Dawn of the Jed (26 page)

It was Science Fair day, and Luke, Anna, and I were scanning the exhibits. At one of the larger booths in the middle of the cafetorium, members of the Tech Club set up their experiment.

Or should I say, their blatant attempt to paint all zombies with a broad, brain-eating brush. Right then, I sure could have used the support of the ASPCASFEAZ (American Society for the Prevention of Cruel and Asinine Science Fair Exhibits Against Zombies). I reminded myself to create an organization like that. Only something like it with a few less letters.

Sitting at the main Tech Club table was head of the nerd herd and its GEO (Geek Executive Officer) Ray Knowles, who I’d punched last semester. I was now mad for having felt sorry about it at the time.

I had to admit the booth was impressive. There were about a half-dozen beakers filled with different colored liquids, each bubbling over Bunsen burners fueled by a propane tank hidden behind the black cloth stretched across their table. It looked like a mad scientist’s lab, which fit the theme of the experiment.

Two things really caught my eye. The first was a Petri dish labeled “Secret ingredient.” The second was a large cage placed front and center. In the cage were two large rats, one white, one brown.

The large sign behind the table said it all: “Franken-beasts.”

I didn’t have to read the fine print on the display boards set up on either side of the table. Thanks to Luke’s undercover work, I already knew their plans.

The rats confirmed his story.

“Are those the rats Ray used for the experiment?” I asked, pointing to the cage? The cafetorium was filling up, so Luke waited until he got a clear look through the passing spectators.

“I think so,” he said. “Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe?”

“All rats look pretty much the same to me. I bet even rats can’t tell one another apart.”

“Look at the color. The size. The way they, I don’t know, sniff around.”

“Seriously? Do I look like a rat ID professional? Want me to get their claw prints and run them through the rat database that I keep in my pocket?”

“OK, I get it. But could those be the rats?”

“Yeah, those are definitely the same rats.”

“Thanks, rat whisperer.”

“Anything I can do to make your rat life easier,” Luke said.

Since those were the same rats, I knew what was going to happen, based on what Luke told me. The Tech Club was going to show how creatures that were recently deceased could be brought back to life using a secret ingredient (it had to be referring to Ooze, and not the coffee that brought my dad back from the dead every morning).

The illustrations posted around the booth were filled with the fake-science details. They showed how the secret ingredient pierced the walls of the dead cells (invasion), consumed the nuclei (eating the brains), and brought the cells back to semi-life, just enough so the previously dead being could move, but not really think (stumbling, shuffling zombies.)

No one bothered to tell the NZN Network (sorry, the Tech Club) that urban zombie legends had absolutely nothing to do with Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
. In her story, a mad scientist sewed body parts together to create a rather clumsy man brought to life through electricity. Nor did I understand all the moaning voices looped through iPod speakers. They sounded as if someone recorded Tech Club members reacting to reports that Doctor Who was being canceled.

Official scientific verdict: their project was a bunch of Franken-crap.

But the planned demonstration was what really got under my pale, undead skin.

I turned to Luke. “So tell me again how he reanimates the so-called dead rats.”

“The rat was on a table, not moving a muscle,” Luke said. “Ray poked it a few times, and I was thinking, ‘That rat is either dead or has some really enviable sleep habits.’ Ray put a small drop of maple syrup on his finger—yeah, syrup, right from the bottle—and rubbed it on the rat’s nose. And that rat came back to life, hopping around and running in circles. I’ll bet Mr. Butterworth had no idea his wife could do anything more than make pancakes tastier.”

That was when it hit me. I knew the “secret” behind the secret ingredient. The rats. Specifically, Chris Fenske’s rats.

I remembered meeting Chris outside Principal Buckley’s office. I hadn’t really paid all that much attention to his odd story about rats and putting them to sleep by rubbing their stomachs. And didn’t he say his rats would continue to sleep until he poured water on their heads?

I bet smearing their noses with syrup did the same thing. It wasn’t hard to figure out just how the Tech Club got those rats, since I happened to see Chris a few days before the fair.

I really didn’t give a rat about his rats, but we ran into one another in the boys’ room. He stood at the urinal right next to me, as if there were no such thing as personal space.

