Dawn of the Jed (18 page)

When I read the text, I was in the middle of something that could not be ignored. Or shared. But since it was Anna, I answered. Untruthfully.

Jed: Nothing important. What’s up.

I texted back. Then flushed.

Anna: Have to show you. Already on way. Be there in 5.

Jed: OK.

Crap. My room was a mess. I was pretty sure that amid all the zombie myths and legends, none of them addressed zombie housekeeping skills. Still, I wanted to give the impression that cleanliness could be next to ungodliness (not that zombies are ungodly, but I knew the impression we made).

I stuffed my underwear under Tread’s bed (
sorry, boy
). Threw the comforter over my bed. Grabbed one of the air fresheners off my bookcase and sprayed. Some kids collected baseball cards, others had a nice selection of die-cast cars. Me? I prided myself on a wide array of air fresheners. Zombies could get a little gamey sometimes, so I kept plenty on hand for my bedroom—or as Dad called it, my Corpsescave.

Wait, what did I just spray? I looked at the label.

Dang, “Country Garden.” My make-out spray. Well, I sprayed it the time Anna came over and we kissed. Now she was going to think all I wanted to do was suck face. I did, but I didn’t want her to think that.

OK, floor clean, bed made, nice floral make-out scent. Now I just needed to put Tread out for a little privacy.

Wait, Tread. Where was Tread?

“Tread, here, boy.”

The comforter moved. Right at the bulge in the center.

I pulled the comforter off in one deft swoop, revealing my dog as if by magic.

“Tread, sorry, boy, didn’t notice you there.”

He wagged his tail, a good sign for two reasons. He was happy, and it was firmly secured.

I was feeling a bit better at school. Since the talk with Principal Buckley a few weeks ago, I did my best to stay out of trouble.

Once I’d served my sentence for standing up to Robbie, he seemed happy knocking my books out of my hand with the occasional body-slam against a locker. Just enough to remind me who’s in power. I also made sure to avoid the boys’ room, a black hole for victims. It didn’t matter what your bladder was saying. You went into the boys’ room between periods and you were announcing to the world, “Bullies, I’m ready for my swirly, followed by a swift stuffing into a locker.”

Anna and I were spending quality time together binge-watching
The Walking Dead
. I liked to pause and point out what I would do differently as a zombie. “If I saw that car coming at me, I’d hustle to the sidewalk, unless I was in the crosswalk because I have as much right to be there as any car.” “Rather than be part of the zombie gang trying to break down the front door, I’d go around back and introduce myself.” “I’d climb over that fence instead of constantly pushing at it.”

Anna suggested I write to the producers and offer my services as technical advisor, but we both knew no one liked a smart-aleck (or polite) zombie.

Luke was turning up more often at the overachievers’ lunch table. I confronted him once, asking if he was still having trouble with that computer program. He shrugged and said, “It’s more complicated than that.”

“It sure is,” I said, walking away.

Fine, two can play at the silent game. Anna thought I was being stupid, that I should just march over to the overachiever table and confront him. That scared the heck out of me. I’d rather have our friendship in suspended animation then dead. I could bring a dog back to life, but if I pressed things with Luke, I knew for certain there was no resuscitating our bond. I decided to wait him out.

“Tread, wanna go out?”

He leapt off the bed and raced between my legs and out the bedroom door. I took that as a “Yes.”

Tread was at the back door by the time I was at the top of the stairs. I heard his tail thumping against the metal trash can. It happened to be my favorite trash can for one reason—of all the cans I frequented, it was the only one I had not seen from the inside while upside down.

I headed downstairs, and there was Dad parked in Gladys (his recliner) about four feet in front of Ethel (the fifty-five inch LCD TV). Dad named all his favorite things, of which there were two—Gladys and Ethel.

“If you treat your favorite ladies right, they treat you right,” he once told me, first making sure Mom couldn’t hear. “Trust me, when you get older, you’ll find your own Gladys and Ethel. But you’ll probably name them Britney and Ashley because your generation is messed up.”

I was fine with it as long as he promised not to call them by their names when my friends were over.

