Chapter Thirteen

"It's about to start raining." The kid enters the kitchen to say. I look out the window. It's a little cloudy.

"You sure?" Asks Ann.

"Walk outside." He says. "You can feel it." They're talking to each other, but they keep shooting passing glances at me. It's understandable, but annoying. I set the can of goop down. Ann opens the backdoor and steps outside. A breeze swoops into the house and makes the dangling strings on my hoodie dance about. I wonder if it's a cool or warm breeze. "Windy too." The kid adds. He looks at me again, as if saying "Aren't you going to follow her?" No kid, I'm not. Quit looking at me.

He's still staring. "Hi there." I say to snap him out of it. I sound bored, almost angry. Am I?

He takes a step back. "Oh! Sorry. I uh… you have tomato on your nose." I begin to reach for a roll of paper towels that's been sitting on the same spot on the kitchen counter for weeks now, when the kid says "Here, I'll get it." No you won't. I back away from him and wipe it off with the back of my hand instead. He sprouts a look on his face like he just ran over my pet, or something equally terrible. "I'm not gonna hurt you – don't worry."

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" I quip. It's not really that I'm afraid of him; I just don't like the idea of him touching me.

Ann walks back inside. "It's already drizzling out there."

The kid shifts his attention. "What's the game plan then?" He asks her.

"Hell if I know. Ask Lorraine."

I enter the conversation. "Lorraine, is she…?"

"The woman from earlier, yes. She's the one leading this crazy ass expedition of ours. Says we're going to Fort Knox to hole up with the military." That actually doesn't sound like such a bad idea. In fact, it sounds like the best idea I've heard since the infection struck. "Are we staying here, then? Where is she anyway?" Ann asks.

"In here." A voice from the living room responds. I recognize it as the older woman from earlier. I've never heard that name 'Lorraine' before. "The girl with you in there?" She asks.

Ann and I exchange glances. Hers is quickly withdrawn out of reflex. I eject an inaudible sigh. "I am." I reply.

"Come out here for a second, would you? Lemme take a look at you." Her tone is commanding, so much that any qualms I might have with her order are struck down and before I know it I'm in the living room as requested. Lorraine sits on the sofa. My first impression of her is that of a war veteran. Unlike the other three, there is little, if any, fear present in her. Her age, though clearly present, does not signify frailty at all, but rather experience and power. I on the other hand am shaking in my tennis shoes. She holds a lit cigarette is held in one hand, while the other is resting on some kind of assault rifle that's resting on the sofa next to her. Upon seeing that loaded weapon next to her, the fear in me grows. I'm simultaneously scared and just a little bit annoyed. This is my house, right? Why am I so afraid in my own house? Should I confront my fears, and say something?

"You look scared half to death right now, you know that?" the woman says, almost with a laugh.

"Well…" I stammer, "…you've got your hand on uh… a very large gun next to you." I swallow a lump of fright in my throat after I end the sentence.

She takes her hand off the rifle with a jolt. I notice some ashes from the cigarette fall on the sofa. "I'm sorry, that's an old habit of mine. I thought I lost it after I stopped serving, but the times have brought it back, I guess. Silly, really. I never even saw combat all my years in the military." She takes a drag from her cigarette and holds it in a moment before exhaling. "Something wrong, honey?"

Yes, plenty of things. Had you not noticed? But right now, specifically… "You're getting ash on the upholstery."

Her brow raises in surprise. Doubt she expected me to say that. I had plenty of other things to complain about, but that for some odd reason just seemed the most pressing matter. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Another bad habit, that." She puts out the cigarette and stuffs what's left of it back in a carton. I move to the opposite side of the room and take a seat in my mother's green recliner. The rain starts to pour outside.

"I know… it's stupid, right? I'm stupid. The world's ending but I'm still worrying about a sofa."

"The world's not ending, missy. Sure, it may look pretty grim – double from your standpoint, I imagine – but think: the Black Plague killed almost half of the world's population but we just kept on going. People will recover from this. It'll be messy, but we'll recover." She pauses for a moment, leans back in the sofa and looks up at the ceiling before continuing. "Why I remember when I was young my mother would tell me of the Spanish Flu and how it devastated her hometown in Western Samoa."

I look up at the ceiling too. "I guess it's been a while since the last real epidemic; we were overdue for a big one." I say.

"Doesn't get much bigger than this, though. I'll give you that. Last thing I can think of… let's see…"

"Bird flu and SARS don't count." I interrupt.

"This is before your time, but the AIDS scare in the 80s had people spelling the end of the world as well."

I turn to look at her. "No, I remember it. Vaguely, though. I have a couple memories from a long, long time ago of my parents warning me or something."

"Really?" She responds. There is a pause. "How old are you now?"

I push the razor sharp ends of my index fingers against each other and look away. "Older than I look. I don't know why the infection decided to make me look fifteen. The answer to aging, perhaps?"

Lorraine laughs. "'Answer to aging, my foot. You ask me, growing old's the best thing that ever happened to me." I echo the laugh, though mine is hesitant and rather fake. There's another pause, before she speaks up again. "I don't believe I caught your name, missy. I'm Lorraine, if you didn't catch that earlier. Lorraine Oliver. You are…?"

I freeze for a moment.

No… no, I shouldn't. I shouldn't tell them.

"I… I um…" I can't get any words out.

"Is something wrong?" Lorraine asks.

I cringe. "Well… kind of. I did have a name, of course." How do I say this? "But it was for a different person. Not the little infected girl here now."

"Now honey, you really don't believe that, do you?" I don't say anything. "You look different, but you're still the same person on the inside, aren't you?"

"What did you call the other two you found?" I ask.

"Beg your pardon?"

"That man you all are with, Jim was his name? He said you all found two other infected that looked like me. Did you call them anything?"

"Well yes, we called them witches. I can't remember who thought up the name, but honey those girls were dead – long gone…" she keeps talking, but I'm not listening. I'm thinking. Witch… Witch… like The Wizard of Oz perhaps?... hm… Witch… Wicked Witch of the West… she was played by Margaret Hamilton… Margaret… Maggie? "…and 'Witch' isn't really a name anyway to be calling someone." Lorraine finishes.

"No, it isn't. I guess you can call me Maggie, then."

"There, see. That's better. Though, I'm going to guess that isn't your real name, is it?"

I shake my head no.

"Well, that's fine. Pleased to meet you, Maggie."

"Likewise." Glad that's over with. "I'd shake hands, but… you know."

Lorraine laughs, but is cut short by a boom of thunder. "That's a problem. I suppose we're staying here for the night, then."

Ann's voice enters from the kitchen. "I've been wondering when you were going to answer that."

"Honey, have you been listening in on us?" Lorraine shouts.

"Not that big a house." Ann replies.

I stand up. "I don't mind at all. There are a few blankets on the beds and in the hall closet. Don't go downstairs, though."