Dawn of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  I looked for the small type at the bottom, to explain the asterisk. There it was.

  “*As voted by members of Tech Club.”

  The fine quality of the paper struck me as I crumpled it.

  “Wait a minute, we need to enter that,” Anna said.

  “You have got to be kidding,” I said. “It’s a science fair. By the Tech Club. It’s as if the smokers held a wheeze-a-thon. You know who’s going to win.”

  Anna took the crumpled paper from my hand and smoothed it out again.

  “It’s not whether we win or lose,” she said. “It’s how we play the science game. And this could be the answer to all the lies being spread by that NZN whatever.”

  “How so?”

  “We do a zombie project. And by the time everyone sees it, they’ll know the NZN for the jerks they are.”

  The last time I worked with Anna on a project, it led to Robbie believing he had been turned into a zombie. I liked our track record.

  “OK, just one question,” I said.

  “What’s the project?”

  “Yup, that’s the question. Do you have the answer, too?”

  “Not sure yet. I have a few ideas. You think on it too.”

  The bell rang and everyone stood as one. Except, that is, for the overachievers, who were normally done with lunch before everyone else so they could arrive early to class.

  They were still at the table as I ducked into the hallway. Luke with them.

  What the heck?

  Chapter Thirteen

  I texted Luke.

  Jed: Lunch later?

  It was Saturday morning, and seeing Luke with the overachievers still bothered me. The only thing he had in common with them was that he did possess a brain. He just didn’t use it nearly as much.

  The overachievers tended to bunch together, and for good reason. It’s the nature of prey when survival instincts kick in.

  Imagine a nice afternoon on the African savannah and the zebras are enjoying themselves by the waterhole. Suddenly a few lions saunter by, checking out what’s on the all-you-can-chase-down menu. Why look, the special of the day is striped.

  As soon as the zebras notice the picnic has turned into a buffet, they cluster into one giant black-and-white amoeba. The lions don’t even know where to start, until inevitably one zebra makes a break for it. That’s why it’s survival of the fittest, and not the guy who thinks he’s the fastest.

  The same can be seen among nerd packs during dodgeball. They collapse in on one another like, say, a neutron star (brainiacs understand this). They believe themselves safe in this impenetrable grouping. But they do not understand the science. They have created a black hole of nerds, sucking in every dodgeball in the gym. They are so dense that not even common sense can escape.

  That thinking extends to their behavior in the wild (specifically, the cafetorium). They line up as one, sit as one, eat as one. They do not allow outsiders, especially predators.

  Well, Luke isn’t much of a lion. Mostly a plant-eating giraffe, someone to be tolerated when necessary.

  But he was never invited to the table. Unless there was a very good reason.

  It was time to have a talk with Luke. See what was going on. Maybe even ask for his help with the science fair project, whatever that might be. I had to try to get the herd back together.

  I waited twenty minutes, no answer to my text. I tried again.

  Jed: U there?

  I waited another ten minutes. Still nothing. Maybe he was in the shower, or just didn’t have his phone. Nah, I couldn’t remember Luke not having his phone. Even in the shower. My thumbs hovered over the screen, wondering what to—

  “Hey, sport.”

  I bolted upright on my bed. My heart thumped once, which was the zombie equivalent of being scared to un-death.

  “Jeez, Dad, maybe a knock or something?” I said to the head poking through the doorway. “There is such a thing called privacy.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But not to kids in this house. Besides, why do you want privacy?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s a basic right?”

  “Not for thirteen-year-olds. Different rules apply. Talk to me again when you’re eighteen.”

  “Then I should get at least 13/18ths privacy, and that means at least knocking.”

  “Fine. I’m not in the mood to do math and figure out what the heck you’re talking about. I came up here to tell you about Tread. He’s digging up the yard.”

  That only meant one thing.

  “Does he have his tail?” I said, rising from my bed.

  “What do you think?”