He had the news on, his post-dinner tradition. That meant Mom was in the kitchen with a glass of wine and a book. In another hour or so, they would have the traditional tossing of the coin to see who washed dishes, then the traditional complaining when he lost (“I swear I changed my call to heads before it landed”). I used to help until Mom and Dad tired of my whining about how we should just use paper plates.

I entered the kitchen and there was Mom at the table, wineglass on the table, and e-reader in her hand.

“I think your dog wants to go out,” she said.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I asked.

“It’s either the way he moved the trash can six inches with his tail, or how he’s scratching so much at the door, your big weekend chore might be repainting the back door.”

“What?” The trash can had definitely moved, but Tread was whining, not scratching.

As I flipped the deadbolt, I saw them. Evenly spaced grooves running up and down the door, burrowing through seven layers of backdoor paint to the wood. Dang.

“Tread, what are you doing?” I turned the knob and pulled. Tread shoved his nose in the narrow opening and pushed his way out, running for, hmm, squirrels was my guess. He definitely had something in his sights.

I was about to step outside to see what got his attention when the doorbell rang.

“Son, door!” Dad yelled as if he was the only one with hearing sensitive enough to pick up a sound designed to alert the entire household to visitors.

“Thanks, Dad,” I replied, shutting the back door and leaving Tread to his own devices. If I knew how to do it, I would change out the bell for a recording of Dad saying, “Son, door!” But I still bet he’d follow with, “Son, door!” It’s what dads do.

Seconds after the doorbell, my phone chimed.

Anna: Here.

So many alerts, too few doors.

“Dad, is it OK if Anna comes up to my bedroom?” I said, heading toward the front door.

“Sure. Door open. No touching.”

“Dad, seriously?”

“You’re that age.”

“What age?”

“The age where you your brain knows too little and your body knows too much. It’s hormonal math. Thirteen-year-old boy plus thirteen-year-old girl equals … ”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah. But I was thinking it also equals twenty-sex. Twenty-sex. Get it. Honey?”

“Yes, dear,” Mom said from the kitchen.

“I think I just came up with a cool saying for a T-shirt.”

“Better than, ‘My kid is an honor zombie’?”

“Not quite. But almost. It’s ‘Hormonal math is when you add two thirteen-year-olds —’”

I had to let Anna in before this got worse.

She was in an oversized cardigan, wool skirt, and black tights that weren’t ripped.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was expecting my friend Anna, have you seen her?”

“I know, can you believe this?” she said. “All my cool clothes are in the wash. Either that or my mom burned them all.”

Anna was more into darkness. Tank tops (torn), black jeans (ripped), black boots (heavy). Black lipstick. Heavy eye shadow. It was all good, because her fashion sense was the opposite of her personality. She was one of the brightest, happiest people I knew.

“‘—get twenty-sex,’” Dad finished. “Get it? A play on twenty-six.”

“What is your dad talking about?”

“You don’t want to know. Let’s go upstairs before he feels like sharing.”

I took her hand without even thinking about it, because if I thought about it, I wouldn’t have taken her hand.

“Door open!” Dad yelled.

“Geez, Dad, I know.”

“Oh my God, what does he think is going to happen?” Anna said a little too quickly.

“Just, you know.” Maybe us kissing. “Nothing. It’s a dad thing.”

Anna plopped on my bed, I sat at my desk.

“Where’s Tread?” she asked, glancing at the dog’s empty bed.

“I let him outside so he wouldn’t bother us.”

“Bother? Are you kidding? He’s the greatest dog ever. He doesn’t even slobber.”

“True. But he wanted to go out. Seemed pretty anxious. So what’s up?”

“Oh, right,” she said, reaching into her purse. Black, of course. “You are not going to believe what I found.”

She handed me a thumb drive studded with tiny crystals that glittered under my desk lamp.

“I’m a little surprised,” I said.

“What, that I am super awesome when it comes to computers?”

“Huh? No. That you blinged this thing out.”

“That’s what happens when a free afternoon collides with a Bedazzler. But it’s not what’s on the drive. It’s what’s on the drive. Plug it in.”

Feeling along the side of my laptop for the USB slot, I found it and shoved the drive … no, wait, it didn’t go in, turned it over … there. Would someone please mark “This end up” on flash drives so you’re not fumbling around trying to hook them up? Is that too much to ask?

