The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies (9 page)

     The Golden Dragon Chinese restaurant where Bonnie and I had enjoyed many
terrific meals appeared before me and immediately became a sort of red pagoda lighthouse for me. My feet carried me forward.  As I got closer, the diners and workers inside the restaurant came into view. Unlike most other nights, there was not a line of waiting patrons snaking outside the door.

     Whether I was in a state of shock or just
insane, I cannot say for certain, but I instantly felt better at the smell of the Chinese food. Somehow I managed to push away the idea that I had plunged a metal tube into my wife’s head a short time earlier.

     I pushed open the glass door and listened to the tinkle of the bell hanging on the inside handle. I felt the eyes of everyone inside the
place jump my way as I entered. 

     “Mister
Turnuh!”  A version of my name was called from behind the counter.

     The voice of Terry Wu, the restaurant
’s owner, shook me out of my trance.  I looked at the short thin young Asian man in a white apron standing near the cash register and automatically smiled.

     “Hi, Terry,” 

     “Where’s your beautiful wife?”  He asked.

     I thought about the question for a minute. The idea of describing the
thing that looked like my wife now pinned by a tire tool to the hood of our car flashed into my head and brought a twisted smile to my face.  I wondered if hearing the description would change the perpetually cheerful expression on Terry’s face. The image should have wiped out any appetite I had, but it did not.  In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect.  I felt famished.      

     I realized that Terry was still waiting for an answer, so I said, “Well, I
guess she’s got that cold that’s been going around.  Maybe I’ll take her some of your delicious hot & sour soup to fix her up.” 

    
Terry Wu straightened up, and his smile grew wider at my praise.  “Yeah, that cold is bad news,” he commented and moved his head to indicate the few people around the restaurant.  “Don’t remember any slower nights than this.”

     I looked around at the few customers.  There was a table near the window with three young men eating noisily.  In the corner at the
big table were a young mother and father with two small children.  All of them seemed to be only half awake.  I heard the mother coughing and was immediately reminded of Bonnie and her cold.   At another table, there was an older man with a white beard in a dark business suit who looked like he was waiting for someone. I saw him check his watch and look expectantly toward the door.

     Terry led me to a table near the corner occupied by the young family. He handed me a dark red and gold
menu even as he asked, “You want me to make you something special?”

     I smiled.  “That sounds great, Terry.”  I handed the menu back to him, and he rushed off to the kitchen.

     I looked around the room at the others and wondered if I would ever again feel comfortable around people.  The coughs and sniffles seemed to feel the room.  I listened as the mother scolded one of her children for not eating and then scolded the other one for not sitting up straight.  The father’s comment was a round of coughing.  The man in the dark suit was still alternating between checking his watch and looking toward the door.  The young men appeared to be totally focused on their food.  The only sounds coming from their table were chews, coughs, sniffs, and smacks. I smiled at the memory of college days and attacking meals in a similar manner.  In my case, this sort of feast typically followed the smoking of marijuana.  I wondered if this could be the same in this case. 

     While I was considering this, Terry appeared with a tray full of lots of small bowls and a large bowl.   He unloaded the contents of the tray onto the table. 

     “I think you will like this, Mister Turnuh.  Let me know, okay?”  He stood back and watched hopefully as I took a steaming spoonful from the large bowl and put it into my mouth. 

     The soup was
thick with soft rice and had a slight fishy taste but was also sweet and sour with a bit of a peppery bite.  In other words, it was incredibly delicious.

     “Terry, this is great!” 

     He beamed with pleasure at the compliment.  “It is my father’s recipe.  You won’t find it anywhere else.  Wu porridge, only here.”

     “Tell your father that it is wonderful,” I said.

     A flash of sadness showed in Terry’s eyes.  “Oh, he died a long time ago in China.”

     “I
’m sorry, Terry.”

     “No, I will not be sad,” Terry announced.  “My father will
keep alive in his porridge. Now, he is part of you.”  He was clearly pleased with the idea of his father living on through his food. 

     For me, the notion was a bit unsettling.  I had seen too many strange things that
day to be comfortable with the thought of someone being consumed figuratively or literally. Still, I could not help but consider the idea that something might be transferred in the attacks I had seen. That idea was enough to ruin the taste of the food.

     “Well, all I know is that he would be very proud that his son turned out to be such a great cook,”   I said to
an extremely pleased Terry Wu. 

     He lit up with a
large smile and said “I hope that” before turning and retreating to his place behind the counter.  After he had left, I did my best to finish the food, but my appetite had left me.

     I stared at the food for a few minute
s in the hope that my appetite might return, but it did not. Finally, I called Terry and had him wrap the food to go. On my way out of the restaurant, I took a last look at the people there.  I wondered what would become of them. In the world that I had seen that day, I did not give them much of a chance. When I looked at Terry Wu’s smiling face, it made me sad. 

     “Terry, there
’s a lot of strange stuff going on tonight,” I began.  “You really need to be careful.”

     Terry was looking at me with curiosity. “Mister
Turnuh, you okay?”  He smiled and said, “Maybe you got same as yer wife?”

     I looked at the young restaurant owner blankly before saying, “You could be
right, Terry.  See you later.”

     Out on the street, some sort of reality hit me all at once.  I decided that it was time to talk to the police about what I had seen.  The police station was just a few blocks over
, so I started walking in that direction. As I walked, I went over what I would say to the officers.  The images of what I had seen flashed into my mind.  When the memory of the thing that looked like Bonnie came to mind, my knees went weak and my breath came fast.  I had to sit down on some steps that led up to a rundown apartment building.

