Tim lunges towards the masked fiend and I realize that Tim has a gun. I think I should stop him. We shouldn't kill a zombie. I'm sure of that, but I can't remember why. I struggle against the strong hands around my neck; and, in slow motion, I see the white mask fall off of my attacker.
I'm staring into Matt's cold, green eyes. The zombie is Matt.
With breathtaking abruptness, I'm not scared anymore. I feel sad, but not for myself or my predicament. I’m sad for this deformed creature who is killing me. I'm shouting at Tim, telling him not to shoot, when Matt pulls me in front of his body as a shield. I should be frightened, but I'm lost in a sea of deep sadness. I hear the gun go off, but I don't feel the bullet. I feel only peace.
Chapter Eleven
I Exude Grace and Poise
I draw in a deep gasp and throw off the blankets as I emerge from my nightmare-filled sleep. As the chilly room cools my warm body, a strange mix of relief and regret hangs over my first coherent moments. I am glad to be out of the murky, slow motion world that my oppressed thoughts held me captive in all night long. The feelings felt so—so—real.
It was like 7:00 p.m. when I went to bed in a pout last night. And after 10 full hours of sleep, I'm wide awake at 5:00 a.m. Normally, I devote myself first thing in the morning, but I'm not in the mood today. I didn’t devote myself yesterday either. A trend is starting here. The longer I put it off, the more I drag my feet back to it.
I head to the kitchen and make a beeline for the pantry. I am ravenous. I love the pre-dawn hours. It's still dark outside; but, with a refreshing night of sleep, the dark of the morning is friendlier than the dark before bedtime. Something about resting my nerves and my emotions as well as my body always makes me feel optimistic and stronger in the morning. Stress from long days and dangerous surroundings often leaves me nervous and morbid when I'm tired at night. Aunty says it's very "feminine" of me. I think she means that I’m a hormonal drama queen.
I spoon Aunty's amazing homemade granola into a bowl and pour myself the last glass of milk. None left to share with the unwanted guest.
Awww, too bad.
My thoughts keep drifting to Matt this morning. I guess I'm just nervous knowing he's upstairs. I've come to the kitchen fully dressed instead of in my pajamas like I usually would. I'm sure we won't see Matt till long after the sun comes up, but I'm still careful to not be caught in a holey pink bathrobe.
Zombies stay up really late, carousing and indulging their various hungers. Night time is their day time. Then, they sleep most of the day away. Their side of the fence looks like an abandoned city with ghostly empty streets before noon. Each day, as the afternoon takes hold, they drag themselves out of whatever hole they slept in and their town of pleasure and debauchery comes raucously to life again.
We can see them right past our eighteen-foot high razor wire fence. The infected live very close. We’re side by side but in totally different worlds. Sometimes an errand takes me near the fence and I'm forced to pass close by one of them on the other side. Close enough for a person to give the typical nod and smile or forced "hello."
Not that I say "hello" or smile.
When I'm forced to be within one hundred feet of a zombie, fence between us, I am bound to get one of two reactions. The men leer at me like I'm meat; something they would like to catch and devour. If they are well enough to walk, they hurry to press themselves against the fence, stretching diseased fingers through the links towards me. I feel like a caged animal, hurrying past them while they call at me and make horrible gestures. Sometimes they throw things over the fence at me.
The women, on the other hand, act like we don't exist. They never look at me, never nod or even acknowledge my presence. If I had to guess, I'd say they are jealous. Their men want us because we are still beautiful and healthy, and they hate us for it. Of course they'd say we are freaks and they don't want to be anything like us.
Whatever.
You’d think they’d want what we have. You’d think they’d see our healthy skin and happy lives and follow their curiosity over to our side of the fence. In the early years, there was a flood of converts to the Living; but, recently, it has become extremely rare for zombies to be healed.
I wonder if our most recent convert knows that his big brother is in town. It will probably be pretty shocking for Matt when he sees Thomas after the description he gave us yesterday. I can't wait for the whole thing to be over and for Matt to be out of my life. I wonder if he had a hard time sleeping in clean sheets in a clean house with no drugs or hookers to entertain him last night. I don't think he could've gone out since we keep the house locked up like a fortress at night. And where would he go?
