Return of the Jed Page 9

  “Was that really part of your tongue?” Marisa asked.

  I looked at what I had picked up. It resembled a piece of fatty bacon. And it was toast.

  “La la la la la,” I muttered. “Ta ta ta ta. Ra ra ra.”

  I was getting some feeling back on the end of my tongue. I pictured a lizard growing a new tail, because that’s what it felt like.

  “You know,” I said, enunciating slowly. “I think it’s going to be OK. I just have to be sure to avoid those rolls.”

  “You’ll never see me avoiding rolls,” Luke said. “Especially the cinnamon kind.”

  “Not the rolls I mean,” I said, looking back to the Taco Dude, who was still staring at the spot of my tongue’s landing. “Now, where were we?”

  Taco Dude shook his head and gazed at Tread. “No chupacabra.” He retreated behind his stand and retrieved a placard. He turned it around and held it up. It showed a fuzzy photo of what appeared to be a hairless beast with a goat in its mouth. It was covered by a large red circle with a slash through it.

  “I get it,” I said. “No chupacabras, si. But Tread is un … “I licked my lips to prepare … “perrrro.” I drew out the Rs without rolling them. “You know. A dog.”

  “A dog?” he replied. “Es un perro muy feo.”

  “Yes, he’s a dog and whatever the rest you said.” I smiled. “Glad you understand.”

  Wait, was that laughing? I spin toward its source. Marisa.

  “Something funny?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “You are lucky to have a dog muy feo.”

  “Thanks, that’s good to hear.”

  Now Taco Dude was laughing. Whatever.

  Dad, Luke, and I had been walking back to the hotel after breakfast when my phone chimed. It was a text from Marisa, with the time and place to meet her and collect Tread.

  It was perfect timing since I’d convinced Dad we had met someone at the Internet café with an “in” at the customs-office kennel. “As long as we pay the fine, we should be able to get him in an hour or so,” I told him. “The guy said he’d text me when Tread was ready to go.”

  “Fine?” Dad said. “Yeah, fine. How much.”

  I made up a number that sounded fair, reminding myself to slip the cash back in Dad’s wallet later, knowing he’d never notice. “It’s fifty dollars.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He pulled out his wallet, thumbing through it. “Here you go. Glad that’s taken care of so we can get on with things. Because I’m already falling behind, and we’re not even there yet, so the sooner the better.”

  I knew Dad was about to launch into a “Time is money” lecture, so I was very happy to see a text pop up on my phone.

  Marisa: 10 o’clock, corner of Hidalgo and Morelos, look for tacos

  Once I had told Dad it was the text we were waiting for, he ordered us to get back to the hotel no later than noon. It was clear he had other things on his mind, so he didn’t press me on details. Mom, on the other hand, would have wanted a minute-by-minute account of our time away from the hotel. And that’s why dads make great anti-moms.

  After the text arrived, Luke and I stopped to ask an English-speaking vendor where we could find Hidalgo and Morelos. He pointed the way, but Luke’s internal GPS—he could always find food when he needed to—didn’t let us down. He spotted the taco stand from a half-mile away.

  Actually, he smelled the taco stand. He stuck his nose in the air. “Another two thousand, six hundred and fifty-two feet this way,” he said, pointing down Hidalgo. He inhaled deeply through his nose. “No, two thousand, six hundred and fifty-one feet, sorry.”

  We were a block away when I saw Marisa, Ryan, and Tread, right where they said they’d be. And the Taco Stand Dude, who was giving Tread the evil eye. I thought it was because he didn’t like dogs, but it was simply anger from his anti-chupacabra bias and his belief in all those goat-sucking stereotypes.

  He loosened up once he understood Tread was a dog “muy feo.” So that was good.

  Marisa, however, didn’t seem so happy, even after I filled her in about the uneventful breakfast with my dad.

  “He didn’t suspect a thing,” I said. “I told him some story about us being at an Internet café to dig up some information, as if we couldn’t do all that stuff on our phones. You know what he does on his phone? Talks to people. As if that’s why phones were invented.”

