The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology (9 page)

Read The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology Online

Authors: Christopher Golden

BOOK: The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology

6.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

‘Since you keep an eye out, it seemed—’

Without breaking the gaze, another lunger, over the rail.

Though his milky blues don’t so much as shift, I can tell he’s sizing me up - seeing if I break the stare to track his lunger, to see if it’s green as the green-green St Patty’s Day grass.

Copper’s lawn is perfect, always perfect, the only cut and green lawn on the block, and Copper’s lungers won’t change that a whit. His eyes stay icy, but I can tell he’s a bit amused by all this.

What they say, clear as crystal, is what he won’t say.

‘—you know, we watch out for one another.’

He says it later, just to clear the air.

Later, when we get to know one another a bit, when we are in the basement waiting for T.

Later, when he tells me about how the cold sunk its choppers into his wrists, about Korea, about ’Nam before it was ’Nam, about his wife Becca before she was gone, about his calico cat Hank before T took Hank down into the cellar and did the deed, before all that shit hit all those fans.

He says later what his eyes say now loud and clear, and I hear just fine. He says it later just to make sure there are no hard feelings.

What do I need you for? What do I need you to watch out for me or mine for? What could you possibly offer me that I don’t already do or have done or was or am or will be?

I’m home, always home.

Later, he says all that.

Not now, not on the porch.

Not today.

He says, ‘I remember you, kid.’

I look at him.

‘You lived over on Spruce and James. Your mom raised you.’

Now, he just glares at me, giving up nothing.

‘I remember you.’

Copper sits on his rocker.

We just stay like this for a long, long time.

From now to now, then to now.

That’s when I know Copper’s our man.

That’s when I know we get along just fine.

It’s Fetus who suggests I pay the visit, take in the old man’s mettle.

It’s Stout who says fuck that, who needs Copper.

Stout grew up around the block from Copper and his wife Becca.

Stout left for boot camp before the cancer took her. I left a week after.

Stout and I were in Baghdad together. Good times. Bad times. OIF 1, the invasion, no food, one MRE per day, nothing too heavy, got to shoot back.

Then Thunderdome.

Ate Alaskan king crab every night for months at FOB Shield. Weird. Mayberry in the shit.

Stout took fire; RPG in the pipeline between Kuwait and Iraq. HMMWV limped away with Stout in it.

Stout lost an arm, part of his chest, but all that’s left works. Home he went.

Found him here, back home.

Stout says fuck Copper.

Stout has no use for the old man, never did, but that too changes that night in the basement.

Stout wouldn’t brook any ill word about the old lady.

Becca babysat for him and his sister, back when they needed sitting.

He speaks of it, once, only once.

That I remember.

Stout’s smile bares his black broken teeth.

It’s an occasion whenever Stout smiles.

I remember.

Stout says the army promised him dental. That was before.

The army didn’t take care of dental or much else. The U.S. Army took Stout and took him and his and all he ever was and never was, all he ever had and all he ever might have been but wasn’t and will never be.

The U.S. Army took him and left Stout to Stout and left Stout to us.

Stout says fuck that, who needs the U.S. Army?

Stout says fuck Copper, who needs the old man?

Still, it’s Fetus and me who reckon the old man is all right, that we need him.

There’s T.

T drives by Copper’s house.

I see T drive by Copper’s house.

T doesn’t turn to look at Copper.

Copper doesn’t look at T.

T drives toward the Baker digs.

T looks at the Baker house.

T glares at the Baker house.

I watch T drive away.

I sit in the basement at the Baker house.

I like it here in the basement.

Safe. Like in Baghdad.

We used to sandbag all the windows.

It was dark, except for what light came in through the skylight.

The Baker basement is dark. I like it fine.

I miss the LED lights I used to strap to my head, but otherwise it’s the same.

No electricity. Dark. Sleep all day.

Try to remember.

Back in the day.

I remember when Trapper and I signed up.

I remember Trapper - T - I remember T.

I remember T when they took his brother away.

I remember T after that. T said the cops took him and his and all he ever was and never was, all he ever had and all he ever might have been but wasn’t and will never be. I remember T says that.

I remember.

I remember T when he grinned at me, after signing up, and I remember the look on the recruiter’s face.

Word is T never went over to the shit.

Word is T was shipped right back here.

Word is T got into some shit, and was kept from the shit.

That’s before they were taking anyone, anytime, with any record. Miller tells me that’s how it is now. Two legs, two arms, two eyes, you in.

Word is T got into some shit, they booted him before he saw sand.

So T made like the Shia did over there - stripped and hauled anything worth anything away.

Makes the neighborhood look like Baghdad East.

Word is T has made a killing on the neighborhood.

Word is T gutted the neighborhood.

Shell by shell, T took all it was and sold it.

That’s before I got back, before Fetus came back.

Fetus took three AK-47 rounds three hundred meters from the Alamo; he shouldn’t have made it.

He made it.

Came back home.

I remember Fetus before the shit.

Fetus smoked those fucking French Gauloises, cheap tobacco the locals smoked over there.

I remember Fetus before the war took his and him and all he ever was and never was, all he ever had and all he ever might have been but wasn’t and will never be.

I don’t remember me before.

I don’t remember.

I remember T.

I get up.

I look out the basement window, across the street, across the way.

Copper is sitting in his rocker on his porch.

Copper is looking my way.

I don’t remember.

Before the shit.

I don’t remember much.

I remember T.

One good thing is Copper has no sense of smell.

Miller says he lit fire to a bag of catshit on Copper’s door one Halloween and it was the neighbor who called it in: the old lady was away and Copper didn’t smell a thing.

The old man can’t smell a damned thing, and that makes a difference.

Meant we can, if we are careful, pick and choose our approach pattern.

I went point, and took it a day at a time.

Copper is watching me now.

Copper’s right hand is over his left wrist, and he watches me.

‘Your first car was a beat-up Chevy Impala.’

I don’t remember.

‘You rolled it out on Route Four.’

I don’t remember.

Copper moves his left hand over his right wrist, cupping it.

‘Your mother cried all night.’

I don’t remember.

‘I remember you, kid.’

I don’t remember.

Another good thing is Copper knows this burb like nobody else.

He knows it all, including the backstory of every empty house.

Copper remembers.

I don’t remember.

Word is Copper knows the trials and tribs of every occupied house and when who was where and went where and lived it and snuffed it.

I don’t remember. Once, I knew some of it, but no more.

Stout remembers.

Fetus remembers.

Word is that Copper and Becca settled here after Korea.

Word is that young Copper had been in just about every one of these houses, those left standing.

Word is that Copper and Becca had been in and out of these doors, on and off these front and back porches, and grilled and drank and spat in these backyards for longer than I’ve been on this mudball, before or after the day.

Word is that middle-aged Copper had done some handiwork in just about every house within six blocks, at one time or another.

Word is that old man Copper has kept watch every day of his life, especially since Becca was planted.

Old man Copper watches me now.

I wave.

Old man Copper watches and doesn’t move.

I sit.

Old man Copper sits.

What Copper built, T takes.