While Aunty moves the car up onto the sidewalk, right in front of the store, I try to swallow the foreboding lump in my throat and think ahead about what Thomas would like. He's been with the community for about a month now. He is pretty adorable; a funny, sweet twelve year old boy that one of the missionaries brought to us.
We rarely add to our number these days. The missionaries bring fewer and fewer converts in each time they come home. Thomas was the last to join us. He is outgoing and very bright. He's not at all athletic; so I'll look for fun games and toys, not balls or sport's gear. I’ve gotten to know him because he stayed with us at the Inn for his first few days in Toccoa. Jose and Ellen, a young couple from the other side of the compound, "adopted" Thomas an hour after they met him. They are the perfect parents for him; and, even if I didn't know them at all, just being members of the community would be enough qualification for me to like them.
"Ready?" Aunty asks with an overly optimistic smile as she pulls the small powerful flashlight out of her pocket. "We will only take two minutes of the batteries. Grab what you can, don't go more than one row away from me, and don't talk. Stay in the front part of the store. Ears open, okay?" She holds her Taser tight in her other hand.
"Sure. Okay. Let's go,” I say not feeling at all “sure.”
I push on the door and it seems to be locked. Am I disappointed or relieved? Should we take it as a sign and move on to safer stores? I give it one more push to make sure, and it budges half an inch. I look to Aunty for what to do next. It's obvious this door is going to make a good amount of noise. On the other hand, no one has been in here for a long time. Zombies shouldn't be a concern. Though, there is that back door from Aunty's story; so—as much as I want to—we can't rule them out. Aunty nods for me to go ahead and we push together.
The door barely moves at first, grating and whining as we push, then it abruptly swings open with an announcing screech. The store has sat still and untouched for so long that it looks like an evil witch's trap in a storybook land. Instead of gingerbread and candy, toys line the walls and shelves to lure in foolish children. Witches don’t eat children. Witches aren’t real. Zombies are real. Zombies do eat children. My knees shake and my neck aches with tension.
Cobwebs hang from the ceiling in long diagonal strands. I hate cob webs. I know they are made from dust and not spiders, but they feel spidery none the less. When I see large, lace-like webs covering the toy boxes in the cloudy display windows, my stomach lunges violently towards my hammering heart. I can't focus. I brush at my face and shoulders, sweeping away imaginary creepy-crawlers, lost in spider paranoia. Aunty makes a soft noise with her throat to regain my attention. She gives me a hard "pull yourself together" stare. I try to find my courage and focus on the reason we are here.
We move quick and quiet like shadows though the displays of toys at the front of the store, always keeping each other in sight. After a thorough inspection for arachnids, I grab some boxes from a display with science experiments for kids. I hope they aren't too childish. Next, I pick up a game with a cup and Ping-Pong ball that looks geared towards Thomas’ age. I consider some multiple player board games, but none of them look fun to me. And I'm pretty sure I'd end up being the one who'd have to play them with him.
As I pull out a box that claims to have the best transforming dinosaur toy ever, several boxes that were tucked in around it topple against me and crash to the floor. I jump and shake myself, brushing at my hair and shoulders—just in case. In a normal situation you wouldn't have even called it a “loud noise;” but here, in the tense stillness, it resonates around the store. I look up in panic and see Aunty looking at me with exhausted reproof on her face. She can lecture without even using words. I shrug my apology and she nods for me to follow her as she heads for the door. She has her arms full with a skateboard and a guitar.
Score!
He is going to be so thrilled. We don't have many kids in the community right now. He's been playing with Lois, the five year old girl who lives next door to his new family. Thomas is a great kid. Lots of potential; if only there was enough time left for him to have a future. These toys will give him something fun to fill his time. I know his new parents had a few things for him at Christmas, but it was mostly homemade or used. They definitely didn't brave an abandoned toy store when they went Christmas shopping.
A lot of people disagree with Aunty and I making this trip. They don't feel it is worth the risk. What can I say? Aunty and I are two strong, brave, awesome women. We leave the toy store without incident and load the toys in the back of the car. Today has been a huge success.
