Return of the Jed (15 page)

I felt no qualms when Luke and I picked him up at the apartment we now shared (and so much better than a hotel room where privacy, even when going to the bathroom, was a fantasy). I knew Tread would enjoy an adventure, and walks were definitely adventures based on our lazy schedules.

“We make a right at the corner, down three blocks, and we’re there,” Luke said. He stopped and put his nose in the air, taking in a vast amount of air through his nostrils. I knew what was coming. Luke was a master at work, bringing images of da Vinci dabbing at a canvas, or Michelangelo chipping away at white marble.

“Amazing,” Luke said. “Not only did they incorporate the two parts of a pig most butchers have yet to discover, they blended them in a way to fool the human body into thinking they’re digestible. There will be some pain, but it will be well worth it in the end. So to speak.”

Chills ran down my spine, mostly due to Luke’s uncompromising talent to interpret food scents and their meanings. But some of it was due to learning about pig parts that sounded like they should be outlawed. Or at least discarded.

Luke picked up the pace even though I reminded him we were headed to the bike shop, not the meatateria.

“Bet we have time for both,” he said. “I’d even guess this country is more open to allowing dogs inside, the humane thing to do.”

“I hope so. I really don’t want to leave him outside, especially if any roving anti-chupacabra squads spot him.”

“I thought we talked about easing up on the paranoia.”

“Sorry, it’s just at the back of my mind.”

“The back of your mind needs to shut up. In fact, that’s not a bad idea for the front of your mind too. Let’s enjoy this while we can.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, unwilling to let it go.

“I’d be more worried about the professionals working at the meatateria. They’re probably some of the most talented butchers around, and they may not look at animal companions the way you and I do. If you know what I mean.”

I did. I didn’t even realize I’d reeled in the leash, wrapping it around my left wrist and pulling Tread closer to me.

Wrapping anything tightly around a joint is not a good idea when you’re a zombie, especially when the other end is tied to something mobile.

Two things got my attention when we turned the corner. Just ahead, an amoeba-like mass of white and gray blocked the intersection, a long line of motorists waiting to pass. I pointed it out to Luke, his nose still in the air drinking in the meat, when the second thing became apparent.

My left hand was missing. And Tread along with it.

My always-too-curious dog was running toward whatever was in the middle of the intersection. My left hand bounced merrily behind him.

When will I learn to keep a better grip on my limbs when walking Tread?

I bolted down the street, having no idea if Luke was behind me. I kept my eye on my bouncing hand, hoping its (my) grip remained strong.

About twenty feet away from the commotion—goats, it was a huge herd of goats—Tread began barking furiously. But another sound grabbed my attention.

A bell clanged rhythmically. I knew that sound. I looked closer amid the cars and the goats and my maniac zombie dog, and found exactly what I thought I would.

A set of railroad tracks sliced through the intersection. To the right, a warning sign blinked red.

By the time I’d reached the goats, I’d lost sight of Tread. Far more concerned about an impossible-to-stop locomotive, I whipped my head from left to right, wondering from which way the train approached.

A single headlight to the left bore down. A thirty-story tall yellow locomotive twenty feet away charged one-hundred, fifty-million miles an hour right toward us.

Or maybe fifteen miles per hour. And about a mile down the tracks. Either way, it traveled at a speed capable of turning organic matter into paste. I wanted to bring home Tread on a leash, not in a tube.

My gaze swiveled from goats to train and back again. I scanned the ocean of fur for the telltale tire mark that would identify my faithful companion who turned unfaithful at the worst times.

A man standing in the middle of the herd pointed and screamed. I took it as a good sign. I followed his finger, and it led me to my fellow friend in zombieness.

I immediately noticed Tread’s erratic behavior, one thought clouding my mind.

He’s finally gone all
Pet Sematary.

Tread darted left, then right. He twirled and circled left. He put his nose down and pushed his way into the middle of the herd, where he did it all over again.

I glanced back to the train. It was maybe a quarter-mile away now, its headlight swinging back and forth, bright enough to be seen on this very clear, very hot day.

My brain clicked from undead to “Must do math” in a split second. I figured the train would plow through the goats, the goat herder, and Tread, in less than two minutes. I didn’t need math to envision the horror show ahead.

The goats panicked and refused to budge. They huddled tight, unaware that when flesh takes on trains, trains always win. The goat herder was way ahead of me, knowing several dead goats was better than one dead goat herder. He shoved his way through goats to safety.

If the train got to Tread before I did, there would be so many pieces that all the king’s zombies wouldn’t be able to bring him back to the undead.

I charged into the flowing fur, making my way toward the middle where the goats surrounded Tread, trapping him.

The train’s whistle blared. We were down to maybe a minute left. The sound of the chugging engine mixed with the squeal of metal on metal as the wheels desperately tried to find a grip and stop the train.

I performed more math on the fly. Goats divided by Tread times distance equaled—

Goat meat. And lots of it. There was no way. I knew it. I bulled my way toward Tread, hoping to grab him and do a quick “
Ole
” with the train.

Then it happened all at once.

My stare riveted on Tread as I battled layer after layer of goat. He disappeared for a second or two and emerged a few goats away, twisting through the herd. I heard his joints pop as he made fast, physically impossible turns.

The herd widened and spread as Tread cut it like a pie, each wedge removing from the plate that was the tracks.

Tread’s body blurred as he sliced this way and that, his joints dislocating and popping back in, in a way that allowed him to speed through tight turns. I’d learned the same zombie trick playing football. My feet occupied one space, but my body refused to go along with convention, twisting to make sure it was in a different space. Tacklers thought they hit me so hard, they thought they went right through me. Until they looked up and saw me dashing toward the end zone.

