INFECtIOUS

by Elizabeth Forkey

  "Harvey Johns. I think he's the oldest missionary still out on the field," I answer him, glad to add to the conversation. "Older than Aunty."

  "Ahem," Aunty clears her throat at me. I smile at her.

  "Harvey is a great man of God. I hope he's still ok. Hopefully they'll all arrive soon," Ben says, his voice dripping with worry for his comrades.

  "So, like Aunty said, don't the family members freak out when someone is, uh, killed? How can it be just ok?"

  "They murder the orphans, the loners, and the old. With the world so out of touch from one place to another, if you have no family in the community you are living in, there's no one to complain that you are missing. And of course abortion is the nation's largest source of meat these days. Women are paid more credits to carry longer and abort later in the pregnancy to ensure the aborted are large enough to eat."

  As Ben describes the baby selling market, I think I'm going to be sick. I put down my fork, and I know dinner is over for me. Ben keeps filling his mouth, talking with his mouth full, throughout his account. The white noodles covered in red sauce, dangling from his lips look suddenly gory—like little baby guts. Not only am I done eating this dinner, I think spaghetti is ruined for me forever. Aunty, too, has put down her fork and we are both staring at Ben wide eyed and openly disgusted.

  "How? Why?" we ask in shock.

  "I've almost lost my sense of shock." He says in response to our horrified faces. "It just is what it is out there. Saying it all out loud reminds me how horrible it all is. I've seen it on a daily basis for months now."

  "We have meat here," Aunty says. "Can't they hunt? There are deer in the mountains and cows that have lived roaming free. Our hunters bring us pheasant and duck and even the occasional wild chicken. Why can't they eat dogs or squirrels for heaven's sake?"

  He nods, "Of course there is still some meat out there, mostly wild, but not enough to feed the masses. And anyone healthy enough and entrepreneurial enough to hunt it is selling it at very high prices that only the very rich can afford. Most everyone out there is very poor. There is no industry now, except the Pravda industry. Blood and drugs. That is the only economy. Pravda is running the show with the government's help. The very poor are kept content with mostly free food, free entertainment, and inexpensive drugs. It's every man for himself and the poor don't fight the system because they all know they are dying. There won't be another generation."

  Aunty and I nod. They are right, there's little time left. It's good news for us. Bad news for the dying.

  Ben says emphatically, "This is it for earth. It's over. Human life means nothing. No one believes in anything. People and babies are the last marketable commodity. Aside from blood, a baby is the only thing a woman can make and sell easily. And with sex being the number one source of entertainment and pleasure, babies are made every day."

  "Ahem," Aunty clears her throat again with a reproving look for Ben. She doesn't want me to hear about the birds and the bees.

  Ha!

  The birds and bees sound too cute for what we are talking about. More like the vultures and the flesh eating wasps.

  "Sorry," Ben answers Aunty’s reproof without feeling. "It's just the way it is. The other reason for the big boom in the baby market is stem cells. The scientists say there are documented cases of stem cells slowing, though not curing, the disease. I think it's a lie. What I do know for sure is that the people believe whatever they're told out of sheer desperation. So now everyone in Toccoa is trying to get their hands on stem cells.

  "What are stem cells?" I ask, embarrassed at my own naivety. Tim would know.

  "Cells found in the umbilical cord," Aunty explains. "What do they do with them?" she asks Ben.

  "They inject them into their diseased flesh, eat them raw, you name it."

  I'm kind of surprised Aunty hasn't put a stop to the whole conversation by now—insisted we speak of saner things at the dinner table. But that tired look is all over her face, she seems weaker than yesterday.

  I take charge. "Can we talk about something else? Like the weather or something?"

  I feel like Aunty and I have switched roles. I feel more like her care-giver these days. I'm suddenly doing more of the work, while worrying about her fragile appearance and failing health. I feel like the grown up. With these terrifying new images that Ben has put in my head, the compounded fear of losing her threatens to steal my sanity.

