INFECtIOUS

by Elizabeth Forkey

  As we take the exit onto the safer back roads, we are both in shock, sick with fear, near tears—not sure what to do next. I’m all that she has left in the way of real family. She’s all that I have left. I've already lost my parents, what would I do without her?

  I glance behind, and still no one is following us. The problem solver in me begins to surface out of the panic, and I start to process the situation with clarity. Maybe because seeing her fear-filled, teary eyes brings out the selfless, brave side of me. I feel my rational self start to take control again. I push the terror down and turn on the part of me that I like the best: calm, cool, collected Ivy. Not some silly, fashion obsessed 16 year old. I can handle whatever life throws at me. I’m smart. Capable. I can do this.

  Confidence sweeps over me in a palpable wave of strength. It's more decision than reaction. It's an instinct that has helped me keep my sanity since the world turned upside down. Maybe I'm taking too much personal credit for it; maybe it's a gift. Whatever the case, I find myself filled with images and fresh insights. Like my brain suddenly took a gasping breath after going too long without air. My breathing is calm again, and my heart is pounding a normal tempo. I was all adrenaline and feelings, but now I'm thinking.

  "Did you see what he was wearing?" The images my brain cataloged without me even realizing are clear, and I want to think about them out loud to make sense of them. "I think he was a scientist!"

  He was dressed in a metallic silver, one-piece body suit with the symbol for man, a circle with an arrow pointing up to the right, on both arms. That particular body suit is only worn by Pravda scientists; the worldwide organization of scientists and doctors who are working to solve the problem of the disease. They are zombies trying to fix zombies; the blind leading the blind. Their body suits remind me of a diver in a wetsuit from Sea World. My dad took me there when I was five to see the big whale, Shamu.

  My attacker’s shimmery silver get-up completely covered him; except for his hands, feet and face. Of course shoes covered his feet and he was wearing that weird Oscar the Grouch mask—a strange choice of mask for a scientist. He had on a pair of their special satiny black gloves. Who knows how many of the fingers inside were his, if any. The gloves are capable of simulating up to ten bionic fingers.

  Aunty starts to recall her observations as well and we work to figure out what just happened. To put the scary experience into the context of a puzzle makes it manageable. Gives us back some control over it.

  "By the smell of him, I'd guess just working for Pravda,” Aunty says. “Scientists bathe and wear colognes to cover the smell of the disease. And the scientists use every possible means to fight their own disease. That man was very advanced; he hasn't had the luxury of medical treatments. It's the addicts who work for Pravda and get paid in drugs that look and smell like that. He was just a hired thug."

  Work in exchange for the drug that the Pravda Corporation got them all hooked on. Their "miracle" drug, Lucimer, was supposed to cure the disease. Never mind that their "miracle" had the side affect of being more addictive than heroine. The relief that it gave at first still has Pravda insisting that prolonged doses may help with the symptoms of the disease.

  "Besides, he wasn't armed and he wasn't quick," she continues. "They may have put together a decent plan to capture you; but if this old lady could take them out, then they weren't that bright. They had the advantage of surprise." Still thinking out loud, she comes up with an even scarier realization, "No weapon. He was supposed to take you alive."

  Take me where? Her assessments sound reasonable and likely. I pull my feet up on the seat and press my knees to my chest. I feel small and cold. We’ve laid out the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle; but instead of giving me control, it has only added to the day’s terrors. Pravda knows me, and they specifically want me. Why?

  "Maybe he stole the clothes. Maybe he had nothing to do with Pravda,” Aunty says quietly. She is terrified too. “His shoes didn’t look right. They weren’t biotech.”

  I nod. I want her to be right. I know it's wishful thinking, but I need that hope right now. The zombies are lawless, every man for himself. Maybe he did steal the suit. It's hard to know anything for sure.

  "Speaking of shoes, what are you wearing, Ivy?"

