Dawn of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  “I’m OK standing,” I said. I wasn’t really, but the only place to sit must have been a product of the Small and Uncomfortable Chair Company (“Proudly making your butt sweat for a century”). I chose to stand more and squirm less.

  “So be it,” Mr. Landrum said, smoothing out that sheet of paper. I finally got a good look at it.

  It was from the NZN Network. And one I hadn’t seen before.

  Life just kept getting better.

  “Are you aware of these flyers?”

  Hmm, let’s see. A series of anti-zombie leaflets that were distributed for all to see. And as far as zombies went, it was “Population—Jed.” Yeah, I was pretty dang aware.

  “I’ve seen them around, I think,” I said.

  “And this one? I believe it is relatively new. I found it on my desk this morning.”

  “It doesn’t look familiar.”

  But it did look familiar. Very familiar, and I didn’t need to see the No Zombies Now title at the top. A pit formed in my stomach, but I forced myself to keep my “Whatever, no big deal” face in front of Mr. Landrum. I had to see where this was going.

  He pushed the sheet forward as if I needed a closer look. I looked past the title, quickly seeing the rest was new.

  Within seconds, I learned zombies can have a chill run down their spine. It happened when I saw the headline:

  Zombie Creates Franken-Canine.

  “That’s just stupid and ignorant,” I said instinctively, my eyes locked on the word Franken-canine.

  Then I looked at the rest of the flyer.

  There were three photos, two of me playing with Tread. The other was a close-up of Tread, carrying his tail in his mouth.

  All were shot in my backyard. The two of Tread and me playing looked as if they were snapped from the elm tree, maybe fifteen feet off the ground. But that was impossible. I would have seen someone.

  The other photo made my blood boil (if a zombie could have a spine chill, why not boiling blood?).

  Whoever took that one was bold enough to trespass while someone was home, because Tread was always inside when he was left alone. I wondered who had the guts to intrude on our privacy like that.

  I was going to find whoever did this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But at least before school was out for summer.

  These NZN losers were going to discover just how persistent a zombie could be. Go ahead, lock your doors. Board your windows. I will crash through them even if I have to un-live up to every stereotype. Remember, I can function without normally operating organs. Nothing says commitment like living the undead life.

  I started to read the column of text: “The NZN Network has learned that a member of the Zombie Party has found a way—”

  Suddenly I was looking at the bare metal of Mr. Landrum’s desk. The leaflet was gone. I looked up just in time to see Mr. Landrum stuffing it back in his desk.

  “I show you that only as a courtesy.” Mr. Landrum sat back and folded his hands on his lap. “Jed, I will admit it took me a while to … accept … the impossibility that is you. In my experience as a biology teacher, the only outcome is death when presented with the aspects of your condition.”

  There was that “condition” word again, the one that stripped me of my, well, being-ness, I guess. As if the only good zombie was a dead zombie. Or an un-undead zombie.

  “But you’ve been a good student, always trying,” he continued. “Save for that frog incident, you’ve done all you’ve been asked to do. You are just like any student, and that is a compliment, considering.”

  I leaned forward against the desk, bending slightly at the hips, putting my face closer to Mr. Landrum’s.

  “Considering what? My condition? The one that makes me, what did you say, ‘impossible?’”

  “You will not take that tone with me, young man. I am trying to do you favor. Because there is something you need to know.”

  He took a deep breath and sat up straighter, putting his hands on the armrests.

  “Look,” he said, his face getting softer. “I’ve been asked to do something that makes me very uncomfortable. I have yet to decide if I am going to go through with it, but it involves you.”

  “What, give me detention? Fine, I’ll make it easier for you. Give me detention. I’ve already been suspended. What’s more detention?”

  Mr. Landrum stood, so now it was my turn to straighten. I pushed off the desk and took a step back.

  “That wasn’t it, but you’ve just earned detention with your behavior. Perhaps I was wrong … ” He shook his head and sat back down.

