Ophelia Immune_A Novel

by Beth Mattson

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “But not for nothing. Think how many people are Safe from zombies now. There’s still so much to do.”

  He handed me a roll of strong, clear twine and a brand new tarp from inside of the Clinic. I spread it out, flat, next to them, touched their cheeks, gently, stroked their hair out of their faces. I closed Kite’s lavender eyelids. I brushed the dust bunnies from Juliet’s devilish mouth.

  I couldn’t bear to chop them. I sobbed quietly, standing over them. I felt Jim’s hand on my shoulder. He helped me slide them onto the sheeting. In slow motion, we wrapped them tightly, all in one piece – very tightly, so tightly that it would never come open and reveal them as they burned.

  “I am so sorry,” Jim repeated.

  I wasn’t strong enough to keep Jim’s hands from making me look at him. Next to the massive Burn Pile in the middle of the main street, he gripped me.

  “All Families are a mess,” he hushed, “You still have me. You have an entire city full of little girls to go save. And somewhere out there, you have a Farm full of your first Family, which is more than most of us have got.”

  I looked at the Clinic's stunned Neighbors standing around the Burn Pile – their faces streaked like mine, squinting into the sun. They were devastated and lonely, but they no longer had to be worried about who was knocking on their closet doors. There was no one tied to any of their refrigerators. They were dragging silent bundles. None of them looked at each other; they just looked at the spots where they had left their burdens on the Pile. I trudged slowly back down the alleyway without mine.

  Jim gestured with open arms, “Anything you need is yours. I’ll see you at the Rally. You've done a great thing.”

  I took the string and turned to go.

  “Ophelia,” his voice strained, “I’ve missed you, not just your blood. Please take care. You've taught me a lot.”

  “Thank you, Jim, for trying,” I whispered over my shoulder and kept going.

  When I got to the Safe House, it was silent. I couldn’t hear Carlos organizing the girls to go to the Rally as I had expected. Bernice took no sporting arrow shots at me on my way in. The front door was wide open, but no giggles trickled out. Sniffles drifted out of the kitchen. Little faces peered up at me, streaked like mine. But why? There had been no beloved zombies here to die in front of them.

  They were crouched over a form splayed on the floor. It was Carlos. And several little girls. Sylvia, Elise, Monica, Tiny and the one who asked to be called Bob – limp on the linoleum. Why?

  I pried Cherry off of her surrogate father’s jacket lapels and handed her to Bernice. I knelt beside the bodies.

  “What happened?” I asked the rest of the silent children.

  They didn’t have any idea. I banished them to the living room, where they sat quietly, not turning on any electrical devices, curling themselves around inert cushions.

  I tenderly rolled the bodies from side to side to check for bites. Maybe they had been Bitten so that the Cure had worked on their new Infection, but none of them had any teeth marks. There was only a slight hint of green froth at the corners of their mouths and a lace of rash around their throats. They had been Allergic. Kite had been right, the Cure hadn't worked perfectly. We were lucky that not all of the air was dead. Lucky that some of us had survived. Lucky that the other zombies hadn't. Was I lucky or a curse? I couldn’t take care of anything.

  “Where’s Kite?” asked Bernice, not even pretending to eat the eggs and beans that somebody had placed front of her.

  I shook my head at her, wheezing involuntarily. Bernice choked on a sob.

  “What are we going to do now?” asked the girl with the spatula in her hand, making more breakfasts that she knew nobody wanted.

  We all despaired. Stood very still. One girl repeatedly kicked the couch furiously.

  They could stay here. There was food for a couple of weeks. But where would they go after that?

  “We have to go to the Rally,” I said.

  They didn't hear me. They didn't hear the toddlers among them wailing to be fed.

  “We are going fishing,” I told them.

  I wrapped the screaming tots into clean towels and set them in front of the beans and eggs that none of the older girls were touching. I ordered Bernice and Cherry to help me wrap Carlos and their Friends into thick wool blankets. It wouldn't do them any good not to teach them what to do in the face of more unspeakable death and tragedy. They needed to be taught how to survive. And take care of themselves. Again. I had nothing else to offer.

