The Feeders

1 - A Little Tickle

     I am terrified. The world has twisted into the darkest of places. Dead bodies are plastered all over the television. They're not the kind you put in the ground. They're moving around, like they still want to be alive, but they don't seem to be driven by anything other than hunger. They're grisly, and vicious. The parts of them that aren't covered in dried inky blood are pale and ghastly. Just the sight of them is enough to make anyone want to hurl. Or cry. Or both.

Then there are the Sick Ones. They're everywhere. Piled in hospitals, waiting on buses, in offices, shops, and maybe even hiding in the restroom at the mall. The government has done their best to gather them. At the slightest cough or a fever, they're there. If you sneeze in third period calculus, look out. Men in hazmat suits will come with guns and lead you away, never to be seen again.

It's been like this for weeks. The government said they would take care of it, that we shouldn't panic. Since then, instead of getting better, it's getting worse. They keep rounding the Sick Ones up, but more keep showing up.

As the number of Sick Ones grown so do the Dead Ones. This group they caught today has been the biggest gathering yet, so says reporter Norman Payton. Their numbers are steadily growing more dangerous. It's getting scarier and scarier to be alive these days.

Having seen enough of the grisly report, I flip the channel. Unfortunately, the next channel is worse. I gasp at what I'm seeing. Channel 7 news is showing a horde of the slimy, rotting things trying to break down a fence to get into an airport. Apparently the airplane landed at Widewing Airlines, and Dead Ones came out. I don't even want to think about what happened on that flight.

Widewing Airlines is only a few miles from here. My stomach feels nauseous. Not that I've contracted the virus. It's sick because my cereal doesn't mix well with these news stories. I drop my spoon back into the bowl of Fruity Pebbles and push it away.

     "It'll be okay, Jan," says my brother, Salem.

     Salem is smart. He's seventeen, but he's not like other teenagers. Sometimes dad teases him about acting like his dad, our papaw Red--his name isn't really Red, it's just what he prefers. Salem doesn't care, he's proud to be like papaw Red. He says tough, smart, and cautious is the best way to face most situations. He has faced this zombie situation exactly like that.

     Zombie. The word chills me to the core. It took weeks for us--society as a whole--to accept what was really happening. It started with a drug. This drug was created, not by the government or scientist or pharmacist, but by illegal drug dealers and drug abusers. They had no idea what they were creating and people had no idea what they were taking. It was called Smash on the streets, but the government soon dubbed it Zomex. It didn't take long for people to realize Zomex was a recipe for a zombie. The zombies started attacking people and spreading the virus, making the Sick Ones.

     "Janis? Did you hear me? It's going to be okay," says Salem.

     I must have zoned out again. I've been doing that a lot lately. Could be my mind is just trying to shut off to save itself from this fathomless reality.

     "Is it?" I say. My eyes roam to the back of the house where our deepest fears lay.

     "Stop," Salem says daringly. "Don't think about it."

     It's hard not to think about it. The fact that it could have all been avoided is the worst. If the government had contained the victims of those people that used Zomex, they wouldn't have died and come back. They wouldn't have attacked others and made them sick. People wouldn't have started burning the bodies. The smoke wouldn't have contaminated our environment and made more people sick. Now, any number of us can be infected and not even know it. I could have it. Salem could have it. So far, neither of us are sick, so that's a good sign. That's what we hold on to.

     Mom and dad haven't been so lucky.

     It starts with a tickle in the throat. The kind that makes the infected have to clear their throat. I can vividly remember my mom that first night four days ago, saying, "ahem! Sorry, had a little tickle." By the next morning, she was coughing hard. Now her usually vibrant skin is dull and washed out. Her straw-blonde hair has lost its body and hangs limply to her shoulders. The worst is her navy-blue eyes--I can hardly bare to look at them now as they grow more white each hour. Less like the Sick Ones and more like the Dead Ones.

"I have to take them breakfast," I say solemnly.

I take my cereal and empty it in the food disposal, then set my bowl in the sink. There are two cans of chicken noodle soup in the cabinet. I toss them in a pot and turn it on high. When I turn around, Salem is holding two clean bowls out to me.

"You know, they could find a cure any day now," says Salem.

"Oh, really? Could have fooled me, because I haven't seen them do shit!" I was getting angry. Sometimes, Salem's ceaseless optimism gets on my frigging nerves.

     "They're testing. They've come up with four possible cures, but they're still in testing," he says, then turns to get the spoons.

     "How long do these tests take? How long do you think they can last like this, Salem?" I have to hold back a sob on the last part. No fifteen year old girl should have to watch her parents change slowly into rotting, flesh devouring monsters. My chest clenches.

     "I'm not sure," he admits.

I can't speak. I'm afraid if I try, it'll just come out as sobs. I hear the soup boiling on the stove, and it brings me back. There's a task to do. Every bit of nourishment they get helps keep them going; even if just for a few more hours or minutes. I even put the soup into bowls while Salem pours some cold Gatorade into two glasses. He's been great, helping me with them this whole time. I would probably lose it if he weren't here. I fit both bowls and both glasses onto the serving tray. Salem slips a straw into the glasses. We strap face masks over our noses and mouths. They're the kind that painters wear. With him in the lead, we head down our long hallway.

     Outside my parents' bedroom, we listen. It's quiet. My hands are full with the tray, so Salem turns the doorknob.

As soon as the door swings open, my dad's head snaps our way and he groans.