  I pushed it too far. It was clear I needed to hear what he was about to tell me. He was bringing me into his confidence, and I pushed him away.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, easing myself into the small and uncomfortable chair. “It just seems like everyone here is against me, and I get tired of fighting.”

  “Not everyone,” Mr. Landrum said. “But some important people. And I’m afraid you are going to have to keep on fighting because I’ve been asked … ordered … to do some investigation. Mostly in light of all this NZN Network business, and particularly with this Frankendog story. However, this investigation is a complete invasion of your privacy.”

  Mr. Landrum was just trying to help. So maybe I could help him too.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Maybe you can come over to dinner, meet my parents. And most of all meet my canine creation, since that’s who you have to investigate.”

  “Your creation?”

  “Yeah, the Frankendog? You know, the one I created?”

  “You mean this dog exists? The one in the photos? With a tail in its mouth?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t have a Frankendog? They’re all the rage, just like those other mixed-breed concoctions. Labradoodles. Schneagles. Rott-huahuas. I bet the Westminster Dog Show will be full of Frankendogs next year.”

  “Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” Mr. Landrum said.

  Oh yes it is, I thought. Nothing throws teachers off the scent faster than sarcasm. That and volunteering for extra credit. Teachers just don’t know how to deal with that stuff.

  “Jed, this obviously is not about a fictional dog,” Mr. Landrum continued. “This is about the stuff you call Ooze. I was asked by certain individuals to put it under a microscope. Test it. Run experiments. See what it would do. All without you knowing.”

  “Why? Do you have any idea how many doctors have looked at this stuff? I was poked and prodded so many times when I was little, I would have been better off probed by aliens. What makes you think you’ll find anything different?”

  “First, do not take that tone with me,” Mr. Landrum said. “I’m only trying to help, believe it or not. Besides, this has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with fear. Why? That’s easy. Fear. Thanks to the NZN Network, people are starting to fear you. As far as having an Ooze sample, you happened to provide it yourself.”

  He pulled another paper from his desk, smoothed it out, and pushed it toward me.

  It was a test from last week. My test. On the human reproductive system. At the top was a red A, with “Nice” written underneath.

  “What does this have to do with getting a sample of Ooze?” I said.

  “You see here?” Mr. Landrum said, pointing to question seven: “What is the purpose of the female’s menstruation? Describe the phases and be specific.”

  I remembered the question. And how uncomfortable I was. But I got it right.

  “I got it right,” I said.

  “You did. But when I collected the papers, I noticed a few drops on yours, right there on question seven. It was too thick to be sweat. I was curious, given your condition—”

  I stiffened when I heard those words, but said nothing as Mr. Landrum continued.

  “—so I placed them in a test tube. I asked around and soon found out that I am apparently the last person to know about Ooze.”

  “I c
an sweat it sometimes when I get nervous,” I said. “It’s not a big deal. It got on Robbie last semester and nothing happened. And my best friend Luke has been splattered with it at times. You think it’s dangerous all of the sudden?”

  “As I said, this is not about biology, it’s about fear,” Mr. Landrum said. “I can deal with biology, and I’m sure this … Ooze, as you call it … is perfectly safe, like any bodily fluid. As you know, people don’t see this as any bodily fluid, thanks to these pamphlets and rumors of dead dogs brought to life. Everything’s changed.”

  I cursed the NZN Network under my breath. It was one thing to be comfortable in my skin. It was another for others to make my skin seem dangerous.

  “One more thing,” Mr. Landrum said. “Principal Buckley wants to talk to you about the alleged dog, even though it is clear such a thing does not exist.” He stood and stuck out his hand. I did the same. We shook.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said.

  “I felt I had to. A word of advice—find out what this NZN Network is. I’ve asked around, and if any of the teachers know anything, they’re not saying. That’s extremely unusual because there is always someone who knows something about what goes on around campus.”

  “Thanks. I’ll find out who they are. Somehow.”

