Dead Over Heels (20 page)

Chapter Twenty

I wake to sun—brilliant and clear, shining through the trees. Flashing. Darkness, then flashing. Like someone’s flipping a light on and off. Or shining sun on my face with a mirror.

A mirror…A mirror…

My eyes fly open. The mirror in my compact. Cole talked about using it for an SOS. Can I signal someone? Am I close enough to Glenview? I sit up fast, leaves sliding off my body.

Beside me, Cole hasn’t changed. Shallow breathing, regular pulse. His eyelids pale lavender like a fading bruise.

The purse strap still lies across my chest. I’m so accustomed to its weight—I’d almost forgotten it’s attached to my body. Did the mirror break when I went over the falls?

I unzip my purse and rattle through the damp, assorted junk: lip balm, matchbook in a canister, last of the antibac gel, allergy pills, dead phone, flyers we didn’t use for the campfire…Yes! Compact. One side is hopelessly shattered. The other remains partially intact. One shard might be large enough to reflect sunlight. Would it flash as far as Glenview?

How the hell should I know? I’ve got no clue where I am.

Should I climb to a high spot? Like on the ridgeline? Maybe someone could spot my distress signal from there?

Fumbling in the leaves, I give Cole’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Some small part of my brain registers that I sound a little nuts. I might still have a concussion. Or maybe I’m just going insane from spending four days on the run in this damn forest, my life in constant peril.

I head uphill. Every inch of my body aches with the effort, but I’m functioning on pure adrenaline at this point. My ears strain for far-off groans or the stomp of many feet. I know they will come soon.

The landscape feels different here. Leaves still coat many of the tree limbs, their color somewhere between faded scarlet and brown—the same shade as dried blood.

I’m guessing we’re out of the mountains now and deep into the valley near town. I picture that panoramic map from the observation tower. Just how close to Glenview did we float? My brain is so freaking fuzzy.

I find the highest spot on the ridge and pick the tallest tree—an oak that towers over the valley—then pull myself up on its branches. Damn. This zombie apocalypse has been a crash course in tree climbing.

Perched in a top branch, half shrouded by leaves, I clutch my bit of mirror. Is it three short, three long, three short? Or the other way around? Thrusting my hand through the leaf cover, I begin alternating flashes: three short, three long, three short, three long.

In the whole wide sky, there is not one hint of cloud. It’s like the weather is playing some clever game. After days of damp mist, sunlight sparks through the cold, clear air, brightening the horizon in every direction. Bethany could spot me from miles away. I make sure to only face downriver, sending flashes in the direction of town.

After ten minutes, I decide this is stupid. No one’s going to see this signal. I need to get back to Cole. I need to think of some other plan. I need to…well, I don’t know what the hell I need to do. If only my brain would work.

Climbing down makes me woozy. I must’ve burned through the beef-stew calories. My shoeless foot aches with each step against the cold, rocky ground. I pick my way along the path back to Cole, sliding in places on the embankment. The trail looks different. I swivel my head around, trying to get my bearings.
This isn’t right.

I top a rise and discover I’m standing in someone’s yard. A tiny wood cabin sits tucked behind a screen of cypress. The back door stands wide open. This place must’ve been hidden from view, blocked by trees and the natural rise of the valley.

My heart gives a jolt. Maybe it’s a hunting cabin! Maybe there’s a weapon! Maybe there’s a phone!

Yeah, or maybe there’s another zombie-in-a-creepy-shed waiting for me.

I take slow, deliberate steps to the decrepit deck. The ancient boards creak beneath my single sneaker.

I peek in the open door.

Nope. No phone. No weapon. Containers line the floor.

What is with these rednecks and their meth labs?

I’m not sticking around to find out if there’s another monster hiding in a tub. I bolt from the cabin, frantic to get back to Cole.

He’s right where I left him, just slightly upriver from the cabin.

He still looks so strong. So well. So handsome. It makes my heart hurt.

A single leaf falls, then suddenly another, propelled by the breeze. I watch as leaves spin and scatter around us. Beside me, the river rushes cold and fast between the white-frosted banks. Sun sparks on the ice crystals.

It annoys me that landscape appears so calm and pretty. I want the rocks to scream and the trees to cry—to mirror the anguish brewing inside me. Cole was bitten. And I couldn’t save him.

