Girl Z: My Life As A Teenage Zombie (3 page)

“Relax. Deep breath, that's it.” She adjusted the machine. “
Mmm-hmm
, again. It's normal to feel confused when you wake. You're doing very well. Now stay calm or we'll have to give you a sedative. Doctor will be in to see you shortly. He'll explain everything. All right? You understand?”

I murmured yes and watched the doctor, a thin, balding, dark-skinned man in a white coat, enter. He studied me, his face serious, and told me about the outbreak of a new virus. Research was underway at various places, he droned on, and certain medicines had shown promise against the infection's bacterial elements. He tried to make it sound positive that it had mutated. The virus affected younger people differently and seemed to be slower acting, he explained.

I wasn't buying any of it.

The rest of his monologue—new diet, pills, body changes—
blah, blah, blah,
went unheard. I turned and caught a glimpse of myself in the metal container on the table next to me. Familiar chocolate brown eyes stared back from under ebony bangs. Dark brows.

Spots.

My hands flew to my cheeks. Oh, my face! At first, I almost thought I had some kind of mask on, or someone had brushed on a layer of fireplace ash for makeup. The blotches stood out in contrast to the pink, peeling spots.

I banged the bed rail and screamed. This was much more than a made-up crisis like a bad hair day, or some quickly forgotten drama.

I was ugly.

Everyone—the nurse, my cousin, my aunt—gathered around the bed and told me it was okay, I'd get better. “You'll be all right, cuz, really,” Carm whispered.

The nurse talked about my having a normal life. My head spun, the vertigo adding another odd layer of feeling to my panic.

Normal? I gazed again at my hands and arms in disgust. How could looking like freaking King Tut without his wrappings ever be normal?

Tia
Imelda stroked the top of my head and hummed low, the tune her way of coping and praying, I knew. “It'll be fine, honey, just fine. You'll see.”

I appreciated
Tia's
positive thinking and her link with God and all, but I still didn't get it.

The nurse checked my chart and eyed me, her face stern, as the machine bleeped again. I tried to push away my next question—
didn't nurses always check your pulse?
—and attempted to ignore the spiral of thoughts that threatened to make me crazy.

Easy, take it easy.

“I'll be okay,” I whispered.

Nurse Teapot's “don't mess with me” glare told me she wasn't totally convinced.

I took another breath. I needed to be as clearheaded as possible, and strong, like my aunt. My rapid breathing started to slow. “I'm fine now. Honest.”

The bed adjusted so I could sit upright, the nurse leaned over and to my relief, held my wrist. She checked her watch and gave a small grunt.

“I didn't feel anything,” I muttered. “Nothing. Am I…?”

I couldn't say it aloud.

Nurse Teapot held out a tall glass of liquid. The drink's odd brownish-red color didn't seem very appetizing.

“You're lucky we got you in here early and your body didn't totally shut down when you fell ill.” She said. “It may take a while to get your full sense of touch back and for your body to adjust to the changes.”

Her explanation made no sense, but she cut off my questions and urged me to drink. One sip and I made a face, my mouth puckering at the sweet and sour, yet tinny flavor. “Ick, what is this? It tastes like metal.”

“Drink up,” she ordered. “Cranberry juice with some medicine for your throat. The dietician will explain your dietary needs before your discharge.”

Nurse Teapot left with a glare and a stern warning that she'd be back with a shot and limit visitors if the machine went off again. The odd drink did help moisten my dry throat and tongue. Another sip and I set down the glass. I motioned to my aunt. I needed her reassurance. I needed her to help me remember.

Tia
put on her no-nonsense expression, the one she usually wore when she reviewed my grades. Time to get serious.

I took deep cleansing breaths and tuned in to the familiar, lilting cadence of her voice. Many a night she'd lulled me to sleep with a bedtime story or whispered a prayer with me while my mama was at work. When I was older, she offered sound advice and even a correction or two when I got in trouble. I turned aside so she wouldn't see my sadness.

“It's all right, child, it's all right.” My aunt patted my hand. “Best you cry, let it out. I know it's hard. That won't be ending anytime soon I 'spect.”

