Return of the Jed Read Online Free PDF Page A

words.
    “Oh my God, do people live here?” Luke added as he climbed out of the van. “If so, why? Some sort of evil punishment?”
    “First, it’s just a little heat and why Mother Nature gave you sweat glands,” Dad said, joining Luke and me at the front of the van. “Second, I realize your proficiency in profanity grew exponentially during your time in seventh grade—”
    “Whoa, check out Professor Big Words,” I whispered to Luke.
    “—but neither of you are mature enough to safely wield such vocabulary, so keep it to yourselves. And thirdly, let’s get inside because it is hotter than a—”
    He stopped, and I mentally filled in the same word Luke had used just a few seconds ago. I exchanged smiles with Luke, knowing he was thinking the exact same word.
    I reached into the back and undid the latches on Tread’s crate, being sure to clip on his leash before he leapt out of the van. For a split second I worried about his paws on the hot gravel, but if he was half the zombie I was, his flesh wasn’t going to be affected by something as minor as scorching ground. But it was still way too hot to keep him in the van. I’d definitely hear from the SPCUA (the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Undead Animals), if such a thing existed.
    Tread pulled me toward the restaurant’s porch. Despite seeing no signs that said “Zombie animals prohibited,” I tied Tread to a convenient hitching post, an addition that didn’t seem odd at all, making a mental note to grab a table by the window so I could keep an eye on him.
    Once I made sure his leash was secure, I peered through the window. I thought a fog had moved into the diner before realizing it was a visual effect created by the glass and its fine coat of grease mist.
    “Hope you guys are hungry,” Dad said as he steered me toward the door.
    “You’d have to be pretty dang hungry to want to eat here,” I said.
    “Speak for yourself,” Luke said. “Look at the windows. It takes years of quality frying for that kind of buildup. I’m in.”
    Dad turned the dull brass knob that probably lost its metallic sheen by the time the U.S. landed a man on the moon (July 21, 1969, baby; who has two thumbs most of the time and paid attention in history? This guy). As he pulled open the door, a horrible squeak came forth just like in a thousand horror movies.
    And all eyes were on us. Four bikers in the corner, in leather vests that probably had skulls on them. Three men at the counter, wearing jeans and cowboy hats. Two old guys at a table, wearing fishing hats, plaid shorts, thigh-high black socks, and sandals. The server stood behind the counter wearing a pink dress with a wide black belt. I couldn’t read her nametag, but I’m sure it read “Blanche” or “Alice” or “Molly,” or some other waitress-appropriate name. And I was sure she called everybody “Sweetie.”
    The whole place reeked of stereotypes. So why not join them?
    I hunched over, put my arms in front of me, and relaxed my face for the classic, and expressionless, zombie stare.
    I took one lurch forward. Another.
    “Brains,” I muttered. Another step and half stumble.
    I was louder this time. “Braaaiiinnnsssss.”
    I snapped my head up, locked stares with Brenda or Mabel. Slowly tilted my head.
    My voice bounced off the tiles and linoleum. “Brrrraaaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsss!”
    “I can see if we have any left, but I’m going to be honest, rude behavior is not going to get you very far here,” Polly or Bertha said. “Take a seat anywhere, and I’ll be right with you.”
    Putting my arms down and snapping out of undead mode, I noticed everyone had gone back to their own business, chatting and such.
    “Troy, another coffee?” asked Ethel or Janice.
    One of the bikers answered. “Thanks, Elena, I’m good for now.”
    Troy? For a biker? And Elena? What was she doing calling people by their real names instead of insincere endearments? Where were the “Sweeties” and “Hons”?
    What