“Jed, I heard all about Frankendog,” he said, violating the second rule of the boys’ room: no talking while business was being conducted.

I shot him a disapproving look, zipped up, and washed. He joined me at the sink, away from the conversation-free zone.

“But I don’t think it’s a Frankendog,” he said. I nodded, glad at least one kid came to his senses. He paused as if building suspense. “It’s a chupacabra.”

So much for anyone coming to their senses.

“You know you have to be careful with that,” he continued. “Chupacabras can’t really be domesticated.”

“No, it’s not a—” I began, but I was not going to go there again. I was so tired of chupacabra denials.

“Actually, it’s not just a plain old chupacabra,” I said. “He’s a watch-chupacabra, and he’s really good at what he does.”

“What does he do?”

“Eats goats, mostly. If any goats ever try to attack me, my chupacabra is going to take them out. Go ahead, send your meanest, angriest attack goats against me, see what happens.”

“That’s pretty awesome,” Chris said. “And I thought my rats were cool.”

I wadded up the paper towel and tossed it, ready to get back to class. I was in no hurry, since being out of class was always better than being in class.

“So what happened to your rats?” I asked. “Did Principal Buckley take them for his own pets? Which would kind of make sense. He sure didn’t come off like a dog person.”

Chris shook his head. “That didn’t turn out too well. He had no right. Whitey and Ratty never hurt anyone.”

“Whitey and Ratty?”

“I was never too good with names. I have a dog named Brownie and a cat named Creepy.”

“Well, Creepy is pretty creative.”

“Not really. He’s really creepy. Anyway, Principal Buckley took Whitey and Ratty. Said they were a danger and that I should have known better.”

As I now stared at the Tech Club’s Science Fair booth, it all became very clear. Principal Buckley was behind it all, maybe even convincing the Tech Club to do its dirty work as the NZN Network. Robbie was the muscle, explaining why I ran into Robbie when I was at school early to meet Anna. The Tech Club was having a meeting, with Principal Buckley’s blessing, and Robbie was there to make sure no one interrupted.

Luke may not have seen Robbie at the meetings, but that meant nothing. Robbie had to be a part of it. Like a used car dealer can sniff out a recent lottery winner who’s just walked onto the lot, Robbie had my scent and was always going to terrorize the undead when he could. This zombie was not going to beat up himself.

I focused my attention on the Petri dish. “Secret ingredient” my puckered, undead butt. I knew exactly what was in that dish, and it wasn’t maple syrup.

But I needed to test it to make sure. That meant stealing it. I needed a distraction.

There were only two sure-fire ways to hold the attention of geeks. The first was to say, “Android is so much better than iOS.” Or the other way around, it didn’t matter, because either would start a lengthy, passionate, and meaningless debate.

Even better, insert a few girls into their world. Yes, it was sexist, but no girls had joined the Tech Club. Years ago several girls who joined the Tech Club nicknamed it the Wreck Club. They left and formed the Supergirls Power Science Squad, which was open to everyone and now was one of the most popular clubs at Pine Hollow.

“Anna, see that dish on the Tech Club table?” I whispered.

“The one cleverly labeled ‘Secret Ingredient?’” she said. “It’s like they stole a page out of the Babysitters Club. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Are you thinking we need to get it?”

“Yes. Are you also thinking we need to distract Head Geek and the Loser Squad?”

“Absolutely. Are you thinking we can distract them with—”

“—a few of my lady friends? You bet,” Anna finished my sentence, shooting her sly “I am so your girlfriend” smile. At least that’s the way I interpreted it.

In a few minutes, Anna would dispatch her three goth friends I’d met last semester. Once I got to know them, they were pretty cool, but I still referred to them as Bella, Della, and Stella. Not in front of Anna, of course, because she’d kick my butt.

The trio walked over to the Tech Club display like geek-seeking missiles. It was a direct hit.

One of the –ellas started asking questions, while another ran her fingers through Ray’s Justin Bieber-like hairstyle (the younger, mentally stable Bieber). Ray’s whole world collapsed in on the three, and the rest of Tech Club followed his lead.

I walked over to the table and slipped the Petri dish into my pocket. It was that easy. As I left, I heard Ray say, “No, just a comb, I swear.”

