Free Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies by Martin H. Greenberg Page B

Great Wall of China in school, I started thinking we should have a great wall of Vermont. We’ve got the rocks for it. Maybe I’ll suggest it when I grow up and can vote.
    I fill the can half-full of dirt clumps that hold about ten worms altogether, then take the little walk down to Bernie’s piece of slate and sit on the ground. It’s the spot we bury all the cats. I sit here to talk to them. I use this spot to talk to the ones that disappeared, too. Daddy planted a little pine tree next to it. “I’m going to go fishing this weekend and find a fisher,” I tell my dead cats. I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I find one. Still, I get a nice purring sensation, like they’re rubbing up against me in approval.
They like the idea; I know they do. That’s encouragement enough for me.
    I leave the worm can in the shadow of the propane tank at the end of the house so it doesn’t bake in the sun and go on inside.
    “It’s not raining hard. And isn’t the fishing better in rain?” It waited until after my dad got home from work before it started. I could just scream.
    “How about we play checkers, see if it lets up?”
    I’m game, even though I can only beat him at checkers about a third of the time. It’s so color-coordinated, like a flannel shirt. We play at the kitchen table, once, twice, three times. He looks outside. I can tell from the sound of rain on the windows that it’s not letting up. I feel like crying. Besides the fisher hunt, I really like fishing.
    He looks back to me and his mouth opens to speak. He pauses for a long moment, then says, “I think it’s letting up. Let’s go ahead, before it gets any darker out there.”
    I bounce up in glee and chase off after a raincoat. I could have sworn the rain hadn’t let up at all! Seems almost harder to me. But he knows more about the weather than I do. Than anyone, really. He watches it every night, sometimes twice or three times.
    We ignore the pelting rain and collect my worms and the old green fishing pole. It’s pretty rusty, and the reel is rusty too, but it’s still easier to fish with than the stick poles. The stick poles are thin branches from beech trees, with fishing line tied on the end. But our hooks are in good shape, and my worms survived.
    It’s dusky out, even at only 2:30 in the afternoon. Walking over the bank is treacherous with layers of wet leaves built up on the ground. We grab hold of trees as we descend the steep incline. It gets darker as the trees
thicken around us. Since Daddy’s right behind me, it’s just cool and otherworldly, not scary. A leafy, mossy, green and brown escape. In seconds we can’t even see the house above us, and all I’m thinking about is dodging spider webs.
    We get to the first of our favorite places and settle. I bait my hook and drop it in the pool at my feet. After a few quiet moments of watching the water, I suddenly remember I’m looking for more than fish on this trip. Then I spend as much time scouting out the banks on both sides of the brook as I do watching for movement around the rocks in the water.
    The rain hits the water and makes spreading, overlapping circles, drawing my eye. Black water bugs with long, bent legs skitter back and forth across the surface. This pool is big enough that the water actually sits here, instead of just rushing on like it does in some places. The mossy brown rocks shift under my feet, and I move very carefully when I want to change position.
    Nothing nibbles. Nothing moves on either side of the brook.
    After a bit, my dad suggests we try our second spot. I like it even better, because I sit on a big rock outcropping and it’s flatter and more solid. The water is deeper, and there are usually more fish hanging around. I reel in and we move down the brook. I concentrate on walking as quietly as possible, though it’s hard with the leaves. I don’t want to scare the fish. I’ve always wondered how they hear you under