Parts of Us

“Is someone looking after my boy?” Mrs. Wilke asked when I entered the interview room. She was already seated, straight and proper, with hands clasped together on the table.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, remembering the uniformed officer giving water to a painfully thin boy out in the hall.

“A cop told me to come inside. Nobody checked my stuff, neither. Nobody gave me much of a look at all,” she explained in a high, quavering voice. A girl-in-trouble voice. “But they made me leave my boy out there. He shouldn’t be left—”

“We’ve got someone watching him, not to worry.” God, this day was endless.

She squinted up at me, cupping a bony hand over her brow to shield her eyes from the lights. Was this a case of nerves? General light sensitivity? Or the type of sensitivity the Sick developed?

“You’re a female,” she said, eyes flicking up and down my jeans and blazer, pausing on my hip holster and badge.

“Did she get a temp check?” I asked the six-foot, 250 pounds of muscle standing next to the door.

Officer Perez nodded. “97.8.”

“I don’t want to be separated from my boy—”

“It won’t take too long, Mrs. Wilke.” My voice was firm—same way I spoke to the kids when one of them verged on a tantrum.

Then, after a brief glance up at the red light of the camera in the corner, I took my seat, set down the small recorder; opened her file and uncapped my pen. Her impatience and stress radiated across the table. I pushed ‘record.’

“State your full name.”

“Marybeth Cozetta Wilke.”

“Start wherever you want, Mrs. Wilke.”

She patted her brittle hair and sat up even straighter.

“Yep, lemme think. I suppose the beginning will do.” A fine layer of dirt had settled into her wrinkles. Fashion magazines used to call these ‘smoky eyes.’ They seemed enormous, particularly set against the jutting bones of her face. She was 34, but looked 50.

“For months I prayed my husband would let us protect ourselves by getting the Preventative.” She directed her words somewhere between me and the camera.

“That’s Jeff John Wilke,” I said for the record.

“We call him JJ. JJ told me God would see to it we survived. If not, then it would be His will and we’d all go party up in heaven. I suppose if you believe God has already written our stories, then nothing you do’ll make a bit of difference.”

I jotted in my notebook: ‘Speaks of husband in present tense.’

“I wish he was more the empiricist my papa was. Papa taught me that word. Told me all the smartest people, all the scientists and doctors, needed to see the physical evidence of a thing before believing in it. He never understood our religion. It’s not one I grew up with.

“After JJ’s brother died, I got doubtful sometimes, but then JJ’d turn on the TV and some preacher or politician would tell him we were all being hoodwinked and should stand tough and trust the good Lord to carry us, whichever way that’d be.

"When he’d get into a spell of watching these programs, the beer would run out quicker than usual. I’d send Philip, that’s my son—can somebody check on him?”

“We have people taking care of him."

She sighed, clearly irritated with me.

I wrote ‘preoccupied with son.’ Of course she is. I’d rather be home making dinner for the kiddos, but here I am.

“I know it’s not legal for a nine-year-old to buy beer, but people in these parts are understanding on that. Beer got JJ to stop yelling at the TV and go to sleep in his chair.” Her eyes dragged across the room until they finally landed on mine. “He’s so much nicer when he’s snoring in the chair.”

At a loud gurgle, she clutched her stomach. "I haven’t eaten in days.”

I caught Lopez’s eye; mimed eating a sandwich. He winked, stuck his head out the door, speaking quietly to someone.

“Officer Lopez is getting someone to bring you food.”

“And for the boy.”

“Of course. So, let’s move on with the story.”

“It’s not a story. It’s what happened.”

“Understood.”

“A story sounds like a fairytale. I'm not sittin’ here making it up. This is no fairytale.” Her cheeks flushed red. Her nostrils flared.

“I misspoke, Mrs. Wilke. I meant ‘story’ as in this is the story of what happened to you and yours.”

“Right. I’m telling you what happened.”

“Yes, ma’am, please continue.”

She cocked her head as if locating the place where she left off.

