Return of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  About twenty feet away from the commotion—goats, it was a huge herd of goats—Tread began barking furiously. But another sound grabbed my attention.

  A bell clanged rhythmically. I knew that sound. I looked closer amid the cars and the goats and my maniac zombie dog, and found exactly what I thought I would.

  A set of railroad tracks sliced through the intersection. To the right, a warning sign blinked red.

  By the time I’d reached the goats, I’d lost sight of Tread. Far more concerned about an impossible-to-stop locomotive, I whipped my head from left to right, wondering from which way the train approached.

  A single headlight to the left bore down. A thirty-story tall yellow locomotive twenty feet away charged one-hundred, fifty-million miles an hour right toward us.

  Or maybe fifteen miles per hour. And about a mile down the tracks. Either way, it traveled at a speed capable of turning organic matter into paste. I wanted to bring home Tread on a leash, not in a tube.

  My gaze swiveled from goats to train and back again. I scanned the ocean of fur for the telltale tire mark that would identify my faithful companion who turned unfaithful at the worst times.

  A man standing in the middle of the herd pointed and screamed. I took it as a good sign. I followed his finger, and it led me to my fellow friend in zombieness.

  I immediately noticed Tread’s erratic behavior, one thought clouding my mind.

  He’s finally gone all Pet Sematary.

  Tread darted left, then right. He twirled and circled left. He put his nose down and pushed his way into the middle of the herd, where he did it all over again.

  I glanced back to the train. It was maybe a quarter-mile away now, its headlight swinging back and forth, bright enough to be seen on this very clear, very hot day.

  My brain clicked from undead to “Must do math” in a split second. I figured the train would plow through the goats, the goat herder, and Tread, in less than two minutes. I didn’t need math to envision the horror show ahead.

  The goats panicked and refused to budge. They huddled tight, unaware that when flesh takes on trains, trains always win. The goat herder was way ahead of me, knowing several dead goats was better than one dead goat herder. He shoved his way through goats to safety.

  If the train got to Tread before I did, there would be so many pieces that all the king’s zombies wouldn’t be able to bring him back to the undead.

  I charged into the flowing fur, making my way toward the middle where the goats surrounded Tread, trapping him.

  The train’s whistle blared. We were down to maybe a minute left. The sound of the chugging engine mixed with the squeal of metal on metal as the wheels desperately tried to find a grip and stop the train.

  I performed more math on the fly. Goats divided by Tread times distance equaled—

  Goat meat. And lots of it. There was no way. I knew it. I bulled my way toward Tread, hoping to grab him and do a quick “Ole” with the train.

  Then it happened all at once.

  My stare riveted on Tread as I battled layer after layer of goat. He disappeared for a second or two and emerged a few goats away, twisting through the herd. I heard his joints pop as he made fast, physically impossible turns.

  The herd widened and spread as Tread cut it like a pie, each wedge removing from the plate that was the tracks.

  Tread’s body blurred as he sliced this way and that, his joints dislocating and popping back in, in a way that allowed him to speed through tight turns. I’d learned the same zombie trick playing football. My feet occupied one space, but my body refused to go along with convention, twisting to make sure it was in a different space. Tacklers thought they hit me so hard, they thought they went right through me. Until they looked up and saw me dashing toward the end zone.

  What was once a black hole of goats now was a constellation, the animals scattered to the streets and sidewalks.

  The whistle sounded again, impossibly close.

  Tread stood on the track just twenty feet from me, but it could have been twenty miles because the train thundered through right at that moment.

  I lunged backwards, my spine rainbowing. A gust of wind filled with the scent of gas and oil whipped past.

  Tread disappeared, replaced by churning metal designed only to get here from there regardless of anything in the way.

  “Jed, you OK?”

  I stared up at Luke’s face. I barely heard him over the roar of the train, the clacking wheels making it impossible to think.