She stopped, wiped a couple tears that trickled down her cheek, and gazed at me before continuing, her voice soft. “Been some funny things going on around here. Things I ain't ever seen and never thought I would. And our poor boy, Spence…so terrible. Honey, these are things I'm afraid I just don't have all the answers for.”

She must've sensed my questions and waved at me to wait.

“Sorry, I know it takes me a while to get to the point. Now I know you and Carm are worried about your mamas. Foolish thing they did, going off with all the crazies roaming around the roads. But don't you worry they're not back yet. Messaged they're stuck in some hotel. They'll be fine, just fine.”

The rest of what she said hit me like I'd been doused with a bucket of ice cubes.

My aunt struggled to remain calm. She took a deep breath and continued, “Honey, you have to be bitten or scratched to get this. The doctor said something goes haywire inside. You get the virus and usually die, but I'm not talking about death as we know it. The virus does something to the body.”

A memory floated to the surface. “Wait, the radio,” I recalled. “They told everyone to stay inside, keep away, don't go near those-those people outside.” My voice lowered to a whisper. “You know…
them.
”

She bobbed her head in agreement, but tried to hide her alarm as she glanced at my arm. My gaze dropped to the unsightly laceration. The ragged slash on my arm made me cringe. It seemed worse than before. Yes, I'd banged my arm, but…I gasped as the reality of it hit me.

Me and Spence fighting. His clawing at me. Scratching me. Grabbing my other wrist again, I moved my fingers across my cool, clammy skin. Odd how my fingers rubbed my hand, yet I could barely feel it. I couldn't detect a pulse. Wait; was I like the old vice president with the bad heart? He had a pump. He didn't have a pulse, either.

I pushed on my chest; no tubes or wires. Okay, no pump.

That could only mean—I wasn't a medical zombie, but a real, Hollywood movie, creepy, disgusting, flesh-eating
zombie?
But how, when the nurse said…?

“No, NO! I screamed. “I'm not like that. I'm NOT! NO, I won't be. NO!”

I stopped yelling as the machine bleeped and my aunt grabbed my cool hands in her warm ones.

“Becca, stop it,” she ordered. “You listen to me, girl. That nurse is looking up from her desk out there. You're going to need us around to help you. You get it together, you hear? You are still Becca, the girl we love, my niece, Carm's best friend and cousin. You're still
you.
Carm honey, tell Becca how important she is, to all of us.”

Carm moved closer to the bed. “Hey, cuz, nothing's changed. Absolutely nothing,
nada
. You're still my BFF,
numero uno,
my best friend, in the whole wide world.” She grabbed me, her voice teary. “Bec, Bec, I'm sorry. If Spence hadn't come back, if your mom hadn't gone…”

I held her hand and calmed myself, and after myself, tried to calm her. “Carm, it's okay. It's not your fault, any of it. None of us could've known what would happen.”

“Honey, things will be different, but don't worry, life is full of changes,” my aunt said, her voice firm. “It'll be fine. We love you. We'll manage.” She frowned and just as quick it disappeared. “Well, luckily, you're not like those-those
things
out there.”

I stared at her, puzzled, and took in my new skin tone, unable to fully grasp what had happened.

I'd always wanted to be different. Now I was.

Part of me wanted to call my aunt's saying I'd be fine a lie, but I couldn't. She never lied to me. I had to believe things would get better. I took a deep breath.

Okay, I was strong. I could cope.

Almost on cue, the physical sensations I'd wished for earlier hit me—hard.

I bent over as my body cramped. I held my stomach, moaning for the pains to stop. Staring ahead, I saw history repeat itself: Carm staring at me, her face pale, drawn.

“Bec, what's happening?” she cried. “What is it?”

“I-I don't know.” I groaned and prayed for it to stop. “My insides are knotting up. I feel like—”

I gaped at her and breathed hard, sounding like a freight engine. My teeth chomped.

“Becca! What's wrong? Nurse, nurse!”

I yelled and writhed in the bed. My arms and legs thrashed like snakes. I struggled to get up, to move beyond the metal barrier of the bed's frame, my teeth chomping.

