Return of the Jed (29 page)

“Dude, we either died and are being punished for starting that one food fight, or somehow we’ve stepped into a parallel universe.”

“Luke, for once, you may be absolutely right,” I said, though I was otherwise speechless as I took in a room I’d never been to and yet was so familiar.

From the pasty yellow walls to the rippled linoleum to the smell of tacos past, the room was a doppelganger for the Pine Hollow Middle School cafetorium, which had gone down in flames just a few months ago.

Dad, Tread, Luke, and I stood on the two-foot-high, curtainless stage as work went on around us, led by Dr. Armendariz and two of his associates.

Tables with built-in benches were pushed up against the wall, as they would be at Pine Hollow if the cafetorium hosted a dance. Or worse, one of the rainy-day massacres of seventh graders masquerading as dodge ball.

Two glass-free windows at the back revealed the kitchen, complete with huge pots and pans dangling behind the buffet table.

“I bet if we go back there, we’d see the Wheel of Meat,” Luke said. “But I don’t want to go back there because I’m afraid I’d see just that, and I’m already freaked out. This is a twisted version of the circle of life.”

Tread hopped off the stage and wandered around a floor that housed ghosts of stains past, a canine Disneyland. With his nose millimeters from the linoleum, Tread explored his little bit of doggie heaven, his tail wagging furiously.

Before the shot of Substance Z, the tail would have gone maybe a dozen wags before flying off. Now it shook strongly in place, no hint of the slightest tear. Since the upgrade a few days ago, Tread no longer chased his tail. With no reward, it probably seemed so futile.

Something appeared out of the corner of my eye, followed by a brush of my shoulder. “
Con su permiso
,” one of Dr. Armendariz’s assistants muttered as he stepped off the stage and pulled the wheeled tables from the wall, arranging them in rows.

He didn’t look all that much older than me. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. The doctor told us he’d bring “followers,” whatever those were. Maybe anyone older would know better than to trust him.

I shook that thought out of my mind. I’d worked hard the last twenty-four hours to convince myself this was the right thing—the inevitable thing—to do. I imagined myself on a narrow trail in the woods. With each step, vines quickly grew into the space I’d just vacated, erasing the previous footprint. I couldn’t see where the path ended, only that I had no choice but to continue.

I’d finally made my decision last night, waking Dad. As he hugged me, I expected a speech, something like, “Son, the right choice is rarely the easiest choice, and when faced with obstacles in life,” blah blah blah, something or other and so on.

But all he said was, “I have your back. Always.”

It was the best thing he’d ever told me.

Even though fear kept trying to reach around the barrier I’d put up, Dad’s words gave me the strength I needed.

Or so I thought until the four of us met Dr. Armendariz at
Colegio del Pinos
. We assumed two things. First, that Dr. Armendariz was one of the featured speakers at the conference hosted by the Bureau of Unexplained but Reasonable Phenomenon. Secondly, that
colegio
meant college.

Wrong on each count.

As Dad navigated the Man Van through the narrow streets of Guadalajara, we expected to soon see a vast college campus housing an auditorium filled with scholars of the paranormal (if those convinced of spirits and yetis and chupacabras could be considered scholars, and as a zombie I had no right to quibble).

Instead, we pulled into the parking lot of a public school, leading us to our first finding.
Colegio
means school.

The empty cafetorium—there is no suitable translation—informed us this was not the BURP conference. It was, Dr. Armendariz informed us, an “adjunct lecture” of the conference. Turned out the doctor’s beleaguered colleagues prohibited him from presenting at the actual meeting several blocks away, but told him he could put up a few flyers that morning and hope for the best.

That explained the blue signs we followed from the lot to the cafetorium. Each had an arrow pointing toward the Bureau of Unexplained but Reasonable Phenomenon’s Grand Adjunct Symposium, which was boiled down to its initials. No surprise it led to a kitchen.

When we arrived, Dr. Armendariz was setting up an odd contraption center stage. Two metal tubes about a foot wide and six feet tall were placed about four feet apart. Wires fed from the bottom of each to a large metal console filled with dials, lights, knobs, and switches. I wondered if the 1960s science fiction film it came from ever missed it.

A girl about fourteen or so was kneeling behind the console, plugging the multi-colored wires into numerous slots. Her hands moved quickly, indicating she was familiar with the very complicated setup.

Dr. Armendariz greeted us in a long white lab coat, its pocket crammed with a dozen markers.
Must be a mad scientist thing
, I thought,
with number of pens equal to the level of weirdness about to occur.

“Mr. Rivers, Jed, so nice to see you,” he said. “Even better that you decided to let me help you. This will be a remarkable day for all involved. Perhaps even more auspicious than the day I proved to the world the pyramids were built by an ancient time-traveling race who would later set up shop in a triangle off Bermuda.”

I nudged Dad and whispered, “Sounds like he’s getting his sci-fi movies confused.”

“He’s just joking, I’m sure,” Dad said.

I shut up, not really wanting to know.

The doctor excused himself to finish preparations, allowing me time to do the one thing I did not want to do.

Think.

I looked at my phone and saw there was still an hour to go before the symposium was to start.

The phone buzzed, and a text from Anna appeared.

Anna: Thinking about you. Hope you’re sure about this.

After telling Dad about my decision, I texted Anna. And like with Dad, I expected a series of text questioning what I was about to do. Instead all I received was:

Anna: I like you no matter what. And more.

The “And more” put a smile on my face bigger than the one I wore when she held my hand for the first time.

This was going to be OK. I knew it.

Luke and I wandered around as Tread followed the trail of a thousand tacos. Dad couldn’t take his eyes off the back of the space-age console because like all old guys, he loved gadgets, especially the ones he never would understand.

“We could help the guy roll out the tables,” I said.