  Ben nods his head and says, "I know. I don't want to know about it. Don't want to have seen it. But it is reality and it is right down the street. We don't have the privilege of being sheltered anymore. They are getting more and more depraved. More violent by the hour even. I must make you all see this before I leave again."

  "The elders won't send you again," Aunty whispers. Then her voice gets stronger and stronger with each word as she tries to persuade, "You must stay here now Ben. You may stay with us at the Inn until they find you a good apartment. You are welcome for as long as you need."

  "I have to go." He takes a deep breath and then exhales, "And so do you. You aren't safe here anymore. Our time in the open is over." Then, tearing off a mouthful of garlic bread, he mumbles while chewing, "God save us."

  Aunty and I don't speak. We clear our half eaten plates, emptying them into the garbage. Ben stares off into the distance and puts a third helping on his tomato stained plate.

  All I see is blood.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Passing Love Notes

  It's Friday. Matt has been being held across the street for five days. Homecoming is only two days away now, and I’m reconsidering going. Maybe I could slip away during the day and sneak up to see Matt. Would anyone notice if I excused myself to use the bathroom and took a little long in returning to the meeting? Seeing Matt again would be worth the stares and whispers I’d have to endure.

  Ben is still the only missionary to have arrived. He's been in his room all day today and hasn't eaten any meals with us. I think he is fasting and praying for his fellow missionaries.

  After a quiet lunch with Aunty, I begin cleaning up while she sits and sips her tea.

  Aunty clears her throat and makes an announcement, "They are escorting Matt out of the gates in about an hour."

  "What! Why? Has something happened?"

  I had grown used to the current situation. I knew he was safe, even if it was behind bars, just down the street from me. I couldn't see him, but I at least knew where he was and the future held endless possibilities.

  "No, nothing new has happened. Tim has spent a lot of time with him and so has Andrew. They are fairly certain he isn't a threat to us, despite his early promises to the contrary. So, they have asked Matt to leave us in peace, and he has agreed. We feel somewhat safe knowing that Thomas will be staying here with us. Everyone agrees Matt would never do anything to hurt Thomas. If he wanted Pravda to have his brother, he wouldn't have brought him back to us after they were attacked. So, we are hoping he will let us be.

  "Will you please do something for me Aunty?" I was prepared for this possibility.

  "No dear. You can't leave the house. I'm sorry, but you can't be part of this."

  "No, I know that. I just—I wrote him a letter."

  Aunty's gray eyebrows shoot up, and I can tell she doesn't like where this is going.

  "It's just an apology really. I felt so awful for how I treated him, and I know it was such a horrible witness, and I need to tell him I'm sorry. I have an apology letter for Andrew, too. Would you just deliver them for me before it's too late? Please?" I silently plead with my eyes, putting all my energy into looking as innocent and desperate as possible.

  If I've inherited any of the powers of "The Force," now is the time to find out.

  Aunty is quiet for almost a full minute—staring back at me and considering my request. Finally, she nods in the affirmative, and my heart leaps with joy and triumph.

  "I had better get ready to go then. I wasn't planning on seeing him ag
ain, and they'll be leaving shortly. Don't be disappointed if they have already taken him."

  "Thank you, Aunty. I love you so much! I'll go get the letters."

  *****

  We meet at the front door a few minutes later. Aunty has been going out the front door more often—now that I'm always home to lock it behind her. I think it's because she's out of shape and the front door is twenty steps closer to the U.R. building. I hand her my letters. One says "Captain Markowitz" on the front and the other says "Matt". She puts them in her coat pocket and walks slowly down the front steps of the Inn. I wish she would hurry for me. If I didn't already know that she wasn't feeling well lately, I'd have thought she was stalling on purpose. I’d think she was hoping to miss them, leaving my "Matt" letter undelivered.

  From the front window, I watch her cross the street, pass the U.R. building, and walk down the alley that leads to the entrance of Andrew's apartment—the old Police Station. My stomach is full of butterflies at the thought of Matt reading my letter. It's so personal. I think I can trust Aunty not to read it first. It wouldn't be the end of the world, but I'd rather she didn't read it. It says:

  Dear Matt,

  I am sorry. I'm ashamed of how I treated you while you were

  staying with us. I think what you've done for Thomas is

  incredible. You reminded me what love looks like. I truly

  admire you. I regret deeply that it took me too long to realize

  that and you were gone before I could say it. Thank you for

  drawing it out of me.

