"Captain Markowitz?"
"Andrew, dear."
"Captain Markowitz?" I repeat again this time rolling my eyes. "So what did he say to you? Just more angry threats?"
"No, he was decent with me. He let me tend his wounds in exchange for information about Thomas."
"He's hurt too? How hurt? And why did you need information about Thomas?"
"Yes he had several deep cuts and his face took quite a beating. He can barely open one eye. He needed to be cleaned up, and I even gave him a few stitches," she sounds proud of her medical prowess.
"But why did you need information about Thomas?" I ask again.
"I didn't, he did. I had to bribe him with information about Thomas' condition to get him to let me care for him. He was refusing care, and I hated to see him all bloodied up. Captain Andrew stood guard with a Taser the whole time, so I was relatively safe."
"Of course you were safe! This is ridiculous. Matt wouldn't hurt anyone; he was just worried and upset about Thomas. He wouldn't do any of those things he said. You know that, Aunty! Can't you tell them to let him go?"
"You are going to have to trust me, Ivy. I've never exaggerated the facts before have I? Do you find me embellishing other people's stories and looking for drama where there is none?
"No."
She's right. If anything, she always down-plays a serious situation; looks for the best in people. It must be pretty bad if all she's saying is true.
"I'm taking some of this soup over to the clinic." She pauses and then adds, "I'll bring some to Matt and Andrew too."
I think she's doing it just for me. And if I can't see him, I do like thinking that he'll eat some of our soup. Maybe he'll think of me.
"Thank you Aunty," I say as I hug her tightly.
"You're welcome dear," she says while shaking her head at me. "You really are a teenage girl aren't you?"
I smile sheepishly.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Only Thing That Could Make Toilet Cleaning Exciting
I’m eating dinner alone again. Aunty told me she might have to stay awhile with Thomas this evening to give the others a break. I guess I've spent this much time by myself before; but, because it's forced on me, each lonely minute feels like ten. I clean up and go to my room to finish the work Sherry sent me. Hopefully the other teachers will send work soon. Everyone is extra busy getting ready for the missionaries’ homecoming.
At the last count, there were 193 people in our community. Andrew Markowitz makes 194. If Matt counted, it would be 195. But he's not Living, and he doesn't plan to stay. The 194 Living people who are here by choice aren't the only members of our body. We have about 30 more people who have answered the call to go out and tell the zombies that they can be healed. They travel to different assigned areas, risking their lives, to hopefully save some. Three times a year the missionaries come home for a week to catch up, stock up on supplies, and share the news of what's happening outside the gates.
The last time they were home, the news wasn’t good. We heard a very bleak report of a scattered few converts, most of whom fell back in with the zombies shortly after converting. Between all 30 of them, they only brought 4 people with new Life into the community last time they were home. One of those converts was Thomas.
The missionaries told us stories about rising lawlessness and unbridled hatred towards our kind. One missionary didn't come home for the last homecoming. He's MIA. Missing In Action. That's when the board of Elder's was elected. They met for several days to decide whether or not it was safe to send out the missionaries for another term. The missionaries themselves unanimously voted to go back out, so they were allowed to leave again. We are all anxiously waiting to see each of them make it safely home from another term. They will trickle in all week, and this Sunday will be a big celebration. We'll stay at the U.R. building all day long, eating meals and worshiping together. The missionaries will each take a turn sharing where they've been and what they've seen. It's always an exciting, emotion filled day for everyone.
I can't decide if I'll go or not. On the one hand, I'll be allowed to be out of this house all day long! On the other hand, no one seems to like me much right now. An entire day of trying not to notice their whispers, avoiding conversations and clinging to Aunty’s side like a child doesn't sound worth the time out of the house.
