by Ash Parsons
I like him as much as blankets.
“As much as that, huh?” He’s laughing.
What?
“God, you scared me,” Blair says. One of her hands is on my arm, the other swipes tears off her face. “Don’t ever do that again, okay?”
My voice sounds weak, and a bit furry, cotton-wrapped.
But I know I’m speaking this time.
“Deal,” I say.
Footsteps rush in, and Imani and Siggy are there, hugging me tight, lifting my shoulders, not listening to Hunter’s “Careful!”
“It’s okay,” I say, moving my toes, lifting my knees. Wrapping my arms around my friends.
“We did it,” Siggy sobs, part laughter, part exhaustion and relief. “We saved the goddamn world.”
We stick to the edge of the ballroom as we help each other out.
Okay, so basically everyone’s helping me. But with each step I feel stronger, and by the time we get to the doors into the second-floor lobby, I’m only holding on to Hunter, and that’s really for another reason.
I don’t look at the dead zombies. I keep my eyes away from the inert, infected bodies splayed across the ballroom floor.
The scientist’s voice replays in my head, a self-comforting reel. “Too late for them” and “no cure,” he’d said.
Simon opens the door first, sticks his head out.
We’re all still carrying our weapons. There might be stragglers, plus we’re not foolish. And we’ve all become a little bit attached to our weapons.
Annie even trades her used defibrillator for a new one.
“Okay. Now all we have to do is find the SWAT team. Get to the loading dock. Make sure there’s no chance a loose zombie can get out.”
I nod tiredly.
“Even if there are stragglers, it’s not a herd. We lured most of them up,” I say.
“Yeah, at some point, we have to trust the professionals to get it right,” Hunter says. “Now that there’re not hundreds and hundreds of zombies.”
Still, we sweep our eyes around as we make our way to the escalators, then clear the rest of the barricade to walk down.
On the ground floor, Annie crosses to Cuellar’s body, and covers his face with her jacket.
Two sets of doors to the exhibit hall hang open. I was right, that boom was the zombies breaking out.
We turn away from the locked doors of the convention center, and away from the volcanic rock waterfalls.
“Hey!” the whisper-call startles me so much I nearly drop the mic stand.
Rosa rushes up to us from the hallway that stretches along the window wall and continues past the escalators, to the meeting rooms beyond. A huge smile is on her face. Her arms are held open.
“Rosa!” Simon whispers in surprised joy.
She hugs first Simon, then Annie, then me, Hunter, and Imani, Siggy, and Blair.
“I knew you made it!” I say, but the relieved tears spilling down my face tell the truth of my fears.
“I’m so glad you’re okay!” Siggy nearly cries. “You saved me!”
Rosa gives Siggy another hug, and Siggy squeezes her tight in thanks.
“Where are the others?” Rosa asks, frowning at our smaller group. “Janet and Cuellar?”
So we tell her. About Janet, sacrificing herself so we could escape in the elevator. We tell her about Cuellar, getting ambushed and bitten, then letting himself fall.
And she tells us about running down the meeting room hall after we got separated. About how she managed to lock herself into a maintenance closet.
The first time she could no longer see the shuffling shadows through the gap at the bottom of the closed door, she cracked it open, only to hear a commotion above her head, from the second floor.
Then when she opened the door wider, first water, and then zombies started falling.
She was one level below us, almost exactly in the same spot that we were one floor above, when Imani hosed the zombies over the balcony railing.
Rosa waited in the closet a long time after that, only daring to come out when the lights dimmed, then flickered.
She thought it was the army, cutting the power, getting ready to come into an unknown situation.
It was us.
We explain about our electrocution plan as we walk toward the backstage hall.
We turn the corner and see two zombies standing in the hall, facing the backstage door.
“Not today, jerks,” Imani says, dropping her bag and swinging her mop-handle-hex-key spear up.
Suddenly I remember, from before we dropped the lights, two zombies rushing out of the ballroom.
“Wait,” I say as the zombies turn.
The man zombie is grimacing, wide red-shot eyes and hanging mouth.
When he looks up, his wide-hanging mouth transforms into a smile. “Oh, thank God,” he says.
The woman zombie lifts her head.
“Seriously,” she says. “I have to take these contacts out already.”
“—the hell?” Simon breathes, his weapon still up.
I can’t help the peal of laughter and relief as I recognize them.
“Hello, young lovers,” I say. “Imani, Siggy, remember them?”
Imani’s eyes widen. “No way.”
“Way,” the woman says. They’re staying back, a wise move until Simon believes what his mind is trying to tell him, instead of his eyes.
“Simon, Hunter,” I say, holding a hand out to the zombies, “these are cosplayers.”
“Oh,” Simon says, lowering his vanity stool somewhat.
“Uh, hi.” Hunter gives them a little nod. “Sorry,” he adds. “It’s just a bit disconcerting after everything.”
“Think nothing about it, my good fellow,” the man zombie says, waving away the apology.
