Zombie Nights

OMBIE NIGHTS

  By TOM LICHTENBERG

  COPYRIGHT 2010 TOM LICHTENBERG

  Zero

  Dave Connor was only thirty two years old when he unexpectedly passed away. He was still only thirty two when he even more unexpectedly undied. At first he couldn't remember how he'd ended up in that shallow grave; he just knew it was hell to claw his way out, and that the taste of its dirt would remain in his mouth for the rest of his time on this earth.

  He felt the cold more than anything. That and the darkness and the worms crawling across his face. There wasn't exactly the thought of "I've got to get out of here". There was the action, a sudden panic surged within him and the struggle to move his arms which were pinned by his side. He could only wiggle them at first; pushing out as hard as he could he felt his elbows grab a little space, and his fingers stretch until he could curl them just a bit. It was all he needed. Bit by bit he cleared enough room to clear a little more. Now kicking and punching and scratching the wet clammy dirt, feeling every instant as if he would choke on the grains that poured into his mouth and into his nose, filling his eyes and his ears until suddenly, air breaking free; the cold night air with a sprinkle of rain coming down. He was out.

  It was almost as dark above ground as it had been below. Foggy drizzle dripped from the trees and he had no idea where he was. A forest it seemed. He sat on wet grass by the remains of his tomb and spat out the dirt and wiped futily at the clothes which would never get clean. There was mud in his hair and blood on his face and his hands. On his side was a hole in his shirt that led to a hole in his stomach. The bleeding had stopped and the mess was congealed, gooey with puss. He didn't feel pain.

  He decided to get up and walk. He didn't care which way he went. He was lost anyway. If there was a path, he didn't notice. He just walked, through the trees, over rocks, by a stream, over a small wooden bridge. There were trail signs posted at random, but he didn't bother to read them or follow. It registered vaguely that he must be in some kind of park. That meant there were people somewhere. That meant he ought to get out before it got light. None of that made any sense, but it is what he thought. It was instinct.

  But he didn't make it out right away. He could sense that the dawn was arriving, so he looked for a cave, or some bushes in which he could hide. He found an old half burned out tree that would do. He hunkered down in it, and waited. Day came. Day lasted awhile. He kept his eyes open and noticed some things. He noticed he never got hungry. He never got thirsty. He never got tired, or bored. He had no desires. No physical urging. It was all very new and he felt that it was and there was a certain satisfaction, as if patience was something he'd never achieved until now.

  He had leftover instincts as well. He put a thumb to his wrist and could feel a faint pulse. He noticed his lungs weren't filling with air. He was breathing but not with his mouth or his nose. It seemed his whole body was breath, that each pore in his skin absorbed air and ejected it too. This soaking in of the atmosphere was pushing the blood through his veins, and into his brain. He knew what things were. Trees, for example, and sky. He watched animals go through their motions, birds in their frenzy at daybreak. The squirrels, racing and chasing. Insects buzzing. Bees humming. The rain stopped and the sky became blue, with some clouds. He waited and watched for the sun to go down, and followed its direction to find out where he was. When it grew dark again he followed it west.

  He journeyed as straight as he could, ever west. To not go in circles was his most basic plan. He thought that at least he would get somewhere else, out of the woods, and then ... and then, next. He traveled for hours, occasionally stumbling over rocks and roots but for the most time getting along fine and taking it slow, and sometime, late at night, he arrived at the edge of the woods. There he stood on a hill, looking down at the lights of a town he knew well. He even remembered its name, Spring Hill Lake.

  One

  He was standing at the edge of Fulsom Park, a semi-public woodlands situated on a bluff above the city, which lay in a valley and lined the banks of the meandering Wetford river. In the distance he could make out the lights of Sea Dragons stadium, a brand new structure which was rumored to be mysteriously haunted. It marked the northern end of the city. Closer to him, the half dozen or so tallish buildings which boasted downtown. Even closer, the old abandoned waterfront, relic of the city's early trading days.

  Dave turned his attention to that neighborhood. He felt drawn toward it and began to walk down the hillside, keeping off the main park road, cutting through the rocky ridge instead, remembering vaguely the stories about wolves and their secret caves thereabouts. He felt nothing. No fear. No fatigue. No cold. He just kept walking and soon he was entering the city through the narrow alleys and side streets that surrounded the old harbor. He saw no one and was pretty sure that no one saw him either.

  Along the edge of the river he came across a narrow road and turned into it. At the end he stopped before an old bungalow and considered it. It was dark inside, but as it was still before dawn, that was no surprise. He studied its peeling white paint and the concrete steps that led to the front door. As if by magnet he felt himself pulled into the lawn and up those stairs, and then he heard his hand on the door, pounding on it steadily in a slow persistent rhythm. After a few minutes, the door swung open, and a grumpy old man stood before him, rubbing his eyes.

  The man looked very familiar, with his buzz cut, his long brown face, that pencil mustache, the ubiquitous Hawaiian shirt. He felt he had come to this house and knocked on its door for a good reason, though he didn't know more than that. He tried to make a smile in greeting but his face was frozen, its features wouldn't move. For the first time, he felt a little troubled. He was unable to do what he wanted to do.

  The man yawned and scratched his head a bit, then said,

  "Davey. What are you doing here?"

  He found he couldn't speak. He had no breath to push the sounds through his mouth. It was puzzling. He had some words in his mind but they wouldn't come out.

  "And so damn early too," the man said. "Well, come on in if you're coming," and he turned away and Dave saw the man's slippers carry him into the house. He followed. The man's path led into the kitchen, where he began to fumble around with a coffee maker, while gesturing for Dave to sit down. He did.

  "Nothing to say?" the man asked. "Or maybe you're in one of your moods?" he chuckled to himself. When he turned to look to see the effect of these words on his visitor, he saw Dave's head suddenly lurch to the left, and then, with great effort, slowly pull back to the right. It was the best he could do. The man didn't seem to notice his difficulty, but turned back towards his preparations. For the next few minutes, Dave sat there motionless while the old man made the coffee.

  It wasn't until he'd poured the cups and came to sit down that the man seemed to really be aware of Dave. What he noticed was the smell.

  "Phew!" he blurted out and, gagging, backed away, spilling some of the hot liquid on his arm and cursing about that.

  "You stink, man!" he continued. "I mean, really. Ever take a bath or anything? Where've you been?"

  Again, there was no answer from his guest, who tried to shrug or make any expression with his face to indicate some kind of communication. The fact was, he didn't know that he smelled bad. He wasn't smelling anything, even the drink in front of him.

  "Got to clean you up," the man said. "Your old Uncle Ray can't deal with that stench, not this early at least". He tried to laugh it off, then he sat himself down at the far end of the table, and looked more intently at his nephew.

  "Blood," he murmured. "You've been hurt, eh? I'll take a closer look in a minute, but first, the java," and he raised his cup and drank some.

  "Can't do anything without my coffee," he muttered.

&
nbsp; "Still got nothing to say?" he said a minute or two later. "It's not like you, Davey boy. Used to always have something to say. Couldn't shut you up half the time."

  He gave a wink and a smile at this, but his visitor was still unable to respond. He was certainly trying. He was concentrating as hard as he could, attempting to move any facial muscle at all but it just wasn't happening. Eyebrows? Nope. Mouth? Wouldn't budge. Nose? Couldn't even crinkle it. Maybe if I could write something down, he thought, and turned his head towards the kitchen counter, while at the same time his hand jerked outward and his knuckles cracked against the side of the table.

  "Looking for something, eh?" said Ray. "I wonder what. Hungry?"

  Dave managed to swing his head to the left and the right again,