Return of the Jed (22 page)

“Dude, you might want to say something before decloaking like that,” Luke said.

“Sorry, I have a habit of sneaking up on people,” he said. “Not my intention.”

He put the clipboard on a chair and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Armendariz. Yolo Armendariz. And what if I were to tell you that not only do I have an idea, but I’ve seen a case like this before?”

“I’d say my medical expertise is probably better than yours,” Luke said, “because I know for a fact there are no cases like this outside of various movies. And even they got it wrong when it comes to brain-eating.”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Armendariz said. “But what if I were to offer you proof of such a case?”

He held up the test tube and waggled it. The oily fluid inside coated the glass, and it looked vaguely familiar.

No, it couldn’t be.

Dad looked at the tube, then at me. He knew as well.

When I was ten, Dad and I decided to do an experiment. He took me to a batting cage, put a helmet on my head and a bat in my hand, and positioned me at the plate. Most kids would think it was the start of a great father-son outing, but I was terrified.

First, I hated projectiles traveling toward me at a high rate of speed. That was why I’d hated baseball and quit Little League after just one pitch. Dad thought it was because I didn’t give baseball a fair chance. Luke thought it went back to a primal zombie fear of being shot in the head.

I just knew projectiles hurled toward me at high velocity made me extremely nervous. And when I got nervous, I Oozed.

Dad knew he just as easily could have twisted off my hand and collected the Ooze that gathered at the point of separation, but he thought it less cruel to take me to a batting cage for our experiment, which required Ooze.

It worked. Within five minutes, we had a few ounces worth. Over the next few hours, we microwaved it, baked it, froze it, and blended it. We even put a few drops on a steak, just to see how it would react to flesh not my own. Dad actually made us stand back a few feet, in case the T-bone started to moo.

Through it all, it remained Ooze. It didn’t heat, it didn’t freeze, it didn’t ignite. It reacted to absolutely nothing, and was as dormant as Luke around vegetables.

By the time we were done, we’d learned how to spot Ooze pretty easily. Even though some substances resembled Ooze—baby oil, for one—we had a knack for knowing Ooze when we saw it.

We could be fooled, but certainty settled over us when Dr. Armendariz held up the tube. It sure didn’t look like baby oil.

“You recognize this then,” he said. “Good, that saves us all the ‘That can’t be what I think it is, prove it’ time.”

Dr. Armendariz grabbed my sheet and tore it off the bed, motioning me to get up. “You’ve not only been discharged,” he said, “the records have been destroyed. It’s as if you’ve never been here. Now get dressed and come with me to my office.”

“Hold on, Dr. Armenhammer,” Dad said. “If you think you can just tell us what to do without any explanation—”

“I will explain to you that a team of federal officials are on their way here now, very curious about a boy with detachable arms. It’s up to you. You can chat with them, or you can come with me, and I can tell you a very interesting story.”

Dad held out his hand. “Let me see it close-up. I need to know for sure.”

Dr. Armendariz stepped back, but Dad grabbed the doctor’s wrist. He wrestled the tube out of the doctor’s grip and shoved the small man into the chair, breaking the clipboard with a snap.

Dad held the tube to the light and told me to get dressed. My left arm slowed me down since it was at about seventy percent efficiency and still tingling. I pulled my clothes from the plastic bag on the counter, put them on, and joined Dad.

“You want to touch it?” Dad asked, though it was more an order. He removed the tube’s rubber stopper.

“Yeah, let’s make sure,” I said.

Placing my left index finger on the top of the tube, I tilted it with my right and watched the liquid ooze along the glass (and that’s why I’ve always called it Ooze).

My skin tingled as soon as the liquid made contact. It seemed to be Ooze, but my skin also tingled when I dipped my fingers in syrup and honey, because that’s how much I loved syrup and honey. Besides, I had a hard time believing this was the one true Ooze, knowing I was its only source. My surprised reaction told Dad what he needed to know.

“So we may have the genuine stuff?” Dad said. “Maybe we should follow Dr. Armendangerous out of here. If it’s what it appears, we’re going to have a lot of questions.”

“Good,” Dr. Armendariz said, rising and picking up the pieces of his clipboard. “My office is not too far from here.”

“Wait, what about Mendoza?” I said. “And Tread? Luke left him outside.”

“Mr. Mendoza has been informed all is fine, and that you are on your way home soon with your father,” Dr. Armendariz said. “Tread is safe, in my office, waiting for us. I … anticipated … your decision.”

I didn’t like the way this was going, but I knew we didn’t have a choice.

“Do I get a vote?” Luke said.

“No!” the three of us said at once.

“I was just going to ask if we could stop for some
agua fresca
on the way, geez.”

“There happens to be a bodega on the way,” Dr. Armendariz said. “We’ll give you a few minutes. Besides, we can all probably use something refreshing. Now,” he turned to Dad, “if I may have my property back.”

“Not just yet,” Dad said in the kind of testosterone-fueled voice he only used when sending me to my room. It was cool hearing it used on an adult.

“Fine, let’s go,” Dr. Armendariz said. “I am sure once I explain everything, you will be happy to leave it with me.”

He was wrong.

Undead wrong.

“How do they get all that amazing meat taste into one sixteen-point-nine ounce bottle?” Luke said, draining the last of an
agua fresca
the color of a prairie tornado.