  I thought about the photos taken in my backyard. If Anna could somehow find a way to get data off the memory card we found, that would be huge.

  But one thing bothered me—why would they be interested in Tread in the first place? And why would they call him a Franken-canine? Only a handful of people knew about Tread and what he was.

  Luke, for example. The one who saw it happen, the one who knew I didn’t create Tread on purpose. The one person I trusted most of all.

  Maybe it was time to accept the inevitable, that my trust was misplaced. But if I accepted that, it would crush me as surely as that car crushed Tread.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Here’s what I’m dying to know, so to speak,” Anna said. “How many dogs did it take to make Tread?”

  “I lost count at four,” I answered.

  “And when the bolt of lightning hit to charge up Tread, did you scream, ‘It’s alive!’”

  “I did. Woke up Dad, who thanked me for using a natural electrical source rather than plugging into an outlet. He’s always happy when we do things that save energy.”

  After I’d left Mr. Landrum, I texted Anna to meet me behind the cafetorium. It might have been the first time in undead history when a zombie needed a breather.

  She arrived a few minutes later (four minutes and thirty-two seconds to be exact, a fast time since she had to duck out of class).

  She looked perfect, as usual. Some might think the hoop earrings and lace at the bottom of the skirt would clash with the ripped tights and heavy black boots, but that’s what I liked most about her. She was strong, independent, and really cute. She’d smile if I held a door for her, but would shoot me a “I can take care of myself” look if we heard someone talking trash about her. She was as comfortable in her skin as anyone I knew. How could I not fall so deeply in like with Anna?

  We plopped down in the cool shade cast by the cafetorium’s ugly block wall, far enough away from the Dumpster so the odor of salad-bar remnants tickled at our noses rather than slapped us in the face.

  “Do I detect a bit of zucchini rot mixed with decaying kale?” Anna said.

  “Yes, and if you smell closely, you will pick up the unmistakable bouquet of putrefied potato salad,” I said.

  She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Ah, there it is. Brings it all together.”

  While the trash bins always filled quickly with leftovers, this particular Dumpster was dominated by fruits and vegetables. Apparently, the government requires schools to have healthy menu items. And since there’s no corresponding law that students have to eat it, almost all of it winds up in the trash. A perfect example of wonderful intentions and terrible results.

  Anna slid closer and took my hand. “It was pretty easy to tell by your text that you were upset. What’s wrong, Jed?”

  My text might have been a bit overdramatic. Something about life crashing down around me, and begging Anna to meet me. There might have been five or six “please’s before “meet me.” You’d think someone who lacked a working heart wouldn’t be so transparent with emotions.

  I told her about the “Franken-canine” leaflet, which seemed to accuse me of building a monster dog out of various dog parts. At least I was able to joke about it with her for a bit, but then I got to what really bothered me.

  “Mr. Landrum collected some of my Ooze,” I said. “He scraped it off a test. Now he’s supposed to test it, put it under the microscope to see what it is and how it works. And I’m supposed to see Principal Buckley at some point.” I paused, overwhelmed. “But for now, I need some time to think. To calm down.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, none of this is very good,” Anna said. “But it’s not the end of the world either. You have to remember the obstacles you’ve already overcome. Like carrying on a conversation even though you don’t have the benefit of life signs.”

  “Pretty good trick, eh?”

  “Almost as good as having a Frankendog.”

  I squeezed her hand. “What do you think is going to happen? What could Principal Buckley do to me that he hasn’t already—”

  “What do we have here? Isn’t this a cozy little gathering in a quiet little out-of-the-way place. And during class, no less. Shame on you.”

  We were so involved in our conversation, neither of us heard anyone approaching. But I didn’t have to look up to know who’d come around the corner and now stood over us. With my eyes still locked on Anna, I said, “Robbie.”

  I turned my head, and there were Robbie’s signature black boots. Jeans. Polished metal belt buckle. Black T-shirt. All framed by a hint of smoke floating from the cigarette he held in his right hand.