*****
We've saved my favorite store for last. It also happens to be the last store on the strip. Rue 21—Teenage Girl Heaven. I love everything about it. It probably has just as many cob webs and creepers as the toy store, but the afternoon sun has filled it with welcoming light and it seems cheery and almost untouched. I could almost pretend it was just a normal store.
One little thing in my favor is that the beginning of the end happened to be in January; six years ago. January is the perfect time of the year for shopping. All of the winter clothes are on the clearance racks and the new spring line is on the regular racks. If the world had ended in June, for example, there would only be shorts, tank tops and bikinis in the stores. I don't think I've worn a swimsuit since I was nine; let alone a bikini. So, there you go Aunty, I'm counting my blessings.
Aunty has, once again, taken her place at the front door. She has no interest in this last stop, having done all of her shopping in classier stores. I vow to still like fun clothes if I make it to old age. I stuff my bag full of cute shirts and sweaters, silly T-shirts with funny slogans, and comfy socks and yoga pants for sleeping in. I laugh out loud when I find a shirt that says "Zombies Just Want Hugs" with a little mob of cartoon zombies, arms outstretched in Frankenstein fashion. I smirk and grab one in Aunty's size.
Running this first load out to the car, I come back for another round. I keep expecting Aunty to be impatient with my frivolous choices and how long I'm spending in here, but she just seems happy that I'm relaxing and enjoying myself. Being a teenager and all. I pick out some cute necklaces and put them all on to bring them home. One of them even has a cross on it. I grab an identical cross necklace for my friend Harmony. Matching necklaces is kind of dorky, but we're dorks. She'll like it.
Then I spot the cutest, most impractical shoes ever. Pink suede wedges with stripes of black satin and a black satin strap with a round silver buckle on the ankle. I don't own anything that matches them and they are one hundred percent unnecessary—I must have them. Kicking off the brand new pink Adidas running shoes that I just took from the Adidas store, I try on the pink heels and stare at myself in the spotty mirror.
I am short and somewhat average; not Skinny-Minnie, but not chubby either. My long, curly brown hair is usually knotted in a bun on my head, but today I left it down. I'm wearing all new clothes and my new ruffled blue shirt doesn't match the hip, pink shoes. I can't think of anything I own that would go with them; but they make me look taller. Studying myself in the mirror, I feel pretty and confident. Maybe even kinda hot. Too bad the only person who's interested is Tim Markowitz. The glum feeling—that sometimes overtakes me when I think about my future among the Living—threatens to steal my pink shoe cheeriness.
A huge crash in the back of the store makes my stomach lurch and my heart fly into a panic. I run for the door shooting frantic glances over my shoulder. I can't help but think of the story Aunty just told me; and, as I look behind me, I am just sure I saw someone moving in the shadows. I flee out of the door that Aunty Coe is holding open for me. We jog to the car—Aunty facing forward, scanning the parking lot, and me jogging backwards to make sure no one is coming after us. I stumble several times in the ridiculous pink high heels. We reach the car and still no one has come out of the store.
"Clear!" Aunty barks over her shoulder at me.
"Clear!" I ye
ll back at her.
"You forgot to lock the car, Ivy!" Her voice is shrill and full of fear.
Shoot!
I forgot to re-lock when I carried out my first load of Rue 21 finds. We jump in and quickly hit the door lock.
Before I can even hope that we're safe, I smell him. His nauseating odor reaches my nostrils just a second before he has his arm around my neck. It's the smell of rotting flesh and body odor. The two smells, though equally gross, are in opposition to each other—the smell of death mixed with the smell of activity and life. That's what a zombie is, polar-opposites coexisting. Physically alive, but spiritually dead. And cursed. He's behind my seat and his grip is an iron band across my neck.
