Dawn of the Jed (8 page)

“That was good, except everyone wondered why seventh graders hated a decade they never saw.”

“A shame,” Anna agreed. “But ‘Eighties suck’ sounds stupid. The Woodshop incident was historic. It will remain a Pine Hollow legend long after we’re dead. Or un-undead.”

“If there was any chance in hell that I could have actually made another zombie, no way would I have gone to the trouble of severing my finger and spraying Robbie, even with fake blood. The goal was only to make Robbie think he was a zombie.”

“And it worked perfectly. I just wish someone had been recording the moment he ran out screaming like a little girl. YouTube would have created a channel around it. ‘Bullies Gone Wuss.’”

“That moment was totally worth putting a target on my back,” I said. “I was never worried about turning Robbie into anything other than a screaming little girl because I’ve always known my zombieness isn’t contagious. If it was, I would have been leading an army of the undead years ago, just with baby vomit alone. And I can only guess at the amount of bodily fluids I’ve left behind in swimming pools and ball pits.”

“You never bit a kid or anything?”

“I did,” I laughed. “Back when I was, maybe, four? Some kid cut in front of me on the slide and as he climbed the ladder, I bit his ankle. Drew blood, too. My mom didn’t sleep for a week, thinking she was going to turn on the TV and see the start of the zombie apocalypse. How stupid was that?”

I looked Anna in the eye and didn’t need to say a word.

“Jed, I am still so sorry,” she sighed. “I feel like such an idiot now. It’s just that I was caught up in all that Hollywood crap, plus all the usual drama of middle school girls. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

I smiled to let her know I was way over it. “What goth kid doesn’t want to go zombie?” I said, recalling how Anna first was interested in me because she wanted to experiment with undeadness. As if being a zombie was just a phase.

“At least it brought us together,” I said. “That’s the important thing. In that way, it was a good thing you toyed with the idea of eating flesh and brains.”

“Once you stopped being angry, anyway,” she smiled. “I knew you’d get over it. I just had to wait.”

She slipped her hand into mine. I wanted to say, “Til undeathness do we part,” but I knew where to draw the line.

“But this whole Tread thing, now I don’t know,” I said. “I turned a living thing into a zombie.”

No, I turned a dead thing into a zombie. That was even more frightening.

I had to block that from my mind, or it was going to drive me crazy.

“He doesn’t act like he’s undead at all,” I said. “Dude is fast, and once ran right out of his back leg when we were playing in the backyard. And it’s only annoying when he chases his tail, catches it, rips it off, and buries in the backyard.”

“He really does that?” Anna said.

“Yeah, he really does that,” I answered. “I thought about using more staples, or maybe even super glue, but he really seems to enjoy it. Having a tail frustrates most dogs. It’s like, OK, I caught it, now what? Tread can take it a step further. He’s the envy of the dog park.”

There was only one more thing I could say.

“So,” I said, lifting my shoulders as if taking a big breath, because that’s what normal people do when they are about to ask something important. “You want to meet him?”

I already knew what she’d say. What any this-close-to-calling-her-girlfriend would say.

I led Anna to my room for a face-to-muzzle meeting with the newest undead member of the Rivers clan.

“You have to know one thing,” I told Anna before I opened my bedroom door. “You will take one look at him and think he wants to eat you. He even looks like he is thinking about eating you. But he won’t.”

“Good to know.”

“And if he does start eating you, I’ll just spray some zombie repellent on you.”

“Jed! Seriously?”

“No. Well, not much. But I do have that repellent. You know, just in case.”

“What repellent?”

“Body spray. You think it only repels girls? Does even better on zombies.”

I opened the door just enough to peek in. His bed was empty. My bed was empty. I pushed the door a little farther and stuck my head in. Not in the corner.

“So? Can I come in or what,” Anna said.

“I don’t see him,” I said, opening the door all the way. “Sometimes he curls up in my closet so maybe—”

There was a gray blur shooting out from under my bed. Next thing I knew I was on my back, pinned down by a smelly, furry mess. Sandpaper rubbed across my cheeks and nose. That was going to make a mark.

“Tread, off, off!” Placing my hands behind each of his front legs, I pushed and sat up. Undeterred, Tread started licking my left leg from ankle to, well, there.

“Taco Day,” I muttered. “Who knew you were a fan of Mexican food?”

“What?”

I twisted my head around to look at Anna, standing behind me.

“I’m pretty sure Tread is a fan of Taco Day,” I said, still wrestling with the undead dog.

“Is he always this happy to see you?” Anna asked, perhaps thinking I had some odd, if not disturbing zombie connection with the dog.

“No. I mean, this is the first time he’s been this excited. Then again, he’s only been with me a few weeks.”

I shoved Tread again, putting a little more power into it. Pushing him back to my ankles, which he immediately started licking, I turned on my side, pulled my legs in an athletic move never seen in movies, and hopped to my feet. Tread’s tongue found my left shoe, refried beans still threaded between the laces.

“He’s kinda happy to see me, but usually not so enthusiastic,” I said.

With Tread still distracted by new scents and tastes, Anna leaned down and put her right arm out, hovering her hand over his neck.

“Can I pet him? Do I let him sniff the back of my hand first? I know all about greeting strange dogs, but not about greeting really strange dogs.”