  I blush red; embarrassed and shamefully aware that I left my brand new, perfectly fitting, Adidas running shoes on the floor of Rue 21. I'm going home in scuffed pink platforms.

  Chapter Six

  As If Mondays Weren't Bad Enough Already

  We ride the rest of the way home lost in our own thoughts. Aunty will have the unpleasant job of telling the Elders what happened. We'll have to tell them. It's not safe for others to attempt the trip now. Aunty said that the Elders had been against our “outing” to begin with. She'd insisted that we had safely done it several times over the years. After a long meeting that I wasn't invited to, the Elders gave in and let her have her way. Aunty carries herself with so much authority that I don't know anyone who isn't a little intimidated by her.

  We didn't used to need permission for outings, but things have been getting worse. I guess the world is catching up with us. A few months ago, some of our men left the community to hunt and didn't come back. And there have been other unexplainable disappearances. People who’ve disappeared out of thin air—like my Aunty Betty. We thought the fence would keep us safe, but people still go missing. All of the fear and unrest moved the community to elect a Board of Elders. Aunty and I don't resent the Elders; it is out of kindness and concern for our safety that they limit us. It's less freedom though, and that's a little hard to get used to.

  As the disease continues unchecked, eating away at the nerves and flesh of the infected, the morale of humanity degrades with it. I was twelve years old when the curse first hit, but I still remember those days with clarity. At first mankind didn't even know they had contracted it. It can live in a person for months before manifesting. Even when it started to present itself, it was worse in some people than others. So in the beginning, the world didn't realize that every living person had it.

  A wave of panic swept humanity for the second time that year. The first wave of worldwide panic had been a tsunami of loss in the aftermath of the Second Coming. The church and the world’s children had disappeared in an instant; and that earth shattering evacuation had already irrevocably changed the world. Many of my friends and some of my relatives—both of my grandparents—had been part of the Rapture. It felt like half of my reality had evaporated. We were left with no bodies, just questions and fear.

  The people left behind were still trying to figure out where their loved ones had gone when the plague hit. There was rioting all over the world. The United States thought the disease was terrorism in the form of biological warfare and the possibility another World-War loomed over the planet.

  Scientists worked day and night in a frenzied attempt to find a cure. Leprasimilis got its name when they found that it resembled Hanson's Disease, more commonly known as Leprosy. But none of the cures that had worked on Hanson's Disease had any effect on this new worldwide bane. Then the scientists had their breakthrough, and the drug Lucimer was introduced globally. The first dose of Lucimer had to be administered as a shot, an injection close to the bone—the back of the hand or the forehead.

  Anyone who had symptoms of LS was required by law to have the shot, despite its limited testing. About three days after receiving the shot, the skin around the injection turned black and stayed that way. The black spot became a validity test of whether or not you had been inoculated. Anyone who tested positive but refused the injection was either given the injection by force or killed. Then the inoculation became law, symptoms or no symptoms. Every citizen of the U.S. had to have the shot.

  Kids in every public school in the nation were given the shot without warning and without their parent's permission. It happened first thing in the morning, on a Monday, about a week after the new law. It was a coordinated strike, the teams of do
ctors and military men entered every school in the nation at the same time on the same day. Even the teachers didn't know it was coming. Students were locked inside their classrooms and systematically inoculated.

  Armed military personnel accompanied Pravda’s doctors into each classroom. With teachers and students held at gunpoint, Pravda administered the shot to everyone in the class who hadn't already gotten it. Kindergartners were held down for the painful shot, without the comfort of a parent by their side, under the terrifying gaze of camouflaged gunmen. Older students rebelled and tried to run. The school hallways were painted crimson with the blood of children. The media called it Red Monday. It was unforgettable, despicable day in history.

  I wasn't at school on Red Monday. My parents were paranoid people; they didn't want something that the government was forcing on them. None of us had any symptoms. They had kept me home that day to help them pack our house. We didn't even know what was happening at the school, only a mile from our house. No one knew until the students came home traumatized and weeping as they got off at their bus stops.