  I told her we had to be back at the hotel by noon, since Dad had told his bosses we’d be getting in tonight.

  “I guess he’s already late,” I said. “But he didn’t seem too concerned even though we’re still four hours away, and that’s without stopping to eat and get gas or—”

  “Jed, you need to shut up and pay attention,” Marisa said, suddenly very serious. She looked over her shoulder. “We need to go someplace a little quieter. There’s a park nearby.”

  Marisa looked both ways as she stepped into the street.

  “Wait a sec.” It was Luke, who was examining the taco stand’s menu as if it was a list of his favorite food. And it was, since anything he could put in his mouth and digest was his favorite food.

  “Dude, you ate a half-hour ago,” I said.

  “Exactly, so give me a minute,” Luke said, turning to the Taco Dude as he pointed at the menu. “I’ll take numbers one through five, with extra eleven on all of them.”

  I shot Luke my usual “Seriously?” look, and he shrugged. “I’m expanding my cultural horizons by delving wholeheartedly into the local cuisine.”

  “Why is it the only time you’re eloquent, food is involved?”

  “Give me some time to look up ‘eloquent,’ and I’ll get back to you.”

  Once Luke had all the tools he needed to expand his cultural horizons—and expand the stains on his shirt—the four of us and Tread dodged across the street to a small park. We huddled under a tree so sparse it looked like it should have died years ago. So it was my kind of tree.

  “Can we maybe go somewhere for real shade?” Luke asked.

  “Luke, what did you do with all that food?” Marisa asked. She was so cute when she was naïve.

  “I ate it? Because that’s why I bought it? And how the Taco Dude makes a living?” Luke said. He phrased everything as a question when responding with what he thought were too-obvious answers.

  “Can we get on with it?” I said. A dark look came across Marisa’s face. “That was a real question, not sarcastic, I swear.”

  Marisa plopped on the ground, and so did Ryan, Luke, and I. Even Tread joined us, quickly rolling on his back and shutting his eyes. It was so hot, I wished I could do the same.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Marisa said. “But that’s exactly what I have.” She tilted, lifting her bottom slightly off the ground.

  “Are you going to fart?” Luke said. “Because I wouldn’t say that’s totally bad news. I’m actually cool with girls who fart.”

  “What? No. I need to get something out of my pocket.”

  Marisa stuck her right hand into her right back pocket, her fingers fishing around. She withdrew a folded piece of white paper and flipped it toward me. “This is the bad news.”

  I unfolded it, and yeah, it was bad news.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “That’s not even my good side.”

  “Luke, you don’t have a good side.”

  “I know, right?”

  The photo Marisa had pulled from her back pocket was black, white, and blurry, a classic shot from a surveillance camera. But that was definitely Luke and me, taken outside the iron door protecting the keys.

  I handed it back to Marisa. “Where did you get this?”

  “Where I get all my counter-intel,” she said. “From my dad. Only this time I didn’t steal it. He gave it to me. Asked if I knew the two guys in the photo.”

  “How did you guys escape photo radar?”

  “I was on the lookout for surveillance cameras,” Marisa said. “
That’s right out of Breaking and Entering 101, rookie. I didn’t see any, but it’s clear there was at least one.”

  “So what did you tell him?” Luke asked in a voice full of sincerity and not a drop of concern.

  “I said these were the guys Ryan and I met after committing a felony break-in at a federal facility.”

  “Do you think that was smart? Maybe you could have lied or something.”

  “You make innocence look so cute,” Marisa told Luke, escalating the flirtation level.

  I was scared to life, my heart racing at four, maybe even five beats a minute. I could picture a convoy of federales pulling up any second, leveling AK-whatever rifles and ordering our hands in the air, which I’d do so quickly my hands would fly off my wrists, and the cops would open fire before the errant body parts hit the ground, even though I did put my hands in the air, so to speak.

  “So what did you really tell him?” I asked Marisa.

