INFECtIOUS (4 page)

Spiders, Zombies,
And
Rapists Oh My!

Aunty was right.
Being out of the house and out of
Toccoa
for the day
is rejuvenating. The reinforced, guarded fences around our mile-wide compound
are there to keep us safe. But the freedom I feel here makes home feel like a
prison in comparison. Yes, our fortress keeps the monsters out; but it also
keeps us trapped in our made-up world. Stepping out of the car and into real
life, I take a deep breath of cold air. Is it just my imagination that the air
smells cleaner and fresher here? Healthy fear and excitement are weaving their
way through my limbs, sending shivers through my muscles. I can't remember the
last time I felt this alive!

My bubbling
energy is in stark contrast to the eeriness of the empty stores. The shopping
mall stands like a decaying monument to America's wealthy past. Not that long
ago, healthy men and women filled these parking spaces on a daily basis to come
add to their collections of superfluous belongings. Today, the parking lot is
devoid of life and those crowds are long forgotten. Only a few old cars remain
as evidence—rusting islands on the sea of gray concrete. We are completely
alone.
The whole world to ourselves.

I think Aunty
and I are the only women to leave the compound in the last year. A lot of our
men come and go through the fence every day to hunt or fish. Another group
leaves to maintain the city's power and water, not just for our people but also
for the rest of
Toccoa
. Which is the only reason we
are still living somewhat safely "out in the open." Most of the
Living that are left on earth
are
in hiding now.

Toccoa
is a small town, overlooked by the rest of the decaying world.
We've found unexplainable protection and ambivalence in her quiet streets. Our
men are healthy and able to do things that the infected can't. The zombies in
Toccoa
need us, so they put up with us. It's that simple.
Our men put their lives on the line—working in close contact with the
infected—to provide us the normalcy we still have.
Running
water, a refrigerator, a furnace in the winter.

But none of the
guys in our compound would care to spend the day here. I get this picture in my
head of the macho guys from the U.R. going through the mall looking for ladies
shoes and bras, The comical scenario makes me snort out loud, drawing an
inquisitive glance from Aunty.

Our men are busy
doing manly things, leaving the cooking and homemaking to the women. They are
all more than a little chauvinistic.
Except for Tim.
He's probably studying something he'll never need to know and helping his dad
inventory the medical supplies. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew how to sew.
Anyway, people need clothes as much as they need fresh meat and water. Aunty
and I are doing the community a service. We'll bring back as many clothes as we
can for the clothing bank at the U.R. And our bravery means getting to pick out
some nice things just for ourselves.

Aunty opens the
trunk hatch and hands me a bundle of empty bags, some recycled plastic shopping
bags and some fabric duffle bags. I situate a few on each arm and with a
"here goes nothing" glance at each other, we walk cautiously towards
The Gap. Aunty parked the SUV a few rows away from the store, just a short walk
or run depending on what we encounter.

The parking lot
is surrounded on all sides by stores. The mall is a big rectangle with the
parking lot on the inside of the box. Three sides of the mall are connected to
each other, a long C shaped row of potential goodies. The fourth partition of
stores is shorter and parallel to the middle of the C with access to the
highway on either side—the only way in or out of the parking lot. If we stay on
the C shaped side, we are able to see if anyone enters the secluded lot.

My memories of
when the world was right are few and far between, but one thing I do remember
is this outlet mall in all its glory. My mom brought me here to do my school
clothes shopping a few days before I started the first grade. We bounced from
store to store and she bought me almost everything that made me smile. I
remember eating lunch, just the two of us, and sharing
a milk
shake. It hurts to recall her face and her smile and our happy life.
That ache
in my heart, that comes so rarely these days,
flares up in full strength. I still miss her so much. My time-traveling
nostalgia adds to the haunted loneliness of the mall.

Aunty, always
watching, always able to decipher my private feelings, notices my sudden
decline into depression.

"I'm sorry,
Ivy. I just thought we could still have a nice time together. I had hoped once
you got here you'd enjoy being out. I suppose I shouldn't have forced you to
come."

"No, I'm
happy I'm here."

Aunty raises her
eyebrows in obvious disbelief, her mouth sagging with disappointment.

"I just was
remembering my mom," I say with an apologetic tone.

I feel bad for
missing my mom. Aunty tries so hard to fulfill that role. I try not to let on
when I'm lonely for my parents. I'm afraid it somehow insinuates that I'm
unhappy with her, that she's inadequate. When, in reality, she's an amazing
aunt, friend
and
fill-in mother. She
just isn't my real mother and that isn't her fault. I don't want to ruin our
day before it's even started; so I make my face smile and work hard to push
away the sad thoughts. I want to be happy here with her.
Today.
Right now.
I reach for her thin hand and, clasping it
tightly, we walk cautiously into the store.

Today's weather
is perfect for shopping. There isn't a cloud to be seen in the cold, blue sky
and the sun is reigning overhead, offering its bright butter-yellow beams for
the needy world below. Those golden rays are our only source of light once
inside the store. We have small flashlights with us, but batteries are scarce
and for emergencies only. The door to The Gap hangs open on broken hinges behind
us. Of the store's two front windows, one is shattered with not a piece of
glass left in place. A good amount of light is pouring in—enough to see the
color of a shirt and check the size on the tag.

