The Oasis of Filth (2 page)

3

For more than 10 years, we lived in fear. But the funny thing was, it wasn’t really fear of the zombies. It was fear of dirt, and what came with it. The government pulled in the walls of the cities — cities were the only things left with any infrastructure — and inside those walls was where we lived, in giant compounds. Well, we called it
pulling in the walls
as a cultural reference, but in truth they had to make the walls. The society that once was home to the freest, proudest people on Earth remade itself along quasi-feudal lines, with pockets of citizens huddled together, struggling through totalitarian rule. Because it kept them safe.

I made it to Washington, DC, and I got inside the walls. Others did the same in New York, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, and elsewhere. Some cities fell apart or were overrun. I heard an estimate that about 30 million Americans lived in the cities, which seemed like a lot — but just doing the math from where we started, that meant more than 300 million people were still outside. Even as contagious as the disease was and how fast it could kill, there must have been a lot of people struggling for their lives in what used to be the United States. As well as a lot of zombies. And a lot of dead. God only knew what the numbers looked like everywhere else in the world.

Inside the walls, everything had to be clean. Only by completely sterilizing our environment could we hope to one day overcome the epidemic. That’s what the laws said. People were taken away simply for not keeping themselves and their homes and their streets clean. The government said this is why we still had outbreaks. If everyone could work together, keep every inch of the city free from grime or mildew or fungus, we could avoid additional infections. I understood their frustrations, to some degree — after more than 10 years, you’d think we could have solved this. But my experience as a doctor made me question this policy. I knew that some amount of cleanliness was useful to ward off infection, but I also knew that scrubbing a floor wouldn’t save you from your neighbor coughing in your face. But always there were stories of some family, some person, some group home, where cleanliness was ignored, the filth built up, and then another outbreak occurred. The talk-show hosts shook their heads and reported on another self-induced tragedy. If only this family had kept to the law, kept their home clean, they wouldn’t have become infected. Just the other night, there was a story about two parents and their young daughter. A neighbor went to check on them after not seeing anyone for about a week. When the neighbor entered the unlocked apartment, she found piles of detritus and blooms of mildew. In seconds, she was attacked by the father in a rabid rage and bitten repeatedly. When the authorities got there, they shot and killed the entire family. The neighbor died that evening.

              “God has forsaken us!”

             
“It’s the wrath of God, punishing our sins!”

             
“There is no God!”

             
“It is the End of Days!”

A lot of people had a lot of ideas about why it all happened. And a lot of those ideas involved God. I didn’t know, and wasn’t sure how much it mattered. Was there a God, and was that God allowing this to happen? Or maybe God was asleep at the wheel. Maybe it was a test. Or maybe mankind wasn’t God’s favorite after all.

On the odd occasion that I would tell my story, it didn’t help. Many people who heard it compared my Noah — Noah Parker — to the Biblical Noah. But where that Noah rescued all creatures great and small from the flood, Noah Parker, people would tell me, started a flood to drown us all. It didn’t matter to the zealots that Noah Parker wasn’t the only case. This thing, this disease, appeared all at once in many places. Maybe that actually was a sign of divine intervention. Did the first single-cell organisms manifest in one and only one place? Or did they appear on Earth at a certain time, all over the globe, when the time was right? Could it be that the process of creating new life or new disease was simply following a schedule?

Everything was smaller, more compact. To allow a city to hold more people than it was ever intended for, everyone had to give something up. Houses and apartments were subdivided, methodically, mercilessly, to the smallest possible space that a person or family needed to live. At the same time, almost every sort of personal possession was taken away, so the boxes we lived in weren’t just small but spartan. Families were given larger spaces to fit their size, but a single guy like me? I could cook on my stove and flush my toilet all while lying in my bed.

Clothes became a lot simpler. That was something I didn’t mind too much. The whole idea of designer clothing became obsolete. There was some variation, but for the most part the government wasn’t interested in a fashion show. They ran factories that produced workable, simple clothing. Solid colors, synthetic fabrics. Most people had four or five sets for warm weather, another four or five for cold. We cleaned them all the time, both so that we wouldn’t run out and to maintain cleanliness. Even the idea of dressing up disappeared; there were no more suits, ties, ball gowns. In a way, with our flat-colored, synthetic clothing, we looked like we’d stepped out of a silly science-fiction movie, or that we were all on our way to the gym.

All our cell phones were confiscated at the very start. But there were communications between the cities, we knew that. The old wired and wireless methods still seemed to work, although only the government was allowed to use them. I assumed this meant that there were people who worked outside the walls, maintaining the connections and the infrastructure, but I never saw them myself or met anyone who did it. All the news we got came from the government, and that was very little. We had TV and radio, one channel each. The radio station played a lot of classical music, with occasional weather updates. TV wasn’t much better. In between news reports on the latest zombie extermination — really thinly veiled threats about keeping clean — they played old movies and shows, mostly black and white, repeated often. It was bizarre to see dapper men in suits and ladies in fancy dresses, jet-setting around a world that no longer existed, or dancing in bright, hugely choreographed routines that parodied our gray, regimented lives. I guess they figured we needed some sort of entertainment. It was so alien, this stylized murk of black and white, that it could have been imported from another planet. Broadcasts would end each night at 11 p.m. with a reminder of the basic rules of cleanliness and stern statements about following government laws.