“Tell me about it,” the woman says at the same time, her voice overlapping his as she stretches her neck. “But it saved our lives. I’ve got to tell the world. Write a book, Cosplay Saved My Life. No hyperbole. They didn’t know we weren’t one of them.”
“Wow, that’s lucky,” Annie says.
“Not just lucky, smart, too,” the man says. “Rachel here realized it. Other cosplayers panicked and ran screaming. Rachel made us blend in.”
“Aw, thanks, babe,” Rachel says. “But it was you who realized what their plan was, with the water. Good one, by the way, guys.”
But she’s not looking at us, as she smiles adoringly at the man.
Their foreheads come together, as they start cooing “You’re awesome,” “No, you’re awesome” love-talk to each other.
“Jeez, you guys,” I say. “Get a morgue.”
* * *
• • •
In the end, the army found us.
It was all very exciting, being surrounded by shouting, riot shields, and guns, but we were able to pretty firmly establish that we weren’t zombies, and the cosplayers had taken off most of their makeup by then.
There were more survivors, too. James Cooper and his group managed to make their way to the office areas behind the ballroom balcony hall, and locked the Staff Only door with the deadbolt. Michaela, the aftershow host, led a large group of at least thirty survivors, in an orderly, no-pushing fashion, up to the roof, and then signaled for help from up there.
And there were more survivors still, pockets of them hunkered down, or finding their way from dangerous place to dangerous place, fighting to survive like we had.
One of the SWAT team guys said we probably saved a bunch of people by drawing the zombies up to the ballroom when we did.
Of course, the preppers survived also, although one of them was promptly arrested for possessing an illegal weapon.
While we were learning who all made it through, we were sitting in the medical tents. Waiting
to be checked out, waiting for the area to be secured. And I realized that we could use our phones at last.
It was fun telling Siggy she should try calling Mark. It was even more fun hearing her absolute joy when he picked up. And hearing him sobbing with relief that she was okay, and then how he immediately patched her parents into the call so they could feel the same relief, well . . . I decided not to call him annoying anymore, not even in my head.
He’s not so bad. Not So Bad Mark Not So Bad Carson. More important, Siggy loves him like whoa and maybe they’ll figure their stuff out. If they both end up at the same college, or maybe even if they don’t.
All I know is I’ll be here for her either way.
Imani called her mom and Tishala, and it was like I was sitting with stereo headphones on, Siggy on one side, Imani on the other, both of them crying and saying I love you¸ and I know, and Me too.
I asked for a phone and a soldier gave me his. Mine had long since died, but they plugged it into a rapid charger for me.
When I heard my mom’s voice, and my dad’s, I lost it for a little while, I’m not going to lie. There’s nothing wrong with tears, certainly not tears of relief and love and all those near-death clarity emotions that burbled up in my chest and knotted in my throat.
Also, Mom was crying, too. And that always sets me off. I can’t help but cry when Mom is sobbing big fat I love yous and I’m so proud of you, babys and Thank God you’re alives into my ear.
So yeah, in spite of the cell phone dampener, word had gotten out that something bad was going down at ZombieCon! Not just because of the military presence and barricades, but because one of the podcast stage hosts turned his T-line linked feed on, left it streaming as the zombies attacked.
At first people thought it was a hoax, a War of the Worlds thing. But then the news started reporting the quarantine and blockade, and everyone got glued to their phones or TV screens.
James Cooper came looking for Hunter, and rushed across the tent to grab him into a bear hug. Hunter hugged him back and they were like actual father and son, so happy to be reunited. Hunter actually introduced me to James, who remembered me from before. It was pretty surreal.
Simon hugged James, too. Rosa was hugging a fellow crew member who’d made it into James’s group of survivors, and it was teary and sniffly there for a while.
In the good way.
We explained to the army officers about flooding the ballroom and our trap, warned about the danger of restoring power to that area. Apologized about the water still running.
A tight-eyed commanding officer called us “tough little grunts” and said something about a commendation.
I leaned over to Imani, and elbowed her in the ribs.
“A commendation!” I whispered. “Eat your heart out, Harvard! Imani Choi is getting a freaking medal.”
* * *
• • •
After a while the convention center was secure; even local news was allowed to set up outside the front of the main entrance. The army command told us we’d have to report to the base hospital tomorrow for more debriefing.
But until then, we could go.
I stop right outside the tent, remembering.
“Hang on, I gotta get my phone.” I turn to hobble back inside.
“Wait here,” Hunter says, and trots back into the tent for me. He reappears a few moments later, holding my phone, and with an amused expression on his face.
“Nice lock screen,” he says, handing my phone over.
Oh no.
I look down. The fake-prom selfie I took with the life-sized poster of Hunter Sterling positively blares out from my newly charged phone.
I feel like a large blinking sign should appear over my head: DERP.
“Okay, laugh all you like,” I say.
“Oh, I’m going to.” Hunter moves next to me, and pulls my arm around his shoulder, even though it’s not strictly necessary to help me walk anymore.
“For the record, we had a great time,” I say.
“I clean up good, huh?” Hunter says, and I can’t help but laugh, because as Clay Clarke in that poster he’s sweaty, grimy, and unkempt.
