INFECtIOUS (9 page)

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. The scientists
don'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 fingers around his ear to show just how mental he
thinks we are. "There is no God, it's been proven. 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. If you're so smart you would figure that out for yourselves."

What an idiot.
How can they all miss it when it's staring them in the
face.
Literally, every time they look in a mirror! I'm about to start debating and
ask 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.

To my deep
disappointment she smiles and says, "Dessert?"

The Undead Ate My
Pudding

Aunty serves
homemade chocolate pudding that she must have made for him as soon as we got
home because there are three glass bowls full in the refrigerator. It's the
last straw for me. My hand comes down in a hard slap of frustration on the
table. He smirks almost triumphantly. Was it his goal to make me angry? Oh I
can't stand him. He just sits calmly, his arms crossed, leveling his cold,
green stare at me.

When she puts a
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'll just go 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 brother in the afternoon. When he 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 and we aren't in danger with this kid in our house. She seems to
feel safe about him for some reason and 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. There is one boy I like who 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 doodled 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 he is oblivious of my existence—even though I'm one of only 13
girls in town in his age group. He probably wants a blond. More reasons to be
depressed.
 

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 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 as well. This picture is going to drive me crazy with
it's
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.
Fears
about what could've happened today, hatred for Matt and his kind, guilt for
both of those feelings.
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 and 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 a zombie when they leave the community for too
long. He did leave Matt without a goodbye. Maybe I'll feel sorry for Matt if he
came here just to be turned away.

Nah.

I hear voices
outside 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 focused 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. He gives me a reproving
stare, obviously not impressed with my new outfit. I feel embarrassed and
ashamed of myself under his judgmental gaze. He 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 plain black 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.

Tim lunges
towards the black masked fiend with a gun, but I think I should stop him. We
shouldn't kill a zombie. I'm sure of that, but I can't remember why. I struggle
against the strong hands around my neck and, in slow
motion,
I see his mask fall off. I'm staring into Matt's cold, green eyes. The zombie
is Matt. With breathtaking abruptness, I'm not scared anymore. I feel sad.
But not for myself or my predicament, sad for this deformed
creature who is killing me.
I'm shouting at Tim not to shoot when Matt
pulls me in front of his body as a shield. I should be frightened but I'm lost
in a sea of deep sadness. I hear the gun go off, but I don't feel the bullet. I
feel only peace.

I Exude Grace
And
Poise

I draw in a deep
gasp and sit straight up as I emerge from my nightmare-filled sleep. A strange
mix of relief and regret hangs over my first coherent moments. I am glad to be
out of the murky, slow motion world that my oppressed thoughts held me captive
in all night long. But, for some reason, a small part of me wishes to go back,
to finish the story my subconscious was weaving. To see what happened next. The
feelings felt so—so—real.

It was like 7:00
p.m. when I went to bed in a pout last night. And after 10 full hours of sleep,
I'm wide awake at 5:00 a.m. Normally, I devote myself first thing in the
morning, but I'm not in the mood today. A trend is starting here. The longer I
put it off, the more I drag my feet back to it.

I head to the
kitchen and make a beeline for the pantry. I am ravenous. I love the pre-dawn
hours. It's still dark outside, but, with a refreshing night of sleep, the dark
of the morning is friendlier than the dark before bedtime. Something about
resting my nerves and my emotions as well as my body always makes me feel
optimistic and stronger in the morning. Stress from long days
and dangerous surroundings often leaves
me nervous and
morbid when I'm tired at night. Aunty says it's very "feminine" of
me. I think she's calling me hormonal in the kindest way she can.

I spoon
Aunty's
amazing homemade granola into a bowl and pour
myself the last glass of milk. None left to share with the unwanted guest.

Awww
, too bad.

My thoughts keep
drifting to Matt this morning. I guess I'm just nervous knowing he's up there.
I've come to the kitchen fully dressed instead of in my pajamas like I usually
would. I'm sure we won't see him till long after the sun comes up, but I'm
still careful to not be caught in a holey pink bathrobe. All the zombies stay
up really late carousing and indulging their various hungers. Their side of the
fence looks like an abandoned city with ghostly empty streets before noon. Each
day, as the afternoon takes hold, they drag themselves out of whatever
hole
they slept in and their town of pleasure and debauchery
comes raucously to life again.

