Return of the Jed (32 page)

“No, this is a good thing,” said the part of my brain that yearned to fit in. “The next time Robbie tries to remove an arm and beat you over the head with it, you’ll bend one of his arms behind his back and launch him into a trash can. And imagine being able to bowl, without hoping that when the ball returns, your fingers will still be in the holes.”

“That’s a good point, brain-part,” I said under my breath.

“Hold on just a second,” said the part of my brain clinging to undeadness. “A normal body is one that has to eat healthy and exercise and sleep eight hours a day. And I don’t even want to talk about having to poop at least once a day, if not more. Are you ready for that kind of bathroom commitment?”

“Seriously, that’s your argument?” the first brain-part said. “Health and hygiene? How about no more stares, or worrying about a limb falling off when speaking in public, or what about being just like the other seven billion people on the planet?”

“My point exactly,” the other brain-part said. “After this, we’ll be just like the other seven billion people on the planet.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out this stupid debate. “Stop it, please stop it!” I screamed.

I felt the straps loosen slightly. I opened my eyes and saw Dad fiddling with the clasp, trying to undo the top belt.

“Mr. Rivers, please, what are you doing?” Dr. Armendariz said, thrusting his arm between Dad and me.

“It’s clear my son has changed his mind,” Dad said. “He wants this stopped, so we’re done here.”

“Dad, wait a minute,” I said, failing to work free an arm so I could hug him.

I looked into his eyes and saw his truth. There was fear there, and sympathy. But mostly there was hope. Hope that this could change our family forever. Hope that I could lead a normal life.

Dad saw beyond today. He saw next week, next month, next year, next decade.

He saw what was best for me.

“It’s OK,” I said. “Just nerves. I’m sorry.”

I leaned my head back and lay still. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

He patted my shoulder and walked off stage.

So we were doing this.

Dr. Armendariz slowly reached into the left inside pocket of his lab coat, and with a flourish, revealed a large syringe filled with a clear fluid.

“Substance Z,” he announced. “The secret ingredient. One step closer to ridding … er, curing, the world of the undead.”

He popped off the plastic cap with his thumb and flicked the syringe with his fingers, creating tiny bubbles at the top.

“I will inject the contents into our subject’s heart, where his cardiovascular system will deliver it to the rest of his body,” Dr. Armendariz continued.

Joke’s on you
, I thought.
I’m cardiovascularly challenged. The stuff is going to stay right where you inject it
.

“Normally it would take hours for Substance Z to spread through our subject’s body, based on his damaged cardiovascular system,” the doctor explained. “But nerves, as well as the properties in Substance Z, will have the heart pumping at several times the normal rate. It should take no longer than a few minutes.”

He was right. Ever since he’d strapped me in, my heart rate had gone up. It was thumping as fast as six, seven times a minute.

“Once Substance Z is distributed, it will bond on a cellular level with our subject’s zombie DNA. The last step involves enveloping his body in an electromagnetic field. The chemical reactions will alter his biopolymer sequencing to a point where macrocellular strands will undergo a metamorphosis in which nucleotides shed original genetic coding.

“In other words, he will transform from the undead to the alive before your very eyes.”

I tried to relax as Dr. Armendariz approached. I knew if I could slow my heartbeat to its normal pace, my blood pressure would be below what was needed to circulate Substance Z through my body.

I focused on the light above me. Deep, unnecessary breaths. One, two, three.

My heart slowed. A beat here, another there.

A steady beep interrupted my thoughts.

“Seems we have a problem,” I heard Dr. Armendariz said. “Blood pressure falling below necessary parameters.”

I turned to see him flicking a gauge, a red light pulsing below it.

This was going to work. Until I saw what was in his other hand.

A needle.

“Ah, there we go,” Dr. Armendariz said as the beeping stopped. He turned toward me, a smile curling his lips. “Back to abnormal.”

He hovered above, placing the tip of the needle against my chest.

“Be still,” he said. “Normally I’d warn you about a feeling a mild prick and pressure, but I’m pretty sure
you
won’t feel a thing.”

He was right. I didn’t flinch as the needle disappeared into my chest, and felt nothing as Dr. Armendariz pressed the plunger, the liquid vanishing into my heart.

“And that is that,” he said, putting the syringe on the metal table. “We’ll wait a few minutes and continue with the final stage.”

I tried to slow my heart one more time, even if just to postpone the inevitable.

Rainbows. Misty clouds. Puppies. Walking along a deserted street in a post-apocalyptic, zombie-riddled wasteland with no one left to point a gun at any undead head.

No use. The thumps came closer and closer together.

A warmth spread through my chest, along my arms, down my legs. It was almost comforting.

Almost.

I felt a nudge, and the audience slowly moved back, getting farther away.

No, I was getting farther away. I tilted my head back as far as it would go.

Dr. Armendariz wheeled me between the two posts of his electromagnetic machine.

No turning back now. It was for the best.

“Even as I speak, Substance Z is flowing through our subject’s body, bonding with the very substance—a liquid he calls Ooze—that makes him so very different,” Dr. Armendariz said, spitting out ”different” as if it were a bad thing.

But was it?

Squeaking wheels and clanking metal told me what was next. Turning my head toward the noise, I saw Dr. Armendariz pushing the console to the front of the stage, cords snaking from the back of the mechanical box.

“Notice the towers on either side of our subject that will emit a precise electromagnetic field,” Dr. Armendariz explained to the audience. “Imagine a field of loose threads. Pick up a handful, and they will cling to those threads near them, but the connection is weak. Almost fluid.

“Now imagine a giant loom taking those threads and weaving them tightly together. The threats unite to become a towel. Or a blanket. No, a rug. Yes, a thick, sturdy rug, as the Navajos might weave.