We had plenty of time. Good thing, because once we knew what was on the Petri dish, we could prepare the rest of the plan, which we’d finalized just a few days before the fair in our last meeting.

I returned to our own science experiment, pulling the Petri dish out of my pocket. I needed Luke’s finely tuned palate. When I told him why, he and his palate paled.

“For being at a science fair, I can’t believe you’re scared to commit a little science,” I argued.

“You know I’d put anything in my mouth,” Luke said. “But I draw the line at that.”

“Seriously, this is coming from the guy who ate Silly Putty on a dare, and then had a second helping because he said it ‘tasted like rubber chicken’?” I said. “How else are we going to know for sure?”

Anna shot Luke her patented, “I’m in no mood for attitude,” look, which has been known to heat skin to a point where foreheads begin to sweat. But Luke wasn’t having it.

“You’re going to have to do better if you want me to put a drop of Jed in my mouth,” Luke said. “On purpose, anyway.”

I looked at the glistening drop of what I was pretty sure was Ooze. It had the look and consistency of Ooze, but so did corn syrup. We needed to know exactly what it was, and that’s where Luke came in.

If it was my Ooze, there was only two ways it could have been obtained. It could have come from the source, which was me. And I’d never donate Ooze to anyone, least of all the kids trying to prove zombies were brain-eating monsters who could raise the dead. Heck, I couldn’t even raise my grades. With just one week of school left, my grades were Bs and Cs thanks to all the stress caused by the NZN Network.

Only one other person had Ooze—Mr. Landrum, who took a few drops off my biology test for possible testing. There was no way he would have given it away.

But someone could have stolen it.

I just had to confirm my suspicions that this was Ooze.

“Luke, just a quick taste, let me know what it seems like,” I said. “Please.”

“Why don’t you just touch it?” Luke said. “It’s your bodily fluid, after all. Wouldn’t you know what it feels like?”

I knew I could touch it and probably know if it was Ooze or not. But this was more about payback than science.

“I could do that, but Ooze permeates my cells in a process called osmosis, and if just one molecule of that drop touches me, surface tension would do the rest of the work and it would disappear.” That sounded good. “And I need to get this stuff back on the NZN Network table as soon as possible.”

Anna nudged me. “Jed, you need to do whatever you need to do, and fast,” she said.

I glanced toward the Tech Club booth. Each of the –ellas had an exasperated look on her face. They could only stand so much nerd talk, and they’d already been there five minutes. Geek-speak could go on for hours, but geek-speak tolerance was measured in minutes. And the –ellas were reaching the breaking point.

I thought back on how we’d planned for this day. It began with the three of us in my garage just a week ago. Luke filled Anna and me in on the Tech Club’s plan. Once the rats were raised from their allegedly dead state, they would reveal the secret ingredient, and then produce photos of Tread, detailing just how Franken-canine was created, and by whom.

Anna interrupted, raising that whole zombie-Frankenstein problem.

“‘Frankenstein’ was about man’s foolishness to mess with nature,” she said. “Zombies are dead people rising through a virus or chemical spill or whatever. No body parts, no sewing, no electricity. Is the Tech Club really that stupid?”

“What do you mean?” Luke said. “It’s all about going from dead to not-so-dead. Same thing.”

“No it’s not the … never mind, not important,” she said, knowing the intellectual path was the one not taken by Luke.

Anna urged me to create an “experiment” with Tread. She knew once the Tech Club finished, students were going to fear this dangerous Frankendog. At that point, with all eyes on me, I would bring Tread out from behind my own curtain and run him through a series of tricks, proving he was just a dog.

An unattractive dog, yes, but a dog all the same.

“What’s the science in that?” I said.

“Jed, by the time everyone has heard about this so-called brain-eating Frankendog, no one is going to care about science,” Anna said.

“No one said anything about brain-eating.”

“They don’t have to. It will be implied. And you have to be ready.”

“With Tread.”

“Right. Put him through the motions. Sit. Stay. Heel. You might want to skip that ‘play undead’ trick.”

Dang, that was Tread’s best trick. I had him where he would take a few lurching steps before stumbling on his front legs.