“We could, but will we?” Luke said. “Nope. We don’t want to deprive him of his earning potential, since he’s probably getting paid by the hour.”

“If he’s getting paid at all.”

“True.”

Sunlight suddenly slashed across the floor, and Luke and I followed it to the source. Two, no, three figures were silhouetted in the doorway.

I put up my hands to shade my eyes as the shadows stepped in, the door closing behind them.

Even though I’d expected them to show up, I was still shocked.

“Well, don’t you look like a flea that just stumbled into a tick convention.”

Spike. It’d been weeks since I’d seen him, yet when Dr. Armendariz told me about his mysterious visitor who had supplied him with Substance Z, Spike instantly sprang to mind.

“You just going to stand there, or are you going to say hi to the folks who saved your zombie hide, thin as it may be?” Spike continued.

Marisa and Ryan stood on either side of Spike. I puzzled on how they knew each other, yet it struck me just as Spike introduced them.

“You know my daughter and son,” Spike said. “Go on kids, say hello to one of the coolest undead kids on the planet.”

My head reeled as it tried to accept the fact Marisa, Ryan, and Spike were family. Looking back it made sense, a connection that brought all of us together. Marisa and Ryan also spoke of a father who had connections and would know when a zombie dog was found crossing the border. A man with connections also would know how to get to that zombie dog if he wanted to.

Especially if he wanted someone else to, so he wouldn’t expose himself.

With all that spinning in my brain, it didn’t register Spike had said “
one
of the coolest undead kids” on the planet. But it would. Very soon.

I shook Marisa’s hand, then Ryan’s, as if we were all adults. Luke grasped Ryan’s hand, and Marisa leaned in for a hug. Luke held her just long enough to confirm what I already knew.

If only we weren’t leaving in a few days. Assuming Dr. Armendariz’s little experiment left me in three pieces or less.

Wait. I’d better be in one piece if he succeeded in erasing my undeadness.

“Ah,
Señor
Vasquez, you’ve made it,” Dr. Armendariz said, stepping off the stage. He gripped Spike’s hand and gave it several vigorous pumps.

But if he was shaking Spike’s hand, who the heck was
Señor
Vasquez?

“Doctor, so good to see you again,” Spike said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,
Señor
Vasquez. But well worth the wait, no?”

“Not at all, Dr. Armendariz.”

“Come, I want you to meet Jed’s father, a wonderful man who’s helped make this possible.” Dr. Armendariz took Spike by the elbow and led him away, but not before Spike looked back over his shoulder and shot me a wink.

I turned to Marisa, who remained close to Luke, explaining my best friend’s goofy smile. “
Señor
Vasquez? What was that all about? And what are you guys doing here?”

Marisa swiveled on her heels and headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s go talk,” she said.

Luke, Ryan, and I followed before she put out her hand. “Just Jed for now,” she said. She looked at Luke pleadingly. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, uh, fine,” Luke stammered. I didn’t recall him ever being at a loss for words.

Marisa and I continued through the door to the kitchen. She led me behind the buffet table to a row of stoves in the back, as far as we could go.

Something near the exit caught my eye. A large spinning wheel marked in alternating red and white wedges. Each section was labeled. Some I understood.
Frijoles
(beans).
Arroz con pollo
(chicken with rice).
Salsa
(salsa).

Others I didn’t understand.
Albondigas
and
menudo
for example. But one stood out, and not just because it was on most of the blue wedges.

“
Carne de Misterio
.”

That could only be one thing. I reached over, pinched the edge of the wheel, and yanked down. A plastic strip at the top slapped along the pegs until it came to a stop.

“Ah, ‘Mystery Meat,’ congratulations,” Marisa said. “That’s a favorite of
las señoras del almuerzo
.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The lunch ladies. The wheel is a proud Mexican tradition, and heavily weighted toward mystery meat, as you see.”

“All this time I thought we were the only ones who had a Wheel of Meat.”

“We?”

“My school. Pine Hollow. That wheel has Mystery Meat too.”

“This is called
Rueda de Delicias
, the Wheel of Delicacies. It has much more than just meat. Your school seems pretty single-minded when it comes to lunch.”

“I agree.” I paused, now very curious. “How do you know so much about Mexican school-cafeteria food?”

“We lived in Mexico for a few years,” she said. “Which is one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Mexico? I love Mexico. Even more now that I know you have a way better food wheel.”

“Not about Mexico. About what brought us to Mexico in the first place.”

“If you were anything like Luke, it would be for the tacos and
agua fresca
.”

“Luke’s a really cool guy, but no. It was a medical emergency, and the help we needed wasn’t available in the States. At least that’s what we thought. Until we met you.”

“I don’t understand. What do I have to do with a medical emergency? Because I don’t have them. I lose a limb, and it’s more a medical inconvenience.”

Marisa leaned against the stove, the appliance squeaking slightly as it accepted her weight. She put her head down. “My dad would kill me if he knew I was telling you this.”

“Telling me what?”

She inhaled, held it, and let it out slowly. “My brother’s a zombie.”

“Is that a metaphor? Like, ‘My mom’s from another planet?’ Because you could have chosen a better one, given my alternative lifestyle as a proud member of the undead. Especially if it’s a metaphor telling me Ryan isn’t all there.”

“No, not Ryan. My other brother. Robert.”

“You have a brother named Robert who’s a zombie?”

“Yeah. We call him Bob.”

“Bob the zombie.”

“Yes.”

“Bob zombie.” I laughed. “You’re joking.”

If I felt pain like a norm, a jolt of lightning would have lit up my cheek, right where it connected with Marisa’s fast-moving and deceptively powerful right fist. Thankfully after a few adjustments, I popped my jaw back into place, allowing me to form understandable words.