  Through my bedroom window, I watched my best friend, Kelly, get off the bus at our stop. She was sobbing and stumbling up the street to her house right next to mine. I tried to run out to her, but my parents wouldn't let me go outside. We were moving, but they wouldn't tell me where. I knew I'd never see Kelly again, and I hated my parents for that. When you’re a kid, you don’t realize when your hate is misplaced. It wasn’t my parents’ fault that the whole world had gone to crap.

  That same evening, Aunty Coe showed up—unannounced—at our house. She hadn't had the shot either; and she told mom and dad that we shouldn't get it. She tried to tell them about God—about how all of this was in her Bible. My grandma, Aunty Coe’s sister, had disappeared with the rest of the believers. Aunty said that grandma had been right.

  I remember how scared my parents were that day. I don't know if they heard much of what Aunty said. Mom kept standing up from the couch to look out of the window while Aunty pleaded with them to listen. She invited all of us to come live with her in Toccoa. Dad said he already had a safe place stocked and ready for us. They asked Aunty to take me for a week or so while they got everything settled at the new place. They said they'd come get me. I had only been around Aunty Coe a few times in my life, and I knew she didn’t like kids. I cried and begged my mom not to send me with her.

  Mom slapped me.

  I was twelve. I hadn't been spanked in years, and I had never been slapped. My parents had always spoiled me. I was born when they were older, and they doted on me. They adored me. I remember feeling numb—shocked and hurt—as Aunty Coe shut me into the back seat of her little, blue car.

  I know that I'm Alive today because of a plan that I couldn't see or understand. I know that hard day was necessary. But every time I think of that day, the pain of that memory still rips at my heart with claws that haven't dulled a bit in four years. The last moments I had with my parents were full of anger and hate. They were mad at me and too nervous to even hug me goodbye. They never came like they said they would. I never saw them again.

  I blink tears out of my eyes as I stare out the window. The fields and forests that fly by have lost their enchantments. Everything just looks dead. The barrenness of winter has chilled my heart, and I know that there is no hope left for this broken world.

  Aunty pushes the car as fast as possible back to Toccoa. She keeps patting my hand and glancing back and forth between me and the bendy back roads. She probably thinks my wet cheeks are because of today; but really, my tears are for the past. For my parents. For my friend Kelly. For the wretchedness of existence in general.

  The disease has ruined the world and everything in it—my life in particular—and I don't even have it. Well, technically I do have LS, but not the way the rest of the world does. For us, the Living, it's like a cold sore. You know how once you contract a cold sore it's always in your blood, but it only shows up when you are sick or too rundown? Like, your body is fighting it all the time without you knowing it? If you don't take care of your body, the virus pops up on your face and yells "Herpes!" to everyone who sees it.

  The disease is that way for the Living. Our new Life in the Spirit fights the disease without us even knowing it. But if we slack off, for instance not staying in the Word or letting anger, jealousy and pride live unchecked in our hearts—even something as innocuous as skipping church too much—our strength in the Spirit gets weak, and the symptoms will start to break out again.

  In the beginning, when we were all just learning how to walk in this new Life, many of us had the symptoms right along with the rest of the world. As time went on though, we realized we weren't getting worse like everyone else. Those of us who knew the Truth were getting better. That's when the scientists first started experimenting on the Living.

  At first, they assumed that we were immune. But when they ran the tests, the same disease was found in our blood too. Many of the Living have been kidnapped and tested and dissected by Pravda, but science is no closer to the cure. And they wouldn't find it if they searched for a hundred years. At least not through medical testing.

  Conspiracy theorists think that we are hiding the cure to keep it for ourselves. Because we are well, we are envied and hated; and, of course, not believed. We have tried to share the Cure with them. Early on we told anyone who would listen that it was Him. He is the Cure, but they won't hear it, won't believe.