  I was surprised to see Ben and Joe behind him. Last semester the three were rarely apart, but I tried to remember if I’d seen them together at all this semester.

  Up until the football game, I thought of Ben and Joe in simple terms. They were henchmen, the kind easily dispatched in action movies when the good guy fired over cover, mowing down six guys with six shots. Guys who disappeared so quickly, they weren’t even mentioned in the final credits.

  But after the game each shook my hand, and it struck me that they were individuals. Just not very bright individuals for following Robbie everywhere, being his Thing 1 and Thing 2 when it came to picking on the weak.

  “Get up, Zom-boy,” Robbie said, flicking his cigarette into my chest. It bounced off in a shower of sparks, landing between my legs. “You too, bride of the dead.”

  “Robbie, not a good time,” I said, pressing my back against the cool block wall for leverage as I stood. “How does lunch tomorrow look? If the Wheel of Meat lands on unidentifiable beef parts, the trash will be way worse than it is now. More bang for your buck.”

  I held my hand out to Anna and lifted her to her feet. “Head out,” I whispered. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

  “What am I, some damsel that needs protection?” she whispered back. “I want to see where this goes.”

  “Quit mumbling,” Robbie said.

  “Yeah, quit mumbling,” said Ben or Joe. I couldn’t tell which one.

  “Shut up, Ben,” Robbie said, keeping his eyes on me. “Or Joe. Whatever. Let me handle this.”

  Robbie stuck his hand in his back right pocket. It came out holding a pack of cigarettes. He tapped it once, twice on his left palm, plucked one from the narrow opening and stuffed the pack into his jeans. He produced a lighter from his left front pocket, gave it a flick, and lit up, finishing with a huge cloud of smoke blown in my direction.

  “Tell me about this Frankendog of yours,” he said. “How’d you make it?”

  I looked at Anna, my eyes begging her to
leave. Her stern stare told me she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I didn’t make it,” I said. “It’s just a dog.”

  “Really? Just a dog, one that happens to carry around its own tail.”

  “That was a fake photo.”

  “I don’t think so. I know faked photos. Like Ben and Joe adding girlfriends to their Facebook shots.”

  “Dude!” Ben or Joe said. Maybe both.

  “That was not a fake photo,” Robbie said. “And I’ll tell you something else. That was no Frankendog. That was a zombie dog. That concerns me.”

  “There’s no such dog,” I said. “All that was made up. You know that. For all I know, you’re behind all this NZN crap.”

  Robbie took another deep pull from his cigarette and blew, my head smothered by another nicotine cloud. “We talked about that, Zom-boy. And the latest bit of news about Frankendog makes it pretty clear they don’t know what they’re talking about. What’s zombie dog’s name?”

  “There is no zombie dog.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear you say that. I really am. I thought we could work this out peacefully. But if we can’t, that’s cool too. I enjoy non-peaceful resolutions. Ben, Joe, please keep an eye on the girlfriend.”

  I had to be honest, “girlfriend” sounded good, even coming out of Robbie’s mouth.

  But there was no way in hell I was going to let Ben and Joe touch Anna. I stepped in front of her, bracing for impact from Ben and/or Joe.

  Instead, the impact came from behind me. Anna shoved me to the side. “Seriously? I know you’re just trying to be gallant, which is nice and all, but I’ve got this.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” Robbie said, taking another drag. “Text me when you dump Zom-boy. We’ll hang out.”

  “I hang out with the undead, not the unintelligent,” Anna said.

  “Dang, check out the smart mouth on the girl. Fine. Now Jed.” Robbie looked at me. “The dog. I know it exists. There was a public sighting not too long ago at Burger Bucket. Even played a game of ‘Fetch the zombie part,’ something that could entertain me for hours. And I wouldn’t care if he brought the part back or not. But I sure would like to meet zombie dog.”