“So what have we got here?” I asked, waiting for the drive to load.

“Remember that memory card you found?”

“The one that was dirty and cracked?”

“That’s the one.” Anna gave me a smile that was bigger than her face.

“No way. You got it to work?”

“Sort of. I wasn’t able to get everything. But I think I got enough. I transferred it to the drive and knew you’d be interested.”

“How did you do it?”

“A girl doesn’t reveal her secrets, especially those skills that would qualify her for membership in the Tech Club. I do have my pride, after all.”

The hourglass icon disappeared, and the drive was ready to go. I clicked to launch a video.

The screen was dark and murky. Looked like someone’s backyard. There was the house, but I could only make out a window and a door. The camera offered an odd perspective. It was like something from a security camera posted on a roof. The grainy footage made it even more difficult to figure out what we were looking at.

“You’d think if someone went to all the trouble to record their backyard, they’d use a better camera,” I said.

“Just wait,” Anna said. “I wanted you to see everything I got. Just to give you an idea.”

The picture didn’t change for two minutes. Five. Seven.

The image suddenly winked, vanishing for a split second. The scene was the same, but slightly crooked. As if someone bumped the camera. The dim lighting and the graininess didn’t change.

“Anna, I know you went to a lot of work, but does something happen soon? This is as bad as when my dad forced me to watch his favorite movies made when they couldn’t afford color. Ever heard of
Citizen Kane
? Rosebud is a sled. I just saved you two hours of your life. You can pay me later.”

“What are you talking about?” Anna said, pointing at a spot on the computer screen just left of center. “Just keep your eye here.”

All I saw was more grainy blackness. Suddenly there was a square of brightness, right where Anna told me to look. A light had come on inside the house. Then a thin line of white, vertical, expanding into a rectangle.

The door was opening.

A whitish gray blob shot out of the light, followed by a series of sharp noises.

I knew that sound. Very well.

“That’s Tread,” I said, listening to his muddy yet distinctive bark coming from the speakers. I suddenly realized where this camera was. “That’s my backyard. Which means the camera is up in the elm.”

“Exactly,” Anna said. “Keep watching, and you’ll see how that SD card wound up where you found it.”

The door closed, and the light blinked out. I had let Tread out and either went to my room or joined Dad to watch some reality show, maybe “Catapult Challenge” where teams won by throwing big stuff the farthest. It was further testament to the awesomeness of TV.

Tread’s bark was louder now, but I couldn’t see him on the screen. I guessed he was out of the frame, probably at the base of the elm tree. But why was he barking at a camera he probably couldn’t see?

“Why is he barking?” I said.

“For the tenth time, keep watching.”

“That was maybe the third time you said that.”

“I’ll keep saying it until you shut up and keep watching. So keep watching.”

“Five times.”

Anna sighed heavily. My work here was done.

The screen flickered again, and the image tilted slightly the other way.

“You getting close?”

“Close to what?” I answered.

But Anna hadn’t said a thing. That voice came from the speakers.

“Another few seconds. Whose bright idea was it to—”

The frame stuttered with a hiss, and the screen went white. Anna reached past me for the mouse and paused the video.

“The rest happens pretty quickly,” she said. “And I want you promise me you won’t get mad.”

“That ship has sailed,” I said. “Someone put a camera in my backyard. I’m not OK with that. At this point I want to find these guys and, and … ”

“And what?”

“I don’t know. No, I do know. Sic Tread on them. See what happens when an undead dog takes a chunk out of them. I’d film it, too. ‘When Zombie Dogs Attack.’ Now that’s a reality show with some bite.”

“Maybe we just need to talk about this a little. Relax. I’m sure there’s a good reason behind all of this.”

I grabbed the mouse and clicked to resume play. The white screen gave way to the familiar grays and blacks of my backyard. But the shades were shifting back and forth quickly, as if someone were jostling the camera.

The voices returned. I listened closely this time.

“OK, got it. Let’s get out of here,” the first voice said. It sounded familiar.

“Have you noticed the angry dog below us?” the second voice said. It was deeper. And even more familiar than the first.