*****
Standing at the sink in my bathroom, I stare at my ugly face in the mirror. The cuteness I felt in Commerce is gone. I feel gross. My eyes are bulgy and pink from crying. A purple bruise has bloomed on my neck, framing brown spots of dried blood around the swollen scrape. Untangling the lump of mismatched necklaces, I gingerly pull each one off.
Running the water until it is warm, I wash my face and then gently wash off the dried blood on my neck. A closer look at the scrape in the mirror shows a raised, swollen mark where it looks like something punctured me. I guess I should count myself lucky that I came away from the attack with just a scrape. It could've been so much worse.
I hope Matt left. Surely we won't see him until tomorrow. It's obvious he hates me as much as I wish I was allowed to hate him. I decide to make an appearance in the kitchen because I'm starving. We never ate the packed lunch that we brought, and all I had for breakfast was a Gov bar. The stale meal bars that the government sends are an entire day's vitamins and protein—and more fiber than a person needs in a month—all packed into one cardboard flavored cereal bar. It's one of the few things that come in the government shipments that we actually do use—mostly because they are free.
In the hallway outside of my room, I inhale deeply. I smell venison cooking. My stomach growls in anticipation. Aunty must feel bad about what happened. She's cooking what we had saved for a special occasion to cheer me up. I am so hungry and it smells amazing. A small smile starts curling at the corner of my lips.
There aren't any grocery stores anymore, and there isn't any meat shipped to Toccoa. Unless you count the freeze dried government "meat loaf" meals in their "just add water" mystery sauce. We only have fresh meat because I babysat Thomas day in and day out until Jose and Ellen decided to adopt him.
In our self-sufficient community, everyone has something to trade. We all have everything in common—everyone works hard and everyone has their needs met by each other. We garden and share food and clothes, and it's a real self sufficient body; utopian even.
Aunty knits and crotchets; keeping people warm in the winter with her sweaters, hats, mittens and scarves. She also runs the Inn, offering a room for anyone who needs it and food for guests who are staying with us. In her "spare" time, she helps the disabled and elderly in our community. She cooks and cleans for those who need extra help. She says it brings her great joy to clean for others. I’ve cleaned enough strangers’ toilets to find her joy disturbing.
The elders “blessed” Aunty and I with the venison after we kept Thomas at the Inn. With Aunty off helping others most of the time, I was the one cooking for Thomas and cleaning up after Thomas and playing hours of board games and building forts. I earned this dinner. Aunty and I decided to keep the meat for some time when it could be special. A pick-me-up of real steak on a tough day like today is just what I need to feel better. My mouth is watering.
Opening the kitchen door, I stand rooted at the sight of Matt. My smile crumples off of my face in slow motion; leaving me standing with my mouth open. My eyebrows shoot up in the opposite direction of my frown. He is sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of my milk! Aunty doesn't like milk, but she gets it for me when she cleans for the Brock family. The Brocks have the only cow in town, and the milk is precious to the whole community.
Why is this happening to me?
Matt raises his eyebrows at me; and, without breaking eye contact, he chugs the rest of the glass—so fast that some milk dribbles down each side of his mouth.
I really hate him.
What a horrible waste of milk.
Aunty sees me there, stalled in the door frame and staring, and she tries to ease the tension. "Ivy, Matt is just six months older than you. He's seventeen."
Her lame attempt only adds to the awkwardness. Matt and I stare at each other until I look away from him and his uncomfortably blank expression.
Oh. My. Gosh.
Call me slow, but it is just dawning on me that she has invited him to eat with us! I am furious again. I feel my face flush red with anger and my lips purse in an attempt to hold in awful words. Aunty is shooting piercing eyes at me, her frustrated face heavy with meaning. She's subliminally insisting that I behave myself. I send angry brown eyes back at her with my own silent communication—furious loathing.
"I thought we'd share our venison with Matt," she says with too much pleasantry. "Can you please make us some fruit salad, dear?" She brushes past me to pull something from the refrigerator and surreptitiously squeezes my hand.