Come to think of it, how did he get into the community to begin with? Our guards are stationed at the three gates 24 hours a day. They don't let zombies in without an escort and then only on official business. They wouldn't have let him in and then turned him loose. He wouldn't have been allowed to show up unescorted at our door. I don't think he came in through a gate! I wonder if Aunty has realized this yet. So, either he came over the fence—which is unlikely since it's almost twenty feet tall with razor wire at the top—or he came under it somewhere.
The thought of a hole in our security is terrifying. If zombies can come through our fence at their leisure, we'll have children going missing and women being attacked. There are a lot more women than men in the community and it's impossible to keep a guard over all the girls. The whole purpose of the fence is to protect us!
And I'm in more danger than I even realized. If Pravda is trying to kidnap me, a hole in the fence will be very helpful to them. Our meeting with the Elders feels too many hours away. Aunty and I will have to tell them about the breach. We need to find and fix that hole. My unusually morbid morning thoughts are interrupted by the kitchen door creaking behind me.
"Morning." I say with my mouth full of granola. “I have something important to tell you!” I call over my shoulder at Aunty.
She is always up early too. We often eat breakfast together. I can't wait to tell her my new realizations.
"Someone is friendlier today," a sarcastic, deep, male voice rumbles behind me.
I jump up; and, at the same time, inwardly curse myself for being so ridiculously jumpy in my own house. The chair I was sitting on turns over and falls backwards onto the floor with a loud crack—adding to my deep embarrassment. My cheeks flush red with angry humiliation. I can feel the heat on my face; which, of course, makes the whole thing even more embarrassing.
"What are you doing up already!" I shout at him.
"There she is," he says knowingly, insinuating that jumpy and mean is my normal persona.
I really resent that. I'm a cheerful, friendly girl.
Obviously.
He's the problem here and I shouldn't be ashamed of myself. But I find myself constantly feeling a mixture of fear and shame whenever I'm around him.
So, I dig myself deeper and blurt, "There's no more milk!"
"O...K...," he says really slowly and drawn out—like he's talking to an idiot.
Maybe he is.
I don't know what to say now, so I stand there—like an idiot.
To my relief, Aunty bursts through the squeaky kitchen door, her old blue bathrobe pulled tightly around her thin frame and worry on her lined, makeup-free face. She sees the chair turned over on the floor and looks between Matt and I for an explanation. She must have heard the chair fall and came running. Matt holds his hands up in a "I didn't do anything" pose and I glower at him, my face still hot pink with hostility.
Aunty's face fades from concern to understanding. Then, just as quickly, she puts on her hospitality face; and, turning to Matt, she asks, "Pancakes?"
*****
The two of them eat their breakfast of homemade pancakes together that I staunchly turned down. Not because the granola was that filling, but because I don't want to support this behavior. Eating pancakes with a zombie. D
isgusting. I'm pretty sure there's a verse in the Bible about this. Something about "throwing your pearls before swine" comes to mind. Matt fits the description as he forks big bites of warm pancake into his pig face while grunting with satisfaction.
The homemade maple syrup that Matt is excessively pouring on his pancakes was a Christmas gift from a lady at the U.R. I've only had it once since Christmas morning because it's supposed to be special and not wasted. It smells so amazing that my stomach growls audibly in the momentary silence.
That's when I actually notice how good the room smells. It should smell bad; I'm sitting across the table from someone who is rotting. I glance at Matt each time he looks down to take a bite. His hair is still damp with the proof of a morning shower—which means the bathroom in that guest room should just be sealed off and quarantined for the rest of time.
Matt’s hair looks softer today and has a bit of curl, not as much as Thomas' though. His skin looks scrubbed and healthier. His ears are still red, scaly and bubbled looking, but his shaggy curls keep them mostly hidden. His lips look healthier today too, but I'm pretty sure I can see a glisten of moisture across the top like they've been treated with something. Though, that could just be syrup. Such a pig.
