Standing at the pantry and mourning the past is only making me more depressed. I've been dragging through my chores this morning and a glance at the red clock above the stove shows just how behind I am. I still need to button things up around the Inn, and Aunty will be pulling up outside the back door in less than ten minutes. The world is still dark outside, but the Living are already out and about, naming and claiming a new day.
We live in a sprawling Southern mansion in downtown Toccoa, Georgia. Trust me; it isn't as glamorous as it sounds. The old white siding is gray with dirt and age and the romantic wrap-around front porch is getting more and more dangerous to walk on. The porch's old wood is rotten and past reparable, and more than half of the termite-infested boards need to be replaced. As run down as it is, it's still the only house I've ever known to have a name. The faded wooden sign in the front yard whispers of better times and days of plenty. Framed in gingerbread cut-out embellishments, the cracked black letters almost too faded to read spell out: The Simmons-Bond Inn.
A leftover from the Victorian era, the ancient inn looks lost and out of place among the newer brick buildings that grew up around it. The house sits slumped and haggard right in the center of town, across from what used to be the Courthouse and adjacent to what used to be the Library and down the block from what used to be the Post Office. I've lived here just long enough to remember it all as it used to be—a normal American small town. Boring, but safe.
Inside, the Inn has five enormous bedrooms upstairs—each with its own bathroom. Aunty has taken the largest room upstairs for herself. My room, on the other hand, is downstairs. My bedroom is simple with none of the fancy woodwork that the grand rooms upstairs were given. Tucked in the back corner of the house, my quarters were probably originally intended for the maid or house servant. You know that expression "If the shoe fits, wear it"?
Well—the shoe fits.
I’m more servant than niece these days.
The carved oak moldings, stained glass windows, intricately patterned wallpapers, and unique French tiled fireplaces used to be beautiful to me. I think I lost the sense of awe when it became my responsibility to clean all the nooks and crannies. The twelve foot ceilings lost their grandeur when I was given the job of dusting all the cobwebbed corners. Aunty helps some with the cleaning, but it is mostly my job now.
Aunty runs the Inn for the good of the community; offering a clean, warm place to stay for anyone who has need. There is usually at least one other family living here with us—often an orphan or two as well. I'm butler, maid and housekeeper to anyone who comes to stay. We don’t have any guests in the Inn today. I would normally be relieved and spend the day tucked under my fluffy pink comforter rereading a favorite book. Unfortunately, Aunty is taking advantage of our vacancies and forcing me to take part in “Girl's Day Out.”
Lucky me! I'm so happy I don't have to clean any stranger's toilets today so I can jump in the car and risk my life for a better wardrobe.
My sarcasm is Aunty's least favorite thing about me. She says I get it from my father. When I get cynical, she starts lecturing. Apparently, sarcasm is "unladylike." If you ask me, I think lecturing is unladylike. Just sayin'.
Ok, mental checklist: grab my coat, lights are all off, bars locked in place on all the first floor windows, lock the doors to our bedrooms and the kitchen, front door already locked, grab some shopping bags—Whoops! Blow out that candle—grab the lunches Aunty packed and, finally, head to the back door. As I step outside, locking the back door and pulling it shut behind me, I realize I forgot my Taser.
Crap.
I can't go without it. I have to unlock the back door and all the other doors I locked on my way out as I work my way back to my bedroom where a frantic search finally exhumes the Taser from under a pile of dirty laundry. By the time I get back outside, with the Taser secured to my wrist band and all the doors relocked, Aunty Coe is waiting in the alley for me. Through her driver's side window I see her lift her eyebrows in that subtle correcting way she has. Translation: It's not polite to keep people waiting.
Yup. This is going to be so much fun.
