BABE IN THE WOODS: Three

Friday, October 30, 2015: Bronx, NY, USA

Diane Rodriguez ran her fingers through her long dark hair, pulling it back from her neck and wrapped it around itself in an inelegant version of a ponytail. The bags under her eyes were full from lack of sleep and she blinked constantly in an attempt to moisten her contacts.

“You look like you need some sleep,” offered Damon Vargas. “I probably look worse than you, no?”

Diane laughed.

“You look like you need a new wardrobe and a doctor. I can help with some clothes but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the Doc. How’s the arm?”

Damon stretched his right arm towards her, wincing at the pain from his scar shifting underneath the makeshift bandage, the lower half of his right pants leg. The blood had dried but the wound was still fresh. Diane wrinkled her broad nose.

“Sure I’ll need stitches. Damn zombies.”

“What the hell were you doing out there after dark anyway? You should know better.”

“Actually, I was looking for you.”

“Were you?”

“Tell me something, are you really his daughter.”

“Is that why you came looking for me?”

“No, I came for you. I’ve missed you. But I have always been curious if it was really true.”

“According to the courts, I am. And he didn’t fight it.”

“I’ve always thought you were a little too old, though?”

“High school romance. My mother was only 14 and she never told him she was pregnant.”

“Convenient.”

“Profitable, that’s for sure. It was his money that built this place.”

Damon looked around and a smirk spread across his face as he recognized many of the little touches throughout the large room.

The couch they were sitting on, which had once resided in the living room of the apartment they’d shared over seven years ago on the Lower East Side, was still comfortable, if well-worn. On the armrest, the red wine stain from their housewarming party had stubbornly survived the years. On the walls hung several pictures he recognized, most of her family and friends, some baseball players and the largest one, an oil painting of Babe Ruth. In blackface.

“eBay. $3000,” he said. “Still can’t believe it was that cheap.”

“Not too many people interested in a picture of a black Babe Ruth.”

“Even one painted by Spike Lee? I was sure it’d go for more money.”

Diane looked at him, expectantly.

“Seriously, Damon. Why did you come here? Why have you popped back into my life suddenly after five years of silence?”

He hesitated, looking down at the tips of his black hiking boots and sighed. Raising his head, he looked over towards the oil painting and gestured with his chin.

“Do you think he’s still out there?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You know, if you’re right about him being Patient Zero, if we killed him, there’s a chance that all the other zombies would return to normal. Or die.”

“Where the hell did you get an idea like that?”

“The movies.”

”Oh, hell! You’re a friggin’ bigger idiot than you used to be! That’s vampires, not zombies.”

“When’s the last time you saw a vampire?”

“Vampires aren’t real!”

“Neither were zombies 10 years ago.”

Diane sighed loudly, taking a deep breath.

“You think the military hasn’t been scouring upstate looking for him all these years?”

“They still haven’t found Osama Bin Laden, have they? And the zombies have been good for the economy so I don’t think he’s much of a priority these days. If he ever was.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re the one holed up in this crazy batcave, running through the park killing zombies every night like some Twilight Zone Batman.”

“Touché.”

“Plus, we have a secret weapon.”

“Secret weapon?”

“You.”