We always tried to stick to ourselves, stick to small groups. It was a lot safer. The more people you interacted with, the more likely one of them would end up infected. Even the hint of a rumor about infection brought the authorities in droves. Many people felt that turning in their neighbors might convey some extra benefit to them or their family. Backstabbing was commonplace. As for the government, its officers were covered head to toe in pristine white hazmat suits, and swooped in like anonymous destroyers, took what they wanted — who they wanted — and left without a word, without a trace. And always they found evidence of some lack of cleanliness to point to as the culprit. How could they not? Who could keep every speck of their lives spotless at all times?

So that was why we lived in fear. Life is naturally messy. But we did all we could to get rid of the mess. Any sudden discovery of mold in a dark corner was enough to give a person heart palpitations as they rushed to scrub every nook before word got out. In fear — fear of the zombies, fear of the dirt, fear of the government, fear of each other — people would do a lot of crazy things. A neighbor might turn you in if he noticed something he deemed unusual, like you wringing out a mop more than a few times. And sometimes, people would turn you in just because they didn’t like you or they wanted something you had. When the government came to get you, there was no reasoning with them, no argument. You just went away.

In fear, we followed the rules. We tried to stay small. We took no risks.

“Stay clean. Stay alive.” It was our mantra.

4

Given how small my social circle became, it’s a wonder that I ever met anyone new at all. Prior to the outbreak, I spent my days as a happy and probably smug bachelor. I think my position of relative power as doctor in a small town gave me too much self-importance. Now that all that was gone, I would sometimes think about how many chances I’d had to make a life with someone else, maybe even gotten married. I was into my sixties, and knew that possibility was dead. I spent a lot of time with my own thoughts, which can make a person unfit for social interactions. Some of my younger neighbors thought of me as a grumpy old man. Then I met Rosalinda. It was random, like many things. As much as we tried to keep to ourselves, there were still the necessities of living. Most notably, you had to get your food somewhere. The city regulated all food production and kept registered production facilities along its borders. Were we eating fresh-grown food or something out of a laboratory? I suspected a combination. But we lived with it. I got mine from the Capitol Hill Community Food Dispersal Center, more commonly called the FDC. The FDC was housed in the large, red-brick buildings that once made up Eastern Market, a popular indoor and outdoor marketplace where people would go to buy a range of fresh foods and other goods before the disease. Now we just lined up for our ration boxes. The Eastern Market buildings worked well for this purpose, because they were big and the government could contain people long enough to push them through the line efficiently.

The woman I would come to know as Rosalinda was a strange sight, rather young, pretty, perhaps a dozen people ahead of me in line. She wore a basic white synthetic t-shirt and matching skirt. In another time, she might have looked like she was dressed for a round of tennis at the country club. Here, her basic outfit was mirrored by several other women. Clothing options were fairly limited, but somehow she stood out. Having done the dance of the government ration line with the same neighbors for nearly 10 years, a new face was incredibly unexpected. Although rare, we still had cases of RL2013 inside the city, and they always involved elements of mystery, like new faces or unknown places. I have to admit, my first thoughts were fear and distrust, but they were mixed with a strange interest. How on Earth did someone new get here, and
why
? Did we need to be careful around her? Movement around the city was controlled. The government assigned jobs, housing, places to get food. But beyond that there was the self-imposed, self-regulating control of the people. No one wanted anything new,
anyone
new, because that was change, and change felt dangerous. We were a tremendously paranoid society. I noticed other eyes watching her. She was an outsider. She could be infected. Even 10 years after the outbreak, the disease spread. It was slower now, but it happened. And here she was, where we got our food. What was she doing taking it from us? If the government transferred her here, it said something about their stranglehold on information that they wouldn’t even tell us why.

My rational mind tried to turn the tide. There could be any number of good reasons why she was here. It didn’t happen often, but people did relocate. We all still had to do our jobs, to keep the small wheels of our confined society spinning and to earn a living. Producing food, making and distributing medicine, policing for outbreaks, maintaining the walls, keeping up the government’s elaborate bureaucracy — it was all necessary. If for nothing else than to keep the people’s minds off things like revolt. But sometimes those jobs disappeared.

As I shuffled along in line and got my ration box, I considered these options, but generally tried to retreat into myself, the way we all did so well. Then I heard the muffled sounds of trouble. Looking toward the commotion, I saw the strange young woman surrounded by several angry-looking men. They had their hands on her ration box and were saying something she didn’t like. She hissed back that she just wanted to be left alone, trying to stay as quiet as possible. I could tell this was going to get very bad very quickly. I looked toward the government guards, clad in their pristine navy-blue uniforms, holding their shiny black firearms.
No one
ever wanted to attract the guards’ interest. It wasn’t good for your long-term health.