I sink to the ground, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and hopelessness. There’s no way anyone in Glenview saw that signal. I must still be miles from the reserve center. That was one big, pointless waste of calories.

Beside me, Cole twitches suddenly. I study him, startled. He might wake up at any second. And I’ll be screwed when he does. He moans like he’s having a terrible dream.

Or changing.

I pluck a nearby rock off the ground, hefting it in my hand. For the first time, I’m scared of Cole.

I’ve got to face facts. I’m a sitting duck. The zombies will attack me from all fronts—Bethany, the country club horde, the Beavers—and Cole. A terrible, aching hollow fills my chest.

So, what am I gonna do? Sit here clutching a rock? I won’t last two minutes.

“I can’t do this,” I say aloud to Cole. “It’s hopeless. Pointless.”

I suddenly realize—if he were awake—my words would totally piss him off.
Move your ass,
he’d tell me.
Act like you got some sense.

Somewhere, deep inside, something sparks to life. It’s like peeling back layers of an onion. Beneath the skin of exhaustion and hunger, beneath the layer of fear and pain, I find a small round lump of something hard and stubborn—my sense of survival.

I don’t want to die. I want to see my parents again.

I’ve got a brain! I need to use it. I need to fight, to plan, to make an effort.

The zombies are coming. And I refuse to be one of those idiot girls in horror movies that just stands there and screams, too stupid to live.

Still clutching the rock, I use my other hand to dump out my purse.
Think, Ava, think.

Junk. It’s all just junk.

Sunlight catches the clear tube from the EpiPen. The tube with a single match in it.

“If only we had some matches,” I whisper to Cole.

An idea blooms. I stare hard at the magic purse, then at my rock. My eyes flit back in the direction of the cabin.

I can’t outrun Bethany. But can I outsmart her?

I glance upriver, where I know she’s working her way toward us. How much time has elapsed since I escaped her at the falls? Enough to walk here? I might’ve been passed out while I drifted on that log, but I still have some sense of having covered a long distance. The river is broad and the current fast—and Bethany’s armies are stupid and slow. With any luck, I might just to be able to pull this off.

A slow smile spreads across my face. “Come on, Bethany,” I whisper to the wind. “I’m gonna mess up all your plans.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I stand in front of the cabin, considering my options. Plotting. Planning.
Hurrying.

Wind kicks up from every direction. Leaves blow, swirling around me and the yard.

The interior of the cabin is only a few hundred square feet—a main kitchen-living room combo. A tiny bedroom and bathroom. The siding is nothing but wood. A half-rotted deck sits outside the back door—well, at least, where there used to be a door. Now the frame gapes open—the inside of the house dark and dank.

A tree line stands roughly fifty yards from the back door. In the summer, this backyard would be choked with weeds, but by now most have died, leaving a surprisingly clear stretch of dead grass.

I’ve already peeked in the cabin windows, rattled the front door. If anything’s hiding inside, it would’ve come out to eat me by now. I stand on the rear threshold of the house, peering into the gloomy interior: only a filthy, threadbare couch, an assortment of equipment, and endless, endless containers.

I hope like hell this works.

I address Cole’s unmoving body, which I’ve hauled up from the river. “Come on, Cole. You’ve got to help.”

It takes the better part of twenty minutes to drag him through each of the rooms.

“Please don’t explode, shack,” I say aloud. “Please don’t spontaneously explode.”

I peek out the window to the river. “Please don’t show up yet, Bethany. Please stay with your army this time. And please walk slowly. Very, very slowly.”

God, I must be losing my mind.

I lug Cole through the empty doorway and across the backyard. He’s not a small guy, and the effort leaves me sweating and gasping for air. My shoeless foot feels like it might fall off with the next step. But I can’t stop to rest. I tow Cole up the hill. Not all the way to the ridge, just to the tree line, where I hide him behind a clump of brush. His dark jacket and camo pants blend with the brush.

“Stay here,” I pant.

I stretch the collar of my T-shirt until it covers the lower half of my face.

“Okay, AP chemistry,” I say, striding back to the cabin. “Don’t let me down.”

I enter the structure. Some of the containers aren’t labeled, but most are. I’ll stick with those.

I check the first metal barrel with a bright orange “flammable” sticker. Phosphine. My brain shuffles through its mental filing cabinets. Phosphine…dangerous, right? But dangerous how? Like phosphorus mixed with chlorine? That’s what the word sounds like.

