps?”
“Oh, dude,” Luke said, laughing. “You got served. Literally.”
“Can I just have a Coke, please?” I said, staring off into a corner. Ooze stains were already building in my armpits. The substance had something to do with making my undeadness pretty viable, but sometimes no Ooze was good Ooze.
Like now.
“You bet,” Elena said, pausing. “Sweetie.”
“This place is really called Eats?” Dad said.
“Of course,” Elena answered. “Maybe you noticed it on the sign outside. Clears up any confusion.”
“I thought that was a generic thing, better than getting all creative out here in the middle of nowhere. With people driving by at seventy-five miles per hour, you don’t want to call yourself The Twisted Goat or something like that. You need something more to the point.”
“Like, maybe, I don’t know, Eats?” Luke chimed in. “I love it in that ‘No services for the next million miles’ vibe.”
“Exactly,” Elena said. “And we weren’t about to pay another $5,000 for another sign just because we wanted to change the name. Eats says it all—” She swiveled her head to look at Luke. “—in that ‘End of the world’ vibe.”
“Exactly,” said Luke, thrusting his fist forward for a bump, Elena obliging him. “These guys just don’t get it.”
“You own this place?” Dad said.
Elena nodded. “My husband and I bought it a few years ago. He’s the one in the kitchen cooking up a plate of brains with all the fixings.”
I held up my hand, quickly putting it down when I felt the Ooze shift in my pits. “Can I possibly change that?”
“Absolutely,” Elena said. “Tongue? Eyeballs? Or maybe something out of the skull menu entirely. Liver? Spleen? Ah, maybe you’re a heart guy.” She turned and shouted toward the kitchen. “Rodrigo, honey, we got any hearts left?”
A disembodied voice from the back responded, “Huh? Heart? You’re kidding, right?”
“Apparently fresh out,” Elena said. “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide and come back. Might even check on other customers.”
She shifted her gaze out the window. I followed it, noting Tread had curled up in the shade cast by the diner’s tattered awning.
“That your dog out there, the one that looks like it’s never seen the inside of a tub?” she asked.
“Yup,” I said. “That’s Tread, and I just bathed him a few days ago. He just doesn’t take well to soap.”
“This is a quiet place and he should be just fine out there, but I’m going to keep an eye on him too, if you don’t mind. Also looks like he could use some water, so I’m going to run out a bowl for him. Maybe a dish of our chili, since some customers have likened it to dog food.”
“Hey, I heard that!” cried the voice from the back. “I have feelings too, you know.”
Elena laughed, as if her teasing was frequent and harmless. She lowered her voice. “Actually, our chili is excellent, but I keep that to myself lest it leads to big heads in the kitchen. Anyway, I’ll be back in a bit.”
As she left, Luke jabbed his elbow into my ribs. “I like her. We should come here more often.”
“We live a million miles away from here,” I said.
“Exactly. Road trip!”
I picked up the menu and looked for only one thing. Brains. If they actually had it, I was in big trouble because, knowing Dad, he’d make me eat them. Clean my plate.
“I don’t see brains,” Dad said, looking up. “You are one lucky zombie, hombre.”
“I know.”
Nothing really stood out. Burgers. Sandwiches. When you’re out in the middle of nowhere knowing only a zombie apocalypse is going to increase business, you don’t take too many culinary risks.
Luke jabbed the menu. “Cheeseburger, French dip, fried chicken, ribs, potato salad, fries.”
“I don’t need someone to read the menu out loud,” Dad said, slipping his reading glasses out of his pocket. “Thanks anyway.”
“What? No, that’s what I want. In that order.”
“No,” Dad said without taking his eyes off the menu. “Choose one and a side. This is not a pleasure cruise. This is work. Well, for me. And you guys are along for the ride. So get that whole vacation-think out of your brain.”
Luke shook his head, but Dad was right. My buddy and I had to quit thinking about this as a trip with souvenirs and expensive meals and unaffordable activities involving rafts or parachutes or Jet Skis.
Dad was going to Mexico to make money, not spend it. That’s when it hit me. I really had no idea what he was going to do in his summer job. Not exactly.
Now was as good a time as any to ask.
“Dad—”
“Have you gentlemen made up your minds?”
Elena appeared at our table as if de-cloaking. Stealth server.
“Burger, please,” I said.
“Brains or no brains?” Elena said.
“Brainless, please.”
“That you are.”
I hated walking into a made-to-order insult, just like a stereotypical zombie. I didn’t have to look at Luke to know he was fist-bumping with Elena again.
Dad ordered the ribs, Luke the French dip. Elena collected the menus and disappeared, allowing me to get back to the subject.
“Dad, what’s in Mexico?”
“Great food, a thriving culture, mariachi music—”
“Come on, you know what I mean.”
“I’m pretty curious too,” Luke said. “Tell me more about this great food.”
“Luke, shut up for once. Dad, seriously, what’s going on in Mexico? I’m excited and all, but are you going to be working long hours, or get any days off? And how long are we going to be down there?”
Dad leaned back, clasped his hands behind his neck and assumed the classic “Let me explain it to you,
son” pose.
“First, I really have no idea how much time I’ll be putting in,” he said. “It just depends on the project.”
“What kind of project?”
“Surveying, mostly. Lots of construction going on, and I’m going to be testing a lot of soil, probably some sonar detection too. Did you know a lot of Mexico sits on a combination of—”
Dad went on and on, and I heard it all. “Blah blah blah, bedrock, something something something, earthmovers—”
“But why you?” I said because it didn’t seem like Dad was going to stop talking anytime soon. “Doesn’t Mexico have its own geologists?”
“Of course,” he said. “But none as charming as me.”
Dad’s opinion of himself was like the temperature outside—way up there and pretty unbearable.
“No, really. Why you?” I insisted.
“I worked with these guys a long time ago, way before you were born. We get along really well. The pay is pretty good because so am I, and they knew I’d be happy to help. I know just enough Spanish to get by. And no,” he turned to Luke, “I won’t teach you bad words.”
“Dang,” Luke muttered.
“How much are you getting?” I said.
Luke sat up. “Enough that I can order another side? And maybe some chicken fingers?” Luke looked at me. “No offense, you know, about wanting to eat fingers.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“Enough to pay for a nice place and make sure all expenses are met for the summer,” Dad said. “To be honest, Jed, the biggest chunk is going to your college fund, which is a huge reason I took this job. We’re not going to live in luxury.”
Elena appeared out of nowhere. Did she teleport or something?
She set our plates in front of us and put her hand on the back of my chair. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, “but I heard you say you were on the way to Mexico. You guys should really try to catch a lucha libre show.”
“A lose-a-libro show?” Luke asked. “Libro is Spanish for book, right? If it’s a math book, I would love to lose a ton of libros.”