  Tread didn’t have many annoying canine-based habits. He left bits of flesh in the carpet when he scratched. His bark was more of a low, deathly moan as if drawing his last breath (though he drew no breath at all). He curled his lips when he was happy, so he looked like he was going to rip your throat out even as you scratched behind his ears (he loved that).

  But Tread’s most annoying habit was the way he misplaced his tail, and by that I mean burying it. Most times, he buried it in the same place. But not always. And every now and then he didn’t bury it at all. We found it under the kitchen table, behind the couch, and once in the laundry bin (note to future zombie-dog owners—tails are soft and fluffy after tumble-drying, but you will need to throw out any clothes in the same load).

  I followed Dad to the backyard. It looked like Tread was on his, let’s see, fourth hole. This one by the elm in the corner.

  “Fourteen more and we’ve got ourselves a golf course,” I said. “I vote to see where this goes.”

  “And when the police call after hearing reports of a mass grave in our backyard, you’ll take care of that, right?” Dad said, reaching for the shovel we kept near the back door. “You know what you need to do.”

  I took the shovel and called to Tread.

  “Tread, knock it off!” I screamed. His front paws continued to toss dirt onto the pile growing higher behind his tail-free behind. “Tread! TREAD, NO!”

  Tread bounded toward me. It never ceased to amaze me how agile he was for a terrier-undead mix. I wondered if the American Kennel Club might want to add that to their breed registry. It’s no more ridiculous than a schnauzer-poodle (I’d rather have a zombie-terrier than a schnoodle).

  “Good boy, Tread.” I dropped the shovel and rubbed his ears, so I could watch his mouth curl in deathly pleasure.

  Something was in his mouth. A glint of metal. His jaws clenched and there was a “snap.” He bit down again. Another snap.

  Whatever it was, he was about to swallow it.

  “Tread, drop it now,” I said, putting my open palm in front of his nose.

  He took another bite.

  “Now.”

  Crunch.

  “I mean it.”

  Crunch.

  “Tread!” I shoved my index and middle fingers into his mouth, being as careful as I could not to poke out his teeth. There was something at the back, approaching his throat. Thin, and mostly plastic.

  I maneuvered carefully, clamping it between my fingers. Once secure, I extracted it slowly, almost like pulling teeth.

  “Dang, Tread, what have you been eating?” That was directed more to his breath rather than the foreign object he was intent on consuming.

  It was a memory card, the kind you use in phones or cameras. I rubbed off what little dog spit was on it and held it closer.

  “What’s that,” Dad said, coming up behind me.

  “It’s an SD card,” I said. “You know, like from a digital camera.”

  “I know what an SD card is, Jed. Just because I like to talk to people rather than spend all day Twittering on Facebook doesn’t mean I’m an idiot when it comes to tech.”

  “So says a guy who just said ‘Twittering on Facebook,’ which makes no sense.”

  “Where did that come from?” Dad asked.

  “Tread’s
mouth.”

  “That part I know. I was thinking about where it was before Tread considered it a treat.”

  “Not sure. Are we missing a memory card?”

  “Not that I know of. Do we have memory cards?”

  “Never mind. Maybe it was from one of these holes,” I said.

  But which one, I thought, and more importantly, who did it belong to and how did it wind up in the backyard?

  A closer look revealed a couple of fractures along the plastic, one of them through the metal contacts.

  “I’m no expert, obviously,” Dad said. “But even a guy who doesn’t know his Twitter from his Facebook can tell that thing is fried.”

  “Maybe,” I said, jamming it in my front pocket. Anna was pretty good with computer stuff. If anyone could read the card, she could. And no doubt there would be some interesting clues.

  “Meanwhile, can we get back to the task at hand?” Dad said. “That means you and the shovel start forming a meaningful working relationship. Get busy and fill those holes.”

  “But what about Tread’s tail?”

  “So he’ll be Eeyore for a while, he’ll deal with it.”