My mouth foamed as I bit into my lip, but I never felt the pain. I groaned and cried out, I reached for—

Beep-Beep-Beep!

The machine's beeps and loud blare stunned me for a moment. I screamed and tore at my clothes.

My frustration mounting, I snarled and rattled the bed frame.

I fought against the metal barrier in my attempt to get near someone, anyone.

Nurse Teapot rushed in and quickly jabbed a needle into the IV line. I fell back, exhausted, into a semi-sleepless state. The weird thing, I still heard everyone around me talking, though the words sometimes faded out.

“We didn't do anything,” I heard Carm tell the nurse. “We were talking…” Her words cut out, then continued. “…said her stomach hurt.”

“Don't worry, it's just her body giving warning signals,” the nurse reassured.

“Warning about what?” Carm asked.

“She's been without solid food for two days now,” the nurse explained. “It's time for her to eat. The sedative will help calm her and we've been gradually adding liquid protein to her diet, but she needs more now. It's a sign she's getting stronger. Her system is regulating. She'll need to eat when she comes to.”

Carm voiced a depressed “oh.” “When'll she wake up?”

“In about twenty minutes. We'll leave her food and keep an eye on her. It's best you go home and come back tomorrow. We need to monitor her. She'll be eating every hour until her system is fully regulated.”

At mention of the word food, my teeth mashed together. I groaned and squealed in my half-sleep.

Carm fired off more questions. “Every hour? Why so often? What will—?”

Aunt Imelda took over, her voice shaky, as she struggled to keep her composure. “Honey, some things are best left to the experts. We don't need all the details. We'll see her tomorrow afternoon.”

My lashes fluttered at the bright lights stabbing the top of my eyelids. I eased my eyes open and gazed about, not sure where I was. I felt sluggish, like I'd awakened from a long nap.

The nurse's voice wafted through the air from somewhere I couldn't see. “Visiting hours will resume after your meal schedule is established. A tray is on the table. We'll check your progress when you're finished.”

Still groggy, I sat up and tried to get my bearings. She stopped talking just as I saw the speaker grate on the wall. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, wondering why I was suddenly being treated like a pariah.

My mind worked out the details as I took in my surroundings. Carm and my aunt had been here when I started to feel sick. They left, yesterday? No, wait…today. I scanned the room again. Okay, not long ago.

We'd been talking, I remembered, confident the memory was good. I was fine and then I'd felt something…

A stab of pain hit my stomach.

Ugh. My fingers tightened around the bed rail. I slid forward, stunned to see the now-loosened ties on the bed rail. What weren't they telling me? Where was everyone?

I slid off the bed and saw the tray of food on the table. In response, sharp pains hit me. I stumbled and winced, holding my hands over my gut. The pain became stronger. Oh, so that's what it was—hunger pangs!

The pain hit again with such force I grabbed the chair to steady myself. Wow, I'd been hungry before, but I'd never felt anything like this.

With a cry, I lunged for the table and grabbed the plate. Chicken. I loved chicken—chicken enchiladas, chicken quesadillas, chicken parmesan.
Mmm
!

I pulled the food closer with a groan, the pains in my stomach increasing—and stopped.

I stared, taking in the slimy pink flesh, the pale unappetizing white color of the skin, and the icky yellow globs of fat on the cut pieces of whole chicken on the plate.

Raw chicken.

My mind revolted, even as my dry mouth began to water.

Eeeew
, disgusting!

I stared at the plate, the pangs hitting my stomach, my hands trembling. I couldn't eat it.

“What is this?” I yelled. “That's so gross! Why are you torturing me?” No one answered.

I gawked at the food before me, my mind screaming,
No, No,
but my insides clenched even as I licked my lips. A line of drool trickled down my chin and fell unnoticed onto my shirt. The pain increased, making me feel like I'd been kicked or had really super-quadruple bad cramps.

As my hands wrapped around the meat, my mind went blank. My fingers slid across the slick surface and closed. The raw bird in hand, I wheeled around and scrunched myself under the table, my back to the door. My last rational thought was to shield myself however possible while I did the unthinkable: I stuffed a piece into my mouth, gagging at first at the sliminess.