The Rising Dead (12 page)

“Nice try,” Travis smirked. “Her page says she's still in Santa Cruz with her dad.”

“Right.” Parker smiled, like a chess player moving his final pieces into position for the kill. “Except I just saw her on campus fifteen minutes ago. Did I mention that this year they’re thinking of adding a wet t-shirt contest to the festivities?”

“Bullshit,” Travis said. “She would have updated her status. She's religious about social media. All her friends are too.”

“Right,” Parker said. “My bad. So when was the last update in Santa Cruz?”

Travis refreshed his browser. Her last update was over twenty hours ago. Parker couldn't have known that. He had to be right. Travis glared at Parker without responding for what seemed like a very long time. He had him. Checkmate.

“You coming then?”

“Fine,” Travis said, closing his laptop without powering down.

“Holt's picking us up in the parking lot,” Parker said.

“Why?”

“He borrowed my truck,” Parker said. “Who do you think supervises the pledges? This party is going to be epic and unforgettable. Don't you worry about the details.”

Travis grabbed his copy of Sarte and tucked Gemma back into it. He lifted his mattress and stuffed the laptop under it. They hurried out to the parking lot to find Holt sitting near the curb with the truck running and the doors open. Parker gave him a look and Holt hopped out of the driver's side, relinquishing it to him.

“Hey Holt,” Travis said.

“McAnus,” Holt replied, as if it were Travis's real first name. Holt held the door open for Travis.

“Thanks,” Travis replied, hopping in and ignoring the taunt. He was used to it. He'd learned long ago not to let small things get under his skin and ruin his mood. He was still excited about the possibility of seeing Gemma. He wasn't going to let Holt take his happiness away for sport.

Holt got back in and slammed the door as Parker fired up the engine on the truck.

“And away we go,” said Holt as they pulled off down the street.

They drove in silence all the way to the liquor store. Once inside, Travis helped Parker and Holt lug case after case of beer to the counter. Parker paid in cash, chatting up the cute cashier, while Travis and Holt hauled the booze out to the back of the truck. The girl, who looked barely old enough to be selling alcohol, didn't ask for ID. She never took her eyes off Parker, a finger curling absentmindedly in her hair as she hung on his every word. Parker knew he was lingering longer than necessary. Max had shaken his confidence, burrowing under his skin. He needed a little reassurance and this cute tramp was dying to give it to him. She wasted no time scribbling her name and number on the back of a pack of matches and slipping it into his palm before he left.

You still got it,
Parker told himself as he slid the matches into his pocket without bothering to look at them. He noticed the spring returning to his step as he walked back to his truck.

On the ride back Travis tried to strike up conversation, but Holt turned on the radio to drown him out. The CD player was jammed so they were stuck with the radio, which seemed to only have news on.

“Authorities are reporting a sudden increase in emergency room visits with patients complaining of flu-like symptoms,” a voice informed them. “Doctors are urging residents of coastal areas to seek flu shots immediately while admitting that another epidemic might be unavoidable at this point.”

He hit the scan button.

“The President addressed the nation earlier this morning,” a female newscaster read.

“Already, teams of divers are scouring the wreckage for signs of survivors,” the President said over the sound of cameras clicking. “Make no mistake we will continue to search until every last crew member is accounted for and total public safety is assured. As to the reports of infected people washing up on shore and attacking folks, that's simply untrue. This tragedy is contained. You have my word. We're going to keep it that way, even if we have to stay out there another month.”

“Yeah right,” Holt chortled. “I'm sure he's working round the clock on it, in between playing golf and posing for photo op's.”

Parker hit the scan button again and again but all he found were news reports.

“It's on every station,” Parker said.

“This is an emergency broadcast,” a panicked sounding male voice announced. “The following is a partial list of the beach closures for the Southern California and Baja areas due to unusually strong tidal currents. Government agencies are asking residents to avoid the water since higher than normal rip tides are being reported up and down the beaches. Please listen closely.”

Parker shut the radio off.