“You don’t want the details,” Dr. Armendariz answered. “Because once you find out, you can never un-know it. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

I was perched on the edge of an exam table in a room roughly the same color of the just-consumed
agua fresca
. Anatomy posters covered the walls, most picturing what can go wrong if you wait a year to have a doctor look at that odd lump or tiny bite. Tread slept in a corner, making me feel a little better about being here.

I just didn’t like the way the skeleton was looking at me with his creepy glass eyeballs. I’d gaze right back, but how do you win a staring contest against an opponent that is eyelid-challenged?

“May I introduce you to Mrs. Skellerton,” Dr. Armendariz said, noticing my interest.

“Clever name,” Dad said.

“What do you mean?” the doctor said. “Maxine Skellerton donated her body to science. And do not believe the stories that we may have collected a bit too early.”

Luke looked away from a poster showing the most surprising areas insects have laid eggs in the human body. “I haven’t heard those stories, but I want to now,” he said.

“I am kidding, of course,” Dr. Armendariz said. “But please, let’s get down to business. I am sure you have many questions.”

I’d thought of at least a dozen as we walked the four blocks from the hospital. Disappointment sank in when we entered the medical building housing the doctor’s office. I was expecting something darker, drearier, befitting a mad scientist. Because that’s how Dr. Armendariz struck me. How else could he have come across Ooze, if that truly was Ooze, what with me being the world’s only supplier and never having donated any?

The most obvious question was my first to the doctor. “Where did you get that test tube?”

“From a leading medical supply store,” he answered.

This was like dealing with Luke, only an older and shorter version.

“No, where did you get what’s
in
the test tube?” Dad said, patting his left pocket where he’d put it.

“Ah, of course,” Dr. Armendariz said. “That makes much more sense. Though if you want to know more about the best deals on test tubes, I’d be happy to fill you in.”

“Can you just buy one, or do you have to order an entire case?” Luke said. “Because it would be nice to have a test tube on hand—”

“Luke!” I stopped him. “Please?”

“Sorry, dude.”

Dad and I stared at the doctor, waiting for an answer.

“It happened a few years ago,” Dr. Armendariz began, settling on a wheeled stool. “A gentleman came to see me after hearing of my work in an alternative field of medicine.”

“Alternative field?” Dad asked.

“Yes. Longevity. I focused on ways to keep people alive much longer.”

“That doesn’t sound so alternative,” Dad said. “In fact, that sounds like every late-night infomercial I’ve ever seen.”

“Let me be more specific.” Dr. Armendariz thrust his legs forward, the stool squealing as it rolled into a medical cabinet, jostling the bottles and instruments inside. “Oil.”

“What?” I asked. “Oil? Not Ooze?”

“Ooze for the squeaky wheels on this stool? Oil is the more preferred material for lubrication. Time-tested and such. Nor am I aware of what sort of ooze you’re talking about, nor what it oozed from.”

That’s right, the good doctor had no idea what I was talking about. I called it Ooze, but who knew what he might have named it. Assuming he really had authentic Ooze.

“Never mind,” I said. “What were you saying about being more specific?”

“Yes, my specialty. It’s not just living longer, it’s about a refusal to accept death.”

“Like pretending not to be home when the Grim Reaper knocks?” Luke asked. “When I see some guy holding a clipboard coming up the walk, and I don’t want whatever he’s selling, I turn down the TV and wait him out. It takes fifteen minutes sometimes, but he always gives up.”

“No, not like that at all,” Dr. Armendariz said, exasperation in his voice.

“So then not going toward the light,” Luke continued. “Instead you take the door marked ‘More life.’”

“Do you really think it’s that simple?” Dr. Armendariz lowered his face into his hands and rubbed his temples.

“I kind of do,” Luke said. “But I’ll admit the Grim Reaper is probably way more patient than the water-treatment salesman, and a vortex might suck you toward the light.”

“It is much more complicated,” Dr. Armendariz said, lifting his head to look at the ceiling. “If you only knew.”

“Tell us,” I said. “Please. Before Luke opens his mouth again.”

The doctor leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, still staring at Luke as if daring my best friend to interrupt.

“Death does not have to be an end,” he said. “Consider it intermission, leading to the next act. What I am talking about is …”

He paused for effect.

And waited.

Still waited.

He’s waiting for the dramatic music
, I thought.
The suspenseful chords that signal a shocking revelation
.

Luke started to say something, but thankfully, Dr. Armendariz cut him off at the verbal pass.

“Reanimation,” he said. “Bringing dead tissue back to life.”

“You mean like in the movie
Re-Animator,
where the mad scientist injects dead people, and they go all evil.” Luke again. You can’t stop him. You can only hope to contain him.

“First, that movie is totally age inappropriate for you,” Dr. Armendariz said. “Secondly, it’s nothing but Hollywood rubbish.”

I knew all about Hollywood rubbish. In all the movies of the undead, I’d never seen a zombie spend all night studying for a math test. Or celebrate after bowling a one hundred and eighty-seven. Or pick up after a zombie dog who had done his duty under a thorny bush on a really hot day.

But the second I start shuffling and moaning, just because I’m tired, everybody’s arming themselves and talking about the zombie apocalypse.

Still, I couldn’t imagine reanimation without thinking of the movie Luke mentioned. We’d watched it almost a year ago when his parents were out, since they’d have a fit if we streamed an R-rated movie.