  Your friend,

  Ivy

  The last sentence was kind of a code. I don't know if he'll get it, or maybe he'll just think I'm a weirdo. Hopefully he'll figure out that I found the drawing that he made of me and that I liked it. I sketched a few ivy leaves next to my name at the bottom to make it as obvious as possible. I don't think anyone else reading it would ever imagine what it alluded to. So, if Aunty reads it, I think she'll still give it to him. To her eyes, it will simply seem a heartfelt apology.

  The letter to Andrew reads:

  Dear Captain Markowitz,

  Thank you for all that you do to keep us safe. I'm sorry that

  I caused you trouble and then was disrespectful.

  Please forgive me.

  Respectfully,

  Ivy Lusato

  No ivy leaves doodled on that one.

  *****

  I'm working at my new computer workstation just outside of my bedroom when I hear Aunty come in the back door. It took her much longer than I thought it would, and I hurry to find her in the kitchen. I’m desperate for details.

  "Not much to tell," she says. "They hadn't left yet, I gave each of them your letter. Actually, Captain Markowitz insisted on reading Matt's letter before I could give it to him. But then, seeing that it was simply an apology, he gave it to Matt and that was it."

  I was ok with the thought of Aunty reading my personal apology. I hate that Andrew read it. It's embarrassing.

  "Did Matt say anything? Did he look at all—you know, happy or anything when he read it?"

  "He didn't read it in front of us. I'm sorry, dear. He put it in his pocket, and I left a few minutes later. I'm sure he will read it though. It was good that you apologized, Ivy. I'm proud of you."

  "Maybe he won't read it. I think he might hate me. I deserve that."

  "Don't be dramatic, Ivy. I'm sure he doesn't hate you." She stands to leave the kitchen and says, "I'm going to take a nap until dinner. Ok? It's leftover night tonight. Can you fend for yourself if you get hungry before I wake up?"

  "Uh huh."

  And I'm alone again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Angels and Demons

  Howling wind wakes me early Saturday morning. It sounds like hell's inhabitants have been unleashed on the earth—here to warn any who will listen to repent lest they share the same fate. The mournful keens give me the creeps, and I reach for my Bible before going to the kitchen for coffee. Little gusts of cold air find their way through my bedroom window's old frame and ruffle the pages of my Bible. I struggle to focus and find comfort in His presence. The wind’s ominous wail makes me think it might be best if I climbed back under my covers and just skipped today. Tomorrow will be friendlier.

  I am only halfway through my devotion when the doorbell rings. It is still very early in the morning and dark outside. No one ever rings the bell this early. Could it be another emergency? Has Matt brought the trouble he threatened? I thought we could trust him. Maybe I'm foolish, but I really felt like he was a good person. Not just a zombie. I hope it isn't another medical emergency requiring Aunty's help. She looked beyond exhausted yesterday, and she never did come down for dinner. I'm almost getting used to eating all my meals alone.

  Throwing my bathrobe over my pajamas, I hurry to answer the door. I don't want the bell to ring again and wake Aunty. Flipping lights on throughout the house as I go, I reach the door just as the bell sounds again, bonging its chimes throughout the quiet stillness of the house. Aunty will have heard it for sure.

  Oh well. I did try.

  Mr. Terrell is standing outside stomping his feet for warmth, puffing cold vapory breaths and wearing his usual stoic expression. Just behind Mr. Terrell stands a bedraggled, hairy man. Movement draws my eye to a dirty little girl, dressed in rags, peeking out from behind the hairy man's legs. I usher them quickly inside and push the door closed against the wind.

  “Good Morning, what can I do for you?” I say graciously like Aunty taught me.

