Authors: Elizabeth Forkey
You've
Got
A Little
Schmutz
On Your Ear
As we pull back
through the gate and into the safety of our community, I feel myself relax. The
nightmares of the past have chased me all the way home and I've been holding on
to my seat for dear life. My fingers are cramped from their desperate,
inadvertent clutching. I know it's normal to be scared after being assaulted,
but I'm ashamed of myself for it anyway. Aunty pulls up the narrow alley behind
the Inn and stops outside of the back door. She turns to me and
starts into what I'm sure has
been rehearsed over the last
few miles home.
"Unfortunately,
Ivy, we don't know if someone untrustworthy has made their way into our
community. We must be a little more careful than normal. I will schedule a
meeting with the Elders for tomorrow morning and I'm sure they'll want you
there to give your input. This is somehow about you and we'll need to figure
out why and what to do about it."
For some reason
that makes me feel itchy and, well, diseased.
Like I'm
bringing trouble back home to our only safe place.
Will I be viewed as a
problem?
"Keep your
chin up dear," she says. "God will overcome and we are safe in His
hands, just as we have been for these last six years."
Her
inspirational moment falls flat for me. Expressionless, I jump out and walk to
the back of the car. Lifting the hatch, I start unloading the stuff from our
shopping trip. She still has to return the car to the communal lot, but she
gets out, leaving the car running, to help me unload everything. We haul the
bags and bundles of unfolded clothes to the back door of the Inn. I close the
trunk hatch door when we've gotten everything and I turn to start hauling it
all into the house.
"Ivy. Stand
perfectly still."
Her tone freezes
me instantly. I don't even feel the panic rise this time. It's instantaneous. I
was barely holding on to calm as it was. My arms lock and I remain frozen in
mid step. Not because she told me to, but because my muscles are locked in
fear. I wonder if I'm about to die? For some reason the thought of dying makes
me think of Him and my terror lessens, just a hair.
I close my eyes.
Aunty hits my
arm with her shoe.
I open my eyes.
I feel—stunned.
I was expecting to be mauled by zombies, or to hear gun shots, or something
other than being firmly slapped on the arm with a soft soled shoe.
"Got
it," she says with confusing cheerfulness.
Seconds later,
she is back in the car and driving away. Disoriented, I
melt
like a thawing snowman, my limbs unlocking from top to bottom. As the thaw
reaches my knees, I almost crumple to the ground. Looking down at the pavement
beneath me, I see a humongous, black spider lying dead and curled up next to my
foot. I jump and scream at the sight of how large it is, dead or not. And
realize that it had, just a moment ago, been crawling on me.
ON
ME.
I do a weird freaked out girly-scream-jump-
armflap
thing that only true
Arachnophobes
could picture and
understand. I land awkwardly on the pink high heels, knowing it's a small
miracle that I didn't twist my ankle. The thought of God "looking out for
me" is quickly pushed aside when I think of the zombie at the mall and the
spider on my arm. If He's looking out for me, I'd like a little more attention.
Unlocking the
Inn and all the doors to our private quarters takes me a minute. Made even more
challenging because my hands are still shaking. It is a relief to be home. I go
back outside to start carrying everything in and almost jump out of my skin
when I notice someone leaning against the side of the house. I feel
foolish,
he must be one of us. He looks to be my age but, as
I clop clumsily towards him, I'm still not recognizing him. I know everyone in
our "gated" community. There were 193 of us inside the fence at the
last count. A count I helped with. I could tell you all 193 of their names.
As I attempt to
walk gracefully towards the boy, who must be someone I know but can't place, I
skid to a stumbling halt at the sight of the disease on his ears. He's a
full
fledged zombie! He isn't wearing their clothes, just
jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt.
And gloves.
The
gloves are their thing. I back towards the door, heart pounding,
all
the horror of my earlier attack flooding over me.
Geez God, why
me!
I am sure I look
terrified, but he is scowling at me like I'm annoying. I
kinda
would've expected cruel leering. Stumbling backwards through the open door—I
definitely hate these darn shoes—he starts yelling.
"Wait a
minute!" He calls angrily as he pushes himself away from the wall and
starts coming towards me.
I slam the door
in his face and fumble at the lock with trembling fingers. I wait, holding my
breath, for him to rail against it in an attempt to break it down. How long
will the old aluminum door hold up against an attack? There is one window next
to the back door, but it is reinforced with thick metal bars. He'd be stupid to
try coming in that way.
A gentle rapping echoes
in my
panicked brain. He's knocking? What attacking zombie knocks on your door? This
should be a clue to me that he isn't trying to threaten me; but my head is
spinning again and clues aren't really lining up for me at the moment.
Aunty will be
back any minute.
She'll walk
right into his devious trap! How can I warn her? What if I go out the front
door and circle around to the other side of the house? I could catch her before
she starts up the alley to the back door. We could go in the front door and
avoid him all together.
