INFECtIOUS (22 page)

The Only Thing That
Could Make Toilet Cleaning Exciting

I eat dinner
alone. Aunty told me she might have to stay awhile with Thomas this evening to
give the others a break. I guess I've spent this much time by myself before;
but, because it's forced on me, I feel like every minute takes ten. I clean up
and go to my room to finish the work Sherry sent me. Hopefully the other
teachers will send work soon. Everyone is extra busy getting ready for the
missionaries.
 

There were 193
people in our community. Now Andrew makes 194. If Matt counted, it would be
195. But he's not
Living
and he doesn't plan to stay.
So, 194 Living members, but they aren't the only members. We have about 30 more
people who have answered the call to go out and tell zombies they can be
healed. They travel to different assigned areas, risking their lives, to
hopefully save some.
Three times a year they come home for a
week to catch up, stock up on supplies, and share the news of what's happening
outside the gates.
 

Last time they
were home it wasn't good news. We heard a very bleak report of a scattered few
converts, most of whom fell back in with the zombies shortly after converting.
Between all 30 of them, they only brought 4 people with new Life into the
community last time they were home. One of those was Thomas.

The missionaries
told us stories about rising lawlessness and unbridled hatred towards our kind.
One missionary didn't come home for the last homecoming. He's MIA.
Missing In Action.
That's when the board of Elder's was
elected. They met for several days to decide whether or not it was safe to send
out the missionaries for another term. The missionaries themselves unanimously
wanted to go back out, so they were allowed to leave again. We are all
anxiously waiting to see each of them make it safely home from another term.
They will trickle in all week and this Sunday will be a big celebration. We'll
stay at the U.R. building all day long, eating meals and worshiping together.
The missionaries will each take a turn sharing where they've been and what
they've seen. It's always an exciting, emotion filled day for everyone.

I can't decide
if I'll go or not. On the one hand, I'll be allowed to be out of this house all
day long! On the other hand, no one seems to like me much right now. An entire
day of trying not to notice their whispers, avoiding conversations, clinging to
Aunty like a child, doesn't sound worth the time out of the house.

I'm sure we'll
fill all five guest rooms upstairs with at least 10 missionaries. Filling all
five rooms would normally exhaust me with the thought of all the impending
chores
;
 
but
,
this time it sounds wonderful. Lots of people in the house! People to visit
with, news from outside our sheltered town.
People who don't
know about my recent problems and won't judge me for my mistakes.
Distraction from my constant thoughts of Matt! Company sounds heavenly.

I can't go to
bed until I know Aunty is home safe. She finally comes in, long after dark, at
9:00. I've had the teapot simmering and ready for her for an hour. I had to add
new water twice to keep it from boiling away to nothing. I stare at her while
she drinks her tea and I can't help but worry about how unhealthy she looks.
Her face is thin, her eyes look baggy,
her
hair looks
dull gray instead of lustrous silver. She looks older than her age—and she
normally looks so much younger than her age. It's been a stressful week for
sure, but I'm worried that maybe something worse is draining her. Surely one
tough week couldn't take her down. I need to take better care of her, take some
of the work off of her shoulders. Make her rest.
 

"I look
pretty bad, huh?"

"What? No!
You're beautiful!"

"Ivy, I
know you so well. I read you like a book. You are scowling at me and looking me
over. You should see your face."

"No really,
Aunty. You are as gorgeous as always. You look tired that's all. I'm worried
that you are working too hard."

"I am
tired, Ivy.
Very tired.
I'm sorry dear, you are
probably lonely and wishing for someone to visit with, but I'm dead on my feet.
I promise we'll spend some good time together tomorrow."
 

Putting her cup
in the sink, she shuffles towards the door. Shuffles—like an old lady. I feel a
stab of fear at the thought that if she were gone I'd have no one.

As she's leaving
the kitchen, she turns and says, "By the way dear, Matt said thank you for
the soup.
To you.
I mean he thanked me for bringing
it, but he asked me to thank you, too. I still don't want to encourage your
feelings towards him, but I wouldn't feel right not telling you. Love you
sweetie. Goodnight."