Before I could answer, Tread lifted his head and explored Anna’s palm, twitching his black nose. He moved to the fingers, taking one at a time, up and down.

“Is he looking for something?” Anna asked, her eyes riveted on Tread.

“More Taco Day, probably.”

“Should I just stay like this?”

“Sure, but it could get a little uncomfortable. Tread has seen me move, like, a lot. I am pretty sure he’s used to it.”

Anna slowly rotated her hand, Tread’s nose following. It navigated along her knuckles, then up to her wrist.

Anna stayed still as Tread sniffed. It was as if she were one of those people who pretended to be statues, hoping people will put a dollar in the tip jar.

“Now that he knows you like the back of your hand … ” I trailed off, waiting for a smile.

“Yeah? And?”

“Get it? He sniffed the back of your hand, and the saying about knowing stuff as well as—”

“Jed, really? Can you just tell me what to do next here?”

That’s when it hit me. She was frightened of Tread. Fear had turned her into a m-Anna-quin. Good thing I knew better than to say anything like that.

Tread broke the spell. He put out that dry pink and black tongue and licked her from wrist to knuckles. At the same time, his tail fluttered back and forth (thank goodness I found it under the rose bushes last night and reattached it, having no idea we’d have visitors).

I looked at Anna’s face and was greeted by a smile. That was better.

“I think maybe he likes me,” she said.

“Yeah, so much so he probably won’t try to rip your throat out if you move something more than your hand.”

“Good, I was getting a little stiff. No offense.”

“None taken.”

As she straightened and stretched, Tread turned toward his dog bed, curling up on it. He looked at me, thumped his tail a few times, and put his head down.

He seemed very content. Which made me feel good.

I sat on my bed, and Anna took a seat in the chair at my desk. Something caught her eye. She swiveled and plucked a framed photo off the nightstand.

“That was taken Christmas morning,” I said.

“Ah,” Anna said. “That explains that big pine tree decorated with lights and ornaments.”

In the photo, I knelt beside Tread, putting on his collar for the first time. It was nylon, black with bones on it. They were supposed to be dog bones, but the Rivers family saw them from a zombie point of view. The collar worked on so many levels.

“That’s the perfect collar,” Anna said. “Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t. Tread did.”

I told her how Dad wasn’t thrilled about a zombie dog following me home. And he was less thrilled about my role in the dog’s zombification.

“Dad knew that since Mom and I were in love with Tread, he wasn’t going to have much of a say,” I said. “He didn’t go out of his way to avoid Tread, but it’s not like he took him for a walk or played fetch with Tread’s tail, either.”

“Fetch? With Tread’s tail?”

“Yeah. Tread loves when we pluck it off and toss it. He gets his exercise, we save around three dollars on tennis balls. Win-win. Anyway, it’s Christmas, and it’s going well. Mom likes her stuff, because Dad and I got her exactly what was on her list. And Dad was going through our recycle waste bin looking for some glass we’d tossed. He wanted a project he could do with his new bottle-cutter kit.”

“There’s a kit that cuts bottles? What on Earth for?”

“Totally, right? Who cuts bottles? But that’s a story for another time. Anyway, I was cleaning up, and Tread starts nosing at something in the back, buried under empty boxes and wrapping paper. He puts his nose into all this Christmas trash and pulls out this box wrapped in red paper covered with dog bones.

“I pulled Tread toward me, but not by the tail because you know how that goes. I grabbed the box, but he was not having it at all. He started whipping his head back and forth, then started chewing on a corner. I saw a tag, so I ripped that off before it was shredded. It said, ‘To Tread. Love, Mom and Dad.’”

“Your parents got it for him,” Anna said.

“Yeah. My dad, specifically.”

“And it was the collar.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. How cool was that?”

“Very cool.” The memory gave me goosebumps. Again.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re getting all emotional, Jed Rivers.”

“No, that would be very unzombielike.”

“Totally un-undead.”

“Exactly.”

“Even better, the collar looks like a perfect fit.”

“It was. It is.”

“Almost like he took some time picking it out.”

“Almost. And you haven’t even seen the matching leash.”

“Now what’s happening?”

“Allergies,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Always makes them water.”

I spent the next thirty minutes answering Anna’s questions about Tread. What does he eat? How often does he have to go out? Does he always smell this bad? Are you worried he can make an army of zombie fleas?

I gave that last one way more thought than it required.

“I’m not sure if fleas will go zombie when they bite him—if they bite him,” I said. “But if they do, the undead fleas will make for one heckuva freak show when the flea circus comes to town.”

Most of my time was spent explaining just how I convinced my parents (Dad, mostly) to let me keep Tread, what with our very strict no-dogs policy. Tread, however, was an undead dog, and Mom and Dad never addressed that specifically. Their version of the banned canine dealt with those who tended to chew, slobber a lot, and have accidents in the house. The undead dog now in our possession refrained from chewing, as tooth loss was a natural part of being undead. He had little or no saliva, so slobber was not a concern. And he didn’t go to the bathroom all that much, maybe a few times a week, and always did it outside. Why more people didn’t have undead dogs, I have no idea. Except for the fact that up until a few weeks ago, they didn’t exist.

Not that any of it mattered, since Mom and Dad accepted Tread into the family. Dad still kept him at arm’s length because when Tread brushed up against you, he left more than hair on your clothes. Let’s just say cleanup required more than a lint brush.