If he's alone.
Oh my goodness
what if he isn't alone?
Maybe he's
working with someone, like the zombie in the scientist outfit. Maybe he
is
that guy's partner! They've followed
us home somehow! If I go out the front door and leave it unlocked they could
get in the house while I'm around on the other side. We don't have a working
key for the front door because it's so old and it only locks from the inside.
It's why we mostly use the back door. So if I go that way, I'll leave us
exposed and they could get in. Then they'll hide in wait and attack us while
we're sleeping! All of these panicked thoughts are bouncing loudly in my
rattled psyche and no solution has yet come to mind and I realize I hear Aunty
talking outside!
I'm too
late!
Any moment I'll
hear her scream. It's
all my
fault! I'm frozen in
terror. What can I do? Then there is a key in the door lock and the knob is
turning.
They've gotten
her key!
Of course they
would, why didn't I think of that? I turn to run. I'll go out the front door
and find help. It's my only option. Hopefully, God will protect me and there
won't be more of them on the front porch. I hate to leave Aunty with them, but what
else can I do?
"Ivy?"
Aunty Coe is
coming in through the back door, a pleasant smile on her lined face. I pause
mid-run, looking like a cartoon character stuck in a ridiculous running
position. Wile E. Coyote style. My face is a mask of panic and confusion.
"Honey, we
have some company. Are you ok? You don't look ok dear. I'll make us some tea
and we can visit with this young man. This is Matthew," she says politely
introducing the scowling menace.
"Matt,"
the boy barks.
"Yes, Matt.
He says he's Thomas' brother. Isn't that nice? Thomas will be so excited. I
don't think I've ever heard him mention his family."
Interview
With
A Zombie
I mumble
something—maybe it's "Hi"—and I reluctantly follow Aunty and the
zombie into the kitchen. I look down in embarrassment as my ridiculous shoes
tap loudly on the linoleum. With my eyes on the floor, I'm furious to see that
Matt's shoes are caked in mud and leaving giant clods of dirt all over my newly
scrubbed floor. If it was possible for me to despise this kid any more, I do
now. And he smells bad. Not body odor, but the smell of ointment mixed with the
unpleasant musk of cat litter. And musty, like he got his clothes out of
a garbage
can. I wrinkle my nose and catch Aunty giving me a
reproving look. She called him company so I'm expected to treat him kindly and
have good manners. I'm afraid that's asking too much.
Aunty exudes
Southern hospitality as she insists Matt try some of my homemade cookies. He
grabs two gloved paw-
fulls
and devours them with no
concept of manners or
edicate
and no "thank
you." As he
scarfs
his second handful of
cookies, Aunty offers tea and he accepts that as well. She boils the water and
strains the tea leaves into three different mismatched mugs. It's too hot to gulp
down, so he'll have to drink it like a civilized person. I'm just staring at
him with wide, disgusted eyes and Aunty clears her throat a little to bring me
to my senses.
"So, you
are here to find Thomas," she starts the conversation.
"Yes."
He clips, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips with the back of his dirty gloved
hand.
"How is it
that you were separated?" she asks, staring at him without blinking.
I realize that perhaps she's more cautious of
him than I first thought. She's screening him. Making sure he really is Thomas'
brother. I finger my
taser
on my wrist band under the
table. He's foolish if he thinks we are defenseless.
"He left
town with a freak, didn't tell me."
Nice. He means
someone like us. I'd rather be a freak than a zombie. He stares at us with
restrained disgust and doesn't offer any more information. Matt is not a
talker. Aunty won't have much more than her gifts of wisdom and discernment to
help her figure this kid out.
"How old
are you, son?" she continues with her questioning. "I can see the
resemblance. Are you and Thomas twins?"
This kid is at
least 17. Thomas is 12 years old, fresh-faced and adorable. Matt's scowling,
scruffy face is anything but adorable. He has shaggy, unkempt brown
hair—nothing like Thomas' curly, cherubic blondish-brown locks. Above all, it's
Matt's hardness that puts him on the other side of the Grand Canyon from the
sweet innocence that Thomas embodies. There aren't any similarities. It's
obvious to me that Aunty is just trying to weigh his reaction, figure out if
he's genuine. Apparently, it's obvious to him too.
"Huh!"
Matt snorts angrily at us, slapping his knee with an angry smack.
Since I'm
already breaking the rules of nicety with my staring, I study Matt's face for
any sign that he could be related to our Thomas. Matt's facial features might
resemble Thomas', but it's hard to tell. Matt's skin is more yellow and there
is damage on both of his ears. The man at the mall was the worst I've seen and,
comparatively, Matt is probably the least infected that I've seen in a long
while.
The disease is
there, you really have to look close to see it, but it's there. I think it's
starting to manifest on his lips too, though they could just be chapped from
the cold. LS on the lips
is
not pretty. Within a year
or so, his lips will be mangled at best. Worse, they may be eaten away
completely. Who knows about the rest of
him.