I paste on what I hope is an enthusiastic smile and jump in the SUV she has borrowed for the day. Pulling the door closed, I am accosted by cheesy Southern Gospel music, Aunty's favorite. I strongly consider jumping back out and my hand lingers on the door handle. Aunty glances at me and lifts her eyebrows again. I don't have the angst it takes to be a drama queen and Aunty is just scary enough to keep me respectful; so, I grit my teeth and force another fake smile. She pulls out of the driveway. This is happening.
Our borrowed transportation is a bulky, black Ford Expedition. We've taken this same vehicle on past adventures. I settle comfortably into the seat and pull my seat buckle across me. It almost feels like it's our car. I wonder if anyone else drives it regularly and feels the same way about it. I run my hands slowly down the sides of the cold seat along my legs. The soft tan leather interior still smells new, even though the car is an older model. The heater is on high but the engine hasn't warmed up yet and it's still blowing cold air. I shiver against the cold and maybe also the thought of leaving our safe town.
"I thought you had a better pair of pants, Ivy. You said you didn't need clothes. Why didn't you wear your nice jeans?"
Let the nit-picking begin.
"These are my nice jeans," I mumble, self-conscious.
Rubbing my legs for warmth, I slide my hands down my thighs and leave them on my knees—covering the new hole with my hand. Aunty is dressed immaculately as always. Her outfit suggests a trip to some socialite function with other uppity ladies who would probably have worn fancy hats. Her snooty obsession with looking one's best is nauseating. It's not like we'll even see anyone while we are out today. Hopefully.
She purses her lips and I brace myself for her first, though—let's face it—not last, lecture of the day. I'm saved as her favorite song starts playing. I glance sideways at her and I see her face relax and a small smile replaces the scowl I caused. A throaty man is singing a duet about Heaven with a lady who warbles like she's sitting on a broken washing machine.
I smile at Aunty; glad the horrible singers still relax her and bring her joy. I think her constant picking and lecturing are because she's sad that the world is broken—human civility almost extinct. She wants us to keep her old proprieties alive. Maybe because it's propriety and manners that make her feel safe in these dark days. Like if we just dress classy enough and speak kindly enough we might be able to hold the evil at bay.
I'm sixteen, but I've never driven and I have no desire to do so. I roll my shoulders and try to relax my nervous stomach as I scan the streets for anyone else out on this crisp winter morning. Aunty handles the SUV with confidence, the skills of a lifetime of driving still with her, despite how infrequent our trips are these days.
A sticker on the dashboard assures me in messy handwriting that the car has been checked over and serviced by Maintenance for our drive today. Venturing out of the safety of our community has plenty of risks and the last thing we need is an unreliable vehicle. This one has lots of safety features like dual airbags and GPS and even some of those collision bars across the front. Ironic, because the least of our worries is hitting another car. The old Ford has a great alarm system and it's high off the ground and powerful. It should keep us safe from what we are most in need of protection from.
Zombies.
I am terrified of them. I'm ashamed to admit that I used to be one of them; but that was years ago.
Chapter Two
The Natives Are Getting Restless
February is right around the corner and Northeast Georgia is still dull, brown, and freezing cold. The sun is spreading out buttery-yellow fingers of light to take hold of the new day, but I doubt it will lend us any more warmth. It may warm up later this afternoon, but it's always cold in the morning because we're in the mountains. Our trip can't wait until the afternoon warmth though. The morning is o
ur ally—it's the safest time of day. The zombies don't come out before noon, sometimes even later.
We turn down Tugalo Street and head towards the closest security gate in our safe zone. As Aunty approaches the eighteen-foot tall electronic gate, the early morning guards recognize us, punch in the code to open the gate and wave us through. I fight against the irritation that Aunty probably had this trip planned for days and I've only just been told this morning. I hate when she does that. We weren't stopped because the guards already knew about our trip out today. It would've had to have been cleared with the Elders.
We are leaving through the Western gate of the community. No, Community sounds too idyllic; maybe compound is a better word. It takes less than two minutes of driving to go from downtown Toccoa to country roads. Even in its glory days, Toccoa was only a speck on the map.