“He let me go down the hill for shopping and church, which, every week, fewer people were showing up. The last time we went, there wasn’t more than a dozen folks, most of them sweating as bad as JJ. Wasn’t even hot. In the middle of a sermon, the preacher stopped speaking. Just up and stopped and stared out at the congregation, but looked at none of us, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded.

“Then he closed the bible and walked out the side door. We all looked through the window as he crossed the grass by the church sign. I waited for his truck to drive by. We all did. Then we heard the rifle shot. A few of them looked inside the preacher’s truck. We did not.”

She narrowed her eyes as I scribbled: ‘church’ - ‘pastor’ - ‘dozen people.’

“What’s the name of the church?” I asked.

“Lifehouse Fellowship.”

“Thank you. What did you do when you got home?”

“Well, I didn’t want to abandon JJ, but got to worrying he’d do something to us. Or the sickness would. I decided to pack, but slow, over five nights, so he wouldn’t notice. Philip stayed mostly in his room playing one of those old-time video games the kids hold in their hand. You know the kind?”

“Game Boy?”

“Right. It kept Philip in his room. And I kept JJ in beer. Once he started snoring, nothing’d wake him, so that’s when I did my business. On the first night, I squirreled some clothes for me and Philip into a brown sack and hid it in the basement.

“The second night, I added extra outfits and undergarments. Next day was my regular shopping day. I had my allowance, but stole some more from JJ’s change jar to buy toothpaste, toilet paper, a can opener, baby wipes, and lady things. After he got snoring, I put all of it in another bag in the basement with a few cans of those little hot dogs and some green beans.

“On the fourth night, I was gonna move the bags outside into the hollow of the big maple so me and Philip could up and walk away when the time came. But JJ woke up too soon and came staggering into the bedroom while I was stuffing socks into two pairs of shoes I was bringing as extra.

“His eyes were black, and he sweated like a big ole hog. He said: "'What’re you doing?’ And Lord forgive me, I lied, said I’d seen a mouse sleeping in a shoe, so I was stuffing all the shoes to keep it out.

Drunk as he was, he insisted on hunting the critter. Fetched the Ruger semi-auto 9 mil and stomped through the house so loud no mouse’d dare show its face, had there been one.

“He got suspicious. Asked me, was I sure I saw a mouse? Was I making a fool of him? All I could do was keep to my story, and make sure his gun stayed pointed at the floor.

Then I made a fool’s mistake. Told him that even if he saw a mouse, why would he shoot it? Wouldn’t a trap be a better idea?

So off he goes down into the cellar to get a trap. I stayed upstairs in the kitchen, praying he wouldn’t find the bags. He was throwing around boxes and such. Ranting and raving. I think he quoted the scriptures. Dunno which ones—”

A knock on the door behind her sent her jolting a few inches off her chair with a cry.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s the food.”

Mrs. Wilke hummed tunelessly as Lopez set down a package of granola bars and another cup of water.

She self-consciously unwrapped the bars, cheeks flushing scarlet at the loud plastic rustling sounds. In between bites, she resumed her humming. My patience thinned. But I let her eat.

When finally done, she handed the other bar to Lopez. “Please take this to my boy, sir.” Then she doubled over into a coughing fit.

“And more water,” I added.

Mrs. Wilke’s face was full of apologies. "I cough when I get nervous or speak too much.”

Lopez glanced outside, then back at me with a shrug. "Nobody there. Will you be…?”

I gave him the okay sign, and he closed the door behind him.

“Take your time, Mrs. Wilke, it’s no problem,” I lied. My shift was almost over, and since the station was short-staffed, I’d have to log the video and write the report before I got home to the kids. At least mine were inoculated, well fed, and didn’t have to deal with a backwoods evangelical father. Christ. This poor woman. Her poor child.

She cleared her throat and continued. “Welp, he found my getaway bags and got nuts. Threw cans at the walls. I didn’t know what to do. And then I heard him—he’s a big man, same as your officer, only fat—he was coming up the stairs. Growling like an animal.

