Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (4 page)

“What’s the name?” A voice behind the counter asked, calling her out of her mental fog.

Cara answered mechanically, not bothering to look up. “Creed.” She meekly stated while handing a twenty to the woman with the name tag that read “Patty”. When she received the change, she absently shoved it in her pocket. She wanted to apologize to him. Silently, she made a deal with herself. If he was looking at her with those disappointed, hurt-filled eyes, she would walk over and say that she was sorry. When she glanced over, he wasn’t even facing her; he glanced at his watch and then perused the specials on a place-mat. She had no way of knowing that he intentionally avoided looking at her out of pride.

“Just go over there.” She angrily thought to herself. “Ask him what he’s looking at. You could segue into an apology.” After a brief moment of indecision, she took the pizzas and walked out. Bryant’s pizza took longer than fifteen minutes, so he ate it on the way back to work, one hand on the steering wheel and the other balancing a half-eaten slice. Despite the time-saving measures, he was still late.

***

Later that night, Cara sat on the edge of her bed glancing at the unpacked cardboard boxes scattered around the room. The strain of moving plus the heavy pizza in her stomach had taken their toll and she felt like going to sleep. She pulled back her black bed sheets and slid in between them. Normally she loved the feel of silk against her skin, but tired as she was, Cara refused to remove her clothing.

The young girl closed her eyes, waiting, but sleep never came. Cara found that insomnia had its advantages. After a brief search for a box marked “books” in large black letters, she began reading a short story collection. About eleven P.M., she decided that she would apologize to Bryant the next time she saw him. It was an extreme change in her character. Normally, she never let go of her grudges. Sometime after midnight, she finished the H.P. Lovecraft stories and set the book on the stacked cardboard boxes that served as a temporary nightstand. Sleep still eluded her and she forcefully breathed out, listening. Then it occurred to her. Realization of what deprived her of rest swooped down upon her. There was no noise! Her ears missed the presence of cars and honking horns, the shouts, and the hustle of late-night pedestrians. All that she could hear was the chirping of crickets and the ticking of a small clock.

Cara slipped out of the sheets and on to her feet, pacing nervously from wall to wall. With her hands clasped behind her back and a pensive expression, she walked the length of her room several times over. An overwhelming sense of depression came over her. The lack of friends and absence of family unity had finally caught up to her. Being trapped in a backward, in-bred state with parents whose only goals were financial did not suit her. To make matters worse, thoughts of Bryant, an ignorant Southerner, permeated her mind.

Partly in anger, partly in boredom, Cara opened a box marked “Fragile” and pulled out her stereo. Placing it gently on the floor, she reached in and produced two six-inch speakers. After plugging in the sound system and connecting all the wires, she ripped the brown packing tape off of a box adorned with the scrawl of black permanent marker, which contained numerous CDs. Her fingers flipped through the cases, precisely arranged in alphabetical order, until she came to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. She slid the case from its tightly packed brothers and smiled. Soon, music floated through her room at just the right volume to not disturb her parents.

Cara rested her head on her silk encased pillow. As her eyes drooped, the music faded in her ears and she drifted to sleep. Dawn came much too early, as it does when insomniacs finally find slumber. She lay in bed past the gentle knocks of a parent entreating entry. Her mother’s fist beat more insistently upon door. Finally, Cara’s eyelids fluttered open. The CD player had stopped about forty minutes after she had fallen asleep and displayed double zeroes signifying the disc had ended. She rolled over and glanced to her left. Her alarm clock was still packed. In New York, the clock was always on the nightstand beside her bed. Its absence reminded her that she no longer resided in a familiar environment.

The groggy young girl swallowed to drive away the dry, swollen feeling in her throat. Then she yelled, “What time is it?”

“About eight o’ clock. Now hurry up! Church starts at nine.” Mrs. Creed’s voice faded as she walked down the hall.

Cara rose to her feet and realized that she had slept in her clothes. She called after her mother. “Where are we going to church?” She peeked out her bedroom door and felt lost. Everything looked alien to her. Normally, pictures of a psuedo-happy family adorned the walls, but the surfaces here were bare. Also, the only time she had seen the house was at night during hurried walks up the stairs. Waking up in a strange house combined with a lack of sleep had thrown Cara’s mind into disarray.