  I waited while they followed my orders to lace shoes onto their numb feet and plodded behind me as I dragged their savior and siblings to be Burned. We stood around the Old Wharf’s Burn Pile together. I'd been here before. Too many times. But this time there were other thin, sad figures slouching and lifting their packages just like us. I wondered how many in the Burn Pile had been healthy Humans who were Allergic to the spray. I wondered how many children were now Safe from the zombies that their Families had been hiding in the closets or tied to refrigerators. I wondered how many Families would still come to our Rally, how many were depending on us for proof of either salvation or doom. Which would it be?

  “Ok,” I said, “Let's go.”

  A few shook their heads or sat down. One sank to her knees heavily in the grass, holding her pigtails and pulling.

  “Nope. Not today. Get on your feet. Take care of yourselves.” I commanded, “The city is free of zombies. We have food, we can fend for ourselves and we have each other. We've come this far. Why stop now? TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES!”

  “It’s not worth it,” a willowy blonde girl collapsed to sit on the pavement.

  “Yes! It is! I yelled at her,” barely resisting the temptation to shake her, “The zombies are all gone! We are not bitten! Our heads are not bashed! Most of us were not allergic! We keep going. We take care of this! We take care of everyone who is left!”

  They slowly followed me to the shore, because I was the only prospect they had left, shuffling their feet and not speaking to each other. They didn't skip or whisper secrets. They stuffed their hands into their own pockets and clenched their jaws like old men with no teeth to grate. Pitiful.

  “No!” I yelled at them, my eyes leaking freely, “I am not all you have left! What you actually have is each other and yourselves. You have Family together and you have food. At least for now. And that's all there ever is. You can do this. Just this one thing in front of you. And then the next. People need you. You need yourselves. I need you. Be stronger than this! I can't do this for you. You have to do this. Please do this. Take care of yourselves.”

  Bernice was the first to stand up straight and invest. She stepped forward and cast her line into the water.

  “It's for Kite,” she mumbled.

  “For Carlos!” Cherry said, trying to puff her chest proudly, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “For Sylvia,” yelled a third and fourth together.

  The rest followed, casting their lines and declaring their dedications. Why did they believe me? I tried not to let them see my tears and shaking, thankful that they believed me when I didn't believe myself. I had preserved them for another hour, so that they could die later. How many days? Would their years absorb more sorrow or joy? Could they preserve themselves better than I had preserved anyone so far? I hadn't even taken care of myself. It was all Luck. Or a curse.

  I couldn't stay still. My feet longed to pace and chase, fight an obvious enemy.

  “For my parents,” the girl missing one arm stood resolutely with her pole in the other. She winked at me.

  “Ok,” I said, “Good then. I'm going to light the Cooking Barrels.”

  The Homing

  The Rally built itself around the girls. The streets that radiated from the Old Wharf Park filled with residents. Some were still hopeless, tortured shells, staring blankly into the Burn Piles, but around them their excited Friends and Family encouraged them to lighten up by fashi
oning party hats and throwing every single door wide open. Some put chairs in the streets and were kicking back in them, shouting joyfully to everyone that they weren’t going to get chewed on today. Our Flyers waved in their hands. Taking care of girls was part of their new freedom. But probably not the green ones. I pulled my long sleeves down further and my new, stolen hat brim lower.

  The girls from our household taught a little girl not from our household how to light the Cook Barrels with a long, birchwood twig. The flames drew revelers to them in even greater numbers, sipping from amber bottles, carrying picnic supplies, lounging with babies on hips. I reminded the girls to be careful with the tips of their fishing poles, not to stab anyone in the eye while they taught them how to fish and eat. The new Fisherwomen of Turington couldn't be reckless.

  Several burly men waddled to the nearest wall and began drilling for an electric line to use with a sound system. A weaselly little man tipped his bowler hat to me as he propped up a speaking podium that was plastered with Flyers. Buy a Wife, End a Life. Support Girls, Not Dirtbags. The fish are fine. Don't sell your daughters for food. He would just sell buttered fish instead, with tiny lemon wedges, barely molded.