“Our subject now is nothing but loose threads of Substance Z and Ooze. But as soon as I press this button, the weaving begins. Those threads connect and form an impenetrable zombie-free bond. When it is over, our subject will be just like you and I, his condition cured.”

Condition? Cured?
Really?

My thoughts flew back to the day I’d tried to explain to Mom and Dad that being a zombie wasn’t a
condition
I had. It was
who
I was. From the second I was born to now, it was what set me apart. What made me stand out in a crowd. And it was only when I embraced who I was that my life improved.

I’d severed a finger to spray fake zombie blood on Robbie, making the bully scream like a little girl.

I was a surprising athlete, dislocating joints in ways that made me almost impossible to tackle, and helping the seventh graders beat the eighth graders in football the first time since forever.

I fell in absolute and total like with a girl who liked me for who I was. And what I was.

And I’d made a zombie dog.
A zombie dog.
And he’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

Can a normal person do that?

Dr. Armendariz raised his arm over his head, one finger extended. Forever the showman.

“And now,” he said, lowering his arm, “we begin.”

A rectangle of light to the right pierced the gloom. Someone had opened the door, the shaft of sunlight disappearing as the door clicked shut. Apparently someone had had enough. Was it the stranger in denim?

The answer came soon enough.

“Jed?” said a voice near the door.

No, not someone leaving. Someone entering. Someone familiar.

Very familiar. But it couldn’t be.

The person who could not possibly be here spoke again. “I’m too late, aren’t I?”

I lifted my head up, peering through the spotlight.

“Anna?”

Was it really her? Or just my hopes trying to convince me?

“Anna, is that you? Please help—”

A burning down my spine froze me in mid-sentence, words stuck in my throat. My whole body stiffened, and the buzz of a thousand bees filled my head.

The pain slowly ebbed, as did the buzzing. But the warmth I’d felt initially started up again.

Threads. The loom. Muscle fibers stretching, reaching, binding.

No, this isn’t what I wanted.

I want to be who I am. Who I’ve always been.

Dead Jed.

“Anna,” I choked out. “Anna.”

Footsteps, a thump of rubber landing on wood, and there she was. Anna, in person.

Beautiful Anna.

She stroked my hair, her other hand squeezed my shoulder. “Jed, are you sure this is what you want? Because, because …”

I knew what she wanted to say. Please say it, Anna. Please. I want to hear it once.

At least once before I lose myself.

“I don’t know how to say this other than to just say it. Jed, I—”

Lightning streaked from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I couldn’t bear the pain much longer.

But it would be over soon. I sensed muscles continuing to weave.

“Stop … it,” I spat.

“You want me to stop, to go away?” Anna said.

“No … stop … this.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

My eyes struggled to follow Anna as she approached Dr. Armendariz, who seemed too stunned to react.

“Is this the off button, doc?” Anna reached for the same red button when Dr. Armendariz caught her by both wrists and tossed her aside.

Bad move, doc
, I thought.

Anna jumped to her feet and charged, lowering her head and hitting him square in the stomach. The two tumbled off the stage and out of view.

Dad rushed out but was tackled by one of Dr. Armendariz’s assistants. Spike lunged at another assistant, landing a solid right hook to the guy’s stomach, and the thug didn’t even flinch.

Luke, wait, where was Luke? And Marisa and Ryan?

There was the sound of bone on flesh, and a patented high-pitched Dr. Armendariz scream.

The audience cheered. “She’s doing what we’ve all wanted to do to him,” one said.

Another flood of pain washed away the scene. Muscles continued to stretch and change.

Sandpaper rubbed across my right knuckles.

Tread. My faithful dog had jumped on the bed. He sat as if waiting for orders.

Through fog, I knew what to do.

Squirming a bit, I realized Anna had loosened the straps enough for me to move my arms, but not enough to free them. No matter. I grasped my right wrist and pulled.

It resisted, an odd feeling for a body part I could usually pop off like a champagne cork. I twisted, pulled, twisted, pulled. Fibers snapped and tore, but it was loose. Another twist and pull and I’d—

A wildfire raced down my arms and legs. By the time the pain faded I was so tired. Maybe some rest would do me good. Just a few seconds. No more than a minute.

“Jed, I’m coming.” Anna’s head poked over the edge of the stage, followed by an arm. But then she was gone, as if sucked down by a vacuum.

I knew two things. Anna wasn’t going to give up, and Dr. Armendariz was going to require medical assistance very soon.

I refocused on my right hand. I squeezed the wrist and pulled, knowing if I had veins capable of popping on my neck and forehead, my face would look like a roadmap.

With a loud crack it came free and flew across the stage, skittering to a halt next to the machine and its red button.

Perfect.

“Tread, fetch!”

He leaped off the bed and rushed to the limb, just like the usual “get the body part” game we loved to play. Normally Tread would lift the errant limb, gently so as not to puncture it with his zombie teeth, and bring it to me.

This time the rules had changed. I needed precision to pull this off, and was hoping my dog and I could work as the perfect team.

Tread plucked the hand from the ground, as usual. Now for something completely different.

“Stay!” I ordered. “Sit.”

I blocked out everything else going on. Anna’s fight with (and likely pummeling of) Dr. Armendariz. Dad and Spike wrestling assistants who were half their ages. Luke, Marisa, and Ryan doing, well, I had no idea what.

Tread looked at me, my hand gripped firmly in his mouth. My curled fingers were inches from the red button.

I focused, just as I did when I’d controlled my disembodied arm to reach the keys to free Tread. But there was so much at stake then. What about now?