Tom Lichtenberg - Zombie Nights

“They say the fishing’s not like it used to be,” she said. Dave was startled by her voice, and flinched, quickly glanced around for a tree or a bench to slip behind, but there was none. She went on right away, with the same even tone.

“Of course, nothing’s like it used to be, am I right, or am I right, or am I right?,” and she chuckled softly. She paused for only a few moments before continuing.

“I like to watch it go. You wonder how it never ends. Where’s all the water come from anyway? Seems to go on forever, and why?”

“It’s what it does,” Dave spoke up. “It’s what it is.”

“You said a mouthful there,” Cookie nodded. “I am what I am, I know that much for sure. Name’s Cookie.”

Dave did not reply. He had turned to look at her, as she had turned to face him too. They were both in the dark — the other was barely more than a shadow — but there was a calmness each sensed in the other. The night felt good and slow. After a long pause, Cookie asked him what his name was. Dave paused before replying.

“Ed,” he told her. “Eddie.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Eddie.” She turned toward the river again for fear of scaring him off. Getting a name out of someone was often a nervous event. They might feel they had given away too much. The people she came across, all too often, had little else they possessed besides their identity. It became even more precious to them.

“I carry this big old sack around,” Cookie said. “Inside it there’s all sorts of things a person might need. You be needing anything, Eddie? Clothes? Food? Anything at all?”

“I’m okay,” Dave replied. “I don’t need.”

“There’s two kinds of people,” Cookie went on, as if used to that kind of answer. “Them that take and them that give. I’m the kind that gives. Are you?”

“Maybe,” Eddie said after thinking it over a bit. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’ve got a family?,” she asked. “Maybe you’ve got a job, a place to stay? You got somewhere? Some people?”

“I have a place,” he said. “I’m okay,” he repeated. Cookie nodded and considered for a while. She could only take a person at their word. She could offer, but she couldn’t force. At the same time, she was always on the look out for the other side, people who could help as well as people who needed help. Those were the two kinds of people she had in mind.

“If you’d like,” she said, “you could find out. What kind you are, I mean. We can always use a hand.”

“I don’t understand,” Dave told her. She was confusing him. He didn’t think she was dangerous but he didn’t know what she wanted, and she seemed to want something. Like all the humans, he thought, needing and wanting all the time.

“I like to go around at night,” she explained, “I look for people out here, people who are hungry, people who are cold. People who need a place to go or someone to talk to. I carry all this stuff just in case. I’ve got sweaters, coats, shoes. I’ve got bread and soup. You name it, I’ve probably got it. You could come around with me sometime if you wanted. I could show you. Then if you wanted to could help.”

“Oh,” Dave said. He didn’t know there were people who did that. He had seen the others and wondered. Why were they not inside their homes? Why were they huddled beneath the bridges? Why were they looking in the trash cans? He had thought that they were doing what they wanted to do. Maybe it wasn’t like that.

“I don’t know,” Dave said, and then added, to be polite, “I will think about it.”

“Do that,” Cookie said. “I’ve got to be on my way now. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon.”

“You too,” said Dave, and he watched as Cookie heaved up her giant sack and flung it across her back, then made her way across the grass, back onto the boulevard and down towards the city lights. He felt relieved to be alone again. The effort to talk that much had been tiring, but he also felt a longing to talk some more to that person, that she was like a path that he would like to follow.

He followed her at a distance, and she knew he was there but didn’t let on. She led him to the waterfront, where small groups gathered in makeshift shelters beneath the old abandoned docks. He watched as she pulled item after item out of her sack, and saw the smiles on the weary faces that greeted her. She had even brought little chew toys for the dogs of the homeless. She led him into the heart of the city, where she had talks with the girls on the corners, and with the boys outside the bars. She found people where he’d thought there were only bundles and rags in the alleys and the lots behind the high-rises. He became so engrossed in his pursuit that he lost all caution, he forgot to jump and hide at sudden movements, at lights and noises.

Her trail led them back to her headquarters, where he peered down inside the basement windows after she had entered, and saw the vast kitchen and the dining room in the dim light of nearly dawn. Then he returned to his uncle’s house, pondering over everything he had seen. The whole day he sat in his room and thought. He had many questions. He had seen nothing like that, read about nothing like that, knew nothing about it at all. It was as if he had discovered another planet, wrapped inside of this one and only visible in the dark.

He was prepared to renew his explorations that evening, but Ray brought home an unexpected visitor. Clayton had been put off long enough. He was bound to see for himself what his partner’s guest was up to, and if the price of his curiosity was a large mushroom pizza to go and a bottle of cheap chianti, it was worth it. Ray held him back until at least it was nearly night, otherwise he would have to explain why Dave would refuse to come upstairs. He was already nervous enough as it was. His nephew had been “living” with him for about two weeks, and they’d had perhaps a total of two hours conversation during all that time. At least Dave’s ability to talk had improved tremendously. Ray was hoping Clayton would notice nothing too unusual, aside from the smell.

When they arrived at the house, Ray hurried ahead and hustled downstairs to prepare Dave for the intrusion and push him upstairs, while Clay served out the food they’d carried over from the joint down the street. Ray didn’t need to worry about Dave’s attitude, as it turned out. He was willing, even perhaps mildly positive about the unexpected event. He followed Ray back up the steps and held out his hand to Clay as he entered the kitchen.

“Glad to meet you,” Dave volunteered. “Ray has told me many things about you.”

“Most of them lies,” Clay replied, shaking the young man’s hand. “Hope you like pizza,” he said. “We brought a lot.”

Dave was about to reply that he actually wasn’t hungry but Ray intervened and declared that he should’ve called because Dave had already had dinner.

“It smells good, though,” Dave offered, and Ray winced at that suggestion coming from the dead man. Clay didn’t even notice Dave’s confluence of odors. He was an old man who was used to smelly things, and the last one to complain about anybody’s personal issues. He merely passed around the pizza and filled three glasses of wine. Dave accepted his and set it in front of him as they sat around the small kitchen table. At intervals he pretended to take sips although he still hadn’t re-learned — or even tried — to swallow. Clay was all questions. He wanted to know what Dave was doing with his time. What his plans were. Ray stuffed his face with pizza and tried hard not to become upset with his partner, or his nephew, but again it turned out his anxiety was needless. Dave had an answer for everything. Ray was frankly startled.