Dawn of the Jed Read online

  “And here,” he said, thwacking another spot with the pointer. “Mr. Landrum in Biology. Orange, for reasons you do not need to know.

  “This map allows me to keep tabs on everyone. You see how that works? ‘Tabs’ because they truly are tabs. Of paper. Do you see where I’m going?”

  “No, it all seems stationary,” I said.

  He went on, not getting it.

  “This map helps me keep things in order. And reminds me there is work to be done. Which brings us to you, Jed. Notice you are one of a few students with your own Post-it. And look, it’s red. That’s a very undesirable color. And do you know why you’re red?”

  I knew, and I spit it out. “Because I’m a zombie.”

  “That’s the easy answer, and the wrong one. You are not red because of what you are, but what you’ve done. You are a frequent rule-breaker, Jed. And don’t think for a moment I’ve forgotten about how you circumvented our disciplinary process at the end of last semester.”

  Now this was making more sense. Just as word was spreading around campus that I was a pretty good football player thanks to the benefits of being undead (my loose joints and tear-away limbs made me very hard to catch), Principal Buckley kicked me out of the game because he thought I was a danger to others. Before that, he suspended me for smoking, even though Robbie framed me by tearing off my arm and sticking a cigarette between its (my) fingers when he and his henchmen trapped me in the boys’ room.

  Shortly before kickoff, I got word I was back in. I found out later that Anna had a photo of Principal Buckley pouring something from a metal flask into his punch at the fall dance. I don’t want to use the word “blackmail.” Let’s just call it “Timely influence.”

  Principal Buckley clearly was not happy being influenced.

  He reached into his desk again, this time pulling out a piece of paper and sliding it across his desk.

  “This is why you’re red, Jed.”

  Finally, what I’d been anticipating since I walked in. It was the NZN Network’s report of the Franken-canine and its creator.

  Me.

  “You’ve seen that, I’m sure,” Principal Buckley said.

  I nodded, skimming through it. “Reliable sources report some puppies were used … unclear of how many breeds … stitches are not enough to keep all its parts on … those with intimate knowledge of the situation say the family’s power bill that month approached four figures … ”

  “Would you care to enlighten me about this rather unnerving situation?” he asked.

  At the very least, I had to admit to having a dog. Should be no problem. There’s no law against zombies owning dogs. In fact, I was sure there weren’t any zombie-specific laws at all. Yes. So what was wrong with me having a dog?

  “I have a dog,” I said. “A Christmas present from my parents.”

  “So your parents created the Frankendog?”

  “No, it’s not a Frankendog. It’s just a dog. Tread.”

  “Tread?”

  “His name. Tread.”

  “An unusual name. How did you come up with that?”

  “He, just, there’s this odd mark on his side. Reminded me of a tire tread.”

  “I see. So if this is simply your average family pet, can you tell me about his tail?”

  “His tail? It’s a tail.”

  “Let me be more specific. I’m talking about the tail he has in his mouth. The tail with the same fur color and appropriate length for a dog that size. It indicates the dog is carrying, rather than wagging, his tail. A behavior you would only see with a Frankendog.”

  “And how many Frankendogs have you seen?” I mumbled.

  “What? Speak up, Jed. I asked you about the tail.”

  “That’s not his tail. It’s a stick. Someone changed the photo. Anyone with a computer can do that.”

  Principal Buckley reached across his desk and snatched the NZN leaflet, putting it back in his drawer.

  “When these NZN newsletters popped up, members of my staff suggested I ignore them, that it was an anti-zombie smear campaign,” he said. “Against my better judgment, I did just that. After all, while I knew you were a troublemaker and a smoker, I had never actually seen you tear the flesh from an infant’s arm—”

  “What? The NZN never accused me of eating—”

  “—or attempt to put ‘human brains’ on the Wheel of Meat.”

  OK, the NZN did report that, and there was no truth to it.

  “But I am inclined to believe its version of the Franken-canine, based on the photo and other eyewitness reports I’ve received from Burger Bucket.”

  “Principal Buckley.” I started to protest.

  “I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do when you are not at school. But we have a strict zero-tolerance policy when it comes to playing God and bringing inanimate things to life. At least as of last week, when this came to my attention. The new policy was passed unanimously by the board, might I add.”

  “Tread is not a Frankendog. He’s just a dog. A terrier mix, I think. He’s a rescue dog.”

  “I understand he is many rescue dogs,” Principal Buckley said, “and I would not be surprised at all if it includes terrier in there. While I think there is sufficient proof to suspend you, if not expel you with your prior history, I am willing to reconsider if you are honest with me. For example, did you have help in the gathering, sewing, and bringing to life the various carcasses that make up the Frankendog Tread?”

  “No.”

  “So you did this all by yourself.”

  “No, it didn’t happen at all. There is no Frankendog. There’s only Tread, a normal, regular old dog.” Who just happens to be undead.

  “I promise you I will get to the bottom of this,” Principal Buckley said. “Until then, the Frankendog Tread will not be allowed on campus, due to our policy on forbidding any abhorrence of nature. I also want to make it clear that any dismembering and reassembling of carcasses for the express purpose of creating life no longer will be allowed on campus.”

  “No longer?”

  “We never had a specific rule against it. Didn’t think we’d have to create one, either. So there you go.”

  “Principal Buckley, I can’t create life, I swear. Tread is a normal dog. I can bring him. You’ll see.”

  That was a big risk, but I was sure what he’d say.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  See?

  “Jed, if you bring anything to life—I don’t care if it’s a dog, a cat, a mouse, anything that one time exhibited life and has since become inert—you will be expelled. You and your parents will have to find alternative schooling. You will be lucky to find another principal as lenient as I’ve been. Are we clear?”

  I looked down at my feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “Excuse me? I didn’t catch that. Let’s try one more time. Are we clear?”

  I looked up and met his gaze, making sure I didn’t blink. “Yes, sir!”

  “Fine.” He swiveled to the map and peeled off the red Jed Post-it. “I am putting you in English. Be there in two minutes.”

  I stood from the uncomfortably small plastic chair without another word and started toward English.

  I felt as if I’d dodged another bullet. But I needed to know one thing.

  Who was holding the gun?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anna: What are you doing right now?

  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.” Mayb
e 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.