No, I’m not gonna chance that one. I’m trying to figure out a way to survive—no point in asphyxiating myself in the process.

“Come on,” I whisper to the containers. “Hurry. Something different. Something familiar.”

If only Cole was awake. I remember him rattling off the names of the compounds. But he’s not here. It’s all up to me.

I take another peek out the filthy window. Still no sign of Bethany, but that could change at any second.

I tilt my head to read the label on a white jug, about the size of a bleach container: ethyl ether.

I’ve heard of that one. Not something I’d want to breathe, but if I remember right, it’s used as an antiseptic. And most importantly? It’s got a “flammable” sticker.

I’d like to take my time, to hunt for something more familiar. But time is one of the many, many things I don’t have.

“Okay, ethyl ether,” I say, hefting the jug. “You’re today’s random winner.”

I take a deep breath, unscrew the lid. Holding in my oxygen, I dump a splash of the clear contents on the floor.

“Please,” I say again, “please don’t spontaneously combust.”

Nothing happens—except my nose burns like fire. Ethyl ether is some strong crap. I dump more along the ancient floorboards. Even though I’m not inhaling, I still have to use one hand to pinch my nose against the strong, sweet-smelling fumes. My eyes tear like I’ve peeled a thousand onions.

When the container is half empty, I place it on the rickety back deck and head to the part of the yard that fronts the river. I run up and down the trail, flattening grass, and creating a line of my scent from the water to the cabin. Then I stroll around in the yard. I roll on the leaves near the front step. I pee on the doorframe. I spit all along the ground in a straight line to the door. Then I walk back through the house and douse the back porch with more of the ether.

“There,” I announce. “Good enough.”

I’m two steps into the backyard before I realize what I’m doing. What’s to keep Bethany and her goons from following my scent line—and Cole’s—through the cabin, into the yard and directly to the trees where we’re hiding? I freeze in place like my feet are stuck in concrete.

I untie my remaining shoe and carefully step out.

I wish we had some white lightning. My paw-paw used to tell a tale about his uncle Ed who escaped from the chain gang Ed poured white lightning in his footprints. Burned out their nostrils.

I eyeball the almost empty container. The odor is strong. But strong enough to hide my scent? To burn out their nostrils? I fling my remaining shoe into the cabin. Then I douse my socks in what’s left of the fluid. I pour out every last drop until my socks are drenched. Then I retrace my steps, carefully coating each footprint in ether. Halfway across the yard, I sling my socks into the cabin also.

Anyone watching would think I’m an idiot, leaping in a crazy zigzag pattern through the rest of the yard, careful not to trample the grass. When I reach our hiding spot, I wipe my feet obsessively on the dirt. If I survive the next few hours, the bottom of my feet will probably melt from chemicals.

On the dirty ground beside me, Cole sleeps fitfully, moaning and pawing at the bite. But he remains unconscious. I can’t look at him without a painful stutter in my heart.

Is there any chance my cauterization burned the infection out? If that was the case, it seems like he’d be awake now. Unless he has some kind of raging infection? Or a concussion like mine—from the waterfall? There’s another possibility—one that’s almost as bad as him becoming a zombie. What if Cole is like Bethany now? Bitten, but not a zombie. What if he turns into another power-hungry weirdo who controls the undead like puppets and wants to infect every human on the planet?

I can’t think about this now. Can’t figure it out. And there is work to be done.

Below us, the cabin and the river stay silent. My breath comes fast. If only my luck holds a little longer.

One more task. Hurry, Ava, hurry.

I am out of calories, out of energy, probably out of time, too. I want nothing more than to sit and rest. But this last chore is the most important of all. I can’t quit now.

A solitary crow sits on a bare branch, my only companion. The sun lingers along the ridge, not in a hurry at all, like it has nothing better to do than watch me practice throwing my purse at a distant stump. I toss the purse again and again, praying the strap will withstand the workout. Praying the motion will dry the last of the river water from the fabric. Praying Bethany will give me enough time to work out the kinks in this plan. My arm aches with the repetition of the movement, but I have to get this right. Better than right. I have to get this perfect. I’ll only have one shot. As I practice, the words to Shady Grove loop through my mind over and over, until I’m sure I’ve sung the song a hundred times in my mind.