I'm sure we'll fill all five guest rooms upstairs with at least 10 missionaries. Filling all five rooms would normally exhaust me with the thought of all the impending chores; but, for a change, it sounds really nice. Lots of people in the house means someone to talk to, an end to my boredom, and firsthand news from outside our sheltered town. Even better, they’re people who don't know about my recent problems and won't judge me for my mistakes. It will be a much needed distraction from my constant thoughts of Matt. Company sounds heavenly.
*****
I can't go to bed until I know Aunty is home safe. She finally comes in, long after dark, at 9:00. I've had the teapot simmering and ready for her for an hour. I had to add new water twice to keep it from boiling away to nothing. I stare at her while she drinks her tea, and I can't help but worry about how unhealthy she looks. Her face is thin, the wrinkly skin beneath her eyes looks baggy, and her hair looks dull gray instead of lustrous silver. She looks older than her age—and she normally looks so much younger than her age. It's been a stressful week for sure, but I'm worried that maybe something worse is draining her. Surely one tough week couldn't take her down? I need to take better care of her, take some of the work off of her shoulders. Make her rest.
"I look pretty bad, huh?” Aunty startles me, and I meet her eyes guiltily.
"What? No! You're beautiful!"
"Ivy, I know you so well. I read you like a book. You are scowling at me and looking me over. You should see your face."
"No really, Aunty. You are as gorgeous as always. You look tired that's all. I'm worried that you are working too hard," I say wondering if God is offended by little white lies that make someone else feel better.
"I am tired, Ivy. Very tired. I'm sorry dear, you are probably lonely and wishing for someone to visit with, but I'm dead on my feet. I promise we'll spend some good time together tomorrow," Aunty says standing up. Our short visit is over already.
Putting her cup in the sink, she shuffles towards the door. Shuffles—like an old lady. I feel a stab of fear at the thought that if she were gone I'd have no one.
As she's leaving the kitchen, she turns and says, "By the way dear, Matt said thank you for the soup. To you. I mean he thanked me for bringing it, but he asked me to thank you, too. I still don't want to encourage your feelings towards him, but I wouldn't feel right not telling you. Love you sweetie. Goodnight."
Chapter Thirty-Two
How a Missionary Ruined Spaghetti for Me Forever
Well, I asked for it; so I can't be disappointed about it. I'm swamped. Everyone has sent me something to work on for this coming Sunday. I'm compiling lists, typing lectures and sermons, looking up scripture, and tons of other secretarial type things. Mr. Jarvis even has me cutting out little fabric animals and people for a felt Noah's Ark project for the little kids. Not to mention all the baking and cooking Aunty and I are doing.
Everyone has to contribute as much as possible for the potluck lunch and dinner at the U.R. for over 200 people on Sunday. In my “spare” time, I'm trying to dust and sweep the whole house and make sure the guest rooms are ready for whoever comes. I keep intentionally trying to take as much of Aunty's work as I can. She looks a little less tired; so I'm hoping it's helping. I can't wait until she's back to her speed-walking self.
Thomas has been moved to Jose and Ellen's house. Aunty says he's in a lot of pain and we pray for him together at every meal. They are giving him Tylenol around the clock. Aunty says Thomas is asking relentlessly to see Matt. Thomas is such a tender-hearted kid, and Aunty says he feels like what happened out there is his fault. He doesn't know Matt is in a ja
il cell. Thomas thinks they are keeping Matt somewhere to be safe. It's too much to explain to a little boy who loves his brother and is already dealing with more guilt and pain than he can handle.
I hear very little about Matt. Aunty has only seen him one other time. I know because I've pestered her for info every day. Aunty says Tim is always there. I can't even picture the two of them together. I wonder what worldly, exciting Matt thinks of boring, nerdy Tim's company.
Harmony has only come to see me once this week. She brought more papers from her mom and only stayed about half an hour. She looked at her watch a lot and wasn't herself. I can't even remember what we talked about. It was awkward. I felt extra lonely after she left.
This afternoon, the first missionary arrived back in town. Aunty says the whole community is thrilled to see him, but everyone is worried that more of the missionaries haven't arrived by now. By the way, I'm getting really tired of getting all my info through Aunty.