His shirt is different too. It's so similar to yesterday's, a long sleeved t-shirt, dark in color, that I almost didn't notice. I don't think he had a bag of any kind yesterday. Maybe Aunty offered to do his laundry for him too and came up with a shirt for him. As likely as that is, I doubt we had a men's long sleeve t-shirt in his size just lying around. He is still wearing the simple black gloves. He wore them all through dinner last night too. His hands must be where he has LS the worst.
LS acts like Leprosy. It attacks the extremities and the nervous system; the ears, nose, lips, hands, feet, and, um, other extremities. The private ones. I just threw up in my mouth a little. Matt must have it really bad on his hands or feet since the rest of him looks pretty normal. I'd hate to see what's under those black gloves He can’t defy God’s judgment. None of them can escape the worsening severity of the curse.
I keep staring at him while he eats—I can't help myself. He's such an oddity. I don't think we've ever had a guy my age here in the kitchen; and, just my luck, this disgusting guy would be the first. The room is quiet but for the sounds of Matt chewing with his mouth open. Aunty has put her ongoing barrage of 20 Questions on hold for the moment to politely finish her pancake.
Of course Matt wasn't talking to begin with because he's too busy forking mammoth bites into his mouth that he can't possibly taste or enjoy at that speed. He looks up at me and—with an antagonistic wink that Aunty doesn't see—he pours more of my syrup on his already doused pancake. I am incredulous. I start to sputter something, but I know Aunty will only reprimand me and send me off to do a chore of some kind. I think that would be even harder on my pride, so I stifle my accusations.
I mumble unintelligibly—on purpose—to excuse myself from the table; and I stomp out of the kitchen for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. I'll hang out in my room until the morning meeting with the Elders. Behind the privacy of my closed door, I go all drama queen for a second and scream into my pillow. I've never been so disgusted and irritated by another living human being. This guy is the worst. I'd rather have breakfast with a Pravda scientist or one of the snotty zombie hookers from the other side of the fence than spend another minute with Matt.
Chapter Twelve
The Reason We’re Stuck Here
Several tedious hours later, it is 8:45 a.m.—time to leave for our meeting with the Elders. I make another appearance in the kitchen looking as cool and confident as possible in some of my nicest new clothes. My scruffy old tennis shoes don't go well with the new outfit; but my other choices were socks with sandals or the pink platforms and that's an obvious choice. My hair is showered and springy with curls. I left it down again today to hide the ugly bruise on my still tender neck. Matt unapologetically looks me up and down several times. He lifts his eyebrows and winks at me again which gives me the chills.
I don't know what Aunty's plan is for him while we are gone. His meeting with Thomas and Thomas' new family isn't until later. We can't take him with us and he definitely can't stay here in the house alone. Please God, don't let Aunty be that trusting. When Aunty asks if he would be willing to wait outside of the fence until his meeting at noon, I sigh with audible relief. They both look at me and I blush and look down at my grubby shoes. I guess she's already been out today to set that up with the right people.
"Whatever," he says flatly. "I just want to get Thomas and go home as soon as possible." After a pause he adds, "You said there'd be lunch. Are you cooking it?"
I don't know if he's afraid of being poisoned by a stranger or if he is hoping for more of her good cooking. Either way, Aunty says that they'll be meeting at Thomas' house and his family will be providing "refreshments." Such an old lady word, I can't help cracking a small smile.
We all walk quietly down Alexander Street. It's another clear, cold January day. I'm not a fan of Georgia winters. They rarely get cold enough for any snow, but everything stays dead and gray and dirty looking. And it rains a lot. Cold and wet is definitely the worst weather I can think of. Today it's very cold, much colder than yesterday. My breath puffs out in vapors ahead of me as we walk. At least it's not rainy.
I'm bundled in my new thermal green ski coat—the fateful picture still tucked in the pocket—with a matching pink and green scarf around my neck. Keeping my hands tucked in my pockets, my fingers nervously play at the edges of the photo. Everything I’m wearing is new except for my hat. I've always worn the same one, since I was little. My mom made it for me. It's pink, of course, with two points on top like bunny ears ending in little yarn pompoms.