  I lifted my head to see if I was in one piece, knowing it was a fifty-fifty chance. Looked like I’d made it. This time.

  Luke leaned down and gripped my shoulder, beginning to lift me. “Need a hand?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said.

  He let go, my body thumping back against pavement. “Here,” he said.

  I closed my eyes, knowing he held my left hand. I wasn’t in the mood for a zombie pun.

  Keeping my eyes shut, I asked him a question for which I was not sure I wanted to know the answer.

  “Did you see Tread? Did the train …”

  If Luke said anything, the passing train drowned it out. And if he didn’t say anything, I knew what had happened.

  I’d always wondered if some tragedy happened—that Tread got electrocuted or shot or run over (again)—could I repeat? Could I bring him back one more time?

  I’d never started that question with “If Tread was hit by a train” because the outcome was very clear.

  I listened to the train pass and fade into the distance, wanting to lie there forever. It was better than what I knew was coming.

  I imagined Tread’s dry tongue slipping across my cheek now moist with Ooze and tears. There it was again, across my other cheek. Then my chin. My nose.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Tread!” I bent forward and held onto him like I was never going to let go, because I wasn’t.

  Until I was swept up by more arms than I could count and floated across a sea of cheering people. And bobbing right next to me was Tread.

  For once, we’d gotten someone’s goats and were heroes for it. Who’d believe that?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As I bodysurfed over an appreciative crowd, unfamiliar hands touching me dangerously close to private areas, I had only one thought.

  Please let me stay in one piece.

  Losing a limb right now would not only be humiliating—“Excuse me, Señor, I believe this forearm may be yours as I see your right appendage ends abruptly at the elbow”—but also a terrible way to make an impression.

  I wasn’t sure how a zombie would be accepted here, even as friendly as everyone seemed. A polite toleration of the undead is fine until limbs start falling off, igniting a rush to Pitchforks and Torches ‘R’ Us.

  Fortunately, I remained intact when set down in front of the meatateria (discovering later that Luke had directed the human traffic, tracking me from below and nudging me toward the destination). I had yet to reattach my left hand, so I kept that behind my back. Those who already noticed probably thought I lost it years ago in a tragic accident, perhaps even giving me some built-in sympathy.

  “Gracias, gracias,” I said, shaking one hand after another as I dug deeply into my knowledge of Spanish. “Si, muchas gracias. Cómo estás? Feliz Navidad.”

  Thanks to my limited Spanish, I couldn’t say the one thing I really wanted to. Where did my dog go?

  A large man burst through the crowd, a smile on his face and Tread in his arms.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, putting Tread at my feet. “He wears a lovely sweater, though it does not quite hide a most definite chupacabra-ness to him. Maybe if you gave him a bath every now and then.”

  “You speak English,” I said with some surprise in my voice.

  “Of course,” he said. “It came in handy when growing up in Arizona.”

  He thrust out a hand, mine disappearing ins
ide of it when we shook. I could feel my wrist giving way as we pumped hands vigorously.

  Seconds before I would have some explaining to do, he released it. “I’m Daniel Estrada, proud owner of the establishment behind you and president of the Guadalajara Chamber of Commerce. And you are?”

  “Jed. Uh, Jed Rivers.” An unseen hand pushed my shoulder. “Oh, and this is my friend Luke.” Who’d arrived out of nowhere.

  Daniel thrust out his barrel chest and put his hands on his hips. “I want to thank you for your services on behalf of our entire town,” he bellowed, as if it were a scene out of a movie. I braced myself for the cheers of “Hip hip hooray” that surely came next.

  But, no. The crowd quickly dissipated, and soon the four of us stood alone. That celebration sure hadn’t lasted long.

  The goats, too, had vanished. I saw a few stragglers disappear around the corner, the goat herder nowhere to be seen.

  “So do you get goats here often?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Daniel said. “Does it look to you this is a place for goats? Is that what you think of Mexico, my friend, that this is a small backwater country that invites farm animals to roam its streets?”