  “What’s a yee-ore?”

  “Do kids not read anymore? Eeyore, the donkey who keeps losing his tail?”

  “So he’s a zombie too?”

  “What? No! He’s a character from classic literature. The many tales of Winnie-the-Pooh.”

  “Heh heh,” I smiled. “You said ‘poo.’”

  “You know what? This conversation is over. And I know what you’re getting for you birthday.”

  “Poo?”

  “Ahhhgggh! Just forget it.” Dad went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

  Of course I knew who Winnie-the-Pooh was. I was undead, not illiterate. But it was fun messing with Dad’s mind every now and then.

  But it was time to get back to the task at hand.

  “Tread, where’s your tail?” He turned and ran to the hole beneath the elm, dirt flying from underneath him. And I was surprised when he buried his snout in the hole and came up with the missing appendage.

  My phone vibrated at the same time. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the screen. It was a text from Luke.

  Luke: What up?

  Quite a bit, actually. But I didn’t text that.

  Jed: Not much. Wanna hang.

  Luke: Sure.

  Jed: Now?

  Luke: Gimme 5.

  Jed: Mind if Tread comes along?

  I waited. A minute. Two. Five.

  Luke: No prob

  But it clearly was a problem. Ever since Tread went from animated to re-animated, Luke kept his distance. If he couldn’t deal with it, choices had to be made.

  Right now, I wasn’t sure who I’d choose: Luke or Tread.

  I hoped Luke wasn’t going to force me to make that decision.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Tread, sit.”

  I rapped on Luke’s door and felt the slickness of Ooze on my forehead. Dang, I thought, not now. I’d never been nervous in front of Luke. What was happening?

  I looked down at the gray dog standing beside me.

  Standing?

  “Tread, sit.”

  I didn’t hear anything coming from inside. Normally Luke’s mom and dad had old-people music playing, the kind that resulted in old people dancing. Out of respect for Luke, I always made sure I didn’t look, but he was still pretty humiliated.

  “Tread, sit.”

  He nosed at the door, pushing at it with his muzzle. His tail wagged slowly, meaning he was getting some feeling back after I reattached it. Each time he took it off, it took a little longer, and a little more duct tape, to reattach it. I wondered if there might come a time when no amount of duct tape and staples would keep it on. And if not, would the same thing happen to me someday when I was an old person? Say when I was way up there, like forty-five, and my leg fell off because I was doing an old-person dance. What if it didn’t go back on? What then?

  “Tread, please sit already!”

  I reached for the bell just as the door opened. Luke’s eye peered from the crack.

  “Hey, Jed.”

  “Hey.”

  “Your dog OK?

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I heard you screaming at him, so I was just seeing if you had him under control.”

  I shook my head. This was going to be tougher than I thought.

  I gave the leash a tug, bringing Tread to my side. I placed my other hand at his tail joint and pushed down gently while pulling up on the leash. I used the techniques on the The Dog Mutterer DVD. Dad bought it for me when Tread got into the trash in the master bedroom, spreading around stuff I am not going to get into because I’m still wishing I could un-see it all.

  “Sit.” Still pushing gently, lifting on the leash.

  “Sit.” Tread’s legs buckled slightly.

  “Sit.” He kneeled, his butt just inches off the ground.

  “Sit.” One last not-as-gentle push. We had touchdown!

  “See, all good,” I said.

  “Really?” Luke stuck his index finger though the crack, pointing at Tread.

  Who was standing.

  “Even dogs with fully functioning internal systems can be lacking in basic intelligence,” I said. “They chase birds, squirrels, and other things they can’t possibly catch. They run from vacuum cleaners because canine physics says they can be sucked through a two-inch-wide nozzle. And why is it the more something smells, the more they want to rub in it? And you don’t even want me to get started on the whole butt-sniffing thing.”

  “I’m not worried about those dogs,” Luke said. “Just that one.”