I'm glad
his clothes cover whatever else is rotting. His most outstanding features are
his striking emerald green eyes, similar to Thomas' aqua green eyes only more
brilliant, piercing even. I've never seen eyes so green. He meets my stare and
I shiver at the malicious glow behind those reptilian orbs.
"If you
can't point me in the right direction I'll keep looking. Thanks a lot."
He has figured
out that he's being interviewed and his "thanks" is sarcastic as he
pushes his chair away from the table.
"Young
man!"
Aunty's
voice booms.
Aunty scares me
sometimes. She carries herself with such authority it makes the zombie pause on
his way out of the kitchen.
"You must
understand our caution. If you do truly care for Thomas, you know that under
normal circumstances your people are nothing but a threat to him."
"A
threat?" he asks with genuine confusion and his consistent tone of
disgust. "Look. I don't know much about you people and I'm mad at Tom for
sneaking off and leaving me. His disease is spreading and I'm sure he doesn't
fit in here. I just want to take him home with me. I'm not interested in the
rest of your interview," he sneers at this point, "and I will
eventually find him myself. Tom doesn't need your charity anymore."
He is
practically spitting his words by the end of his rant. They really, really hate
us. And we are supposed to "win" them over?
"Thomas
doesn't have the disease
any more
."
Aunty's
announcement gets his attention. He squints at her, his green
eyes narrowing to serpentine slits, but his skepticism immediately returns.
"I don't
believe you. You don't have a cure here, you're just immune. And last time I
saw him his ears were almost completely gone. His lips were so mangled it was
hard for him to eat. Or speak. If we are talking about the same kid," he
pauses and then finishes quietly, "you know I'll be burying him within the
year. I just want to take my brother back home."
I am caught up
in his words like a trance. His emotion is so real, his concern for his brother
so obvious, that I feel tears spring to my eyes as I hear his voice catch,
thick with his emotion. Then he shakes his head and, as he meets my eyes again,
his face is stone again. I blink.
Oh, he's good.
This show of
concern is a trick or something. I look over at Aunty.
"This is
ridiculous! Tell me where he is now!" he demands.
"Believe
what you want," Aunty continues, seemingly unfazed by both his emotional
moment and his anger. "If you would be willing to wait until tomorrow, I
can arrange a meeting for you and Thomas. Obviously, there would be some
chaperoning required. If you can agree to that, I will contact his family this
evening and we can meet with them for lunch tomorrow."
"His
family?" he asks with obvious irritation and restrained anger. "
Agh
!" he growls in guttural frustration. "I'm his
family!"
"Yes, a
lovely young couple has adopted him," Aunty says gently. She's good with
people. I guess if Matt is Thomas' real brother, hearing that he has a new
family would be pretty upsetting. I'm not as good with people and I am holding
back a sarcastic remark about Matt's angry nature and how Thomas obviously left
for good reason. Matt considers her offer for a full minute in silence. Aunty
and I wait in silence as well, meeting his gaze, studying him for a clue of
what he will decide. I'm betting it will be another angry outburst accompanied
by some cursing and door slamming. I have a firm grip on my
taser
and I find myself dying to use it.
"Fine."
He says it
quietly, with no malice.
I'm caught off
guard but Aunty looks unfazed, triumphant even.
"You may
sleep in one of our guest rooms."
At this offer, I
am stunned. Now it's my turn to be angry.
"What! Are
you kidding!
After what happened today?"
"Ivy. I
will speak with you privately. Please go put our packages away." Her voice
is stern and her tone is one she seldom uses with me.
Matt stares
cooly
at me and I'm humiliated in front of him as Aunty
sends me away like a little child. I'm not just mad now, I'm hurt too.
I can't believe
she is doing this!
I feel betrayed.
Like I'm twelve years old again and my mom just slapped me. Can't I trust
anyone to just be there for me? To care about me when I'm rightfully scared? I
feel a tug in my heart reminding me that He is always there for me, but I brush
it aside. How has He been there for me? It has been a horrible day.
One of the worst days of my life, with no sign of Him anywhere.
Aunty is
probably dooming us. Matt could totally be part of what happened to us in
Commerce today. I have been freaking out, and rightfully so, and now she's
inviting the enemy to sleep in our house? I glare at him again as I walk to the
kitchen door.
"Don't put
yourselves
out," he glances at me. "I can find a
place to sleep. I don't need your charity."
Aunty gives me a
face meant to send me on my way. As I storm out of the kitchen, I hear her
talking to him in that soothing, calm voice she uses to teach.
"Do you
know what charity means Matthew? It is another word for love. Everyone needs
love. I can't make you stay here, but we have nice rooms and it would be more
convenient for you. I will understand if you decide not to stay. I won't be
offended."
I can't stand
outside the door and eavesdrop, she will know; so I slowly walk outside and
start hauling the bags in.