One Foot in the Grave: An Almost Zombie Tale (2 page)

“What was that?” Carl asks.

“Nothing.” I take one last gulp of water to wash the taste of cooked food away. “I’m sorry. It’s not your cooking, I promise. I just – I gotta go.” I pull a twenty out of my pocket. “Tell Ms. Adwell bye for me, all right?”

Carl nods. “Hope you feelin’ better soon, girly.”

“Thanks. Me, too.” The string of chimes over the door does its thing when I leave.

Whatever is happening to me, I hope it passes soon. The morning’s been horrible, and I want the afternoon to be better. Puffy gray clouds dot the sky. Barring the rain, it looks like a perfect day, but I’m too frustrated to enjoy it. All I want to do is get some breakfast I can eat and start the day sort of over.

I stare at the brains splayed out across my counter. The idea of eating them raw makes me sweat. I mean, they’re
brains
. I can’t
believe
I’m about to try this, but I’ve got to get
something
in my stomach, even if it’s nasty, raw meat. I dig in, trying not to think about what I’m actually doing. Before I know it, I’m shoveling the brains into my mouth as fast as I can, eating straight off the oiled paper like an animal would. I’ve been hungry before, but nothing like this…my eyes narrow and I stop in mid-shovel, a handful of raw meat clenched in one fist. I might know where to go for some answers; 2089 Vista Round Terrace, whatever that is. My laptop’s still in my book bag, where it’s pretty much lived since the summer started. After all, why use a laptop when my mom has a screamin’ gaming desktop in her bedroom? I drop the brains; wash my hands with blazing hot water and lots of soap before dragging out the laptop and firing it up. I type the address into the Google search bar. Huh. It’s a church. I’m not sure if I want to go or not, honestly. I’ve been to enough churches during my lifetime—all seventeen years of it—to choke a horse and endured more lectures…I mean, sermons…than I care to think about. But I have no idea what else to do with my day, so why not? After all, a church is a church is a church, right?

Two:

Weirdness Abounds.

So apparently all churches were
not
created equal. The one I’m staring at is…well, run-down would be putting it nicely. I’m pretty sure if I blow on it, it’ll collapse into a pile of rubble and dust. I bite my lip, but take the twenty or so steps forward to the huge double doors. The rusty handles look like they’re about ready to fall off but they turn easily enough to reveal a deep darkness I dread stepping into.

“Can I help you with something?”

The woman’s voice is friendly enough, but I can’t see anything other than a long sweep of hair.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the note. “I found this on my door this morning. This
is
2089, right?”

“It is,” the woman says. “Why don’t you come inside, where we can talk?”

“Why’re all your lights off?” I counter.

“I’m sorry, but our church isn’t normally open on Sundays.”

What? That doesn’t make any sense to my Bible Belt upbringing. Churches are
always
open on Sundays. I mean, Wednesdays at church are cool because of all the kid and teen friendly stuff going on, but Sundays are worship days. Period. I don’t even
like
church and I know that.

A warm glow fills the interior of the building. It’s like a thousand candles have been lit all at once. Now that I can actually see what I’m walking into, I step inside. Light gray stone walls rise up to high cathedral ceilings and archways framed out in highly polished wood line the way up to the altar. Looking up, I see that soft lightbulbs sit nearly hidden in shallow crevices over every other archway, giving the impression of candlelight without the possibility of burning the church to the ground. It’s ingenious. Wooden pews are actually on the
outside
of the archways. I’ve never seen anything like it before; it’s pretty cool in an odd kind of way.

The woman steps forward out of a small room; I can only assume it’s where the light switch is concealed. I expect long skirts and a bright shirt, but she’s dressed in blue jeans and a plain brown tank top. A tattoo I can’t quite identify decorates her left shoulder. The more I focus on it, the more it seems to move. Which isn’t even close to possible. I blink to clear my vision.

The hair I noticed before sweeps at her ankles as she walks toward me. “My name is Lydia, and you are?”

…wondering why on earth I’m here. But I hold out my hand for her to shake. “I’m Isis.”

“Why don’t we have a seat?” She follows her own advice and sits down in the closest pew. I follow suit. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I shake my head. “That’s a really cool tat. Where’d you get it?” I’d love to get one, but I’m pretty sure my mom would give birth to shoes if I did.