Her love squeeze is supposed to be encouragement, but all I can think about is the grievous injustice that is my life. She made the venison for him, not for me. My venison. Without even asking me. The conviction in my heart returns and I know I should be gracious. Pretty sure I can't muster gracious right now. Hunger moves my legs forward to the pantry where I numbly pick through the jars of fruit that we canned over the summer. I open different sized glass jars with peaches, pears, and blackberries and pour them into a pretty pink glass bowl.
Aunty has laid out the good china for me to set the table with. We only use the china when we have special guests for dinner. Not just everyone we feed warrants the use of fancy dishes. Add "catering to a zombie" to our long list of wrongs today. Using the good china is going way over the top! This jerk would eat dinner right out of the pan with no problem. He probably doesn’t know how to use silverware. All this extra work is lost on him. While setting the table that is already covered with our best table cloth, I decide that Aunty has lost her mind.
When Aunty and I are finished cooking, setting the table, and pouring the drinks, we sit down. Not once during all of this has Matt offered to help with anything. He spent the time staring into space and spinning his empty milk glass on the table. Oh, and we also got to listen to him tap his foot with rude impatience.
That wasn’t irritating at all.
Aunty manages constant grace and cheerfulness, and Matt and I manage to not look at each other. The minute Aunty hands him his plate, Matt digs in. Aunty clears her throat gently, and he looks up from his plate like a Neanderthal with his mouth open and full of food.
"We like to thank God for our food before we eat," she explains. "Ivy, will you pray please?"
Matt's looks like a confused imbecile as he stares inquisitively at me, his mouth still hanging open. I'm not in the mood to pray, but I don't say it. Aunty and I bow our heads and close our eyes. Even with my eyes closed, I feel him staring at me while he slowly chews at his food.
"Dear Lord," I croak because I haven't been speaking. I clear my throat and keep going, "thank you for all of our blessings. Thank you for this food and for protecting us today. Please give us wisdom. Amen".
"And love," Aunty adds her request onto the end of my prayer.
"Amen," we both say again in almost unison.
Matt is staring at us, his eyebrows arching so high that they disappear beneath his shaggy hair. The small smile playing at the corner of his food crusted lips says it all—he thinks we are CRAZY. I think he would've laughed out loud at us if he wasn't already back to stuffing himself.
I shouldn't care—don't care—what he thinks, but I feel insecure anyway. I eat; but, despite my hunger, my food doesn't taste as good as I thought it would. It sticks in my throat and lays heavy in my stomach.
I'm sure it's from all the nerves.
The less than pleasant smells wafting across the table from Matt aren't helping either. If he has to stay here, hopefully he'll shower before lying on our clean guest bed. I'd bet a pint of blood I'm going to end up being the one who cleans his room. He smells like death and cat stink.
Aunty visits with Matt and gets occasional replies, usually while he's chewing with his mouth open. I just pick at my venison and mashed potatoes with gravy. I push my fruit salad around on my plate and nibble at the homemade honey rolls.
Aunty startles me out of my depressed reveries by bringing up what happene
d to us today at the outlets. If I felt more equal with her right now, I would argue that she shouldn't be talking about this with him. I'm still feeling the effects of her chastisement though, so I let her tell the story while I fight the cramps that keep rippling through my stomach. For some reason, at the end of her tale I'm blushing. She has left out how terrified I was and somehow made me sound braver than I was.
When I look up from my plate, I am caught in his green-eyed stare. My eyes widen and I glance nervously over at Aunty, but she is politely cutting her meat and offers me no sanctuary from his heavy stare. I spend a few moments nervously trying to decide where to look before he breaks the silence.
"You were bleeding before. What happened to your neck?" It's the first time he's spoken to me and I wish he wouldn't have.
I look down at my lap. I know I have to be civil and polite and answer him, but I don't want to speak to him. Childish as it may be, I find myself wishing I could just stick out my tongue at him and hide under the table.