  “No, sorry, I’m—”

  “Relax, amigo, I’m just messing with you. No, Rodrigo’s truck broke down a few blocks away, so he thought he’d just walk them the rest of the way here.”

  “Here?” Luke said. “To the meatateria?”

  “To the what?” Daniel asked. “Did you say ‘Meatateria?’ Is that what you’re calling Estrada’s Kabob Cabana, home of the finest meats ever found on a skewer? Do you think every fine restaurant in Mexico is some sort of backwater eatery?”

  “No, of course not. I’m, you know …” Luke’s voice trailed off.

  “You’re what?” Daniel said.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me you’re just messing with me.”

  “I’m afraid you will have a long wait because I feel insulted.”

  “I really am sorry. Because seriously, I think I can be your biggest fan.”

  I nodded. “Luke has wanted to come here ever since he first smelled the amazing meat scents. And he was blocks away at the time.”

  The smile returned to Daniel’s face. “Apology accepted. Why don’t we go in for lunch, so I can thank you for your services properly? I know the goat will be particularly fresh.”

  “You mean, those goats, the ones we just saved?” I said.

  “Absolutely. They were on their way to the processing plant I own not too far from here. Your efforts are much appreciated by our butchers.”

  That took a bit of wind out of my hero sails. Good thing Tread had no idea he’d risked his undead life for animals facing a future that likely included an appearance between two slices of bread.

  “But come, let’s go inside and share a meal,” Daniel said. “You’ve earned it.”

  Daniel opened the door, and Luke was gone as if sucked in by a giant meat vacuum. I stepped toward the entrance, tapping my right thigh and calling to Tread.

  “Señor, I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “We don’t normally allow dogs that may be chupacabras into restaurants. Maybe you think Mexico is some sort of backwater—”

  “No, I don’t, trust me, lesson learned. But I thought what with Tread being a hero, and not a chupacabra, that maybe he could come in. Like a reward.”

  Daniel put his hand to his chin as if thinking. “Hmm,” he said. “I will agree it’s no chupacabra. A chupacabra would have eaten those goats and then sucked a few souls while he was in the area. Still, I can’t allow an animal inside. I hope you understand.”

  “I do, and I hope you understand why I can’t accept your invitation,” I said, unwilling to let Tread out of my sight. I still had visions of plainclothes officers roaming with chupacabra detectors, even knowing such things could not possibly exist.

  “Come on, Luke,” I said, my stare not leaving Daniel. “Let’s let these folks have a safe meal free from mythical beasts.”

  “Jed, let’s not be hasty,” Luke said. “Let’s at least check out what they have for side dishes.”

  I turned and tugged on Tread’s leash, figuring Luke could make up his own mind. A hand on my shoulder turned me around.

  “Yes, let’s not be hasty,” Daniel said, taking his hand back. “We don’t allow animals into our restaurants, but your dog is no animal. He’s a hero and will be welcomed as such. Come in, please.”

  Daniel ushered the three of us to a table near the window. Before our meal arrived, I excused myself to go to the bathroom so I could reattach my hand Luke slipped to me under the table. We then consumed so many meats on so many sticks that I nearly burst (yes, I was literally afraid I would burst).

  After lunch, Daniel walked us next door to the bike store and arranged a cheap rental of a couple of cruisers, giving us just the wheels we needed.

  It was our best day yet. If only it could have gone on forever. Then maybe I never would have discovered “Thrown under the bus” was more than a saying.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now that I had a bike, it was time to enjoy my freedom with or without Luke. I was pretty sure which one of those it would be, based on my best friend’s agua-fresca-based joy.

  I drained my own flavored water—a pleasant mix of guava and an unidentified berry I believed to be of the boysen family—tossed the bottle and straddled my cruiser.

  “I’m going to take advantage of our time here,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you say that before?” Luke said, getting to his feet. “I’ll go to the meatateria with you.”