The merchandise
closest to the front of the store has been ruined by time and the elements. The
floor is littered with garbage and the decaying remains of fashion. Dead leaves
roll gently around the clothing racks, inspired by the winter breeze. The
store's thin industrial carpeting has rotted. The cement floor beneath shows in
patches as though the disease that ate away at humanity has run out of victims
and has come here to ingest this place as well.

Winding my way
through overturned racks and unrecognizable piles of decomposing clothing I
wonder if we'll find anything worth bagging here. Towards the back of the store
I'm relieved to find clothes that are still in good condition. Most of them are
still hanging on their hangers and folded in neat stacks. My heart beats harder
in the unsettling shadows, the sunny front windows too far away to help much
back here. I'm really careful with each thing I pick up because I'm sure
whatever I touch will, inevitably, have a giant spider on it. I hate spiders.
Zombies are worse; but spiders take a close second on the list of things that
freak me out.

Aunty Coe stands
watch at the door, fingering the
taser
strapped to
her wrist. The Gap isn't her style. She watches the parking lot to make sure we
are safe and alone here. I find a really cute pair of jeans; so I strip off my
ripped ones and kick off my old shoes to try the size eight distressed flares
on. We are alone and the whole store is my private changing room. You
couldn't pay me to go in the dark changing rooms at the very back of the store.
Not even if you had a whole package of Kraft Cheese Singles. Pitch black dark
and a breeding ground for all types of carnivorous spiders, the changing rooms
are the epitome of my worst nightmares. You may think I'm being a little
paranoid on the spider thing; but you are wrong. Spiders are really that
horrible.

The damp January
cold has fully infiltrated The Gap. I'm freezing and nervous as I stand
barelegged and stocking foot in the dark, pulling on the new pants. The jeans
fit great and make me feel thin; so I grab another pair in my size. I stuff the
old pants I was wearing into my shopping bag and then fill the bag with several
more pairs of the cute jeans in other sizes for the girls at home in
Toccoa
. I squeeze back into my ugly tennis shoes and
continue searching The Gap for treasure. Lord willing, by the end of the trip
I'll be wearing a whole new outfit, shoes and coat with a lot more clothes
going home with us as well. It will be fun to walk into the U.R. on Sunday
feeling pretty for a change.

We move from
store to store, taking turns keeping watch. After a store or two, we walk our
bags to the car and dump them in the back. Rather, I would dump them if it was
up to me; but, since I'm with God's neatness police, we fold them all in nice
organized piles in the back of the car. An Ivy pile, an Aunty pile and several
piles of clothes for everyone else. I'm surprised she doesn't make us color
coordinate the piles. Re-situating our once again empty bags, we move the car
further down the strip and head to a new store.

Some of the
stores have been picked over more than others and are not worth bothering with.
The jewelry stores look like they've been through a bombing. The glass counters
are smashed to pieces, littering the floor like sparkling diamonds. Any real
gems that the store had are long gone. Six years ago, when a couple
million people disappeared from the face of the earth in a silent instant, all
hell broke loose. People did what you'd expect: they panicked. Panicked and
rioted and looted in fear-filed desperation to survive.

The jewelry
stores were turned over in the search for tradable currency. The sporting goods
stores were next, for survival gear and weapons. You can't really blame
humanity. We've been programmed with an innate will to survive.
To care for our loved ones at any cost.
Fathers became
murderers. Children became thieves. The world turned upside-down and survival
was all anyone could think about.

That was before
we knew about the disease. Though survival is still a common desire, pleasure
has become priority one for most people. They know they are dying now.

It's inevitable.

If death is
right around the corner, and you can't do anything to stop it, might as well
live it up. Enjoy as much pleasure as possible in the time you have left. I
guess I can understand why they are the way they are.

As we pass a
recessed area of the outdoor mall, I notice the three stores tucked back into
one of the corners of the big C shaped strip. One of them is a toy store. I've
long outgrown toys and games but I can't help thinking of our new little
friend.

"Should we
grab some toys for Thomas?"

"Well—I
guess we could." Aunty is cautious and the hesitation in her voice tells
me she isn't sold on the idea. Staring into the corner's dirty gray shadows,
she murmurs, "Oh Betty."
 

Her perfected
mask of pleasantness slips; and her face morphs into someone I don't recognize.
A heavy sadness has puckered her lips and her brow is furrowed and wrinkled. I
don't know why this place has made her think of Aunty Betty. As I study her expression,
suddenly ragged with emotion, I can't help but notice how much she has aged
lately. I hate how frail and small she looks. We were having such a fun time
together; it figures I'd ruin it.

The loss of her
sister is one of the
few heartaches
that she doesn't
cover up with a good attitude and her normal game face. Aunty Betty has been
missing, probably dead, for years now. She disappeared without a trace one
sunny spring day only a few weeks after I came to live with them. That was
before the fences were built. Aunty Betty and Aunty Coe were very close. I
think sometimes I fill that hole in
Aunty's
heart;
but I know I can't replace her lifelong best friend, her big sister. Nor would
I want to.

"What is it
Aunty?" I ask in a reverent whisper as she stares into the darkened
stores.

"We used to
shop here together."
Aunty's
voice is garbled
and distant and it makes me glance nervously over my shoulder. "We were
vigilant, watching each other's backs and carefully going through the stores.
There were still some people in Commerce then; before everyone got so sick. It
was safer then. We didn't worry too much about the other people scavenging. You
were home with a babysitter and I thought it would be nice to bring you some
toys. You were so sad and still missing your mom so much. You've always been a
serious girl."