"It got scraped when he was strangling me," I mumble, still looking at my lap. I have to hold myself back from saying "Duh."
"You think they were trying to take you?" he asks with none of the sarcasm I had expected. "If you're right, they were probably junkies. Pravda doesn’t fail. They get what they want no matter what. I've heard that the drugs are scarce lately; something went wrong with the last batch. I think they are running out of reliable employees."
It's really strange to hear him talk about them.
"Why aren't you on the drugs?" I throw the question out without thinking, and it comes out sounding hostile and accusatory.
"Who says I'm not," he spits back.
"Well, you don't seem crazy and desperate like the others." Believe it or not, that was me trying to sound nicer. "I mean, you seem starved, but more normal." Oh yeah, I'm a wonderful conversationalist.
"I AM normal," he says loudly, his words punctuated with even more hostility. "You people are the weird ones. Just because you're immune, you think you're better than us. And you're delusional." He makes "coo-coo" motions with his finger around his ear to show just how mental he thinks we are. "There is no God. You think because you don't have the disease that "someone" (he makes air quotes with his fingers) is looking out for you. There are way more of us. That should prove something. No one is better than anyone else."
What an idiot.
How can he miss it when it's staring him in the face? Literally. Every time the diseased look in a mirror they have to look God’s judgment in the face! I'm about to start debating and ask him what he thinks the disappearances were when Aunty noisily pushes her chair back and stands up from her seat.
Finally! She's going to let this jerk have it.
Lay it on him good, Aunty.
To my deep disappointment she smiles and asks, "Dessert?"
Chapter Ten
The Undead Ate My Pudding
Aunty serves us homemade chocolate pudding—my favorite. She must have made it after I went to my room, because there are three glass bowls full in the refrigerator. She never makes pudding. It's the last straw for me. My hand comes down in a hard slap of frustration on the table; the same way that Matt slapped the table earlier today. He smirks almost triumphantly. Was it his goal to make me angry? Oh I can't stand him. He sits calmly, his arms crossed, leveling his cold, green stare at me.
When Aunty puts the smaller bowl of pudding in front of me, I stand up quickly—avoiding her eyes. "I'm full. Thanks anyway."
I stomp out of the kitchen and head for my room. I’m going to bed. It's early, but the sooner I go to sleep the sooner he'll be gone. The meeting with the Elders is in the morning. Then someone will oversee Thomas's reunion with his zombie brother in the afternoon. When Matt sees that Thomas is one of the Living, he'll be on his way back to wherever he came from. By tomorrow at dinner time, life will be back to what I call normal. It can't come soon enough.
I should've helped with the clean-up, and I feel guilty for the umpteenth time today. I hope Aunty is right. I hope we aren't in danger with a zombie in our house. She seems to feel peace about having him here, and she is already trying to save him. Which irritates me instead of inspiring me. I hate feeling like they are out there talking without me; and, worse, probably about me. Aunty is probably apologizing to a zombie for my bad manners and explaining what a hard day I've had and what a great girl I am. Next thing I know, she'll be trying to set me up with him. Look out Tim Markowitz.
Oh my gosh, I hate my life!
I am trapped in this house in this town with gross boys and no future. It’s not that there aren’t options here. There are some nice looking guys. In fact, there is one guy who I really like. He is super good looking and totally wonderful.
If you look in my Bible, you'll find his name doodled on scraps of paper tucked between the precious fragile pages of Truth. And yes—I'll admit it—I've written my name with his last name a few hundred times. Mr. and Mrs. Jamie Crest. Mrs. Ivy Crest. It just sounds right, doesn't it? We would be so perfect together. But, like everything else in my life, loving Jamie Crest is nothing but a disappointment. He is oblivious of my existence—even though I'm one of only thirteen girls in the compound in his age group. I’ll bet you ten pints of blood he wants a blond. I’ve contemplated bleaching my hair to see if it helps.