Suddenly, in the sunlit breeze, a faint odor of decay fills my nostrils. The scent of the dead seems to drift from far away. I straighten, peering through the cover of the evergreens. I can’t see them yet. Can’t hear them. But I can sure as hell smell them.

In an instant, my exhaustion vaporizes. Every sense is fine-tuned to the world around me. My vision hones on the stretch of field in front of me, the cabin just beyond it, and the river flowing behind. I’m about to turn this whole place into a battleground.

“Well, Cole. Wish us luck. Here goes nothing.”

I remove my lip balm from the pile of purse contents and roll it until the mass of ChapStick is extended to its full length. The petroleum goo crushes easily against my shaking fingers. I smear it around the fabric of the purse, careful to avoid the strap. Then I crumple each of the remaining flyers from the fire tower into a loose ball and stuff them in the purse. The goo on my fingers transfers to the paper. I douse the last of the antibac on the flyers.

I wipe my fingers on my pants, forcing them to stay steady. My pulse thrums in my veins. With each second, Bethany’s army draws closer. Now there’s the pounding of feet, the bark of Bethany’s orders.

Panic tightens around my neck like a noose.

From this distance, I hear them climbing the hill before I see them. And then suddenly, they are here—amassing in front of the cabin. I can’t breathe.

Just like at the fire tower, they sniff the ground like dogs, tracking a scent.

I know our smell is everywhere, and that it’s enough to lure Bethany and her goons away from the river and into the cabin. But once they realize we aren’t inside, my chance is up.

“Where are they?” Bethany screams, striding up to the building, almost like the infected might answer. Which of course, they don’t. She disappears into the house. The dead follow.

“I can tell Cole’s in here. I smell him. And his little Yankee ho, too.”

A minute later, her slim figure is silhouetted against the open back door. She sniffs the air. Then the ground.

Please God. Please let the ether block my scent. If it doesn’t, if she catches any hint of my scent, any trail at all, she’ll be out that back door, up the hill and in my face in less than five seconds.

She makes a face like she smells something sour and turns back to the cabin.

“Give me that! Her shoe! She’s in here. Find her!”

My fingers quiver so hard, I almost drop the match.

Please. Please. Please. I swipe it along the strip.

Nothing.

Holy crap. What if the match doesn’t light? It’s over. If the match doesn’t light, it’s over.

My eyes flit back to the cabin.

“Check the bathroom!” Bethany yells. “Hellfire. Smells like a dadgum hospital in here.”

Get your act together, Ava. Stop watching Bethany.

Remembering Cole at the island, I flip the match and strike the strip a second time.

Flash.
For a second, I’m amazed it’s lit and just stare. Then I get my butt into gear and light a flyer. The purse catches easily. The lip balm does the trick. Once it gets going, I drop in the rock.

I inhale, glancing up, hoping Bethany is still in the cabin. For a split second, my heart almost stops—she’s no longer in the door. I check to my left and right. Did she sneak up on me while I was busy? In my hand, the purse flames, the material catching.

And then I hear her in the cabin. “Move that couch! She must be under there.”

My breath comes out in a relieved rush.

Concentrate. Don’t screw this up.

I loop the strap once around my hand. The purse flames, threatening to burn the skin off my arm. I take a few steps away from the trees. Then another few. I’m in the open backyard.

If Bethany glances outside, I’m in a hell of a lot of trouble. I shaking now, and whimpering, too. The fear is so strong, I’m worried I’ll pass out.

Closer. Just a little closer. Hurry. Before the strap catches. I stand in the backyard, fifteen yards from the shack—the same distance I’ve practiced throwing the purse against the stump.

Wind ruffles my hair, my face set, grim, determined. I will not fail. I wind up, aim, and let loose. The rock lands with a dull
thud
on the wood deck.

I duck behind a tree trunk. My legs are like water. I can’t catch my breath.

“What the tarnation was that?” Bethany shrieks. “Wait! God! Get it off. Get that damn thing off the porch.”

The rest of her words are lost. I’m running—sprinting through the woods, away from the house, back to Cole.

I crouch in the dirt. Panting. Crying. Nothing happens. Nothing. I’ve failed. She’ll be through the door in a second. She’ll find us. She’ll kill us.

The cabin explodes.