  “That I’d never seen these guys in my life,” she said. “Then I added some smartass thing that just because I was thirteen didn’t mean I knew everyone around here, which is what adults assume. That earned me ten minutes in the time-out chair.”

  “You still have a time-out chair?” Luke said. “Sweet. I get my phone taken away for a week. I’d trade that for ten minutes in a chair.”

  Ryan piped up. “I own that chair,” he said. “I’ve been in it so much, I’ve created a nice groove so it fits my butt even better.”

  I could not believe I seemed to be the only one panicked by this photo.

  “We really need to be worried about this,” Marisa said, joining my “concerned” team. That made it two to two, so we with common sense had a fighting chance.

  “Where did your dad get it?” I said.

  “All I can say is that he knows people who know people. He has a ton of connections.”

  “When did he get it?”

  “Had to be sometime this morning. Ryan and I had just snuck back into our rooms when he burst into mine to wake me up, having no idea I’d been up all night. He showed me the photo and asked me if I knew anything about it.”

  “Why would he even think you’d know us?” I asked. “It makes no sense.”

  “Exactly,” Marisa said. “Unless my dad knows way more than he’s letting on. And I’m pretty sure he does.”

  That sank in too, all the way to my undead toes. “You think he knows who I am? What I am?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say yes.”

  I glanced at Luke.

  “Why would he care about Jed?” he said. “He’s pretty boring, especially for a zombie. No screaming for brains, no sinking his teeth into human flesh, not like the cool zombies in the movies. He can’t even turn other people into zombies. If it weren’t for the occasional limb coming off, he’d be useless.”

  “Thanks, friend,” I said.

  “No worries.”

  Marisa leaned back, planting her hands behind her. “That’s just it. It isn’t who Jed is, it’s what he is. It’s not like the world is filled with zombies. How many do you know, Jed?”

  “None,” I answered, though I often thought people who camped out for hours to see the latest science fiction film were sort of brain-dead.

  “Right,” Marisa continued. “But my dad has an interest in …” Her voice trailed off.

  “In what?” I pressed. “The undead? Because I can do without the attention. So far it’s only brought me trouble. People have thrown me into trash cans and stuffed me into lockers and whipped me with wet towels and framed me for smoking, which got me kicked out of school. Otherwise, being a zombie’s been a piece of cake.”

  “Mmmm, cake,” Luke said. “Is it lunch yet?”

  That reminded me. I looked at my phone. Ten forty-seven. Still time to try and figure this out.

  “I get it,” Marisa said. “I understand more than you know.”

  I doubted it. I’d spent my whole life trying to fit in, to be a part of the crowd. As soon as I learned I was not like the others, I switched my life to stealth mode. Bullies were able to penetrate my defenses with their geek-seeking missiles, but for the most part, I evaded detection. And came very close to fitting in. Most days, that’s all I wanted to do. Just be normal.

  “Really, Marisa?” I said, surprised at the edge in my voice. “How so?”

  “Just, I do, trust me.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Or want to.”

  “I’m the one who kept your dog, showed you the photo. I’m on your side, Jed. For a lot of reasons.”

  “Name one.”

  “You’re a nice guy. And you have a good friend who cares about you.”

  “Hey, don’t drag me into this mushy stuff,” Luke said.

  Marisa stretched and ran her fingers through her hair, then folded her arms across her chest. I could almost see brainwaves whizzing around her head as she thought. It was almost as if she were having an inner debate. I just hoped her brain was less difficult than mine.

  “Jed, what if I told you …”

  “Yes?”

  “… that you were …”

  “Uh huh.”

  Marisa’s eyes grew three times their normal size as she leaped to her feet.

  “… in huge trouble right now!” she finished.

  “By the tone of your voice, I might believe you. Why?”

  “Turn around.”

  I did, and jumped to my feet as well.

  Several cars approached, most of them with flashing lights.