“What was that, dear?” Jean Creed shouted from the bottom of the staircase.

“Where are we going to church?” Cara shouted again from her constricting throat.

“The Holy Family Catholic Church. We were told it has about fifty members.” Her mother stepped up so that she could see her daughter’s face. “So how did you sleep?”

“Awfully. I hate this place.” Cara answered as she shut herself back into the bedroom.

Her mother looked into a pocket compact mirror and retaliated in a calm voice. “You and I both know that this will take some getting used to, but I’m sure it will grow on you.”

The words “like fungus” floated through the closed door.

***

Holy Family Catholic Church was a quiet place, dwarfed by the much larger Protestant churches and their congregations. The architecture stood out from other houses of worship in the area. From the air, it was shaped like a ‘U’. One hall was for mass; the other, which had been added on in the early nineties, was for dinners and religious education classes. A few offices and a hallway connected one section to the other. Outside, in the man-made box canyon, parishioners ate on picnic tables supplied by an Eagle Scout who built them as a final requirement for advancement. The structure was mainly red brick and very dignified.

Cara glanced ahead as she walked up the concrete path leading to the front door. An aging priest greeted families at the door and passed out church bulletins. The top of his head reflected the morning sunlight, and sported an incomplete ring of white hair that made his cranium look like a large egg in a bird nest. When the Creeds arrived at the door, the priest stopped and warmly smiled.

“Hello. I don’t believe we have met. I am Father O’Brien.” The older gentleman extended his hand offering a hearty shake.

David Creed accepted and spoke up. “I’m David Creed and this is my wife, Jean and daughter, Cara. We just moved into town.”

The Holy Father nodded. “You don’t exactly sound like natives.”

The secular father laughed. “I guess the Yankee inflection sticks out like a sore thumb around here.”

Cara tried to drown out the monotony of adult small talk by walking ahead and entering the church. Upon stepping into the sanctuary, she dipped her fingertips into a wall-mounted bowl of water then touched her forehead, chest, and finally both shoulders in the sign of the cross. Light poured in through the stained glass casting shafts of blue, red, yellow and a barrage of other colors into the sanctuary. This house of God was definitely smaller than the cathedral she frequented in the Big Apple, but it still retained the classic symbols of Catholicism: the crucifix behind the alter showing Christ’s suffering, a statue of Mary off to the side, the ever burning candle representing the Holy Spirit flickering away, and the tabernacle. Of course the mass followed the same formula that every mass did. She heard Catholicism referred to as the “universal church” because no matter which one a person happened to go to, he or she would get the same show.

Not many adolescents in Alabama shared her faith. The area crawled with biased opinions and incorrect information about Catholicism. Cara could already foresee the additional arguments and alienation the difference of faith would cast on her. Cara felt apprehensive about the low population of Catholics. It was another nail in her social coffin, not that she really cared. Only three other high school students attended Holy Family. Of the three, only one introduced himself.

Martin Davis displayed a friendly and outgoing demeanor and thought his effervescence could conquer any social or civic situation. Deeper in his psyche, he knew the truth: He was a loser. No one liked him, and if they were kind to him, it was only because his family had money. Physically, he possessed a short, stocky frame, only measuring up to 5’2” at the age of sixteen.

In the Fellowship hall, Cara poured a cup of orange juice and picked up a glazed doughnut with a napkin. Martin strolled over and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Martin” Cara looked at each of her full hands and turned to find an empty table. Martin smiled exposing his unusually clean teeth (despite his poor physical condition, his hygiene was impeccable). “Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”

“I don’t know you. Besides, my hands are full.” She quickly replied, showing him the snack foods.

“It’s just my hand. I’m clean, no germs.” He raised his palm to her eye level and slowly rotated it so that she could examine the appendage.

“In some cultures, the hands are erogenous zones only to be touched in intimate ways.” Without waiting for his reaction, Cara turned away, striding toward an unoccupied chair.