Walking behind Aunty and Matt, I am dwelling on his most recent irritating comment. His appreciative reaction to my appearance in the kitchen—not that I cared at all—turned to obvious humor when I came out of the back door in my wintery getup. He smirked and said, "Nice hat." Nice hat. It is a nice hat. I bet his mother never made him a hat. And I don't care what he thinks. I'm warm. And I like my hat.
Aunty is dressed equally warm and considerably classier. She is forever looking like a magazine ad for classy old lady clothes. She's toasty warm but not bulky looking. Matt has produced a knit hat out of thin air (who am I kidding? You know Aunty gave it to him) but has nothing warm on over the long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He, of course, still wears the gloves. They don't look particularly warm though. They are thin and satiny; the type of gloves made to cover up diseased hands. I wonder if all ten fingers are his or if he has some of those fake fingers in his gloves. He has to be freezing, it's like 30 degrees out here, but I'm sure he wouldn't admit it.
We walk past the old library which is now used for storing dried goods. Past the old post office, now the security building where "weapons" are kept and security personnel trained. We don't actually have weapons. We don't believe in killing, even in self-defense. We have Tasers for protection. The few guns that are in our community are only for hunting. We are not a well-armed bunch. Hopefully, the fence is all we'll ever need. If we could just hold out here for a little longer—
In a few hundred feet we see the gate looming ahead and the security guards walk towards us to meet us partway there. I guess word about Matt has gotten out, probably from the men who kept watch over us last night. The guards don't look at all surprised to see us escorting a zombie out of the community in the morning hours.
Aunty, Miss Manners, makes introductions, “Al and Tom, this is Mathew. Mathew, these two good men help keep us safe here.”
Al and Tom look as awkward as I have been feeling, giving me a wonderful sense of justification. As they shake hands with Matt, I notice Al subtly wipe his hand on his pants after the handshake. I glance at Matt's face to see if he noticed and I'm pretty sure he did. Why does that make me feel like gloating?
Tom reaches out a
nd takes hold of Matt's arm to lead him out through the gate. I'm close enough to Matt to hear the low rumble that becomes an explosive growl as he jerks his arm away from Tom, snarling like an animal that could take Tom's arm off with one bite. Normally, confrontation of any kind really stresses me out. I am definitely not myself lately because I find myself stifling a giggle in what should be a shocking and tense situation. The guards look unsure in front of Aunty, not sure how to handle her "guest".
In this small pause, Matt marches quickly and resolutely up to the gate. Al rushes up behind him and shields the key pad with his hand as he punches in the security code to open the gate. Then Matt is through, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Back on the other side where he belongs. He finds my eyes on him and winks at me one more time before turning and walking down the road, his downturned mouth making the wink seem more sinister than the previous ones. Maybe he'll just go and not be back at the gate at our appointed meeting time. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
I don't seem to have good enough luck for that lately. He'll probably be there with a whole bunch more of Thomas' family members. I bet they're all real winners.
Aunty thanks Tom and Al and asks them to treat Matt politely if he returns before we do. She only looks at Al as she makes her request.
*****
Aunty and I retrace our steps back to the Inn and continue on past it to the city courthouse building across the street. This is our meeting place, community center, hospital, and most importantly our church. We call it the Upper Room, the U.R. The Elders meet in one of the smaller rooms on the main floor. I see them almost every day because I work two doors down from them as a volunteer secretary to the teachers of the U.R. I help the teachers with classes and reports and research, and I sometimes visit the members of the community to find out what they need from the U.R. I really like my job and I have learned a lot while working under the five different teachers.
Mr. Jarvis teaches the younger kids—only 12 of them in the whole community—6 of which are 5 years old or younger. They were born after the disappearances, after we were left here. The other 6 are 12 to 13 years old, Thomas is one of them. There is no one left on earth between the ages of 5 and 10. Every one of the kids in that age group,—all over the entire world—disappeared, because at the time of the Second Coming those kids were babies and young children. They were innocent. Pretty creepy, huh? So, Mr. Jarvis has a tough job being in charge of pre-schoolers all the way up to middle-schoolers. Chuck Fox has been helping him lately, giving much needed support.
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