I close my eyes.
Aunty hits my arm with her shoe.
I open my eyes.
I feel—stunned. I was expecting to be mauled by zombies, or to hear gun shots, or something—anything—other than being firmly slapped on the arm with a soft soled shoe.
"Got it," she says with confusing cheerfulness.
Seconds later, Aunty is back in the car and driving away. Disoriented, I melt like a thawing snowman; my limbs unlocking from top to bottom. As the thaw reaches my knees, I almost crumple to the ground. Looking down at the pavement beneath me, I see a humongous black spider lying dead and curled up next to my foot. I jump and scream at the sight of how large it is, dead or not. And realize that it had, just a moment ago, been crawling on me.
ON ME!
I do a freaked out, shivery, girly-scream-jump-armflap dance that only true Arachnophobes could picture and understand. I land awkwardly on the pink high heels, knowing it's a small miracle that I didn't twist my ankle. A twisted ankle would’ve been the icing on the cake today. My first thought that God is "looking out for me" is quickly pushed aside when I think of the zombie at the mall and the spider on my arm. If He's looking out for me, I'd like a little more attention.
Unlocking all the doors to our private quarters takes me a minute. Made even more challenging because my hands are still shaking. It is a relief to be home. I go back outside to start carrying everything in and almost jump out of my skin when I notice someone leaning against the side of the house.
“Ah!” I scream, immediately embarrassed by my obvious cowardice.
If he’s inside of the gates, he must be one of us. He looks to be my age; but, as I clop clumsily towards him, I still don’t recognize him. I know everyone in our "gated" community. There were 193 of us inside the fence at the last count. A count I helped with. I could tell you all 193 of their names.
I attempt to walk gracefully in my pink high heels towards the guy who must be someone I know but can't place. Why is he leaning against the wall of the Inn? Does he have some business here? I skid to a stumbling halt at the sight of the disease on his ears. His dark hair is pushed back behind ears that are bubbled, red, and crusty. He's a full-fledged zombie! He isn't wearing their clothes, just jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt. And gloves. The gloves are their thing. I back towards the door, heart pounding; all the horror of my earlier attack flooding over me.
Geez God, why me!
The terror on my face must be obvious as I reach for the door behind me. The guy, who looks close to my age, pushes off of the wall and starts towards me. He scowls menacingly and holds a gloved hand out to stop me. I stumble backwards through the open door—I definitely hate these darn shoes— and he yells at me as I grab for the door.
"Wait a minute!" He calls angrily as he lunges towards me.
I slam the door in his face and fumble at the lock with trembling fingers. I wait—holding my breath—for him to rail against the door in an attempt to break it down. I lean my weight against it and press my sweaty palms against the cold metal. How long will the old aluminum door hold up against an attack? There is one window next to the back door, but it is reinforced with thick metal bars. He'd be stupid to try coming in that way. A gentle rapping noise makes its way through the noise of my heart pounding in my ears.
He's knocking? What attacking zombie knocks on your door? Is this some sort of trap? Is he trying to distract me?
Aunty will be back any minute.
She'll walk right into the trap! How can I warn her? What if I go out the front door and circle around to the other side of the house? I could catch her before she starts up the alley to the back door. We could go in the front door and avoid him all together. If he's alone.
Dear God, what if he isn't alone?
Maybe he's working with someone, like the zombie in the scientist outfit. Maybe he is that guy's partner! They've followed us home somehow! If I go out the front door and leave it unlocked they could get in the house while I'm around on the other side. We don't have a working key for the front door because it's so old and it only locks from the inside. It's why we mostly use the back door. So, if I go that way, I'll leave us exposed and they could get in.
Then they'll hide in wait and attack us while we're sleeping! All of these panicked thoughts are bouncing loudly in my rattled psyche and no solution has yet come to mind and I realize I hear Aunty talking outside.
She’s back already? I'm too late!
Any moment, I'll hear her scream. This is all my fault! I'm frozen in terror. What can I do? Then, I hear a key scratch at the door lock and I look down at the knob. It’s turning.
They've gotten her key!
Of course they would; why didn't I think of that?