  Volunteers built a pile of chopped wood for cooking instead of cremating. A wiry grandmother climbed one of the large Park oaks and hung a plank with two ropes as a swing. Almost everyone wore an orange armband.

  “The fish are ready! The fish are ready!” the girls called from underneath their tall, self-styled, burlap chef hats.

  The crowd swelled and writhed and took the platters of fish to the front of the lines. Strangers held up bags full of potatoes and onions. Someone had collected wild mushrooms. A Rich lady revealed that she kept chickens on the roof of her Highrise, and that she would donate all of her eggs to today’s feast and would sell them half-off to the Fisherwomen ever after. She wasn't as scared of the Poor as she had been of the zombies.

  I was surprised to see Jim standing near the Speaking Podium. Bernice had also made her way up to the Publicity Stand and was speaking to him, gesturing to myself, the other girls, and in the direction of the Safe House. Jim shook his head sadly and then excitedly at the appropriate parts of her story. He turned and introduced Bernice to his girlfriend, who I could see was standing at the podium. They shook hands and she nodded enthusiastically. The microphone clicked on. A voice that everyone recognized came across the speakers. Jim’s girlfriend was Melanie of Melanie in the Morning. Of course. She beamed at the crowd. She raised her call and the crowd rippled with ecstasy. The zombies were dead and the People were reassured by their Celebrity.

  I backed up. I edged out of the crowd where I could watch without surprising someone with my tinge. All of the girls were expertly flipping fillets and instructing the lines of eaters where to stand. Melanie announced that she had a Special Guest, a speaker who had been sold as a girl and would like to tell her story. Bernice stepped proudly up to the microphone. Jim cheered her on and dandled a toddler who clung to his neck and fiddled with the tips of his hair. He held the hand of another small girl who was trying to grab at the electrical cords. He waved to me and winked with a Thumbs Up. I gave him a grateful half smile.

  In the back of the crowd, two parents rushed forward and fell on their knees in front of a small girl with huge, curly, red hair. The girl could have been Swan’s twin. She threw her arms around her long lost parents and they swallowed her up with Love. She was finally happy. They were whole and had found each other. Family. And food.

  Children who looked like Juliet, Hector, and Immogen crawled over the wood piles, handing the choicest pieces to their Families who looked like Mom and Dad and Cousin Judy, all of them pitching in to tend the fires. Grey tear after grey tear slid down my cheek.

  A concerned Neighbor peered at my sagging posture.

  “Are you feeling ill from the Cure spray? You look kind of green.”

  I shook my head and backed away, down an alley, towards the Highway.

  And there he was. Even from behind, I recognized Uncle Donnie, especially from behind. His pants barely stretched over his wide bum and they didn’t reach to his ankles. He looked like he might be waiting in one of the outer circles of a Burn Barrel, thoughtfully listening to the speakers, but his right hand was draped low, beneath his waist, where he was using his longest finger tip to diddle at the back pocket of a young girl, no older than thirteen, even if she was a Driver.

  I removed one of my orange armbands and walked up behind him. I reached around the side of his face and jammed the band there while I held him so tightly by the throat that he couldn’t even moan. Backwards I dragged him out of the crowd and towards the bushy river banks outside of the park. The young girl he had been diddling sprinted into the crowd without looking back at him twice. I threw him on the weedy bank.

  “Hello, Uncle Donnie,” I said, drooling onto his face, removing the rag.

  He didn’t yell. He spoke softly with a giant smile.

  “Ophelia, you know, I was never your uncle. You don’t have to try so hard to get me alone. Let me show you what men can do for you.”

  It was tempting to laugh at him, to take my time taunting him. I wanted to yell in his face and wound him and hear him beg. But my rage was too much. Everything he had ever done to Judy, to Hannah, to Mom, to Juliet, to Swan, to me, to every girl he’d ever met wrapped their slimy chains around my knuckles. Without a high swing, I just leaned over him and used both of my hands to place my ax blade between his teeth and slowly push until the pressure made him gag and then half-scream. His tongue beneath the blade, his upper teeth above, he choked and his eyes widened. His voice was small and ended quickly in a gurgle. I stopped when I felt soil on my ax edge, and his hands fell limp from my calves.