  When LS first hit, the Living lived side by side with the lost. They tried to tell anyone who would listen. They shared their faith and the Cure, just like Aunty did with my parents. But, when Lucimer came out, the Living had to go underground. They couldn't be part of society without being captured and forced to take the shot or die. I was young and I didn't believe yet. But Aunty and the others knew what the shot was and knew it was imperative that the Living not take it, under any circumstances.

  Pravda was sure that the shot would cure the disease; and, at first, it brought about a massive reduction of symptoms. The world rejoiced over the successful eradication of LS. Then, weeks later, the symptoms suddenly came back, redoubled and even tripled, in anyone who had gotten the shot. Which was most everyone on the planet except for the Living.

  From then on, everyone thought we were healthier because we hadn't taken the shot. The law was revoked, Lucimer was no longer mandatory. But, too little too late. Almost everyone had taken it, or died resisting it. It meant that the Living could come out of hiding. But, they still wouldn't listen to us. After all, we were found to have the same disease in our blood. They thought maybe if they hadn't taken the shot they'd be just as healthy as we were. They refuse to see Truth.

  The scientists continue to run secret tests on their captives. The government, who supposedly still cares for our interests as equal citizens, does nothing to protect us from Pravda. And for obvious reasons. The government is entirely populated with zombies, as desperate for the cure as anyone else.

  We aren't sure how much longer we'll be safe living out in the open. People go missing and the government looks the other way. We are wise enough to know what would happen if we started to scream for our rights. It's like standing next to a Tyrannosaurus Rex in one of those Jurassic Park movies. If you are very quiet and still, he might not notice you. You have a good chance of making it. But if you make a lot of noise, well, you don't make it to the end of the movie. We do our best to lay low.

  I've heard some of the older Living ones say that the zombies have been blinded on purpose and that they are incapable of understanding. That confuses me. If the Living who say that are right; to be honest, I find it unfair. Why do I get Life when thousands of other 16 year old girls are walking around with sparkly masks to hide the fact that their ears fell off?

  Chapter Seven

  You've Got A Little Schmutz On Your Ear

  As we pull back through the gate and into the safety of our community, I feel myself relax. The nightmares of th
e past have chased me all the way home, and I've been holding on to my seat for dear life. My fingers are cramped from their desperate, inadvertent clutching. I know it's normal to be scared after being assaulted, but I'm ashamed of myself for it anyway. Aunty pulls up the narrow alley behind the Inn and stops outside of the back door. She turns to face me and starts into a speech that, I’m sure, has been rehearsed over the last few miles home.

  "Unfortunately, Ivy, we don't know if someone untrustworthy has made their way into our community. We must be a little more careful than normal. I will schedule a meeting with the Elders for tomorrow morning, and I'm sure they'll want you there to give your input. This is somehow about you and we'll need to figure out why and what to do about it."

  For some reason that makes me feel itchy and—diseased; like I'm bringing trouble back home to our only safe place. Are they in danger because of me? Does Pravda really want me? If we, the Living, are a body; am I a cancer?

  "Keep your chin up dear," she says. "God will overcome and we are safe in His hands; just as we have been for these last six years."

  Her inspirational words fall flat for me. Expressionless, I jump out and walk to the back of the car. Lifting the hatch, I start unloading the stuff from our shopping trip. Aunty still has to return the car to the communal lot; but she gets out, leaving the car running, to help me unload everything. We haul the bags and bundles of unfolded clothes to the back door of the Inn, setting them on top of the rusted porch table near the door. I close the trunk hatch when we've gotten everything while Aunty unlocks the back door. It will be my job to haul everything inside and get it sorted.

  "Ivy. Stand perfectly still."

  Her tone freezes me instantly. I don't even feel the panic rise this time. It's instantaneous. I was barely holding on to calm as it was. My arms lock and I remain frozen in mid step. Not because she told me to, but because my muscles are locked in fear. I wonder if I'm about to die? For some reason, the thought of dying makes me think of Him, and my terror lessens just a little.