The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies by Jeffrey Littorno

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