Also, you know, completely gorgeous.
But the boy standing next to me is way better.
“I told you to rent a tux,” I say. “But nooooooo.”
“Next time,” he says. “I demand a do-over.”
“This doesn’t count as a promposal, for the record,” I say.
“Noted, Ms. Blue. Noted.” Hunter smiles at me, humor in his hazel-green eyes, and my heart does a skitter-lunge.
I smile back.
We make our way out of the triage area, past the loading dock, around the corner under the hamster tube skyway, and back around the front of the Senoybia Convention Center.
It’s dark, full night, but you’d hardly know it from the large, generator-powered klieg lights on poles.
We walk together, me, Hunter, Imani, Siggy, and Blair, out toward the farthest edge of the containment area, where our parents and news vans and a crowd of onlookers wait.
James Cooper is ahead of us, talking to a reporter in a pool of bright light from the camera.
We stop to take it all in, still behind the orange plastic barriers.
Voices shout at us, other reporters seeking exclusive interviews.
“You made it!” The voice is somehow familiar, yelling from across the broad swath of concrete in front of the convention center.
I turn, and see the rando guy from this morning, the one who said he was a survivor. His ZOMBIES HATE FAST FOOD T-shirt’s a little worse for the wear now, torn and spattered like all our clothes, but he’s got a huge smile plastered on his face.
“You did, too!” I yell back. I give him a big thumbs-up. He does a slow clap for me before going back to his interview.
“Hey, I have a question,” Hunter says, touching my elbow.
I turn to him, smiling. Movement catches the corner of my eye. I glance behind us.
It’s the ZombieCon! banner, dangling loose, falling across the lower half of the convention center windows. Fluttering in the wind.
The slouching front of the loose banner obscures the start of the words, so now it reads YOU SURVIVE.
“What?” I ask.
Hunter puts his hands at my waist.
“What are you doing next weekend, June Blue?”
I smile up at him.
“Oh, I’m killing the SAT, dude. Definitely.” I frown and nod my head like a serious student.
Hunter laughs, so I put my hands up to his head, in his hair.
“Better give me a kiss, though. For luck.”
I tug gently, and he lowers his lips to mine.
The kiss is like a fission of everything that’s good in this world. Everything, yes, but mainly kissing, which is very, very good, and Hunter Sterling’s lips, which top the list right now at the present moment.
A fusillade of flashes snaps us out of it.
Our picture has been taken by the photographers waiting to report on the scene.
“Who needs to get a room now, June?” Siggy drawls. But she’s smiling.
“Seriously,” Blair teases, but her eyes light up with her smile.
“No, keep going.” Imani is holding her phone up, like she’s recording. “When I sell this to TMZ it’ll pay for our summer trip to Cancún.”
Siggy squeals.
“I love that idea! Oh, we should definitely go!” She jumps, clapping, her hair pluming out behind her.
“Absolutely!” I agree, meeting Blair’s eyes. “We should all go.”
Blair smiles at me, a big, easy grin, spreading across her face, wide open like she’s a little kid.
Like it’s the first day of kindergarten again.
A rush of love glows throug
h me, an actual physical rush, at the sight of my friends smiling back at me. I drink in the sight of Siggy, Imani, and Blair, standing there, arms crossed and legs propped out, their hips cocked to one side, almost like they’re simply over everything, so casual and so cool.
Complete badasses.
We did it. We survived, in spite of everything, and here we are, on the other side. All together.
Imani—always attuned to me, or me always to her, or both of us somehow on the exact same page, or feeling, with perfect empathy—reaches her hands out at the same moment I do.
My group of friends huddles in and we hug tight, laughing with pure joy at life, at each other, with each other.
I point toward the barricade, where the flash pops haven’t stopped since the moment survivors started walking out.
“You know what time it is, right?” I ask.
Imani laughs, then Siggy, and Blair, and we holler, all together, “Special Memories!”
Our huddle opens up, and still laughing, with our arms around each other, we smile for our photo op.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Working on this book with my editor Kelsey Murphy was so much fun; thanks for your enthusiasm and wisdom! My gratitude is also due to Jill Santopolo for her guidance, and to Cheryl Eissing for her contributions. Extended thanks goes to the publicity team at Penguin—it’s a delight to work with such a talented group of women.
C. T. Callahan, I deeply appreciate your valuable input. Any errors are my own.
I continue to be thankful for the wit and prowess of my agent, Jodi Reamer.
Thanks to my husband, Bob, specifically for fire-inspector technical consultations—any fabrications, errors, or shortcuts are mine alone. Thanks and love to my family for their patience and cheering. Thanks, Jack, for going “Yessss!” when I told you the title. Additional gratitude to my sister, Caroline, for fun brainstorming sessions.
Since this is first and foremost a love letter to female friendship, I want to thank my women friends (past and present) for supporting, listening, encouraging, and teaching me. Thanks, ladies. You’re the best.
Lastly, to my readers, you’re all transcendent beings who emanate pure light. Look at you shine! My humble thanks for reading.
