Orthodontics in the Zombie Apocalypse

8. New Friends (1/2)

Angel first removes us from the broken-down, easily-entered house after finally gaining our attention. She has us crouch low behind the bushes as we move from house to house--which I find ridiculous, but Mikah says she has the most street smarts, so we should listen to her. What will it hurt? Besides my dignity, of course, but that has long passed after entering the zombie apocalypse with braces that mark me as queen of my dorkdom. So I concede to play along...for now. I don't like listening to the little rat.

She moves us to a perfectly intact house that somehow managed to maintain a flawless green paint job, perfectly washed windows--none of them bearing even a scratch--and double locks on every door, which she picks with a pin hidden far in the depths of her chaotic hair. I scrutinize the little girl for a long time, staring with narrowed eyes until she turns to face me full-on and says, "What?"

"If you're allegedly homeless, how did you know about this place?"

She rolls her eyes. "It's a house. It's hard to miss when walking down the street. And a dimwit could tell this place is better than the skeleton of a house you chose. This one happens to have walls!"

My eyes narrow further into small slits and my lips purse. "I don't think the sass is necessary, you little sh--"

"Okay!" Mikah cuts in. "I think we should move on to the part about food and clothes."

Angel, who had rudely walked to the kitchen while Mikah was speaking, climbs onto one of the countertops and rummages through multiple cupboards, dropping nonperishables onto the counter next to her. "I am way ahead of you," she says, hopping down from her perch and taking up an armful of canned and boxed goods.

Mikah grins. I huff a breath.

"It's rude to steal from people, you know," I reprimand whilst taking a sleeve of crackers from her.

"I don't think they'll be back to press charges."

My eyes shift to check Mikah's reaction. He gives me a half-shrug with eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth tipped up as if to say, "She has a point."

"In that case, I'm going upstairs," I announce and begin tramping up the carpeted staircase. This house is a lot nicer than the other houses around. It's probably owned by a poorbwhite family in a predominately black neighborhood. At least they'd get one hundred percent of the pay rather than the seventy-five to eighty-five percent African American workers get.

I check what I assume to be the master bedroom first. The "his and hers" closets are filled mostly with men's clothing; only a third of the one on the right has anything feminine. Luckily, however, the clothes that are feminine are only one size too big for me. I slide into one of the casual dresses to try it on, and it fits me as perfectly as I could ask for.

"Lucky, lucky, lucky," I sing to myself as I toss it onto the queen-sized bed and reach for a deep cherry cocktail dress. Definitely not cheap clothes. Must not be a poor white family. Certainly not rich, but somewhere in the middle.

Next, I raid the woman's makeup. She has several untouched eyeshadow pallets that I set aside as well as a box full of brand new makeup she must have ordered online and never got to use because of the zombie apocalypse. What a shame. Just imagine the feeling of your excitement waning as you realize you will never experience the new lipstick you've been eagerly awaiting for days because the world decided to end. At least she had the chance to bring the box inside and set it on the vanity.

By the time anybody comes looking for me, I've showered and changed and done my makeup more nicely than I have bothered with in weeks. I finish the tail of my eyeliner and pucker my lips for another coat of Courageous Coral. In the mirror is a girl with thick, brown hair; wide, hazel eyes emboldened by smokey eyeshadow; high cheekbones defined by bronzer; and full lips made more prominent by bright lipstick and over-lining. I look like an entirely different person. The dirt that has accumulated from hiding in disgusting nooks and crannies the past several hours is washed away and replaced by a new layer of transforming products.

I choose a nice black silk tank top and a jean skirt before walking back downstairs.

I'm met with an utterly shocking scene in the kitchen. Mikah, tied to a chair, turns his head--the only body part available to move--to look at me. "Nice of you to join us."

Another man steps into view and jabs him in the stomach with the butt of a rifle.

I put so much effort into my appearance for this guy to ruin it? Uh-uh. I don't think so!

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A/N

I was planning on more about Angel this chapter, but I guess it didn't happen. There's plenty of time for her backstory, anyways. And Mikah's. For now, let's welcome a couple new characters to the block!

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