Dawn of the Jed (5 page)

“The Flopchopper doesn’t even sell itself,” Luke said. “Let me know how it goes.”

As we walked across the grass, I noticed activity had picked up. Walkers, joggers, some kids playing Frisbee, and—

“Luke, wait,” I said, putting out my arm (the good one) to stop him. “The bushes over there.”

“Dude, there are bushes everywhere.”

“Maybe the ones I’m staring at right now?”

“Oh, makes sense.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Luke’s gaze shift to a small stand of oleanders lining a block wall that separated the park from the neighborhood homes.

There was a patch of gray. And white. It moved ever so slightly.

Then peeked its head out.

A dog. Medium sized, maybe forty pounds. We were about one hundred and fifty feet away so I couldn’t really tell anything else.

The selfish Jed kicked in right away.

“Mom and Dad said I couldn’t get a dog,” I said. “But they didn’t say anything about a dog following me home.”

I took a few steps, but Luke remained rooted where he was. “Not a good idea, Jed,” he said. “It’s not about getting a dog. It’s about having a dog.”

I couldn’t believe what my best friend was saying. “I thought you were behind me on this?”

“I am. Of course. But that dog could belong to someone. Even if it doesn’t, it deserves a home where everyone wants it and will take care of it. Right now, only thirty-three percent of the Rivers’ household wants a dog.”

“Nice math skills.”

“Thanks.”

“But it still doesn’t change my mind.”

I took off toward the dog. Maybe I could carry it, sneak it into our yard, and leave the gate open just a crack. I’d go in the front door, make small talk with Mom and Dad, and walk by the patio door.
Wait, what’s this? A dog in the back yard? I must investigate. Why, he must have snuck through the side gate, see how it’s open? He seems to be so friendly. Mom and Dad, you must come out here and fall in love at first sight. Keep him? Really? Of course.

All I had to do was catch him.

As I got closer, his features became a bit clearer. Forty pounds at most. Medium-haired, cream-colored coat but with puffs of gray, like a leafy shadow. Pointy ears, one up, the other bent in half. Longish tail curled upward slightly, but not wagging. I was fifteen feet from him when he lowered his head. He took a step back. Another.

I took a step forward. Another.

A few more details came through. His short, roundish muzzle featured a gray streak of fur that cruised right between his eyes before making a slow left turn, giving him an eyebrow. The hair along his sides was thick and matted, stitched together with leaves and twigs. And the smell—let’s just say if there was a Febreze for dogs, I’d need ten cans of Lilac Meadow just to keep the comic-book stink lines down to a minimum.

“Good boy, everything’s OK, I just want to say hi.” I assumed he was a boy, but at this point it was a mystery.

He didn’t have a collar. So much for Luke’s theory that he (she?) belonged to someone.

He backed up again, his tail against the brick wall. There was about a six-inch gap between the bushes, just enough so that if I moved quickly enough, I could snatch his front legs and scoop him up.

I leaned and put my hand out, palm down, just like the K9 officer showed us in third grade. “Want to sniff, check me out? Here, no harm meant.”

Another step.

“Dude, you need to back off, you are scaring him to death.”

Where did Luke come from? I turned my head briefly, noticed Luke about ten feet behind me, and went back to the dog, which hadn’t moved.

“I could use some help then,” I said. “See how he’s facing left? Go that way. I’ll go straight in. If we flush him, he’ll head right to you.”

“Maybe we should call someone.”

“Really? He has no collar. He’ll go to the pound, you know what’s going to happen then.”

I knew Luke was thinking about it. He liked dogs almost as much as I did. He’d do the right thing.

“I’ll help, but only because he’s not safe running around here.”

I pointed left, and Luke took his position. The dog didn’t move. This was going to be easy. And I noticed just how cute he was. Not a puppy, but not very old. Thin, but not starving.

“On three, I’m going to go in after him,” I said. “If he runs, he’ll be coming right at you. Set?”

“Yeah.”

“One. Two. Three.”

I ducked and went in fast, shooting my arms out, expecting to hit muscle and fur.

But he was gone. All I saw was a flash of gray. He’d run right past me. Luke never even had a shot.

I backed out of the bushes and whipped around. There, dashing over a berm toward the bathrooms.

Luke already was running after him. I was on his tail. Sort of. Luke was way faster than I was, and if I ran too hard, my hips would get loose and dislocate. Good for dodging a tackle in football, not so much when sprinting after a stray.

Just as I was about to crest the berm, I heard a horn, following by a high-pitched yelp. In between there was something.

A sound I heard every time Robbie slammed me into a metal trash can. A sound that sickened my heart.

The scene I was expecting, and hoping against, came into view. Luke, kneeling by a gray lump in the street.

“No no no no,” I tried to scream, but could not take the breath necessary to do it.

My legs kept going, getting me closer and closer.

I got to the street and slowed. Walked up behind Luke and looked over his shoulder.

“Guy just honked but didn’t stop,” Luke said. “Kept going as if nothing happened.”

The dog lay on the asphalt, tongue dangling. One of his hind legs bent at an angle. A bloody gash on his shoulder. I wasn’t sure if the car or the asphalt was responsible for the patches of fur that had been ripped away. Blood dripped from a dozen or so cuts and scrapes.

But the worst—a thick black tread mark across his ribs, his body looking like a deflated balloon.

“Oh god oh god oh god, I am so sorry, sorry sorry,” I said.

This was my fault. The dog was dead because of me.

“This is your fault,” Luke said. “We could have called. Gotten someone who knew what to do.”

I kneeled next to Luke. I could not take my eyes off the dog. Did this really happen? Was there a way to turn back the clock? What do we do now?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

“Pup, I am so sorry,” I said, reaching out my right hand and smoothing its ear. “I only wanted you to come home with me. That’s all. Not this.”