“Someone I knew a very long time ago gifted me with it.” The tattoo stretches across her shoulder cap, and I catch a glimpse of one bright orange eye. It looks beyond real. Whoever gave it to her was seriously talented.

“I’d like to know about the note, if you don’t mind. Did you write it?”

She nods and leans forward. “I did, because you needed to read it, Isis. Tell me what happened to you last night.”

My breath catches in my throat. “How—how do you know about that?”

“My…calling, for lack of a better word, is to help people like you.”

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean by ‘people like me’?”

“Are you sure you’re ready to hear what I have to say?”

I’m really not, but I don’t think it matters much, so I just nod. I must look kind of wild around the eyes, though, because she tries to smile reassuringly at me.

“I haven’t been stalking you. At least, not in the way you’re probably thinking.”

The only thing I’m thinking is that this was a mistake and it’s time to leave. I put thought into action and stand up. “This really isn’t my thing,” I start, but she holds up one hand.

“I don’t mean to be cryptic, Isis, but it’s hard to know exactly what I should tell you.”

I tap my foot. It echoes. “How about the unvarnished truth?”

She laughs. “Not many teenagers use the word ‘unvarnished’ nowadays.”

“I read a lot of books.” My voice is flat.

A breath whooshes out of her like she’s been holding it in. “Oh, good. That will make everything a lot easier.”

“Y’know, for not wanting to be cryptic, you’re doing an excellent job at being exactly that.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia says. “Please. Take a seat.”

I sit down on the very edge of the pew, ready and willing to bolt if necessary.

“The note was sent in order to get you to come here,” she starts.

“Yeah, I got that part loud and clear. What’s so important that I had to come?”

“The fact that you came tells me you already know the answer,” she says.

I’m kind of scared to tell her about my raw brain fiasco. I’m actually kind of hoping
that
was a fluke and I’ll be able to eat normally tomorrow. I mean, Lydia seems nice enough, but she’s a stranger, so I just shrug.

She stares at me for a long minute. “I know you’ve got no reason to trust me,” she finally says, “but you can.”

“Look,” I reply, “I have no idea who you are. But the note—” my voice falters. I clear it and continue. “The note was right. I’ve been craving…ummm…stuff I really shouldn’t be craving.”

“Not blood?”

She sounds surprised, and that freaks me out more than anything else. “Why would I be craving…
no
…ewww.” Of course, it’s not like craving brains is better than craving blood. Quite frankly, they’re both on my ‘never, ever,
ever
’ list.

“That’s interesting,” Lydia says. “I thought you were a vampire, but you’re obviously not.”

“You thought I was a
what
?” But even as I’m protesting the idea of it, it makes sense. Normal guys don’t go after their girlfriend’s jugular, or any other vein, for that matter. Neither does a normal guy have eyes that glow kind of golden. “Andrew’s a vampire.” It explains so much.

Lydia nods. “But somehow you’re not and I’m not sure what you are.”

I slump. “I’m not sure what I am, either.”

“Are you willing to find out?”

Do I have a choice? I nod, certainly not expecting what happens next.

The rustling of massive wings accompanies what looks like a huge boulder dropping from the ceiling. I scream until it…lands? I scramble to my feet and hit the ground running. Lydia grabs at my arm, but I manage to elude her and make it to the front doors, pulling at the handles in a desperate attempt to Get. Out.

“Isis, stop, it’s all right, he won’t hurt you,” Lydia’s soothing tone really isn’t doing the job.

There’s no way in the world I’m staying. I have no idea what just landed in the sanctuary, but I’m not waiting to find out. “No way,” I practically growl at her. “Let me out of here!” My hands are sweating profusely and I can’t grip the stupid handles well enough to yank them open. “I.”
Yank
“Can’t.”
Yank
“Stay.”
Yank
. The final pull does the trick and the double doors fly wide. I’m so freaked out, I don’t even really think about the throb in my left wrist; I just assume it’s a mild sprain, and rush out into the daylight, relishing the feel of the sun on my face.

“Isis,” Lydia calls after me. I have no idea why, but I stop in mid-flight and turn back to face her.

“You need help,” she says. “That’s what we’re here for. I promise you, nothing bad will happen here. Please…come back in.”

“This—” I wave my arm around to encompass the church specifically and everything surrounding it. “This is way too weird for me. I can’t. I just can’t.”