How
A
Missionary Ruined Spaghetti For Me Forever

Well, I asked
for it; so I can't be disappointed about it. I'm swamped. Everyone has sent me
something to work on for this coming Sunday. I'm compiling lists, typing
lectures and sermons, looking up scripture, and tons of other secretarial type
things. Mr. Jarvis even has me cutting out little fabric animals and people for
a felt Noah's Ark project for the little kids. Not to mention all the baking
and cooking Aunty and I are doing. We have to contribute as much as possible
for the potluck lunch and dinner at the U.R. for over 200 people on Sunday.
Meanwhile I'm trying to dust and sweep the whole house and make sure the guest
rooms are ready for whoever comes. I keep intentionally trying to take as much
of
Aunty's
work as I can. She looks a little less
tired; so I'm hoping
it's
helping. I can't wait until
she's back to her speed-walking self.
 

Thomas has been
moved to Jose and Ellen's house. Aunty says he's in a lot of pain and we pray
for him together at every meal. They are giving him Tylenol around the clock
which can't be good for his liver. But since we don't expect to be on earth
that much longer, we'd rather he have less pain now. Aunty says he asks to see
Matt a lot. He's such a tender-hearted kid and Aunty says he feels like it's
all his
fault. He doesn't know Matt is in a jail cell, he
just thinks they are keeping Matt somewhere to be safe. It's too much to
explain to a little boy who loves his brother and is already dealing with more
guilt and pain than he can handle.

I hear very
little about Matt. Aunty has only seen him one other time. I know. I've asked.
She says Tim is always there. I can't even picture the two of them together. I
wonder what worldly, exciting Matt thinks of boring, nerdy Tim's company.
 

Harmony has only
come to see me once this week. She brought more papers from her mom and only
stayed about half an hour. She looked at her watch a lot and wasn't herself. I
can't even remember what we talked about. It was awkward. I felt extra lonely
after she left.
 

On Thursday
afternoon, the first missionary arrived in town. Aunty says the whole community
is thrilled to see him, but everyone is worried that more of them haven't
arrived by now. By the way, I'm getting really tired of getting all my info
through Aunty.
 

The missionary,
Ben
Morvose
, is friendly and handsome. He's in his
early twenties, maybe 22 or 23. He's tall and thin with a summer tan
complexion. He's already starting to lose his hair, but he has a nicely shaped
head so I think it will turn out alright. He is boisterous to say the least.
They can probably hear him outside, as he exclaims favorably about the Inn and
the room we picked for him. The same room Matt stayed in. Ben hasn't stayed
with us before. He's always been one of the last missionaries to arrive and has
stayed with other families in town because we were already full. It's always
first
come
first serve for rooms at the Inn. Once
we're full, families start volunteering their guest rooms for the rest of the
missionaries.

I'm looking
forward to being the first to hear his stories. He'll be eating dinner with us
tonight. When he found out that none of the others were here yet, it took his
spirited vigor down a notch. The missionaries are like family to each other
since only they can really understand what it's like to be out there alone with
the zombies.
 

Aunty and I gave
him some dinner choices for his first meal back in civilization. He chose
spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread.
Italian
comfort food, true to his Italian last name.
Dinner is just about ready
and I've been working all day; so I jump in the shower and take a few minutes
to get cleaned up. I put on a little
lipgloss
and
braid my hair to the side. Satisfied with my appearance, I run upstairs to
knock on Ben's door and call him to dinner.

After another
round of equally exuberant exclamations about how good the food smells, Ben
prays a blessing over the meal and our home. He thanks God for Aunty and me by
name and asks for God's continued protection over us. It's nice to have a man
of God pray for you. I know God hears everyone's prayers, but I feel like he
especially honors the prayers of a missionary.

I'm starved for
the homemade spaghetti, but even more starved for news and a glimpse outside of
our limited existence. Ben knows we're waiting to hear his news, but he seems
reluctant. Looking up from his plate, he sees me staring with wide eyes like a
child waiting for Santa. With a deep sigh, Ben starts to tell us what his last
term was like.
 