We can see them
right past our community fence. They live very close. We live almost side by
side but in totally different worlds. Sometimes an errand takes me near the
fence and I'm forced to pass close by one of them on the other side. Close
enough for a person to give the typical nod and smile or forced
"hello."

Not that I say
"hello" or smile. I'm just saying if I walked that close to someone
in our community I would. When I'm forced to be within one hundred feet of one
of them, fence between us, I am bound to get one of two reactions. The men leer
at me like I'm meat. Something they would like to catch and devour. If they are
well enough to walk, they hurry to press themselves against the fence,
stretching diseased fingers through the links towards me. I feel like a caged
animal, hurrying past them while they call at me and make horrible gestures and
even throw things. I get as far from the fence as possible as they call after
me with foul words I try not to remember.

The women, on
the other hand, act like we don't exist. They
never
look at me, never nod or even acknowledge my presence. If I
had to guess, I'd say they are jealous. They are rotting and falling apart,
unable to retain the beauty that all women innately strive for. Their men want
us, still beautiful and healthy, and I think they hate us for it. Of course
they'd say we are the freaks and they don't want to be anything like us.
Whatever.
Most of them are hookers and drug addicts, I can't
remember the last time I saw someone "normal" looking. Anyway, I
think the women are as glad as I am that the fence is there. But the men—well
that's what all the security guards are for.

In the early
years there was a flood of converts to the Living; but, recently, it has become
extremely rare for zombies to be healed. I wonder if our most recent convert
knows his brother is in
town?
It will probably be
pretty shocking for Matt when he sees Thomas after the description he gave us
yesterday. I can't wait for the whole thing to be over and for Matt to be out
of my life. I wonder if he had a hard time sleeping in clean sheets in a clean
house with no drugs or hookers to entertain him last night. I don't think he
could've gone out since we keep the house locked up like a fortress at night.
And where would he go?

Come to think of
it, how did he get in to the community to begin with? Our guards are stationed
at the three gates 24 hours a day. They don't let zombies in without an escort
and then only on official business. They wouldn't have let him in and then
turned him loose. He wouldn't have been allowed to show up unescorted at our door.
I don't think he came in through a gate! I wonder if Aunty has realized this
yet?
So, either he came over it—which is unlikely since it's
almost twenty feet tall with razor wire at the top—or he came under it
somewhere.

The thought of a
hole in our security is terrifying. If zombies can come through our fence at
their leisure, we'll have children going missing and women being attacked.
There are a lot more women than men in the community and it's impossible to
keep a guard over all the girls. That's why the fence is there!
To protect us.
And I'm in more danger than I even realized.
If Pravda is trying to kidnap me, a hole in the fence will be very helpful to
them. Our meeting with the Elders feels too many hours away. Aunty and I will
have to tell them about the breach. We need to find and fix that hole. My
unusually morbid morning thoughts are interrupted by the kitchen door creaking
behind me.
 

"Morning."
I say with my
mouth full of granola. Aunty is always up early too. We often eat breakfast
together. I can't wait to tell her my new realizations.
 

"Someone is
friendlier today," says a sarcastic, deep, male voice.
 

I jump up; and,
at the same time, inwardly curse myself for being so ridiculously jumpy in my
own house. The chair I was sitting on turns over and
falls
backwards on the floor with a loud crack—adding to my deep embarrassment. My
cheeks flush red with angry humiliation. I can feel the heat on my face, which
of course makes the whole thing even more embarrassing.
 

"What are
you doing up already!" I shout at him.
 

"There she
is," he says knowingly, insinuating that jumpy and mean is my normal
persona.

I really resent
that. I'm a cheerful, friendly girl.
Obviously.
He's
the problem here and I shouldn't be ashamed of myself. But I find myself
constantly feeling a mixture of fear and shame whenever I'm around him.
 