  Why weren’t their sirens blaring, like in the movies, which would have given us at least a few minutes’ head start? We really could have used the benefit of a classic Hollywood stereotype.

  Then again, if I were the stereotypical zombie, I wouldn’t have had a chance of getting away, as I’d run toward the police, hoping for a mouthful of juicy law-enforcement brains.

  Chapter Twenty

  “This is where we say goodbye, kids,” Marisa said, grabbing her brother’s hand and lifting him to his feet. “Ryan, move it.”

  She pointed to a wall at the far end of the park. “There’s an alley back there, lots of hiding places. Stick to the back streets. I’ll text you later to see if you made it.”

  Marisa and Ryan sprinted in the opposite direction before I could ask for advice that was slightly more useful than “Run that way and don’t get caught.”

  So what could we do other than run that way and not get caught?

  I snagged Tread’s leash as I heard car doors slam uncomfortably close. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder and was immediately sorry. Many people in dark uniforms were screaming at us, which didn’t bother me nearly as much as the rifles they carried.

  I gathered my wits, at least the few my undead brain held. We could do this. The wall was maybe just a hundred feet away. I could cover that distance in a flash if I were at fast as Luke.

  Luke?

  My best friend had disappeared. I whirled around and caught sight of him just as he slipped behind the wall.

  I took off, Tread in the lead, pumping my arms and hoping Luke’s repair from the night before would hold. I braced for the sound of gunshots, the buzz as bullets zipped past my ears. At least that was better than the thwack of metal embedding into flesh, which would happen if they were better shots than I anticipated (again, I was counting on Hollywood stereotypes where the good guys narrowly escaped).

  As the wall approached, I did some quick math. It was about five feet tall, and even with a vertical leap that earned a “D” in PE, I would have no problem getting up and over.

  Tread, however, was maybe a foot high at the shoulders, with a vertical leap of, hmm, I wasn’t sure. But I doubt it was enough to get him up and over. Maybe Luke was waiting on the other side—

  Pfft!

  The ground spit bits of dirt a few feet ahead, just inches from Tread’s back paw. Then another, just in front of him. Were they
shooting, because I never heard the—

  BLAM!

  OK, that confirmed it. They were definitely shooting. Weren’t Tread and I dead enough? Did they have to add bullet insult to zombie injury?

  I zigged and zagged, hunching over to make myself smaller. Bet they didn’t think someone so brain-dead could be so smart.

  We were twenty feet from the wall and closing quickly. Tread was yanking at the leash, and the duct tape on my right shoulder started to give.

  I tripped. Of course.

  My dog sprinted ahead, Tread giving no indication he knew my now-severed arm bounced in the dirt behind him. Tread leapt at the wall, his claws catching the top of it as his hind legs dug into the blocks, finding just enough purchase to push him over. My arm flipped out of sight.

  I gladly would give my right arm to see Tread make it to safety. This time I really had.

  If a zombie dog would make a leap of faith, so could I. Clambering to my feet, I sprinted onward. Ten feet, five, two, and jump.

  My chin slammed into the wall several inches from the top as I’d once again overestimated my athleticism. I had, however, hooked my left arm over the top, but it was a futile effort. I couldn’t lift myself, and I felt the tape giving way.

  I wasn’t sure what I was more disappointed in, my poor physical conditioning or my failing faith in duct tape.

  Twisting awkwardly as I hung there like a piece of zombie art, I saw the cops closing in. Not only had they stopped firing, they’d stopped running. And started laughing.

  “Don’t think it can get worse, don’t think it can get worse,” I muttered to myself, knowing that as soon as I thought things couldn’t get worse, they would. That was a Hollywood gag that always came true.

  They were about fifty feet away and closing (very slowly) when one of them announced loud enough for me to hear, “I prefer my targets moving, at least they are a challenge.” Great, a cop and a comedian.

  I thought of positive things, like maybe an asteroid would hit, extinguishing all life on Earth while providing a nice environment for the undead (population, a boy and his dog). Maybe just an earthquake, leveling this particular border town.