Return of the Jed (17 page)

I looked up to see where I was and spied a clock tower that appeared as if by magic between two glass high-rises. It screamed history and culture, both of which I sought. I veered left between two taxis and set off toward it.

I imagined what it had been like when workers built that tower. “Excuse me, do you know the time?” “Sure, just let me check the clock tower, I should be back in a few days.”

Thanks to smartphones and smartwatches, you couldn’t get away from time. Which reminded me. What time was it?

I dug into my right pocket, fingers reaching around my phone, tugging it, dang, a pretty tight fit when you’re on a bike, almost got it—

I glanced up and saw nothing but bus.

Metal, glass, and rubber filled the horizon. The air filled with diesel-tainted death.

My life flashed before my eyes, filled with trash cans and lost limbs and bullies. Really, brain, that’s what you remember most? Anna and Luke and Tread flickered by, reminding me why life was worth being undead for.

With my right hand stuck solidly in my pocket, I pushed my left hand forward, the bike twisting out from underneath me. For one second, maybe even two, I flew through the air. Super Jed, able to soar high over handlebars, but way slower than a bus.

My flight came to an abrupt end when I found out even a man of steel is no match for a wall of metal.

I slammed into the side of the bus, the left side of my face crumpling on impact. The rest of me quickly followed as my body reported for roll call.

Collarbone? “Whack!”

Elbow? “Snap!”

Hips? “Thwam!”

Knee? “Crack!”

Ankle? Ankle? Last call for—

“Whap!”

All reported for duty, keeping me in one piece. Not so for my bike. As my body went from fifteen miles per hour to zero in seconds, my bike sacrificed itself to the bus gods, diving under the chassis to be eaten by a massive tire.

Goodbye bike, you served me well. Your time with me was brief but appreciated. I will miss you until I arrange for another one.

I had no idea the fate of my bike when I came to, woken by the screams of a man in a bus driver’s uniform.

I understood “
estupido
,” The rest went right by me, but I knew it included some of Spanish’s more colorful words.

Let’s see, I was heading toward a clock tower, checked the time, bus, slam. That accounted for the ring of faces floating above me, and the one yelling at me.

Two words pierced through the fog.

“You OK?”

I scanned for the mouth responsible. Men and women in suits, a handful in jeans. My gaze stopped on a white leather jacket studded with gold beads.

“That looked like it hurt,” white-leather-jacket guy said. I held up my right arm toward him, hoping for a lift to my feet.

Screams, followed by retreating footsteps. One man vomited into a trash can. Surely they’d seen someone hit by a bus before, especially with these complicated traffic patterns.

I shook my arm, a silent plea to be pulled to my feet. I felt an odd flapping.

I focused on my arm, and everything fell into place. The screams, the running, the public vomiting.

Next to me, the bus pulled away in a puff of exhaust, the driver obviously having better things to do than wait around for paramedics. Then again, I was a zombie in a strange land. This was not the time to make a big deal out what was sure to be a minor injury.

Sure enough, my right arm looked like a twig snapped in the middle. It folded back on itself at the elbow, bone stretching the skin taut and very close to breaking through.

On the Zombie Injury Scale it rated a three, worse than the time I punctured my stomach when Luke dared me to swallow a sword (spicy food gave me heartburn for a few weeks), but not as bad as losing the limb. At least I didn’t have to go looking for a missing body part, always a plus.

I sat up and seized my right wrist, twisting it back and forth until I felt the elbow joint pop into place. It would take a few hours before it was good as new. If only someone would invent screw-in joints. Life would be so much simpler.

“I thought for sure you needed an ambulance, but now I’m not so sure. Either way, we need to get you out of the street.”

White-leather-jacket guy scooped me up as if I weighed as much as the lingering diesel smoke. He carried me to the sidewalk where I saw the metal sculpture that used to be my bike. Nice to know someone had cared more about getting my bike to safety than me.

He lowered me gently and took a step back, allowing me a better look at my Good Samaritan.

Holy crap, he was big. You could fit three of me in his jacket and have room left over for a Tread or two. His biceps were the size of the average man’s thighs, and his thighs were the size of the average man’s waist, yet his waist remained the size of an average man’s waist. A strange look, but he pulled it off.

A thick black beard and moustache covered the kind of features women swooned over—sculpted chin, dark eyes, and a unibrow that complemented the look. But his flowing bleached-blond hair tied into a ponytail made him stand out.

He intentionally stood out, a man who craved attention. And looking at those passing by, he was successful.

“Thanks,” I said, putting out my slightly drooping right arm.

“My pleasure,” he said, staring at the arm that had been offered to him. He put out his left. “If you don’t mind.”

My left hand disappeared within his fist, and I braced for a squeeze that could leave me handless. Fortunately, it was a firm grasp and nothing more as we shook.

“I’m Mendoza,” he said, adding, “Just Mendoza.” As if anticipating my next question.

“Jed Rivers.” I said. “Just Jed Rivers.”

He smiled. Sense of humor, check.

“You have to be careful when you’re riding through traffic like that,” Mendoza said. ”Especially of buses. Fortunately they are big enough that most people see them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, glancing at my bike. Mendoza followed my gaze.

“I’m afraid you must seek another mode of transportation. Something with a little more protection. Maybe even an airbag.”

He turned back to me. “Mind if ask you a personal question?”

“Not at all.”

“That thing with your arm. How did you do that?”

Mendoza clearly enjoyed meeting new people, but how might he feel meeting new zombies?

“That happens all the time,” I said. “Double jointed. Goes in and out.”

“Really? I’ve never seen anything like it. Perhaps I should take you to a hospital, just to get it checked out.”