"It's
gotten—insane out there. I don't even know how to describe it to you ladies
without being offensive. Even after the disappearances, the United States was
still a nation with a Christian heritage. For my first several terms out there,
people were still people. Of course, people were terrified back then—especially
when the disease first hit. But, in those first few years, people were more
receptive. They wanted to hear good news. They were willing to change."

He pauses and
his deep voice sounds spooky when he says, "Now, everyone is so far gone.
Almost everyone is drug addicted and not in their right mind. The disease is
causing such serious nerve damage and disabilities that people are dying in
large numbers. The streets are full of bodies. All hope is gone. Most of them
have given up on Pravda. Instead of making them more interested in what's after
this life, they seem desperate.
Desperate to soothe
themselves with as much happiness and pleasure as possible.
They exist
for a good feeling, numbness to the pain, with nothing else on their mind but
where to get their next fix. I didn't have a single convert this term," he
says quietly with sadness etched into his handsome face. He looks down at his
food as though ashamed.

Aunty
immediately tries to encourage him. "Ben, what you are doing is so brave.
It's not your fault that they won't come. You are giving your life out there
living with danger and want. We are all so proud of you. The Lord knows how
hard you try. You know as well as I do that unless He calls them, they can't
come. It's His job, not yours."

"Yeah."
I add lamely,
bummed from the heavy news Ben has shared.
 

Ben smiles at us
and swallows a mouthful of garlic bread.
 

"Tell us
what it's like here in
Toccoa
, you know, just outside
the fence," I ask.

After slurping
in a big bite of spaghetti, he obliges me, "Well, really it's just more of
the same. Pleasure is god to these people. The government has people living together
in large compounds now. With everything they want provided for them. It's not
free by any means though. They pay in blood. The lines are hours long
everyday
."

"Why do
they need so much blood Ben?" Aunty asks.

"They
recycle it," he answers. "People line up to give their blood in
exchange for credit. They spend the credit on drugs, sex, food, clothing and
shelter.
In that order.
The government provides
entertainment and cheap sustenance for free. The entertainment is unspeakable
and I won't even allude to the depravity of it. The very poor get by on the
free food, choosing instead to buy drugs and sex. But not everyone is poor.
Anyone with means buys their food."

"They have
grocery stores?" I ask with the possibility of tasting cheese singles
again on my mind.

"No, not at
the grocery store," he says, his face clouded with anger.

His dark
expression makes me feel bad for asking. I have no idea why the mention of
grocery stores would be so infuriating. Throughout his report, I've watched
him. Ben gets more and
more tense
with each sentence,
like he's crumpling up on the inside. Shrinking in terror as he stares
wide-eyed at the monster he has faced outside our walls. His fear is
contagious, the itchy chills that I usually only get from spiders are moving up
my spine.

"The food
that's for sale now, well—, it's beyond comprehension."
 

We stare at him
with an equal mix of expectancy and horror, waiting for him to eat a bite of
spaghetti.
 

Sauce on his
cheeks, he keeps recounting as though desperate to get the terrible knowledge
off of his chest, "There's no beef or pork or fresh fruits and vegetables
to be found in town. No one
farms,
no one makes or
sells anything locally. And people are hungry for meat."
 

He pauses and
takes a deep breath, "Less than a mile from our gates, people are being
murdered and eaten."

Aunty and I gasp
at this blunt statement and the chills finish their climb to my neck. A shiver
shakes my shoulders but neither Ben nor Aunty
take
any
notice.

"
It's
commonplace now," Ben says with irritating
calmness about the murderers and cannibals that live just down the street from
me.

"Surely the
family members care?" Aunty asks. "Just this week we've had our own
close call with an infected boy who came looking for his younger brother.
Thomas ran away to join us when he was recently brought to Life. He came in
with one of the missionaries last fall. His older brother searched for him and
tracked him here. He displayed great love for the boy. It was very
touching."

"Which
missionary?"
Ben asks, more interested in his fellow missionary than
Aunty's
speech about the loving zombie who stole our
hearts. Well, my heart for sure.
 

"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,"
is all
Aunty
says to that. I smile at her.
 

"Harvey is
a great man. 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
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."