I turn to run. I'll go out the front door and find help. It's my only option. Hopefully, God will protect me and there won't be more of them on the front porch. I hate to leave Aunty with them, but what else can I do?
"Ivy?"
Aunty Coe walks through the back door, a pleasant smile on her lined face. I pause mid-run, looking like a cartoon character stuck in a ridiculous running position—Wile E. Coyote style. My face is a mask of panic and confusion.
"Honey, we have some company. Are you ok? You don't look ok, dear. I'll make us some tea and we can visit with this young man. This is Matthew," she says politely, introducing the scowling menace.
"Matt," the boy barks.
"Yes, Matt. He says he's Thomas' brother. Isn't that nice? Thomas will be so excited. I don't think I've ever heard him mention his family."
Chapter Eight
Interview With A Zombie
I mumble something—maybe it's "Hi"—and I reluctantly follow Aunty and the zombie into the kitchen. I look down in embarrassment as my ridiculous shoes tap loudly on the linoleum. With my eyes on the floor, I'm furious to see that Matt's shoes are caked in mud and leaving giant clods of dirt all over my newly scrubbed floor. If it was possible for me to despise this zombie any more, I do now.
Aunty shouldn’t have let him in. Something is wrong here. Dragging behind them, still certain we are in danger, I catch a whiff of Matt the zombie. He smells terrible. My heart hammers, thinking of the smelly man who just attacked us, not an hour ago. Matt’s stink isn’t body odor; but the smell of ointment mixed with the unpleasant musk of cat litter. He is musty, like he got his clothes out of a garbage can.
I wrinkle my nose in disgust and catch Aunty shooting me a reproving look. She called him company! She invited him into our home. Does she expect me to treat him kindly and have good manners? I'm afraid that's asking too much. I am certain we are in terrible danger, and Aunty’s misjudgment could cost us our lives.
Aunty exudes Southern hospitality as she insists Matt try some of my homemade cookies. He grabs two gloved handfuls and devours them with no concept of manners or etiquette and no "thank you." Matt sinks into a chair at the table as he scarfs his second handful of cookies. Aunty offers tea and he mumbles something, accepting her offer. I lean against the kitchen counter behind him; my stomach is rolling and my arms and legs are tight with tension.
Aunty boils the water and strains the tea leaves into three different mismatched mugs. The tea is too hot to gulp down, and I wonder what it will look like to watch a zombie sip tea like a civilized person. I'm just staring at Matt with wide, disgusted eyes when Aunty clears her throat a little to bring me to my senses.
"So, you are here to find Thomas," she starts the conversation, talking to Matt but looking at me.
Aunty points at the empty chair beside her where she placed my mug at the table. Her eyes insist that I sit. I obey, wearing rebellious disdain like a banner across my face.
"Yes." He clips, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips with the back of his dirty gloved hand.
I'm breaking Aunty’s rules of nicety by staring. As Matt takes a hesitant sip of the steaming tea, I study his face for any sign that he could be related to our Thomas. Matt's facial
features might resemble Thomas', but it's hard to tell. Matt's skin is more yellow and there is damage on both of his ears. The man at the mall who attacked us today was the worst I've seen; and, comparatively, Matt is probably the least infected that I've seen in a long while.
The disease is there, you really have to look close to see it, but it's there. I think it's starting to manifest on his lips too, though they could just be chapped from the cold. LS on the lips is not pretty. Within a year or so, his lips will be mangled at best. In its later stages, the LS on his lips will eat away at them until his lips are completely gone. Matt is dressed head to toe for the cold winter day, so I can’t tell if the disease has claimed any other territory. I’m glad his clothes cover whatever else is rotting.
Matt’s most outstanding feature is his striking emerald green eyes. Perhaps they are similar to Thomas' aqua green eyes. Only Matt’s are more brilliant, piercing even. I've never seen eyes so green. Matt meets my stare, and I shiver at the malicious glow behind his reptilian orbs.
"How is it that you and Thomas were separated?" Aunty asks, staring at him without blinking.