“
This
is where you belong.” She’s practically begging me. “Trust me; I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“Doing what? Introducing people to that thing in the church?” It takes a huge effort to keep my voice down to something resembling a normal level. “All this crazy talk about my being different, about you thinking I’m a vampire…it’s really so you can feed me to that…that
thing
, isn’t it?”

Lydia bursts into peals of laughter. “I—oh my goodness, what an imagination you have!”

I fold my arms across my chest. “What? I was being serious!”

“There’s no way that would ever happen.” She starts giggling again, but quickly sobers up. “When you change your mind and need us, we’re open from sunrise to sunset. Every day except Sunday.”

I can’t bring myself to tell her she’s wrong; that I’ll never set foot in the church again. I nod instead, determined not to ever come back here. There’s not a chance in…heck.

Three:

So, What Now?

In a vain attempt to get my mind off the winged thing at the church, I decide to go home and sort laundry. I’ve been neglecting it since Mom’s been gone and it’s starting to crawl up the walls. If I don’t get it done, I might find myself smothered in my sleep by jeans and t-shirts. Oh, and I’ve got to wrap my wrist in an Ace bandage; the sucker is really starting to ache and it’s already begun turning colors, which is fairly alarming. I try to pull open the door to my apartment building, but my palms are still covered in sweat. I wipe my hands down the front of my jeans.

“Hey, Isis, how’re things going?”

I smile. The voice belongs to Sam Allen, my lab partner in high school who just happens to be
the
hottest guy around. If you’re into Vikings, and probably even if you’re not. Seriously, the guy looks like he could bench press a semi. Oh, and he lives in my building. Lucky me. “Hi yourself, Sam. What’s going on?”

He shrugs awkwardly. “Just delivering for Bruno’s…he told me you came in and bought raw brains. What’s up with that?”

Crap. “I…uhhh…just an experiment,” I lie. “You know how my mom is.”

“Your mom’s awesome. Kind of weird, but awesome.”

That pretty much sums up how I feel about her, too. I fidget from one foot to the next, not sure how to continue the conversation. “So, got any cool plans for the summer?” Gah, that sounds so cheesy, but I can’t exactly take it back.

“Just working,” he says. “My car insurance is killin’ me. What about you? Still dating that Andrew guy?”

I shake my head. “Not anymore. We just had different…goals.” Like he wants me dead and I want me alive.

He nods like he totally understands. Maybe he does. I don’t doubt he’s had more girlfriends than anyone else in our graduating class. He’s just one of those guys: not a ‘player’, but not a monk, either. Popular.

“Did he do that to you?” Sam points at my wrist.

“Indirectly, yeah. But it’s okay,” I say. “It’s just a sprain.”

“What a jerk. Good thing you dumped him.”

“I think so, too.” Even though my heart aches a bit at the loss.

“I’d better get to delivering these.” He juggles the small box of meats with one hand, and reaches for the door handle with the other. “Here, let me get that for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, and walk inside ahead of him.

“Hey, some of us are getting together tomorrow at The Coffee Jar. Want to come?”

I’d be crazy to say no. I’ve wanted him to ask me out, in any regard, since I was a freshman. “Absolutely. Just call me and let me know what time.”

He nods. “Will do. See ya later.”

I actually hum my way to the elevator. The day is definitely looking up and even the prospect of mountains of dirty clothes doesn’t bother me.

***

The next morning doesn’t start out so badly. I check my wrist by wiggling it slightly, having wrapped it the night before. It feels wonky, but a visit to the doctor after I get control of the laundry should fix that. But first, I crack two eggs into a bowl; scramble them with two tablespoons of milk, then pour the concoction into a frying pan. It’s not until I put a forkful of the delicious, perfectly scrambled eggs into my mouth that my stomach goes ‘Nope!’ and clenches itself into a knot. I don’t even get a chance to truly enjoy the fluffy goodness before I’m racing for the bathroom.

It sucks, but I’m determined to eat
something
that’s not raw meat. I’ve never liked steak tartar, and I’m not about to make it part of my regular diet. Not if I can help it. The pig brains were bad enough. I manage to keep three minuscule bites of a banana down by sheer strength of will. It’s stupid, but it totally makes me feel like a winner. I grab the full laundry basket and head to the elevator. There are definitely days I wish my mom had paid for an apartment with washer/dryer hookups. Today is one of them. I don’t want to deal with people, and my building is full of nosy little old ladies. I push the down button, and wait a few minutes. It doesn’t take long for the doors to
woosh
open.