So, I dig myself
deeper and blurt, "There's no more milk!"

"O...K...,"
he says really slow and drawn out, like he's talking to an idiot.
 

Maybe he is. I
don't know what to say now, so I stand there—like an idiot.

To my relief,
Aunty bursts through the squeaky kitchen door, her old blue bathrobe pulled
tightly around her thin frame and worry on her lined, makeup-free face. She
sees the chair turned over on the floor and looks between Matt and I for an
explanation. Matt holds his hands up in an "I didn't do anything"
pose and I just glower at him, my face still hot pink with hostility.
Aunty's
face goes from concern to understanding. Then, just
as quickly, she trades that one out for the hospitality face and, turning to
Matt, she asks, "Pancakes?"

The two of them
eat their breakfast of homemade pancakes together that I staunchly turned down.
Not because the granola was that filling, but more because I don't want to
support this behavior. Eating pancakes with a zombie.
Disgusting.
I'm pretty sure there's a verse in the Bible about this. Something about
"throwing your pearls before swine" comes to mind. Matt fits the
description as he forks big bites of warm pancake into his pig face while
grunting with satisfaction.

The homemade
maple syrup was a Christmas gift from a lady at the U.R. I've only had it once
since Christmas morning because it's supposed to be special and not wasted. It
smells so amazing that my stomach growls audibly in the momentary silence.

That's when I
actually notice how good the room smells. It should smell
bad,
I'm sitting across the table from someone who is rotting. I glance at him each
time he looks down to take a bite. His hair is still damp with the proof of a
morning shower, which means the bathroom in that guest room should just be
sealed off and quarantined for the rest of time. His hair looks softer today
and has a bit of curl, not as much as Thomas' though. His skin looks scrubbed
and healthier. His ears are still red, scaly and bubbled looking, but his
shaggy curls keep them mostly hidden. His lips look fine today too, but I'm
pretty sure I can see a glisten of moisture across the top like they've been
treated with something. Though, that could just be syrup.
Such
a pig.

His shirt is
different too. It's so similar to
yesterday's
, a long
sleeved t-shirt, dark in color, that I almost didn't notice. I don't think he
had a bag of any kind yesterday. Maybe Aunty offered to do his laundry for him
too, and has come up with a shirt for him. As likely as that is, I doubt we had
a men's long sleeve t-shirt in his size just
laying
around. I can't see his pants since we're sitting across from each other at the
table. He is still wearing the simple black gloves. He wore them all through
dinner last night too. His hands must be where he has it the worst.

LS
is
so much like Leprosy; it attacks the extremities and the
nervous system. The ears, nose, lips, hands, feet, and, um, other extremities.
The, uh, private ones.
I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Matt must have it really bad on his hands since the rest of him looks pretty
normal. None of them can escape the worsening severity of the curse. I'd hate
to see what's under those menacing black gloves.

I keep staring
at him while he eats—I can't help myself. He's such an oddity. I don't think
we've ever had a guy my age here in the kitchen and, just my
luck,
this disgusting guy would be the first. The room is quiet but for the sounds of
Matt chewing with his mouth open. Aunty has put her ongoing barrage of
20 Questions
on hold for the moment to
politely finish her pancake. Of course Matt wasn't talking to begin with;
because he's too busy forking mammoth bites into his mouth that he can't
possibly taste or enjoy at that speed. He looks up at me and—with an
antagonistic wink that Aunty doesn't see—he pours
more
of my syrup on his already doused pancake. I am incredulous. I
start to sputter something, but I know she will only reprimand me and send me
off to do a chore of some kind. I think that would be even harder on my pride
so I stifle my accusations.

I mumble
unintelligibly—on purpose—to excuse myself from the table; and I stomp out of
the kitchen for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Like a child.
I'll hang out in my room until the morning meeting with the Elders. Behind the
privacy of my closed door, I go all drama
queen
for a
second and scream into my pillow. I've never been so disgusted and irritated by
another living human being. This guy is the worst. I'd rather have breakfast
with a Pravda scientist or one of the snotty zombie hookers from the other side
of the fence than spend another minute with Matt.