The missionary, Ben Morvose, is friendly and handsome. I checked him into his room here at the Inn shortly after he arrived today. Ben is in his early twenties, maybe 22 or 23. He's tall and thin with a summer tan complexion. He's already starting to lose his hair. For a guy so young, I can’t help but wonder if his receding hairline has to do with how stressful and dangerous his life is.
Ben is boisterous to say the least. As I showed him around the house and let him peak in the different rooms, he exclaimed and complimented the smallest details. His joy and enthusiasm are infectious; and, watching him enjoy the simple things like a comfy bed and clean sheets, made me think of Rev. Depold’s sermon. Ben is so enjoyable to be around, I can’t imagine any zombie not liking him. He’s a great advertisement for our great news.
Ben chose the small room at the top of the stairs to stay in; the same room that Matt stayed in. Ben hasn't stayed with us before. He's always been one of the last missionaries to arrive and has stayed with other families in town because we were already full. It's always been first come first serve for rooms at the Inn. Once we're full, families start volunteering their guest rooms for the rest of the missionaries.
Ben is eating dinner with us tonight. I'm looking forward to being the first to hear Ben’s stories of life out there. When he found out that none of the other missionaries had arrived yet, it took his spirited vigor down a notch. The missionaries are like family to each other since only they can really understand what it's like to be out there alone with the zombies.
Aunty and I gave Ben some dinner choices for his first meal back in civilization. He chose spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread—Italian comfort food, true to his Italian last name. I've been working all day and dinner is just about ready; so I jump in the shower and take a few minutes to get cleaned up. I put on a little lip gloss and braid my hair to the side. Satisfied with my appearance, I run upstairs to knock on Ben's door and call him to dinner.
*****
Ben follows me into the kitchen all the while emitting enthusiastic sighs and moans over how good dinner smells. After another round of exuberant exclamations about how good the food looks, Ben prays a blessing over the meal and our home.
“Father,” Ben begins, “Thank you. Thank you for your goodness. Thank you for Colleen and Ivy and this beautiful home. Thank you for bringing me home safe.”
With my eyes closed, I smile. I’m glad Ben feels at home here. It is so soothing to hear a man of God pray at our table. I feel God’s blessing emanating from the encouraging man whose head is bowed across from me.
“Father, protect this place and these women who belong to you. Thank you for their humble hands that serve this community. Thank you for their service to me in sharing this amazing feast. Jesus, care for the lonely and lost who suffer tonight. The little children who have no food and no home. Minister to the innocent tonight, Creator.”
Ben’s voice, thick with passion and concern for people outside our walls brings tears to my eyes. I never think about the babies. I forget that there are innocent children out there in the broken, rotting world. Ben says, “Amen,” and Aunty and I meet each other’s glistening eyes. Ben’s prayer carried weight and authority. This man of God lifted me and my safety up before the King of Kings. I know God hears everyone's prayers, but I feel like he especially honors the prayers of a missionary.
I'm starved for the homemade spaghetti, but even more starved for news and a glimpse outside of our limited existence. Aunty and I make pleasant conversation and take small polite bites of pasta. Ben nods and “uh huhs” while vacuuming up slurpy bites of spaghetti. Aunty keeps leading the conversation towards what is happening on the outside. Ben knows we're dying to hear all his news, but he seems reluctant to talk. Looking up from his plate, Ben sees me staring at him with wide eyes like a child waiting for Santa. With a deep sigh, he starts to tell us what his last term was like.
"It's gotten—insane out there. I don't even know how to describe it to you ladies without being offensive. Even after the disappearances, the United States was still a nation with a Christian heritage. For my first several terms out there, people were still people. Of course, people were terrified back then—especially when the disease first hit. But, in those first few years, people were more receptive. They wanted to hear good news. They were willing to change."