“Damn government,” Holt mumbled. “So useless."

“I don't want to hear another word about the government, now or later,” Parker cautioned. “It's time to party.”

“Shit yeah,” Holt blurted out. He turned and stared at Travis. “You ready to get your little pecker wet Captain Algebra?”

“My friends call me Travis you know.” He could feel the blood in his face.

“Well I ain't your friend, McAnus. Isn't that what most of the cretins who live in Thunderdome call you?”

“You're hilarious,” Travis said, not making eye contact with him. He
hated
that nickname.

“I'm gonna teach you how to do shots tonight,” Holt said matter-of-factly. “I'll do my best to turn you back straight, cross my heart and hope to die. It'll be like one of your science experiments.”

Holt playfully punched Travis on the arm and let out a laugh. Travis cringed as slivers of pain shot through his arm and tried not to show just how much it hurt. It wasn't even dark yet but something told him it was going to be a very long night.

CHAPTER TEN

The sun was sinking beneath the horizon when Donovan came to check on Poppy again. She lay as still as death in the bed, her hair matted to her forehead by the sweat of her passing fever. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her. In the course of a few hours, she had gotten infinitely worse. Her skin was now cold and clammy. It had taken on an almost gray hue. Her eyes were rimmed a reddish pink and what looked like blood had crusted around her eyes and nostrils. A thin film of white saliva that resembled a light foam was leaking out of her open mouth. Despite her shallow breath, an unholy rattle coming from her chest filled the room every time she exhaled. He'd never seen anything like this. She was really sick.

You have to get her to the doctor,
Donovan thought to himself.
No matter how much she tries to fight you on it. You can’t just let her die.

The fear gripping his insides twisted even harder when he examined her bite wound. The broken skin around the wound was a sickly green and bright yellow puss formed around the edges, dribbling out on the sheets and leaving a brown stain that looked like it was eating right through the sheets. The wound was now almost wide open and he could see the meat of her shoulder, which was a deep crimson that turned black as it reached the middle. The wound itself smelled rancid.

Maybe the guy had rabies,
he thought.
He definitely looked sick. Why did I wait so long to get her help? Why did I think a nap was going to fix her?

A pang of guilt shot through him. He should have taken her to the hospital the minute she was bitten. He just never imagined that it would get this bad this fast. If only he’d left earlier, if only he’d convinced her not to go down to the water, none of this would have happened. Now he'd be lucky to get her to the hospital without her dying. If she died, it would be all his fault!

He took a deep breath and fought back tears and revulsion. He had to be strong, for Poppy's sake. He couldn't take
no
for an answer. He had to get her to the doctor now.

Donovan reached out and shook her gently, leaning in so she could hear him.

“Poppy? Wake up, baby.” She let out a deep moan that scared him more than anything had ever scared him in his life. He'd only heard sounds like that in horror movies. He jumped back like a little kid, his nerves rattled. A shiver ran through him, making the skin on his arms turn to goose bumps.

Stay strong,
he reminded himself, his inner monologue kicking in.
For Poppy’s sake.

He exhaled and tried to recompose himself. He was being ridiculous. Nerves. That's all it was. It had been a long day. His beautiful girlfriend needed help and he was going to make sure she got it. The shaking in his hands stopped and he leaned forward toward her once more.

“Come on, baby,” he started again. “We need to get you to the doctor.”

Donovan put his hand on both sides of her shoulders, turning her to him. The stench coming from her open mouth was horrendous, like rancid meat left out in the hot sun. He shook her just a little, hoping to bring her around.

Maybe I should run a bath for her,
he thought to himself.
That might help to revive her a little.

It was too late. There wasn't enough time to be screwing around. Her condition was clearly getting worse by the minute and giving her a hot bath in this state could take well over an hour. He leaned forward, holding his breath, until his face was inches from hers.

“Poppy!” Donovan shouted, hoping to bring her around. He wished he had smelling salts or an adrenaline shot like the one John Travolta used in
Pulp Fiction
, anything that might help revive her.