Immediately, I rushed over, cutting between the woman and one of the men. “What’s the problem here?” I said.

“Keep out of it, or you’ll regret it,” one man said — a guy I had seen in the FDC probably once a month for many years. He was maybe 15 years my junior, stronger and taller, with a pointed nose and a close-cropped haircut. He squinted at me, recognizing me, but now distrusting my sudden interest in what he was doing.

“They’re trying to take my ration,” the woman interjected.

“Be quiet,” another of the men said, this one a decade or more younger than me, with the same bullethead look as his partner. He closed ranks so that his black-shirted torso blocked some of the guards’ view. I noticed he had a number of homemade tattoos. That told me a lot. A needle could be a very dangerous, dirty thing. There were no formal tattoo parlors anymore, but certain types of people kept up the practice in secret. It was a private little rebellion that made their usually very small minds feel superior. I had to be careful around these two.

But even 10 years into this new world, I guess I retained some sense of right and wrong. Some need for justice and propriety. “She’s with me,” I said.

“What’re you talking about?” the first man scoffed. “She’s never been in here with you before.”

“I’m telling you, she’s with me. Cousin of mine. Lost her job across town and got transferred. She’s staying in my uncle’s old apartment.” In the back of my mind, I was amazed at how easy the lies came.

“Like hell,” he frowned, making another tug at her rations. Behind him, I saw one of the guards tilting his head, looking in our direction. I leaned in to talk quietly.

“Listen. In about 30 seconds, that guard is going to decide he doesn’t like the look of this, and all of us are going to end up nothing more than a bad memory. Either you let go of the box and she and I walk out without trouble, or I make sure we all go down together.”

He leaned back, eyes widening. “Are you threatening me?” He was taken aback by my boldness. He balled his hands into fists. It looked like a common practice for him. That was another sure sign that he wasn’t bright: The infected were violent. Most sane people avoided any semblance of violence, for fear of a one-way ticket to government confinement.

“You’ve got about 20 seconds to decide,” I said. The guard was definitely staring in our direction. The man started to turn around to see if I was telling the truth. “Ah, ah — you turn around and he’ll
know
we don’t want him over here. That’ll be the end.”

He paused. His fingers loosened as the tiny wheels in his mind spun. “Fine. But get the hell out of here. Now.” He shoved the box back into the young woman’s hands and faded into the crowd coming out of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the guard had turned his head away — someone else had done something that distracted him.

“Let’s go, before this gets worse.” The young woman just nodded and followed me.

* * *

“My name is Rosalinda,” she said as we walked hurriedly away from the building. I grunted a response. She continued walking beside me, then after a pause said, “Thank you.”

Rounding a corner and putting the FDC out of view, I turned to her. “What are you really doing here?”

“Huh?” She was surprised at the blunt question. “I... uh...”

I stopped. “Who are you? Why are you here? The trouble doesn’t end just because I helped you out back there. People don’t like strangers.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she said. “Don’t you think I feel the same? I
had
to come here. It’s my mom.”

“What about your mom? Is she someone from the neighborhood? What’s her name?”

“Sonya Menendez. 12th and D.”

“Don’t know the name,” I said. “What does she look like?”

“You wouldn’t have seen her for a long time. She’s been housebound, barely surviving on handouts from a couple of kind neighbors. But now she’s dying.”

I stepped back without thinking. “Oh
shit
.” What had I gotten myself into?

“It’s not that!” Rosalinda looked panicked, and angry, too. “She doesn’t have the disease. She’s just old. I lived in Northwest ever since the walls closed. Seemed close enough to mom so that we could both live our own lives. I didn’t know how bad off she was until a friend at work passed along the message from a coworker who lives here on the Hill. So I had to come. To help her. I applied for transfer and my office accepted. I do medical research.”

I knew there was a small lab in the area, but I was skeptical. Rosalinda pleaded silently at me with her eyes. I looked her up and down, trying to assess her trustworthiness. That’s when I noticed her bracelet. Little tiny bits of colored fabric woven together, red, yellow, blue, green. Just wisps. I assumed she did it by hand. I tried to think if other people wore similar things, and came up with nothing. It was simple, but unique. It made me think she was somehow more...
human
.

She saw me staring at it and cocked her head to the side, as she moved her arm and tried to shield the bracelet from my view. She seemed embarrassed that I’d noticed it. I’m sure she was trying to get a read on me, too.

“I’m here in this neighborhood now,” she said. “And I really could use an actual friend, so the neighbors don’t start thinking I’m some crazy loner, here to take all their food and infect them.”

I looked at her. And she smirked. So that’s how I, at the ripe age of 63, became friends with a beautiful 32-year-old woman. But it was really her mind I most admired.