  “It’s the Kabob Cabana, and that’s not what I meant. I’m going wherever the wind takes me.”

  “If you have to fart, a few feet away will do.”

  “Again, not what I meant. See you in about an hour.”

  Without waiting for another Luke-ism, I peddled off, determined to explore.

  I remembered Dad’s words of wisdom from the night before, when I told him I had a bike and was ready to see more of Guadalajara.

  “Huh? You bet. Stay out of trouble.” He disappeared into his bedroom, as he did every night after dinner.

  You’d find that kind of valuable advice in “101 Phrases Indicating Parental Involvement—For the Mom and Dad Short On Time.” It ranked up there with “Look both ways,” “Don’t poke your eye out,” and “Make sure your Facebook page is set on private.” That last one is actually halfway decent, making it the most likely to be ignored by kids.

  Ever since arriving in Guadalajara, Dad had seemed preoccupied, keeping silent during dinner until the inevitable question, “What are you boys up to tomorrow?” was asked with a big side of “Not that I care” tone. Luke went through his planned meals, and I followed with, “Nothing special.” Dad nodded, we cleaned the dishes, and I wouldn’t see him until next day’s dinner.

  I pushed those thoughts out of my head as I placed my right foot on the pedal, ready to push off. I turned, hoping to see Luke climbing on his bike to follow me. But, no. He remained rooted to the sidewalk, gulping down his agua fresca as if it were the last bottle of Pig Berry on Earth (though I was sure the Earth had more Pig Berry than it would ever need, especially if Luke decided he didn’t like it).

  I hesitated. Flying solo didn’t thrill me, but appeared to be my only choice. Luke loved to soak up aguas frescas and exotic meats, but not culture.

  I pedaled off and stopped a few blocks later. Feeling alone, I phoned Anna, hoping she’d answer since it wasn’t time for our scheduled communication.

  “Jed, hi!” a familiar voice said after just one ring. Hearing it filled me with the kind of warmth you can’t get even on a 100-degree day. “What’s wrong, are you OK? You didn’t eat something just because Luke dared you to, I hope.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, wondering if she could see my smile over the airwaves. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “That’s as unusual
as it is sweet. You sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  “Everything is fine.”

  I hesitated, her voice immediately filling the gap. “So what is it?”

  “Well …”

  “Jed, we’ve spoken almost every day, and so far all I ever hear about is you guys playing basketball and hanging out at some store that sells weird-flavored drinks. But this is the first time you’ve called me in the middle of the day, and you sound kind of odd. It doesn’t take a genius girlfriend to know something isn’t quite right.”

  My heart flipped in my chest, did a double twist, and stuck the landing, a perfect ten. That’s how it felt when I heard Anna say something she could not possibly have said.

  “Did you say, uh, girlfriend?” I asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  I had pushed my luck by saying “girlfriend” out loud. I should’ve silently accepted her “girlfriend” mention and put it my pocket as truth, where I could cherish it. Even bring it up in casual conversation—“Why yes, it is very hot, as I told my girlfriend the other day.”

  Instead, it vanished, leaving me to go on without it and stuttering in its wake. “Sorry, never mind, I—”

  “I said, ‘genius girlfriend,’” Anna said, cutting me off. “So spill it.”

  My heart leaped again, executing the most amazing backflip, but I wasn’t going to risk pressing it further. I did the only thing I could. I spilled it.

  “I’m so tired of days that are all the same, when the highlight is wondering if this is the meat that will finally make Luke puke his guts out,” I said. “We’re in this amazing country with new stuff to see down this block or that block. And all we do is sit around or play basketball.”

  “Did you tell Luke how you’re feeling?”

  “No, we’re guys, so that isn’t going to work. I did tell him what I want to do. He just sat there. Probably thinking about lunch. And my dad is working all the time and hardly ever around. It’s just that I feel pretty alone.”