I realize that perhaps she's more cautious of him than I first thought. She's screening him. Making sure he really is Thomas' brother. I finger my Taser on my wrist band under the table. He's foolish if he thinks that we’re defenseless.
"He left town with a freak, didn't tell me."
Nice.
By “freak” he means someone like us. I'd rather be a freak than a zombie. He stares at us with restrained disgust and doesn't offer any more information. This zombie isn’t a talker. Aunty won't have much more than her gifts of wisdom and discernment to help her figure him out.
"How old are you, son?" she continues with her questioning. "I can see the resemblance. Are you and Thomas twins?"
This guy looks older than me. Thomas is twelve years old, fresh-faced and adorable. Matt's scowling, scruffy face is anything but adorable. He has shaggy, unkempt dark brown hair—nothing like Thomas' curly, cherubic blondish-brown locks. But, more than anything else, it is Matt's hardness that puts him on the other side of the Grand Canyon from the sweet innocence that Thomas embodies. There aren't any similarities. It's obvious to me that Aunty is just trying to weigh his reaction; figure out if he's genuine. Apparently, it's obvious to him too.
"Huh!" Matt snorts angrily at us, slapping the table with an angry smack. Sending my left hand to the Taser on my right wrist under the cover of the table.
"If you can't point me in the right direction, I'll keep looking. Thanks a lot."
He has figured out that he's being interviewed and his "thanks" is sarcastic as he pushes his chair away from the table.
"Young man!" Aunty's voice booms.
Aunty scares me sometimes. She carries herself with such authority it makes the zombie pause on his way out of the kitchen.
"You must understand our caution. If you do truly care for Thomas, you know that under normal circumstances your people are nothing but a threat to him."
"A threat?" he asks with genuine confusion and his consistent tone of disgust. "Look. I don't know how things work here, but I'm mad at Tom for sneaking off and leaving me. His disease is spreading, and I'm sure he doesn't fit in here. I just want to take him home with me. I'm not interested in the rest of your interview," he sneers at Aunty, "and I will eventually find him myself. Tom doesn't need your charity anymore."
He is practically spitting his words by the end of his rant. They really, really hate us. And we are supposed to "win" them over?
"Thomas doesn't have the disease anymore."
Aunty's announcement gets his attention. Matt thought he was coming here to find his little brother still sick? He didn’t know? Matt squints at us, his green eyes narrowing to serpentine slits, but his skepticism immediately returns.
"I don't believe you. You don't have a cure here, you're just immune. And the last time I saw Tom, his ears were almost completely gone. His lips were so mangled it was hard for him to eat. Or speak. If we are talking about the same kid," he pauses and then finishes quietly, "you know I'll be burying him within the year. I just want to take my brother back home."
I am caught up in his words like a trance. His emotion is so real. His concern for his brother is so moving that I feel tears spring to my eyes as I hear his voice catch, thick with his emotion. Then he shakes his head and, as he meets my eyes again, his face turns back to stone. I blink.
Oh, he's good.
This show of concern is a trick or something. I look over at Aunty.
"This is ridiculous! Tell me where he is now!" he demands.
"Believe what you want," Aunty continues, seemingly unfazed by both his emotional moment and his anger. "If you would be willing to wait until tomorrow, I can arrange a meeting for you and Thomas. Obviously, there would be some chaperoning required. If you can agree to that, I will contact his family this evening and we can meet with them for lunch tomorrow."
"His family?" he asks with obvious irritation and restrained anger. "Ugh!" he growls in guttural frustration. "I'm his family!"
"Yes, a lovely young couple has adopted him," Aunty answers gently. She's good with people.
I guess if Matt is Thomas' real brother, hearing that he has a new family would be pretty upsetting. I'm not as good with people and I am holding back a sarcastic remark about Matt's angry nature and how Thomas obviously left for good reason. Matt considers Aunty’s offer for a full minute in silence. Aunty and I wait, meeting his gaze, studying him for a clue of what he will decide. I'm betting it will be another angry outburst accompanied by some cursing and door slamming. I have a firm grip on my Taser and I find myself dying to use it.
"Fine." He says it quietly, with no malice.