Her eyes flew open like two old shutters, revealing dead white pupils filmed over with a tiny living fungus that writhed across the surface of her corneas. Donovan's heart thrashed in his chest like a wild animal and he let go of her at once. Instead of falling back frail on the bed, she sat up at an odd, unnatural angle and stared at him. Images from
The Exorcist
flooded his mind as a paralyzing fear filled Donovan until he felt like he couldn't breathe. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't Poppy. He backed away slowly while she kept her eyes locked on him.

My God,
Donovan thought.
What is wrong with her?

Suddenly Poppy let out a loud snarl and lunged for him, knocking him to the ground. Donovan's screams of terror grew in intensity as she leaned over and ripped into his neck with her jagged gray teeth. Bright red blood spurted from the open wound, splashing the walls in thick spurts.

Oh my God!
His mind raced. He could feel his heart beating incredibly fast now.
She bit me! I’m bleeding! No!

In shock, Donovan put his hand on the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood as he gasped for air. It was no use. There was so much blood running over his hands, slick and sticky and warm. Bright red blood stained the front of Poppy as she looked at him with her dead eyes. His vision began to blur and he grew lightheaded from the blood loss, falling back onto the floor. Poppy leaned over him once more with another wild cry and began to rip strips of flesh out of his arm and shoulders as he slipped away into the cold darkness of death.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gemma sprawled out across her bed with her laptop surfing Facebook updates from her long list of friends. It had gotten out of control in the last year, with people she barely knew friend requesting her. She felt guilty if she didn't accept them. People got so touchy about Facebook. Last semester a girl in her dorm, Angela, had gotten into a fist fight at a bar off campus over being accidentally “de-friended” by her friend Heather. It was so stupid. Most of the time her feed was just filled with useless info--mind candy like pictures of kids partying, or relationship updates. There were endless pictures of girls doing 'duck face' holding up their phones to the mirror, lips puckered out, and snapping pictures of themselves in their underwear. Guys did it too, but they copied Jersey Shore instead, pulling up their shirts to show off their abs and sticking out their tongues. She had to admit that a few of these guys were pretty cute, like Parker, but most of them looked fucking ridiculous.

“Friend request denied,” she said, clicking through several attempts by awkward freshman guys to add her as a contact. She knew this was a big waste of time, but the truth was it was crazy addictive. If she could have back the hours she spent scrolling through the site, she could probably add a month to her life. Even if she didn't do “duck face,” she was just as guilty as the rest of them of posting stupid pictures from her smartphone and the even stupider updates. She'd even signed up on Instagram and begun altering her smartphone photos just to fit in.

Does anyone really care what you ate for lunch?
she wondered.
And why post pictures of it?

The worst part was that she often put a deliberate slant on what she posted, knowing that her friends would be seeing her updates. It was like keeping a journal but knowing the whole time that someone was going to read it one day.

One day I will post an uncensored blog,
she thought.
I would probably lose every friend I have if I started telling them what I really thought and felt all the time.

Heading to Slaughterhouse with the girls for one last wild summer night,
she typed into her profile.
C U there. Kiss face
.

She reminded herself to sign out of her profile before closing the browser. Freshman year she'd forgotten to log off and her roommate had posted a bunch of coming-out-of-the-closet updates using Gemma's profile. She was mortified until she learned that it made guys like her more, and she got a few enticing offers from girls she would never have dreamed were bi-curious.

“You think there's going to be any cute guys at this party, or will it just be the same old busted frat boys we've seen the last three years?”

Gemma closed the laptop and turned to see Candy putting on lip gloss in the mirror. She had on a tube top that showed too much of her bra, and skin tight ripped jeans shorts with cowboy boots.

Could she be more obvious?
Gemma thought. It bothered her that Candy was so desperate for attention that she resorted to using her body to get it from guys, that she had such a low self-image. People had accused Gemma of being many things over the years--overly social, flirty, even unable to make up her mind--but no one ever accused her of being promiscuous.