The last time I was in a hospital, it involved a team of doctors and more probes than I could count. I was a little kid, but I could count pretty high for my age.

“No, that’s not necessary. Watch.” I gripped my right wrist, twisting and pulling to pop it out of joint. I let go, my forearm flopping loosely like a fish gasping for air.

“Wait, there’s more,” I said, lifting the forearm and snapping it into place as if I had been doing it all my life and thinking,
Please don’t make me do that again, I am not a mannequin.

“That’s quite a trick,” Mendoza said. “Tell me, my friend. Have you ever heard of
lucha libre
?”

As a matter of fact, I had from a nice woman working at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. I had a strong feeling I was going to hear much more.

As I listened to the phone ring on the other end, I hoped I’d get the answers to my two most important questions. Was
lucha libre
dangerous, and were fans OK with the occasional dismemberment?

Mendoza had his own answers, which were “no” and “yes.” After the bus-defeats-zombie incident, he took me to a nearby coffeehouse and spent an hour trying to convince me to join his traveling troupe of wrestlers.

He would have only needed a half-hour if not for the steady stream of people taking photos and asking for his autograph. I turned when he signed body parts not normally exposed to sunlight. Mendoza was a popular guy, and clearly not just for his unique look.

“This fame can be yours too, Jed,” he said as he handed me his business card. “It’s fairly simple as long as you follow the script. Sometimes you’ll win, sometimes you’ll lose, sometimes you’ll be carried off on a stretcher.”

“That last one?” I said. “Not crazy about it.”

“The stretcher would be in the script too. A dramatic exit that has nothing to do with any real injuries.”

“I have to ask my dad,” I said, knowing there was no way I was going to ask Dad, “Mr. Put on a jacket or you’ll catch cold.” As if a zombie could provide a decent home for viral particles.

“Of course,” Mendoza said. “I’d have it no other way. He should come to a bout so he’d know exactly what you’re signing up for.”

I shook his hand and promised to call soon. But I needed to talk to someone else first.

After informing the bike shop of my rental’s demise, and being assured I could come by anytime to pay for it (which would require a loan from the Bank of Dad), I walked back to the hotel and told Luke all about the accident and Mendoza. Getting exactly the reaction I expected, I knew I needed a second opinion, so I sat in my room and punched in a familiar number.

I heard a click and then a familiar, if unexpected, voice. “Jed, is everything OK? What’s wrong?”

“Marisa—”

“Did you lose another limb? Should I get off the line so you can call 911? Only it’s not 911, it’s 060—”

“Marisa—”

“—or did roving anti-chupacabra squads use their chupacabra detectors and find Tread?”

“Mari— wait, what? I thought those were all in my mind.”

Her reaction was mostly my fault. We’d exchanged texts over the past few weeks. I let her know I was OK, and she let me know all was quiet on the border, almost as if the Tread incident had never happened. We both wondered aloud (in texts) why the police didn’t pursue us further, but the one time I asked Marisa if her father might have had something to do with it, I’d received a two-word response—“No idea.”

I also promised that if I ever got into major trouble, I’d call. I’d forgotten that when I punched in her number.

“Is it Luke?” Marisa asked, her voice even more frantic. “Did he finally eat something he couldn’t digest? Did it fight back?”

“Marisa, relax, everything is OK, I promise. I just had a question.”

A deep breath on the other end. “Dang it, Jed, as soon as your name came up on my phone, my heart started racing. But you wouldn’t know anything about that feeling, would you?”

“That is a very zombie-ist thing to say, and I’m hurt.”

“No, you’re not. OK, I think my heart is returning to normal. So, how is everything in beautiful Guadalajara?”

“Pretty good,” I said. “A bit warm. People seem fairly undead-friendly. No one has tried to shoot me in the head. Then again, I haven’t lumbered after anyone while screaming for brains.”

“That’s a good balance. So what’s your question?”

Marisa listened quietly as I told her about meeting Mendoza (leaving out the bus accident, of course), our chat, and his offer of a position on his team. “So, is
lucha libre
safe?”

“Let’s see, men and women in masks and costumes throwing one another over the top rope and onto hard surfaces. How in the world could anybody think
lucha libre
is the slightest bit safe?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” I said, knowing I was never going to ask her my question about dismemberment.

“What did your dad say when you asked him about joining?”

“He said I could do whatever I want,” I lied.

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah, pretty much. Mendoza said it’s safe, that everything is done by a script. He said no one gets hurt because no one can afford the medical bills.”

My explanation was met with (un)dead air. I waited, picturing Marisa shaking her head and thinking I was absolutely mindless to even consider the possibility of being near extremely large men intending to do me harm.

“Here’s the thing, Jed,” Marisa finally said. “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind. You didn’t call me for a question. You called me for reassurance.”

“Not at all.”

“Really? Because here’s what I think. You talked to Luke—”

I had.

“—and he thought it was awesome—”

He did.

“—before asking you if they serve free food at the matches.”

He had.

“You also knew exactly how Luke would react, and thus his opinion was meaningless, if not a little scary. Am I right so far?”

“In a way.”

“In a way that’s uncanny, how right I am. Don’t even try to argue.”

Marisa was correct in every aspect. I knew Luke couldn’t be trusted for good advice. Marisa, on the other hand, was not only smart, but she knew Mexico pretty well. I honestly thought she’d give it some thought before rendering a very anti-
lucha libre
verdict.

This time I was the one who took a deep breath, which was not an easy thing to do with lungs that had long since collapsed due to lack of work.

“You want honesty, here it is,” I said. “I’ve been thrown in trash cans, stuffed in lockers, and once locked in a display case so more people could enjoy my humiliation. All of this happened to me not because of
who
I am, but because of
what
I am.