For a shocked moment, he could not respond. “Hey, it’s your loss. One day you’ll be asking me out.” He shook his fist as other parishioners turned to stare. “And do you know what I’ll tell you?” He shouted back at her.

Hit with inspiration, Cara swiftly spun around. Instead of verbally attacking him, she instinctively grasped that he could be used. “Could you do me a favor?” Her eyes cut into him and due to Martin’s limited social experience, she intimidated him.

Martin stepped back in surprise. “What?”

“Do you know a boy named Bryant Allens?” she inquired.

“Yeah, why?” Martin felt genuine confusion.

She ignored the question. “Do you have your own car?”

Brightening somewhat, Martin answered. “My parents just bought me a new Mustang for my sixteenth birthday. It’s out in the parking lot.”

“Could you show me where he lives?” Then she flashed a seductive smile. She had little experience with manipulating men using the power of her sex, but the boy standing in front of her would have walked miles for any kind of female attention.

“Why would I do that?” Martin scoffed.

“Because it would be a favor to me.” Cara batted her eyelashes.

Fuming, Martin weighed his options. Making up his mind, he nodded. “Ok, but when he turns out to be a jerk, you’re just going to ride back with me.”

***

Martin resentfully drove Cara to Bryant’s trailer. The entire trip out to the country, he spoke of all the material possessions he had. Tallying up what he could offer her, and subtly stressing that Bryant was poor, the decision seemed like an easy one. The guy she wanted to see had no money and was boring. Besides, he worked at McDonalds. Martin would never have stooped to working there. The blue-green Mustang stopped in front of the verdant field containing the feces colored mobile home. Martin quipped, “You know, I live in an actual house.”

Cara questioned her motives upon seeing the decrepit structure. “Should I be here?” she asked herself. Then she thought of this young boy. Her face flushed. How could he have sliced through the protective, onion-like layers that she had built around herself? As much as his words had stung, they had been true. That was why she felt a flicker of attraction.

Cara turned her head slightly and caught Martin in her peripheral vision. When she turned to focus on him, the young boy couldn’t break his leering eyes away fast enough. Caught staring at her body, he suddenly became interested in something outside his driver side window.

She spoke to him in a sweet tone that she was not used to hearing come from her own mouth. “Do you know if he would be at church right now?”

Martin looked at his wristwatch. Cara’s eyes crawled across the leather band and gold faceplate. “He used to go to the Methodist church. He would be there right now if he still does.”

Gazing across the grassy field, she did not see a car or a truck in the dirt-covered lane that resembled a driveway. Turning back to her chauffeur, she asked, “Will you wait until I’ve seen if he’s home or not?”

Martin forcefully exhaled and tried to look frustrated, but he agreed. He left the motor running as Cara exited the low-end sports car. The annoying ping signifying an open door began immediately. He watched her slowly covering the yard. About the time she climbed the concrete blocks that had been stacked into a set of makeshift stairs, Martin felt anger welling up inside. She had just used him. “Please don’t let him be home.” Martin wanted the drive back with her so he could berate her, insult her, and tell her what a bitch she was.

Cara knew that Martin wanted her. She also knew that someone would have him, if solely for his money, so she wasn’t worried about him being lonely too long. The heartbreaker knocked on this stranger’s door three times in rapid succession. After a few tense seconds in which she worried that she was playing the part of a fool, the lock twisted and Cara heard the familiar ‘click’. The door opened a crack and a deep brown eye stared out at her.

Bryant swung the door open wide as soon as the realization of the identity of his guest hit him. “Cara, I’m glad to see you. I can tell you that you were the last person I expected. How did you get out here?”

“Martin.” She replied.

“Martin Davis?” Bryant asked as he peered out at the mustang idling on the side of the road.

“I guess.” She strained her voice to sound casual.

“How did you find out where I live?”

“Martin, again.” The nervousness became harder to hide. If he thought that Martin and she were. . .

“Well, come inside. Have a seat.” The genuine smile on Bryant’s face put her at ease. He had already forgotten Martin in the excitement of seeing her. In his eyes flashed a hopeful look involving amorous motivations.