I'm caught off guard, but Aunty looks unfazed; triumphant even.
"You may sleep in one of our guest rooms."
At this offer, I am stunned. Now it's my turn to be angry.
"What? Are you kidding?! After what happened today?"
"Ivy, I will speak with you privately. Please go put our packages away." Her voice is stern and her tone is one she seldom uses with me.
Matt stares cooly at me, and I'm humiliated in front of him as Aunty sends me away like a little child. I'm not just mad now; I'm hurt too.
I can't believe she is doing this!
I feel betrayed. Like I'm twelve years old again and my mom just slapped me. Can't I trust anyone to just be there for me? To care about me when I'm rightfully scared? I feel a tug in my heart reminding me that He is always there for me, but I brush it aside. How has He been there for me? It has been a horrible day. One of the worst days of my life, with no sign of Him anywhere.
Aunty is probably dooming us. Matt could totally be part of what happened to us in Commerce today. I have been freaking out—and rightfully so—and now she's inviting the enemy to sleep in our house? I glare at him again as I walk to the kitchen door.
"Don't put yourselves out," he glances at me. "I can find a place to sleep. I don't need your charity."
Aunty gives me a face meant to send me on my way. As I storm out of the kitchen, I hear her talking to him in that soothing, calm voice she uses to teach.
"Do you know what charity means Matthew? It is another word for love. Everyone needs love. I can't make you stay here, but we have nice rooms and it would be more convenient for you. I will understand if you decide not to stay. I won't be offended."
I can't stand outside the door and eavesdrop, she will know. Bitterly, I clip-clop outside and begin to haul the bags of clothes inside.
Chapter Nine
A Total Waste of Milk
I am lying on my bed when Aunty knocks on my door. I'm still hurt and still angry. I know she's in charge of me, but we take care of each other. We run things by each other when something as big as this comes up. Then, today of all days, she pulls rank and doesn't care at all for me or what I've been through. I have every right to be furious. Every
right to be afraid. The zombies are wicked and dangerous. How dare she insist that I plump his pillows and clean his bathroom when he's probably here to hurt me? I hate him.
"Ivy?"
I still don't answer, still don't offer for her to come in. She can open the door if she wants to boss me around some more, it's not locked.
"Honey, I know you've had such a hard day. I love you and I'm praying for you. The Lord is good; and, just as I know He'll care for us, I know we need to care for this boy. I don't mean to make you sad, but I'm really sure about this. I warmed up your tea?” she invites.
She is quiet. Waiting for an answer I won’t give.
“I'll set it here by the door for you,” she says softly. “When you are done resting, please come help me cook dinner. Okay?"
I don't answer. I'm crying quietly now. Her sweet tone has broken through my anger. I hear her walk away towards the kitchen and unwanted tears plummet down my cheeks.
I'd rather be angry. Sad and hurt feels worse.
And guilty.
Why should I feel guilty?
But I do. I know it's because she's right. We are supposed to love. We are supposed to be the opposite of them, and all they are is hate. They even hate each other. I'm supposed to care less about my own fears and my own preservation, but it's human nature to value myself over him. I feel—ashamed. And I'm mad about it. I don't want to be forced to feel something I don't want to feel. I should devote myself right now and seek help for this, but I can't bring myself to do it. Maybe later.
Ugh.
Worst day ever.
I crack open the door, draw in the hot cup of tea and then quickly re-shut myself in. Sitting on the side of my bed, I sip at the soothing brew and try to feel positive. I look down at my new clothes, and my mood only darkens. A glance at my new shoes that I kicked off next to the bed makes me feel ridiculous. I jump up—embarrassed of the ridiculous girly moment I had in Rue 21—and stuff the pink heels into the back of my closet.
I'm disgusted with myself. I left a wonderful pair of comfy new tennis shoes on the floor of Rue 21. This day has been a total failure. A disaster. At least I had the common sense to put my old tennis shoes in one of the bags. I pull the worn out old Nikes from one of the bags near my bed. They are dirty and uncomfortable and they leak when it's wet out. I throw them angrily at my closet door.
INFECtIOUS Page 6