With my bedroom door locked, I try on my comfy new yoga pants. Sitting on the side of my bed, I reach for my coat hanging next to the door. The picture Aunty took from the zombie is still in my pocket. I pull it out with shaky hands to stare at it again. What could it mean? How was it taken without me knowing? As I think over all the kind people in our community, I can't think of a single soul who would betray me. Their faith and love is obvious, and they all feel like family to me—even the ones I don't know very well. This picture is going to drive me crazy with its unsolvable mysteries. I stuff it back in the pocket of my coat.
I'm ready for this awful day to be over. I climb under my chilly covers and pull the old pink comforter over my head.
But sleep won't come.
I am assaulted with so many different worries that the barrage leaves me breathless. The endless what ifs and fears about what could've happened today simmer next to my deep hatred for Matt and his kind. The seasoning in this pot of crazy? Spoonfuls of guilt and shame for my doubt and my hatred. Thoughts of Matt lead to thoughts of Thomas. He's such a good kid. Will he be leaving us tomorrow with his brother? I have given up on the hope that Matt isn't Thomas's brother. Even though he's awful, somehow you can tell he cares for Thomas.
Thomas is easy to love. I'd be disappointed to see him go. I hope he'll choose us over Matt. It's not at all safe out there for a kid like him. I've even heard rumors of the Living turning back into zombies when they leave the community for too long. Thomas did leave Matt without a goodbye. He probably won’t leave. Maybe I'll feel sorry for Matt if he came here just to be turned away.
Nah.
I hear voices outside of my window, and I'm immediately afraid again. Creeping out of my bed and over to the window, I peek through the slatted blinds without moving them more than I have to—just in case someone is looking at my window. I don't want whoever it is to know that I'm watching. Just outside the barred window of my room, I see Aunty holding a flashlight and talking to several men I know. Why did I assume it would be zombies?
Shame replaces fear as I realize the men are standing guard over us tonight. Aunty isn't endangering us at all. She is, as always, taking good care of me. Wise and discerning, her gifts. One of the men follows her back inside while the others branch out around the house. As I climb back into bed, I hear the floor boards creak in the room above mine. Matt is in a room on the other side of the house, so it can't be him. Aunty must've given the men outside a room to sleep in while they take turns keeping watch. Now I have two rooms to clean tomorrow; two toilets to scrub.
I am so ashamed of myself.
Why am I so focuse
d on me? Who promised me that I would never have to face any of this? What am I mad about? I know why we are here, on the other end of the stick, and it has nothing to do with what I deserve. I need to get a hold of myself. Be the tough girl I normally am. Maybe I have Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Maybe I'm a fear-filled hypochondriac. I am thinking about praying when I drift off to sleep.
*****
In my dream... It's happening again in slow motion. I'm running to the car in high heels and wearing the way-too-short sequined mini skirt that I saw in the Rue 21 window. I look ridiculous. And a bit slutty. Wow, my hair looks great.
Wait—I can't find Aunty anywhere.
I'm really scared!
Someone is after me! But who?
I'm crying and shouting for Aunty. Where did she go? Why has she left me here?
Then I see her and Aunty Betty, clear as day, struggling with a strange man on the sidewalk, but they get farther away with each passing second. As though time and space are pulling them down a tunnel away from me. I don't know what to do, so I chicken out and keep running.
When I reach the car, Tim Markowitz throws the door open for me and pulls me inside.
Tim looks terrified and his thick, nerdy glasses are smashed and crooked. His brown hair is disheveled like he just woke up with bed hair. Tim gives me a reproving stare, obviously not impressed with my new outfit. I feel embarrassed and ashamed of myself under his judgmental gaze.
Tim is yelling at me to look in the back seat but I don't want to. The car smells like chocolate pudding. He keeps begging me to look; and, when I finally peer behind the seat, I already know what I'll find. A zombie in a white plastic mask grabs me around my neck and chokes me. The attack is violent, I can't breathe, and I am sure that I'm going to die. As I'm fading, I know one thing for sure. I know this zombie hates me with every fiber of his being.
INFECtIOUS Page 7