  It takes effort to be gracious because of the early hour and my insecurities in my holey bathrobe. I look to Mr. Terrell to give introductions. Trying to warm up, Mr. Terrell is vigorously rubbing his arms. It’s freezing outside, and he is dressed in only a sweatshirt. The ragged man and child stand quietly looking at me. They seem more tolerant to the wintery morning chill, though neither of them have coats on either.

  Mr. Terrell dismisses my greeting with borderline rudeness, “Where is Colleen? Go get her please, Ivy.”

  I force my face to remain pleasant. Mr. Terrell pushes all of my buttons. He is such a rude man! Smiling a fake smile, I turn and reluctantly head upstairs to see if Aunty is up yet.

  After knocking on her door several times and getting no answer, I tiptoe into her room—my concern growing. It takes me a full minute of gently shaking her and saying her name to rouse her. That minute is a telling one for me. Something is wrong with Aunty. I can't deny it anymore. It's not just her age or over activity. I turn on the lamp next to her bed. Aunty’s skin is sallow and her hair looks flat and thin. I notice there is a lot of hair on the pillows of her bed.

  She's losing her hair?

  Aunty looks so frail; and, when she finally opens her eyes, I feel like she doesn't even know me at first. She blinks a few times and her mouth hangs open as she takes a few moist shallow breaths.

  Then, finally, she asks, "Is something wrong, Ivy?"

  "I'm sorry to wake you Aunty, but Mr. Terrell is here with a man and a little girl. I don't recognize either of them. He told me to go get you. They are waiting in the parlor." I pause when she doesn't immediately say something, and I ask, "Would you like me to tell him you aren't feeling well?"

  I know she'll swing her legs out of bed and argue with me that she's fine.

  But then, she doesn't.

  Aunty nods her head and closes her eyes again. I don't care about Marcus Terrell waiting downstairs anymore. I don't care who the people are who are with him. I am terrified for Aunty and for myself. Something is really wrong.

  "Aunty," I shake her shoulder gently again.

  She slowly opens her eyes again and whispers, "Yes, dear."

  "Aunty, something is wrong isn't it? Should I go get the Doctor? Please tell me what's wrong. This isn't LS, it's something else isn't it?" My words squeak with fear and worry, and I feel tears on my cheeks.

  "Take care of—" she heaves a long breath,"—t
he guests, dear." Her speech is slow and quiet. "When you have them settled, come back to me—and we'll talk." She closes her eyes; and, after a long pause, she adds, "Don't bother Hale. I'm fine for now."

  Fine for now?

  She's not fine. I've been watching it happen and hoping it was nothing and now my worst fears are realized and something is very wrong. I don't want to leave her side now; I just want to sit with her. But she asked me to go take care of the guests. I don't want her to open her eyes and worry that I'm not handling things here. So I slip out of her room and wipe the tears from my eyes. I try to mask my feelings in the quick minute it takes for me to rejoin the guests downstairs.

  "I'm sorry;” I address the man and little girl, avoiding Marcus Terrell’s stern eyes, “Aunty is not feeling well this morning. She needs rest, and she asked me to care for you," I say with a confidence that I don't genuinely feel.

  Mr. Terrell scowls, his busy black eyebrows drawn together. He recovers and decides to settle for me, "This is Mr. Ialongo."

  "Jack," the man says, offering me his hand to shake.

  "Hi. I'm Ivy. I think we've met before actually."

  He's one of the missionaries, and I have seen him several times over the years. I barely recognized him. He's lost a lot of weight—he's all skin and bones—and his beard and long hair hide most of his face. Even his eyebrows seem to have joined the rebellion, sprouting off in crazy directions. If I’m remembering him right, when I last saw him he was a clean shaven, clean cut kind of guy. This half-starved Mountain Man before me bears no resemblance to the young man he used to be.

  "This is Rosa," the Mountain Man Jack says gently, squatting down to eye level with the tiny girl and pushing jet black straggly bangs out of her eyes.

  "Hi Rosa," I say in a sweet little kid voice.

  Carmel skinned Rosa buries her head in her tattered shirt sleeve and doesn't respond. She's wearing a mismatched collection of stained rags; the jury is out on whether they were ever clothes to begin with. Even if they were clothing at one point, they were never her size.