  I kneeled next to Tread, leaning my face toward his nose. A not-so-pink tongue emerged and gave my cheek a swipe.

  “Dude, this pooch is the Mother Teresa of dogs.”

  “Who’s Mother Teresa?”

  “Really? She was the nun who spent her whole life being nice. The poorer you were, the nicer she was to you. Like the opposite of a politician. You need to pay more attention in history.”

  “Jed, I’m sorry. I know we’ve been friends, like, forever, but Tread should be dead, man. Tread should be dead.”

  I knew in my heart he was right. Tread should be dead. But he wasn’t. He howled when the phone rang. He sat up for treats. He ran to his dog bed as soon as Dad broke out the vacuum.

  Just like a regular dog.

  “There’s no way I’m going to talk you into liking Tread,” I said. “But how about you go to lunch with us? Spend some time with him. Make up your own mind.”

  Luke opened the door another few inches. He looked at Tread, who suddenly sat without being told, as if realizing what was at stake.

  “OK, but you know dogs aren’t allowed in restaurants,” Luke said. “Especially dead dogs.”

  “So we’ll go to Burger Bucket.”

  “I think even Burger Bucket considers itself a restaurant.”

  “Really? Strange concept. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Fine,” Luke said, stepping outside and shutting the door. “You first.”

  Burger Bucket had many advantages. It was within walking distance. It was cheap. It was fast. And the teens behind the counter got your order right at least seventy percent of the time. About the same as the staff’s high school graduation rate.

  I wanted to tell Luke all about Tread, about the cool stuff he did, and his odd traits. But why? He was convinced Tread was a danger, if not the first member of a zombie army consisting of run-over dogs looking for revenge. There was no way I was going to change his mind.

  We walked in silence, Luke about two steps behind me with Tread pulling at the leash until it was the time I dreaded. He took a step off the sidewalk and squatted. I used one of the Mutt Mitts I had for such occasions, carrying it a few blocks before we came across a trash can. I glanced around to make sure Robbie was nowh
ere in sight before ditching the bag. His tiresome habit of tossing me in trash cans didn’t take weekends off.

  “You know why cats will always be a better choice than dogs?” Luke said. “Two words: litter box.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But dogs are happy to hang with you. The only way you know you have a cat is when the food dish is empty.”

  Luke held up his hand to say “Stop,” as if he were king and I was his court jester.

  I bit my tongue, my teeth sinking into flesh. It didn’t hurt and my tongue would bounce right back. But sometimes I took sayings literally, like now. I needed to shut up for now. This was not a battle worth fighting. I needed Luke’s support, so I was in this for the long haul.

  It was mid-afternoon, so the Burger Bucket’s parking lot was only half-full. We went in the side entrance, met by the wonderful scents that only a fully operational fryer can deliver. Tread stopped, put his nose in the air, and sniffed. I envied that his nose was one thousand times more sensitive than mine, detecting hundreds of other fry-based aromas I could only dream of.

  Something dripped from Tread’s lips. Ooze? Please don’t let it be Ooze. Not here, not now.

  I dipped my finger into the spot on the floor. Rubbed it with my thumb.

  Saliva. Pure, fast-food-inspired doggy saliva. Cool.

  Luke stepped to the counter.

  “I’ll have the No. 2 bucket with deep-fried bun, pail of fries with extra drippings, and large lemonade with three sugar shots.”

  “OK, No. 2, drown the bun,” the clerk said. “Fries, make ’em sweat. And just a large lemonade? Not the extra large, or the jumbo, or the industrial? You can get the industrial for just a dollar more.”

  “What? When did you guys change the drink sizes?”

  “Couple of weeks ago. Part of our ‘Be Engorge-ous’ campaign. Freedom to consume and all that. So what would you like?”

  “How big’s the industrial?”

  “Not sure, but we have to bring it to your table on a special cart. Use of a straw is mandatory because we don’t carry insurance if you hurt yourself trying to lift it.”