     I
set the white doggy bag from Terry beside me on the step.  The smell of the warm Chinese food and the few sounds of an otherwise silent night floated to me as I tried to catch my breath.   There was the sound of a car alarm blaring in the distance.  From what sounded like a few blocks came the wail of a siren.  I was just getting to my feet to continue on to the police station when there was sort of shuffling sounds coming from up the street.  I immediately wondered if the smell of the food had attracted attention. 

     I left the
bag where it was and stood on the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs watching as three people a couple of blocks away wound their way towards me. They did not appear to be moving with any thought as to where they were going, so much for the idea of the food drawing them.  Rather, they explored the area to their right and then to their left before finally moving forward.  Without realizing it, I had crouched down behind the railing of the stairs.  From this angle, I could watch without being seen.

    
As the group got closer, I made out some disturbing details. A chubby older woman with extremely thin blonde hair dressed only in a bra and pantyhose was turning her head wildly from side to side.  All at once, she stopped and looked forward, revealing a face covered with blood.  The sight filled me with fear, and I reflexively slunk down further along the railing. 

     I caught sight of a man who had an arm missing and appeared to be talking to himself.
As he got closer, I heard him repeat, “There’s no time, honey.  We can look for the puppy later...  There’s no time, honey.  We can look for the puppy later.”   As he moved to about fifty yards away, I could see the blood trickling from the space where his arm should have been. 

     The final member of the
strange trio was a muscular younger man dressed as if he had just finished a workout. His light blue sweatshirt at first appeared to be stained from sweat, but as he got closer it was clear that the dark color was from blood not sweat. 

     I am not proud of my actions, but there is no way to describe it other than
hiding.  My heart pounded. I wanted to scream but could not move.  The shuffling sound of the group grew as they approached, and I pushed my hand tightly over my mouth to quiet any sound. 

     The heavyset woman was suddenly just a few feet away.  I could smell her sweet
perfume.  It took a few seconds for me to understand why the scent seemed so familiar.  I nearly laughed aloud as I recalled a time when one of my students had spilled an entire bottle of perfume on the floor of the classroom.  My eyes had watered for almost two weeks every time I went into the room.  At the memory, my eyes again began to water.  But this time the tears were not caused by an odor but came from the thoughts of my former students. I am not sure how long the blanket of grief wrapped around me and started me shaking.  But when the spasms stopped, the group was no longer in sight.  Still, I stayed crouched in the dark next to the stairs for a long time. 

     When I finally gathered up enough
strength to move, I stumbled awkwardly into the street. I wondered just where the three people had gone.  The idea of them doubling back prevented me from feeling confident.  I could still hear the screaming of a siren and wondered whether it was the same one I had heard earlier or a new one.  It was a pointless thought and one that wasted time I did not have. Even as my mind seemed unable to function properly, it was clear to me that I needed to get off the street.  

     The idea of running to the police station entered my mind, but the
thought of running headlong into a group like the one I had just seen kept it from taking hold. Across the street and a few buildings down was something that offered a better answer. 

     The
tiny church had certainly seen better days.  Actually, calling it a church might have been a stretch. It was simply a small converted store with “Faith Lighthouse Church” stenciled in large blue letters across the huge front window.  The once-white exterior was now showing streaks of the bare wood underneath.  The sidewalk in front was littered with paper cups and candy wrappers. There was a flashing blue and yellow neon light in the corner of one of the windows that proclaimed, “Jesus Saves”.  Most importantly, the place had exactly what I was hoping to find, and that was signs of life.

     Through the
big dirty windows of the Faith Lighthouse Church, I could see rows of folding chairs facing expectantly in the same direction as if awaiting some spectacle.  I moved closer to get a better look and saw a few people slumped in the chairs, and there was a pudgy, youngish-looking guy at a podium at the front of the room. He was saying something to the chairs, because it was clear that the people in the chairs were not listening. 

     As unappealing as the scene may
sound, I was thrilled to find an oasis from the street. I pushed quickly through the door and heard the jingle of a little bell.  The sound caused the guy at the front of the room to pause in mid-sentence and an old drunk in one of the seats glance back at me and grumble. I simply nodded in his direction and fell into a chair at the back of the room.  

     “And the Bible says that God loved the world so much that he sacrificed his only son so that we, all of us, would be saved from the everlasting torture of hell,”  the speaker spoke in a
flat, almost casual, tone as if this speech had been given many times before.  He scanned the sparse crowd seeking a clear pair of eyes with which to connect.  My eyes provided the desired connection and the preacher continued, “All that it takes in order to be rescued from eternal damnation is to believe in Jesus as the son of God and savior of the world.” 

     The words brought back memories of Sunday mornings when I was a boy sitting in church with my parents.   Both of them had been
devout Catholics and had insisted that I attend services as well. I may have grown to enjoy the spectacle of men in funny costumes and the ceremony, but the fact that I was being forced to attend made that impossible.  It may be a part of human nature that having something forced upon you makes you hate that thing.  Those things forced by my parents caused me to jump in the opposite direction. When I was young, I was forced to eat everything placed upon my plate. I did not particularly care for peas.  However, being forced to eat them made me detest peas.  Peas and church might seem a strange analogy, but the idea is the same. I was forced into those hard wooden pews every Sunday morning, and it was not long before I absolutely detested the building, people, and the institution of religion.