I scream and thrash, trying to pull away from him; but he's strong, and he has all the advantage. I'm strong too, and harder to hold onto than he was expecting. I thrash and scream and he has to fight to keep me in his grasp. Something sharp pinches my neck and scrapes across my skin. I cry out in pain and pull hard to the right, pinning his arm against the door. The distraction works in our favor; and, within seconds, Aunty has her Taser to his shoulder. I hear it the charge build as she presses the trigger.
A standard Taser is fired from a distance. Our devices have been modified for close proximity. They can drop an attacker by pressing the electrically charged prongs directly into the skin. Almost like a short, electrically charged cattle prod. I feel a small tingle of electricity run through me, but my attacker's arms slacken as the full current paralyzes him. One shock won't slow him down for long; but I hear Aunty press the trigger several more times, rendering him limp and convulsing against the back of my seat. He's still conscious and the paralyzing effect of the shocks will only last about a minute. I'm confused and terrified when Aunty starts the car and guns it towards the highway with the reeking man still behind my seat.
"What are you doing!" I scream. "We have to get him out of here! Stop the car!"
My voice is high-pitched and weak; I can't seem to catch my breath. I feel like his arms are still around my neck, strangling me. Is this called hyperventilating? I want to fill my lungs, but they seem to be working against me! I pant, pulling tiny scraps of air into my desperate lungs. My eyes are starting to blur!
"It's a trap." Aunty's voice is flat and calm. "There are at least two of them, Ivy."
Just as unexpected as her sudden burst of speed had been, she stomps the brake; throwing me forward into the dash board. My head hits the windshield and my elbows rake against the vents on top of the dash. I slump back dazed.
"Sorry," she says as she thrusts the SUV into park and realizes too late that she could've warned me.
This last jolt scared the wind back into me. My lungs are burning, but they are functioning again. I blink little floating lights out of my returning vision. We've only gone about a quarter of a mile, just to where the parking lot meets the highway, but Aunty is hoping it's enough distance between us and whoever was helping our attacker. She is already out of the car and coming around to the passenger-side back door.
Shaking myself free of the shock I feel—both from the predicament we are in and the hard knock I took against the windshield—I climb into the back seat to push the man out as she pulls from the other side. The zombie is slumped against the back of my seat. He is wearing a silver suit and a green, plastic Oscar the Grouch mask. His greasy black hair hangs out in dirty strands from under his mask. Before we dare to touch him, Aunty gives him one more long burst from her Taser. As we struggle to tug the moaning, convulsing monster from the tall SUV, his Oscar the Grouch mask slides to one side revealing his deformities.
His ear is rotten with almost no flesh left. His exposed cheek is covered in strange lumps of red skin and yellow sores. Near his lips there is a gaping hole, revealing what's left of his stained brown teeth. I shudder at the sight of him. He's one of the worst I've seen and this is the closest I've been to one of them for years. His odor is revolting.
Me pushing and Aunty pulling, we dump the sick man on his head in the middle of the road. Jumping back in the passenger side back door, I check the back hatch area to be sure no one else is hiding in our car. I see only our new clothes; the once neat piles toppled over from Aunty's race car driving. I climb up front and, in the rearview mirror on the passenger side, I see Aunty still bending over the man in the street.
What is she doing!
I open my door to see if she needs me; but she is finally making her way back around to her door. A second later, she climbs into the car and I lock the doors even before she slams hers shut. She hits the lock button again for good measure, and then we peel out. I don't think Aunty meant to make so much noise as she hit the gas pedal too hard, spinning the tires before they found purchase, lunging us forward. I feel whiplashed in every sense of the word. I struggle with just trying to breathe. To focus. To grasp what just happened. My muscles are still tense with adrenaline and I'm shaking.
We are okay, I try to convince myself.
Chapter Five
The Decaying Monster From Sesame Street
Aunty is glancing back and forth from road to rearview mirror; so I turn in my seat to stare out the back window. So far, no one is following us. It would be easy to see them on this clear day. I realize Aunty is talking and I have been nodding. Like my subconscious was listening and responding to her without me realizing it. All of my senses are on overdrive—each sense working to take in every detail of my surroundings without my cognitive intentional effort. It's the clarity of adrenaline that I've only read about in books and it feels surreal.