The few clothing stores Toccoa once had were picked over and emptied years ago. Very few goods are made and shipped to our city anymore, except what the government sends. They say we are welcome to our own share of the shipments—that are mostly intended for the zombies—but we don't want to wear the current fashions.
Most zombies wear long-sleeved, full bodysuits in drab colors of black, brown or tan to hide their deformities. They have special shoes with biotechnology made to compensate for diseased feet that are missing some or all toes. The shoes fill in the empty spaces and adjust to the foot providing balance that would otherwise be impossible for crippled, toeless feet. The shipments have different types of gloves that provide both comfort and concealment for rotting hands. The gloves come with anywhere from one to five fake fingers capable of lifting and holding. And, nowadays, all the shipments have masks.
The most recent trend in camouflage is to wear a mask that shows strength and personality. Funny clown faces, famous icons, and comical cartoon characters are available for purchase in each shipment. For the ladies, there are exotic feminine masks with glitter and feathers or expensive latex inlays that sculpt diseased faces into modern art. If you want to look edgy, there's always gruesome monsters left over from Halloweens past. Just picture it: a hunchbacked zombie dragging himself through the streets in a King Kong Halloween mask. It's pee-your-pants terrifying and more and more zombies are doing it.
So, since we aren't interested in wearing that, we are heading out of town to "shop." And the stores we're going to won't require the current currency in exchange for what we take. If it takes a needle to buy it, I don't need it that bad.
Aunty Coe turns down her CD and glances sideways at me. "Did you remember to pull down the bars in the kitchen?"
"Mm hmm," I ooze exasperation. She is somewhat—ok VERY—controlling. To be fair, I am often forgetful.
"Ivy, is it possible for us to have a nice Girl’s Day today?"
"Yes, I'm sorry."
"You know I love you, honey. I thought this would be a nice distraction from all of your recent duties at the U.R. You've been cleaning and studying and working double shifts to get the teachers ready for the Homecoming. I just want you to remember that you are only 16! Before He came back, a girl your age had her studies and her friends and maybe a part-time job. Sleep is still very important for a young woman. I don't think you've had more than six hours a night in ages!"
"I like to keep busy." I'm mumbling and I know she hates that.
"Oh yes, I know you like to keep busy! I'm just a little worried about why that is."
I stare out the window without an answer for her.
So I keep busy. I'm a hard worker. What's wrong with that? She has pounded me over the years with talks about good attitudes and how fortunate we are. I want to feel that way. But when I sit around, with little to do, I hate my life. I'll admit it. Life here really sucks most of the time. There are hundreds of desperate, needy, dead people living right down the street. Extreme poverty is the norm. Abandoned, lonely, lost, hurting—these are the adjectives of everyday life.
Not to mention that most everyone beyond our gates is pure evil. Rapists, thieves, and child abusers—even murder has become commonplace—and no one does anything to stop them. We are barely safe behind our high fences. When I work, I can forget about all the heavy stuff. I feel half decent about myself when I'm rolling up my sleeves and doing something to care for the Living ones who need my help. I lose myself in charity and it helps me feel right in my soul. Now more than ever, it's really important to have your soul figured out.
Aunty Coe reaches over to pat my hand. "We are still allowed to enjoy the simple pleasures in life, Ivy. Having fun with girls your age, a good book," then, in a softer voice, she adds, "perhaps even friendship with a young man."
"Ugh!" I exclaim in disgust. Here we go again!
This is the third time lately that she has tried to lure me into a conversation consisting mostly of her praising the amazing qualities of the brilliant Tim Markowitz. I was going to have a good attitude about the southern gospel music. I am trying to enjoy spending time with her. But if her plan was to trap me in a car so she can go on and on about weird, nerdy, "I act like I'm forty even though I'm sixteen" Markowitz, I'm going to open my door and jump. This "shopping trip" was nothing but a ruse and I'm sick of her pestering.