What was once a black hole of goats now was a constellation, the animals scattered to the streets and sidewalks.

The whistle sounded again, impossibly close.

Tread stood on the track just twenty feet from me, but it could have been twenty miles because the train thundered through right at that moment.

I lunged backwards, my spine rainbowing. A gust of wind filled with the scent of gas and oil whipped past.

Tread disappeared, replaced by churning metal designed only to get here from there regardless of anything in the way.

“Jed, you OK?”

I stared up at Luke’s face. I barely heard him over the roar of the train, the clacking wheels making it impossible to think.

I lifted my head to see if I was in one piece, knowing it was a fifty-fifty chance. Looked like I’d made it. This time.

Luke leaned down and gripped my shoulder, beginning to lift me. “Need a hand?”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said.

He let go, my body thumping back against pavement. “Here,” he said.

I closed my eyes, knowing he held my left hand. I wasn’t in the mood for a zombie pun.

Keeping my eyes shut, I asked him a question for which I was not sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Did you see Tread? Did the train …”

If Luke said anything, the passing train drowned it out. And if he didn’t say anything, I knew what had happened.

I’d always wondered if some tragedy happened—that Tread got electrocuted or shot or run over (again)—could I repeat? Could I bring him back one more time?

I’d never started that question with “If Tread was hit by a train” because the outcome was very clear.

I listened to the train pass and fade into the distance, wanting to lie there forever. It was better than what I knew was coming.

I imagined Tread’s dry tongue slipping across my cheek now moist with Ooze and tears. There it was again, across my other cheek. Then my chin. My nose.

I opened my eyes.

“Tread!” I bent forward and held onto him like I was never going to let go, because I wasn’t.

Until I was swept up by more arms than I could count and floated across a sea of cheering people. And bobbing right next to me was Tread.

For once, we’d gotten someone’s goats and were heroes for it. Who’d believe that?

As I bodysurfed over an appreciative crowd, unfamiliar hands touching me dangerously close to private areas, I had only one thought.

Please let me stay in one piece.

Losing a limb right now would not only be humiliating—“Excuse me,
Señor
, I believe this forearm may be yours as I see your right appendage ends abruptly at the elbow”—but also a terrible way to make an impression.

I wasn’t sure how a zombie would be accepted here, even as friendly as everyone seemed. A polite toleration of the undead is fine until limbs start falling off, igniting a rush to Pitchforks and Torches ‘R’ Us.

Fortunately, I remained intact when set down in front of the meatateria (discovering later that Luke had directed the human traffic, tracking me from below and nudging me toward the destination). I had yet to reattach my left hand, so I kept that behind my back. Those who already noticed probably thought I lost it years ago in a tragic accident, perhaps even giving me some built-in sympathy.

“
Gracias, gracias
,” I said, shaking one hand after another as I dug deeply into my knowledge of Spanish. “
Si, muchas gracias. Cómo estás? Feliz Navidad
.”

Thanks to my limited Spanish, I couldn’t say the one thing I really wanted to. Where did my dog go?

A large man burst through the crowd, a smile on his face and Tread in his arms.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, putting Tread at my feet. “He wears a lovely sweater, though it does not quite hide a most definite chupacabra-ness to him. Maybe if you gave him a bath every now and then.”

“You speak English,” I said with some surprise in my voice.

“Of course,” he said. “It came in handy when growing up in Arizona.”

He thrust out a hand, mine disappearing inside of it when we shook. I could feel my wrist giving way as we pumped hands vigorously.

Seconds before I would have some explaining to do, he released it. “I’m Daniel Estrada, proud owner of the establishment behind you and president of the Guadalajara Chamber of Commerce. And you are?”

“Jed. Uh, Jed Rivers.” An unseen hand pushed my shoulder. “Oh, and this is my friend Luke.” Who’d arrived out of nowhere.

Daniel thrust out his barrel chest and put his hands on his hips. “I want to thank you for your services on behalf of our entire town,” he bellowed, as if it were a scene out of a movie. I braced myself for the cheers of “Hip hip hooray” that surely came next.

But, no. The crowd quickly dissipated, and soon the four of us stood alone. That celebration sure hadn’t lasted long.

The goats, too, had vanished. I saw a few stragglers disappear around the corner, the goat herder nowhere to be seen.

“So do you get goats here often?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Daniel said. “Does it look to you this is a place for goats? Is that what you think of Mexico, my friend, that this is a small backwater country that invites farm animals to roam its streets?”

“No, sorry, I’m—”

“Relax,
amigo
, I’m just messing with you. No, Rodrigo’s truck broke down a few blocks away, so he thought he’d just walk them the rest of the way here.”

“Here?” Luke said. “To the meatateria?”

“To the what?” Daniel asked. “Did you say ‘Meatateria?’ Is that what you’re calling Estrada’s Kabob Cabana, home of the finest meats ever found on a skewer? Do you think every fine restaurant in Mexico is some sort of backwater eatery?”

“No, of course not. I’m, you know …” Luke’s voice trailed off.

“You’re what?” Daniel said.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me you’re just messing with me.”

“I’m afraid you will have a long wait because I feel insulted.”

“I really am sorry. Because seriously, I think I can be your biggest fan.”

I nodded. “Luke has wanted to come here ever since he first smelled the amazing meat scents. And he was blocks away at the time.”

The smile returned to Daniel’s face. “Apology accepted. Why don’t we go in for lunch, so I can thank you for your services properly? I know the goat will be particularly fresh.”