Return of the Jed

Scott Craven

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2015 by Scott Craven

DEAD JED 3: RETURN OF THE JED by Scott Craven

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Month9Books, LLC.

Cover illustration by design by Zach Schoenbaum. Cover design by Najla Qamber. Cover branding concept by Victoria Faye of Whit & Ware

Copyright © 2015 Month9Books

For mom and dad, whose gift to me was a childhood full of laughs and love. The best mom and dad a kid—living or undead—could have. “Thank you” will never be enough.

Scott Craven

I trusted Luke with my life. But with my arm, I wasn’t so sure.

“Dude, if you drop it, there goes my career as a professional basketball player,” I whispered. Luke strained against the bars, holding my left arm in his right hand, my disembodied fingertips just inches short of its goal.

“First, you don’t have a chance at becoming a professional anything involving sports because you suck at almost everything athletic, especially basketball,” Luke said. “Second, if you had a little more muscle, your arm would be a lot easier to hang onto. Now shut up and let me do this.”

Luke angled his body slightly and shoved his shoulder farther into the narrow gap between the bars. My fingers—which at this point were about eight feet away from me, so it was odd thinking of them as “my” fingers—closed in on the target.

Two inches away. One inch. A half-inch. So close.

Yet so far, because my middle finger was still a quarter-inch from the small metallic ring that held our prize.

We were lucky to get this far through a combination of inside information, a dad who was a very deep sleeper, and an unlocked window.

When Luke and I spotted what we were looking for in this small room at the end of the hall, we were shocked. The door was unlocked, as I’d been told, but swung open to reveal rusty iron bars, the kind you see in pirate movies when the hero is trying to pop an ancient padlock.

And yes, there it was, a huge rusty padlock locking it securely. Electronic locks with keycards were probably more secure, but nothing says “impenetrable” like iron bars and padlocks.

Past that gate, seven, maybe eight feet in and dangling on a nail on the opposite wall, was what we were looking for—a ring of keys, one of which would unlock the cell holding my best friend.

Or at least that’s what Luke and I were thinking. And if that turned out not to be the key we were looking for, I was going to be pretty unhappy about having allowed Luke the use of my arm to reach for it. Thank goodness my backpack carried all the supplies for reattachment surgery—staples and duct tape.

“Dude, I’m not sure this is going to work,” Luke said, pulling my arm back between the bars. “I overestimated your physical abilities. Again.”

“Sorry the arm I was born with didn’t measure up to your standards,” I snapped. “I should have checked the ‘Arms, extra long’ box when I was choosing my body. Oh, wait, then I could have checked the ‘Not a zombie’ box too, and you wouldn’t be able to pull my arm off to start with.”

Luke shook his head.

“I like your zombie ways,” he said with an edge to his voice. “You’re like an undead Swiss Army knife. When I need a limb, there you are. If we ever get lost in the wilderness, I’m going to rub your two legs together to start a fire.”

“Exactly, as if I came into this life in an undead state so you could use me in ways you see fit.” I nodded to the second arm he was holding. “Did you even ask before dismembering? Ripping off a limb without permission is a catastrophic breach of zombie etiquette.”

“Fine, whatever. You’re pretty touchy for a guy who uses acne medicine to cover up signs of decay.”

“At least I have a good reason to explain this face. There’s no explaining yours.”

Luke met my angry stare. “Geez, why so personal?”

Sometimes the zombie in me just came out. I could have eaten somebody’s brains right then.

“Why do you think?” I said. “Let me count the reasons. One, you just rip my arm off without so much as a ‘Thank you.’ Two, if we get caught, we’re in prison, and not just prison, but Mexican prison. Three, even if we’re not caught and we don’t get the right key, I lose my best friend. Four—”

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“Four,” I repeated, “this is the crappiest summer vacation ever, and it hasn’t even started.”

Luke turned around and went back to work, realizing I was in no mood to be talked down from the angry-zombie ledge.

I sat on the cold concrete in the darkness, lit only by the glow of moonlight bouncing through the row of high windows running the length of the hallway.

The only sound, besides Luke’s grunting—about his only bodily noise not accompanied by a rotten stench—was the smacking of tongues with the occasional snap of rawhide against teeth.

I could not see the dozen or so dogs who were happily snacking in the chain-link kennels lining each wall of this dark, dank canine prison. I was unsure of what offenses brought these furry inmates here, but most probably had to do with an expression of personal freedom, perhaps daring to go leashless in public.

But I did know the charges some of Mexican customs officials wanted to bring against my dog Tread, now known as the inmate in Kennel 206. Apparently it was against the law to bring in a mythical goat eating, soul-sucking beast without a license or other proper documentation.

Sentence? No idea at this point, but I’d bet it would be no less than a life behind chain-link, broken up by visits to doctors who take him apart piece by piece to see what makes him tick (hint, he doesn’t tick). Maybe they put him back together, maybe not. Mexican officials seemed to have some very strict anti-chupacabra laws, since it is a monster known to steal children and create other beast-related headaches in small towns.

Pushing to my feet, I walked back to Kennel 206, passing the few dogs still happy—and quiet—with their jumbo-sized rawhide bones, gifts from the two kids visiting during off-hours and more than willing to trade treats for silence.

This was more than a visit, of course. Luke and I were here to bust out one of the accused—the so-called chupacabra that I knew had never eaten a goat or stolen a child. He wasn’t even allowed out of the house without a leash, let alone loosed upon a countryside to wreak havoc.

“Tread, hang in there, boy,” I said, poking the fingers of my remaining arm through the gate. Tread stood, dropped the bone, and licked my fingers with his sandpapery tongue.

Tread hardly looked like a chupacabra, at least the ones that turned up on fuzzy YouTube videos. Those beasts had long snouts, thick shoulders, and coats that could definitely use quality time with shampoo and a sturdy brush.

Tread was smaller with a short, rounded muzzle and compact, sturdy body. Not so sturdy that he didn’t lose a limb when he cut too sharply, as he often did when chasing a goat (a stuffed one, which my dad could not resist buying when a few people had asked if Tread were a chupacabra). He did tend to lose fur in clumps, giving him a look that people could mistake for being chupacabra-ish. I hated when people mistook his forlorn appearance for demonic qualities. It was a wholly familiar feeling to me. Some students at Pine Hollow Middle School had even formed a group to spread rumors and lies about the undead. The No Zombies Now Network warned students the undead were capable of death and destruction, and should be avoided at all costs. As the school’s only zombie, I took it personally. Attitudes had changed when I pulled the founder of the NZN Network from a flaming cafetorium, saving his life and my reputation.