No turning away this time. I let the tears fall. I watched them drop, some mixed with the Ooze that slid from my forehead. Some of those drops fell into the dog’s wounds, glistening like tiny flashes of light. Almost like sparks, but that wasn’t possible.

I don’t remember how long I kneeled over the dog. I’m pretty sure a small crowd had gathered. I heard them talking, and one person said she would call roadkill retrieval to get the carcass.

I couldn’t stop crying. I never meant for this to happen.

I looked at his tongue, the way it flopped out. Pink with a black splotch in the middle. I stared at it because I couldn’t bear the rest.

It moved.

Not much. A twitch. And another. As if his tongue was having a minor seizure.

His eye fluttered. His floppy ear straightened.

I knew what I would see if I looked at the wound. I kept my eyes on his face, which gave all the signs as if he was waking from a nap.

His eye opened.

This could not be happening.

“Dude, you can’t do this,” Luke said, as if knowing what was happening before I did. “You need to stop. You need to let this poor dog alone, let it be what it’s supposed to be.”

Dead. I was supposed to let this dog be dead.

I tried to convince myself this wasn’t happening. I knew I couldn’t make anyone a zombie. And everyone knew if I could, Robbie would be the first member of my zombie army, just so I could tear off an arm and let him know how inconvenient that is.

But this dog was returning from the dead.

I could feel Luke staring at me. I knew I was doing it, but couldn’t stop. It wasn’t as if I could thrust out my palm and command, “Down, stay lifeless!”

I had no idea how I was doing it, only that it was happening. Was it the way Ooze mixed with tears? Did those sparks indicate some sort of chemical reaction? Or could this stuff that kept me alive somehow read my mind? Did Ooze know how much I wanted a dog? Did it decide to play Ooze Santa, bringing me the one gift I really wanted?

And did I want a dog this badly?

Yes, I did. I knew it, could feel it.

This dog had just fetched a big old dose of zombie and was headed back.

I looked along the dog’s body, could see it re-inflating. His tail thumped once, twice on the asphalt.

Another minute passed. I looked at the wound and saw a translucent goo working into the exposed muscle. If I saw it under a microscope, I would see muscles and veins stitching themselves together.

Ooze was bringing this dog back. But back to what?

“Jed, you can’t … ” Luke again. His voice was behind me now.

The dog tried to get up, but I kept my hand on its head. “Easy boy, relax.”

There were murmurs in the crowd. I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were about.

I put my ear on its chest. No heartbeat. But there was a muffled cracking sound. Ribs coming together?

I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the hind leg, the one bent backward, and gave it a sharp tug. A crack, and the leg was back in its rightful place.

I leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“It’s going to be all better, boy, I promise,” I said. “Being a zombie isn’t such a bad thing. You just have to trust me on this.”

He lifted his head, turned it. A dry, sandpapery tongue brushed across my cheek.

Knowing it was just a matter of time before he was able to walk home with me, I stood. The small crowd was still there.

But Luke was nowhere to be found.

First rule of zombie-dog ownership: Be very careful when you teach him to shake.

Second rule of zombie-dog ownership: Teach him “Come” first.

“Tread, come, boy, come.” I’d thought I’d cornered him in the dining room, but he darted past me and up the stairs.

Maybe “dart” is too strong. More like “quickly hopped.” It’s difficult to dart on three legs, especially when he held his fourth leg in his mouth. The limb slammed into furniture as he hopped to his escape.

His left front leg detached during our first attempt at “Shake.” He snapped it from my hand before showing absolutely no aptitude for the command, “Come.” He had a much better talent for running on three legs.

He wasn’t the only one adjusting to a new situation. So were Mom and Dad.

I honestly did not expect my parents to accept him. But I knew it was worth a shot when I helped him out of the street and to the curb, gently holding onto the scruff of his neck. I sat with him for ten minutes as the crowd dispersed, the show over (most having no idea what they’d just witnessed, and one man offering me a ride to the emergency vet, though I knew this dog would not need a vet now or maybe ever).

I stroked him along the black streak on his spine, but he really loved when I scratched under his neck, his tail thumping so hard it came off (I picked it up and tucked it into my waistband).

I never thought,
I have to name him
. It just happened.

“I’m going to call you Tread,” I said, looking at the tire track across his ribs. “Some dogs might make fun of you, call you Dead Tread, but don’t worry. You’ll learn to live with it. Or at least be undead with it.”

I just knew he would follow me home. There was already a connection forming, I could feel it in my Ooze.

Tread was slow at first so I took my time, making sure I was no more than a few steps ahead. Within five minutes, he picked up the pace, and pretty soon I was at a fast walk as we continued side by side. Every now and then he’d nose his tail, wanting it back.

When we got to the driveway, I gave him a nudge with my knee to steer him toward the front door. He jogged ahead, waiting for me on the porch. Maybe he remembered having a home. While death can be pretty inconvenient, I was glad it didn’t wipe out his memory.

I slowly twisted the knob and eased open the door. Peeking inside, there was no sign of Mom.

“Tread, you need to be really quiet,” I said. “Mom isn’t going to be thrilled with me bringing home a dog. Especially one that was dead at one point.”

I opened the door a little more, keeping Tread behind me. I took one step, two, and Tread went right by me, his nails clattering on the hardwood floor. She was going to hear that for sure.

“What’s that smell? Jed? Is that you?” Mom’s voice came from the kitchen.

So much for the stealthy approach.

“Yeah, Mom, just me.”

“I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, but you need to get in the shower now,” she said. “You know how I hate you trailing the stink of … Just get in the shower, hon. OK?”

I knew what she was going to say. “The stink of death.” It was true. Every now and then it popped up, a bad case of dead-body odor. I blamed puberty.