He pauses and his deep voice sounds spooky when he says, "Now, everyone is so far gone. Almost everyone is drug addicted and not in their right mind. The disease is causing such serious nerve damage and disabilities that people are dying in large numbers. The streets are full of bodies. All hope is gone. Most of them have given up on Pravda.
“Instead of making them more interested in what's after this life, they avoid talk of death or spiritual matters with a sick desperation. They are desperate to soothe themselves with as much happiness and pleasure as possible. They exist for a good feeling, numbness to the pain, with nothing else on their mind but where to get their next fix. I didn't have a single convert this term," he says quietly with sadness etched into his handsome face. He looks down at his food as though ashamed.
Aunty immediately tries to encourage him. "Ben, what you are doing is so brave. It's not your fault that they won't come. You are giving your life out there; living with danger and want. We are all so proud of you. The Lord knows how hard you try. You know as well as I do that unless He calls them, they can't come. It's His job, not yours."
"Yeah." I add lamely. All the happiness and encouragement that I felt when Ben prayed is gone. I feel depressed from the heavy news Ben has shared. Why do Ben’s words make me feel so bi-polar? How can he have me smiling one second and loathing existence the next? Maybe Ben has a dose of “The Force” in him just like Aunty.
Ben smiles at me and swallows a mouthful of garlic bread. I look down when I realize I’ve been staring at him and scowling.
"Tell us what it's like here in Toccoa, you know, just outside the fence," I ask.
After slurping in a big bite of spaghetti, he obliges me, "Well, really it's just more of the same. Pleasure is god to these people. The government has people living together in large compounds now. With everything they want provided for them. It's not free by any means though. They pay in blood. The lines are hours long every day."
"What do they do with the blood they collect? Why does Pravda need so much blood Ben?" Aunty asks.
"They recycle it," he answers. "People line up to give their blood in exchange for credit. They spend the credit on drugs, sex, food, clothing and shelter; in that order. The government provides entertainment and cheap sustenance for free. The entertainment is unspeakable, and I won't even allude to the depravity of it. The very poor get by on the free food, choosing instead to buy drugs and sex. But not everyone is poor. Anyone with means buys their food."
"They have grocery stores?" I ask with the possibility of tasting cheese singles again on my mind.
"No, not at a grocery store," Ben says, his face clouded with anger.
His dark ex
pression makes me feel bad for asking. I have no idea why the mention of grocery stores would be so infuriating. Throughout his report, I've watched him. Ben gets more and more tense with each sentence, like he's crumpling up on the inside. Shrinking in terror as he stares wide-eyed at the monster he has faced outside our walls. His fear is contagious, the itchy chills that I usually only get from spiders are moving up my spine.
"The food that's for sale now, well—, it's beyond comprehension."
We stare at him with an equal mix of expectancy and horror, waiting for him to swallow another bite of spaghetti.
Sauce on his cheeks, he keeps recounting as though desperate to get the terrible knowledge off of his chest, "There's no beef or pork or fresh fruits and vegetables to be found in town. No one farms; no one makes or sells anything locally. And people are hungry for meat."
He pauses and takes a deep breath, "Less than a mile from our gates, people are being murdered and eaten."
Aunty and I gasp at this blunt statement and the chills finish their climb to my neck. A shiver shakes my shoulders, but neither Ben nor Aunty takes any notice.
"It's commonplace now," Ben says with irritating calmness about the murderers and cannibals that live just down the street from me.
"Surely the family members care?" Aunty asks. "Just this week we've had our own close call with an infected boy who came looking for his younger brother. Young Thomas ran away to join us when he was recently brought to Life. He came in with one of the missionaries last fall. Thomas’ older brother searched for him and tracked him here. Matt, the older boy, displayed great love for the boy. It was very touching."
"Which missionary?" Ben asks, more interested in his fellow missionary than Aunty's speech about the loving zombie who stole our hearts. Well, my heart for sure.
INFECtIOUS Page 19