“So, I slammed the door! Locked it from the kitchen side! He banged it so hard I feared it’d fly open. I dragged Philip through the house and out to the truck! I saw the rifle on its mount behind the seats. Didn’t know if JJ’d break down the door or go crazy and starve down there.”

Mrs. Wilke froze; probably wearing the same terror on her face as in the moment she was describing.

"So you shot him."

“Yep.” Her eyes skittered around the room like a convulsion.

“Mrs. Wilke, hey.” I emphasized the note of alarm in my voice.

“Sorry.”

“Would you say that again, clearly, for the record?”

“I shot him. Well, I shot at the door, but he sure hollered.”

“Please continue.”

“He went back down the stairs, and I guess he got himself up on the old washing machine and broke the window, then crawled out onto the grass. Cut himself all over. Attacked Philip. Grabbin’ at him. My baby was screaming. Nobody messes with my boy. It’d be messing with me. He’s my heart, my life. So I raised that rifle and told him to take his damn hands off my boy.

“He just stared back at me with black eyes that used to be blue, used to make me swoon. Asked If he was going to Heaven. I said I’d see him there and I blew a hole through his chest.”

She licked a finger, pressed it on a few granola crumbs, and stuck it in her mouth. On a shy look up at me, she said, “The news told me they ain’t dead until the brain dies."

Where was she going with this?

And where was Lopez?

“...See, I put some things into Philip’s backpack, so’s not to cause a ruckus.” She bent down, head disappearing below the table. “They let me by when I got here, didn’t check it or nothing. Anyhoo, I thought it best you got my story before I showed ya.”

Every bit of my skin lurched at the sound of her dragging something across the gritty floor. My trigger finger twitched. My throat got dry.

I texted Lopez a question mark.

At last she straightened up, placing onto the table a ratty old backpack pasted all over with kids’ bible stickers.

“If scientists are trying to make a cure, I thought they could use pieces of—”

The backpack lurched, knocking over what was left of her water.

I rocketed off my chair. “Jesus bloody Christ, lady, did you really bring me—how did you even–?”

“I will ask you not to take his name in vain!” Fury ravaged her face as she pounded the metal-top table with a strength I didn’t think she possessed.

"I shouldn’t have to entertain your blasphemous papist imagery.”

“Lopez! Lopez!” I yelled, hoping someone was monitoring the camera or could hear me outside the soundproofing.

“If the scientists can make the Preventative, they can make a cure—”

“Not how it works, Mrs. Wilke—”

Where the hell is Lopez? “I’ll be right back—”

“They gotta help my kid—”

I was halfway to the door when someone on the other side knocked on it. A full-fisted pounding could not have terrified me more than this timid tap-tap-tap.

I remained paralyzed through the click of the lock.

Then the metal door swung open. A key attached to a set of keys dangled from the lock.

On the threshold stood her child, sweat-shiny and cringing at the light. The whole front of him, from mouth to belly, was drenched in blood.

Black viscera poured from his mouth, splashing onto the floor. His tongue jutted out, and he made halting sounds as though trying to speak.

My hand flew to my gun belt as I backed up towards my chair.

My only thought was: I should get home to the kids.

“Oh, baby, come here, take some of me.” Mrs. Wilke beckoned to her child.

They’ll want pizza for dinner…

The backpack thumped around, but she ignored it.

"Come feed on me, sweet boy."

She raised her dress, revealing dozens of child-size bite marks and missing chunks of flesh up and down her thighs.

My gasp drew the boy’s attention; his head swiveled so fast it sprayed the door with fresh goop.

“Philip. Honey. Don’t.”

Ignoring his mother, the boy’s feral black eyes locked onto mine.

Jordan stays late for football practice tonight.

My hand unsnapped my holster.

Jenna has the math tutor.

"Please be my good boy!”

An excited snarl rumbled through his tiny body.

“No, Philip!”

I drew my Glock the same moment he pounced.

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