  The top half of his head slumped off to one side. His lower jaw stayed with his fat neck. I wasn’t sorry but it was disgusting. He didn’t deserve a burn or burial, nothing ceremonial to mark his passing. I left him for someone else to find, hopefully to kick and rob of his clothes, and stooped to the river to wash my ax of his filth. I sharpened the edge on a smooth stone. Now that I was done making bloody mud with Uncle Donnie, now that he was taken care of, I had nothing else to do.

  The girls, the Fisherwomen, had each other. They had Jim and Melanie. The had bows and arrows and fishing poles and microphones. They had Nurses and rallies and a Revolution. But my people were not there. I could only get bashed or Cured or kill more Humans. Kite and Swan were gone. Juliet was gone. I was finished here. It was time for me to go Home. I should be done.

  I didn't stop at my apartment. All I needed were my ax and my hammer, and I already had those. I had let Juliet keep Immogen's barrets. I didn’t want any coffee.

  The birds in the woods were singing to each other from patches of common Autumn sunshine. They sat under umbrellas of lush orange, red, and purple leaves. All of the adolescent animals scurried awkwardly on their half-grown legs, tended by their nervous parents, making sure that they didn’t fall into my filthy zombie arms. The only ones left.

  The corpses of the other zombies littered the ground every hundred yards, their heads still intact. They had fallen where they had truly died. When the Cure had reached them, they had breathed it in and tipped over, whole and un-clubbed.

  I knelt beside one. I brushed an auburn leaf from its cold, green cheek. It was pitiful in defeat, a sad creature with no one left to hurt, quiet and meek. It no longer required killing; it only required forgiveness. Its eyes stared blankly up at a drifting clouds, as close as it would ever get to dreaming. I closed its lids, so that it could be at peace, jaws finally still. It wasn't its fault that it had roamed the earth.

  I was envious of its rest. It would suffer no more cold nights, no more waking nightmares. It didn't have to freeze in a slight breeze. It no longer grew tired when it couldn't find water. It didn't have to wander and wonder what its Family thought of it. It wasn't sad that it didn't own any Books or have anyone to talk to and cuddle.

  Halfw
ay to Nasmyth, the silent markers of zombie death ceased to litter the ground. The airplanes had only sprayed the Cure near the City. The rural parts of the country would get the Cure later, after the urban centers were cleansed, and the counted Allergies were worth it. I hoped that Mom and Dad and even Hector were surviving the usual flow of marauding, Late Summer zombies.

  I wound my way to the Farm by following the trail that had once led me away from them, abandoned into exile with a filthy, evil creature that had I Loved and failed to take care of. I hadn't killed my precious damnation, at least not on purpose, not really. So I couldn't really blame our Family for not taking care of us either. For not knowing. For not doing better.

  Sisters, Daughters, Neighbors could only be killed so many times by one person before they were too tired to kill anymore, and then giving peace was a derelict duty left to those who had hadn't known its name; a responsibility left to the next person down the road. But nobody on any of the roads had ever finished me, had taken care of me totally, not even the Cure. When would I find my real luck? I could only ever take care of myself.

  I crept onto my Family’s land by wading up the stream, the shores where I had been bitten. The water where my youngest Sister had died for the first time. The last place I had been Alive, as good a place as any. I dragged my feet, my ankles only two, no others pacing with me. When I lifted my eyes, I saw the slanted roof of the House first, over the edge of the bank. It was wearing fresh shingles and trimmings. I could still see where the recent tar had dripped through the cracks to seal out the rain. I had cleaned those gutters once.

  There was a new peak, a new, stilted barn. It was slathered with red paint. Dried, cut hay poked out of its white-bordered windows. The smells of cows and chickens drifted from a stilted hutch. The rooster called to me and I lifted myself over the broken skulls, sliding over the lip of the ravine, eyes first. I stopped breathing so that they wouldn't hear my rattle.

  My Family was in the Yard.