Chapter 1: My Daughter is a Picky Eater
1125words
My mother Brenda doesn't know this fact. She's a practical woman, her mind occupied with crop yields and livestock health. In her world, supernatural things simply don't exist. So when I drag my stiff legs while walking, she furrows her brow and tells me I need more calcium. When I stare at the throats of living creatures and make hungry growling sounds, she just pats my back and says I must be famished.
Right now, I'm standing motionless in the middle of the living room. My eyes are locked on the window. Under the oak tree in the yard, a plump brown squirrel flicks its bushy tail. My stomach makes a hollow, yearning sound. I want to catch it. I want to sink my teeth into its neck.
But I can't move. My body refuses to obey. It remains frozen in place until the next powerful impulse overrides the current one.
Bang… Bang… Bang…
Mom is fixing the window. She's wearing a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Each strike of her hammer echoes across the quiet farm, making my head buzz. She nails the last board in place, blocking the lower half of the window. The squirrel disappears from view. The sounds in my stomach quiet down.
Brenda brushes wood shavings from her hands and turns to me. "Lily, don't just stand there like a statue. Standing in the sun like that will only make your complexion worse," she says.
My skin isn't sunburned. It's bluish-purple with an unhealthy grayish pallor. Brenda thinks it's from malnutrition and that I've been secretly using her cheap foundation. She doesn't know it's the color of death.
She comes to my side and touches my forehead. Her hand is warm and calloused from years of farm work and repairs. She was once the best veterinary assistant in town. "No illness I can't cure," she used to say, "whether it's a cow's or a human's."
"Still running cool," she mutters to herself before heading to the kitchen.
Plates clatter in the kitchen. Oil sizzles as it hits the hot pan. The aroma of eggs wafts out, making me wrinkle my nose. My body instinctively rejects it. My stomach craves meat. Raw, bloody meat.
"Your lunch is ready, dear."
She emerges carrying a plate and sets it on the dining table. Yellow scrambled eggs with a slice of toasted bread beside them. This is Brenda's idea of a healthy meal. Protein and carbohydrates.
She pulls out the chair and guides me into it. My joints make a faint click. She places a fork in my hand, which my fingers grip stiffly.
"Eat." She looks at me with encouraging eyes.
I stare at the yellow mass on the plate. That soggy thing isn't food. The toasty smell of bread makes me nauseous. I try to move my mouth, wanting to tell her I can't eat this. But my vocal cords won't obey. All that escapes my throat is a low, hoarse growl.
"Hrrr… hrrr…"
The sound resembles an old bellows, full of primitive hunger.
The smile fades from Brenda's face. She sighs, long and deep, then sits across from me, propping her chin on her hand. "I know, teenage girls always have their moods," she says, her voice tinged with weariness. "You weren't like this before, Lily. You used to love my scrambled eggs."
Of course, she doesn't know that the old Lily is already dead. Died on the way to town looking for supplies. It was Brenda who found me in the forest three days later. She saw the hole in my head and assumed I'd fallen. She saw me covered in blood and thought I'd been robbed. She brought me home, carefully cleaned and bandaged my wounds. It never occurred to her that her daughter's soul had been replaced.
I hold the fork, motionless. My brain commands my hand to lift, but my arm feels leaden.
Brenda stands and walks behind me. She reaches out and gently pats my back, just like she used to when I threw tantrums as a child. "You'll get through this phase," she murmurs. "Everything will be fine."
Her palm is warm. Through the thin fabric, that warmth seeps into my ice-cold skin. For a moment, I want to rest my head against her hand. I want to tell her I'm sorry for becoming this thing.
But I only manage another growl.
That afternoon, Brenda organizes the storage room. She removes empty jars and discards food packaging. We have no food left. I devoured the last bit of bacon raw yesterday morning. When Brenda discovered only greasy wrappers remaining, she blamed mice and spent an hour setting traps in the kitchen.
In the evening, she turns on the old shortwave radio. Through bursts of static, a man's voice breaks through:
"…This is the 'Safe Harbor' community… We have sturdy walls and abundant water… If you can hear this broadcast, if you're a lone survivor… please come here… We welcome all good people…"
Brenda switches off the radio. The room falls instantly silent, save for the rustling of wind through the cornfield outside.
She remains silent for a long time.
I feel her gaze settle on me—filled with worry and a determination I can't comprehend.
"Lily," she finally says, "we need to go."
She retrieves a canvas backpack from the storage room—my old school backpack with its faded teddy bear charm. She packs our remaining possessions: a few changes of clothes, a first aid kit, and her set of silver acupuncture needles. She'd recently started studying traditional Chinese medicine, saying she wanted to use acupuncture to regulate my "Qi-blood disharmony."
Finally, she pulls a can from the deepest part of the cabinet—luncheon meat, our last emergency reserve. She tucks it into the innermost pocket of the backpack.
She zips the backpack and places it at my feet.
"For your nutrition," she says, as if trying to convince herself, "we must go there. They have doctors and food. They'll cure you, dear."
She crouches down and adjusts my collar. Her fingers brush against my neck, where a hideous scar marks the bite that turned me into a zombie.
She caresses the scar and whispers: "You're just sick. Mom will cure you. I promise."
Outside the window, the sun sets. The last rays of light pierce through cracks in the wooden boards, carving golden streaks across the dusty floor. I know our peaceful, isolated life has ended. I don't know what kind of place "Safe Harbor" is, but I know one thing: there will be many people there.
Living, breathing people.
This thought makes my stomach once again emit a hollow, yearning sound.