I fight back with the only ammunition I have in my limited arsenal, my tone laden with sarcasm, "I’ve been meaning to tell you; I saw Chuck at the U.R. last night and he asked about you. I hear he joined the choir. Won't that be nice? Maybe you two can do a duet together."
Chuck Fox has been following her around since arriving in Toccoa a couple of months ago. I guess his wife died last year. I overheard the Elder's talking about him. He and his wife were living on the road, searching large cities for his wife's sister, Theo. I don't know too many details, but I know the zombies got his wife. Maybe even ate her. When he stumbled into Toccoa, still looking for his sister-in-law, he looked like a man broken beyond repair. He didn't find Theo among us; but, as soon as he set eyes on Aunty Coe at a U.R. meeting, he seemed to come back to life overnight. Like I said, she is very pretty for her age.
"I'm glad that young man has found something to involve himself with."
Oh yeah, mission accomplished. She is miffed and on the defensive. Our positions reversed, feeling triumphant, I push my case further.
"He's not young, Aunty. He's almost as old as you are!" I swipe my long curly hair over my shoulder in front of my face to hide my grin. She hates being called “old.” I have what it takes to win this.
"I don't like your implication, Ivy. I'm not old."
I risk another sideways glance and get caught in her brilliant blue stare. I feign innocence and chirp with my voice syrupy sweet, "Well then I don't see why you and young Chuck Fox won't get along perfectly."
"Ivy!"
Lots of men have tried to catch her attention but she never seems interested. When she first took me in, I was a little kid and I thought old person romance was disgusting. I remember cringing in embarrassment when men from the U.R. would flirt with her or ask her to dinner. It's not that I don't want her to find someone—though it does seem pretty pointless. Chuck seems to hope he has a chance. He has settled down with our community and is helping with the children's program. Good luck to him. She won't go easy.
I hope I've won myself a reprieve from the dating subject for the day. Aunty is as ready to change the subject as I am. I think it's kind of weird that she keeps pushing me towards a boy. Don't most parents want their teenage girls to hate boys? I'm like the ideal teenager in that department. She should be thrilled, not trying to fix me up.
For the rest of the drive we chat with an ease I thought we had lost, and I find myself enjoying our time together. We discuss the spring cleaning that needs to be done at the Inn and Aunty offers to help with a lot of it. I suspect that she's trying to make up for the Tim conversation by buttering me up and offering to help with more than her share, but I'll take it.
We chitchat with typical feminine anticipation about what we hope to find i
n the stores today. We will both be picking up extra things for the other women and girls of our community. We'll grab some things for the guys, too; if we have room and a little luck. Aunty is hoping to bring home a lot of "sensible shoes." Sensible is almost always synonymous with ugly. All of a sudden, I'm glad I came. I'll get to pick out my own new tennis shoes. The less sensible the better. It's all starting to feel worth the risks.
I look out the window as we talk and take in the scenery that I so rarely get to see. We are driving windy back roads in old farm country. Though the grass is brown and the woods are bare, the countryside is still pretty and refreshing. Aunty and I exclaim with delight and she slows to a crawl when we see herds of deer peeking at us from overgrown fields. They don't dart away in fear, so unaccustomed to human beings now, but instead stand regally and look back at us as we drift by.
The sun is climbing over the distant hills of the Appalachian Mountains and we ride in comfortable silence as we enjoy the beauty of God's creation. People may have gotten messed up, but the sky and the mountains and the bare winter trees that will soon burst with spring blooms still display the glory of their Creator.
We haven’t passed a single car so far. We are heading towards Commerce, Georgia—half an hour Southeast of Toccoa. Though Commerce was once a thriving destination with an outlet mall, it is now an abandoned ghost town. No government shipments are dropped there. No shipments equals no zombies. That's why it has always been a pretty safe place to "shop". The long vacant strip mall offers everything from clothes and shoes to books and bake wear.
INFECtIOUS Page 2