"...they were working together. One of them made the noise and the other one waited for us to run to the car. It was all planned."
She is processing each detail out loud. She glances sideways at me while she pushes the car to top speeds. She wants my opinion, my input. I am lost in my fear and I can hardly hear her.
"They were trying to take you," she says with quiet surety.
Her matter-of-fact statement grips me, and I think I might throw up. When I look at her again, I can tell she is fighting back tears. I know from the look on her face that she is trying to make a decision. Her lips are clamped tight between her teeth, and when she glances over at me, I can see it in her watery blue eyes. She is trying to decide whether or not to tell me something.
I've lived with her for over 4 years now, and I know her face well. I’ve learned all of her facial expressions. I know when she is faking to be polite. I know when she is irritated behind a fake smile. I know when she is angry and silently begging the Lord for help to hold her tongue. I have her memorized.
The face she wears now usually irritates me because I know she's hiding something from me. Normally, I would persist in pestering it out of her. Right now though, that face with its set jaw and pursed lips just scares the crap out of me. I don't know if I want to know. I'm tempted to plug my ears and close my eyes like the defiant little girl who came to live with Aunty at age twelve. Mad at mom and dad for abandoning her.
They say trauma at a young age keeps you from maturing. If that's true, I'm probably operating with the emotions of a fifth grader because I've been through a lot of trauma in the last six years. I look out of my window to avoid looking at Aunty’s face that is full of some terrible news. Aunty reaches out and grabs for my hand. She's preparing me, supporting me for something. She has something in her hand that rests on top of mine. She's squeezing me so tightly that whatever she's holding starts to dig into my skin. I wince; and, as she relaxes her hand and pulls away from me, the "something" stays stuck on the top of my hand.
It's a photograph.
Of me.
"What is this?" I ask, a cloud of fireworks threatening the edges of my vision again. "Where did you get this?"
"It's an old Polaroid Camera photo."
"What's a Polaroid Camera?"
"It's a camera that prints the photo right out of the bottom of the camera after you take the picture. It's pretty old-fa
shioned. I haven't seen one in years."
"It's a picture of me," I say with meek confusion.
I look closely at the picture and another panic attack hits.
Hyperventilating!
Can't breathe!
Can't think!
God help me!
In the photo, I'm standing on the porch of the Inn. Recently. Maybe this week even. I just wore that shirt a few days ago. This picture is from the zombie? This is why she didn't get straight into the car!
"But——but!" I'm stammering. "You found this picture? Where? The zombie? Why—how could he——It's not—?"
"Calm down, Ivy. We have to think. We have to keep our heads."
But my head is below water. I'm drowning in panic.
"And WHY?" I shriek. "They were actually after me? Why me? How did they know we would be there? Are they from Toccoa? Do they know someone in our community? Did somebody we know do this? Is that even possible?" I'm at champagne-glass-shattering decibels now.
"Ivy," Aunty tries to bring me under control again, but her calm voice finally breaks, betraying her true emotional state. "I don't know what I would've done honey."
I am sweating. It's running down my neck. I wipe away the moisture with my hand and realize that it's not sweat. I'm bleeding. I just stare at the blood on the back of my hand, turning my hand back and forth, hypnotized by the sight of it. The car is suddenly thumping on the gravel off on the side of the road. Aunty gasps and pulls hard to correct us and put us back on the paved highway.
"You’re bleeding?" she asks, horrified. "I'm pulling over!"
"No! Don't! I'm fine. He just scratched me; it's nothing." I think it was probably all the ridiculous necklaces that I'm wearing, but I don't admit that. "It doesn't hurt; I didn't even know I was bleeding. I just felt it drip and I—if you stop, they might catch us!"
I realize how slow she's going, trying to lean over and look at me while driving.
"Aunty, go! Go faster! I'm fine!"
She pushes the SUV back up to 80 mph and stares straight ahead.
INFECtIOUS Page 4