Jenna hurries after him as best she can. One look at her face and Ben is pretty sure she’s not far behind in a round with the toilet.
Kate stares after them with red-rimmed, bleary eyes. She looks so wretched and lost Ben has to look away.
“Come on, Mama Bear.” He takes her by one arm, intending to get her to her bedroom.
She stiffens and tries to shake him off. He ignores her efforts and remains by her side. He sees the battle raging in her features.
“Let me help you. Please.” Before she falls and knocks out her front teeth, or something equally stupid. He resists her feeble effort to shove him away. He steers her toward the tiny dorm room where she sleeps.
She grunts then leans on him. It takes them a few minutes, but at last they enter the tiny rectangular bedroom with Grateful Dead posters all over the walls. He helps her onto the bed.
She tips sideways, moaning into the pillow.
Ben stares down at her. He hates feeling helpless. He knows what she’s going through. How can he tell her that without sounding like a condescending ass?
“What did you do when you lost people?” Kate surprises him with the question. “You lost people, right?”
She reaches up and brushes her hand over his arm, which is covered by his customary fatigue shirt. He knows she’s referring to the tattoos hidden beneath the fabric.
“Yeah, I lost people.” A barrage of images tumbles through his head. Sand. Narrow, stinky alleyways of worlds far away from this one. A bloody courtyard filled with the bodies of college kids
He can never entirely shake free of those images. Cynthia came to haunt him last night. The lithe, blond-haired college girl made it her mission to crack jokes until she got Ben to laugh. He tries to remember her quick smile and sharp blue eyes, but overlying it are memories of her prone on the courtyard pavement of College Creek, her body shot up with bullets.
He sees all the kids. Ricky. Jim. KP. Suzy.
Pain blooms in his chest. All those dead kids. And now Lila is among them. Sharp-tongued, quick-witted Lila.
“Ben?” Kate blinks up at him from the pillow, curled into the fetal position. Her pale face makes him think she might be joining Carter and Jenna in the bathroom soon.
He sinks into the wooden desk chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “I think I need another drink,” he mutters.
Kate moans, pressing a hand against her stomach. Ben registers the act. He has just enough time to snatch the wastebasket from under the desk before Kate heaves. She vomits several times into the trashcan before groaning and rolling back onto the bed.
A few bottles of water sit on the desk. He passes her one, moving the trashcan next to the door. He drapes a dirty shirt over the top to block the smell.
“I never drank when my husband died.” Kate’s scratchy voice fills the room. “I just ran. I’ve always preferred running to alcohol.”
Ben returns to the desk chair. He searches for words in the darkness but doesn’t find any.
“I know running can’t solve everything,” Kate whispers. “But dammit, it’s times like this I really wish ... I wish I could lose myself on a trail and just run.”
“Some days, I wish I could just lose myself.” Ben isn’t sure where the words come from. He stares around the room, as if expecting to find a third person there, even though he knows there’s no one else.
“You’ve lost people, right?”
It’s the second time she’s asked him this question.
He feels like it takes a crowbar to pry his mouth open. “Yeah. I know how you feel.” His voice is rough, the words dragged from his throat. Why is it so fucking hard for him to form words? “Cynthia ...”
Kate’s face is half-buried in her pillow. There are no lights on in the room. Even so, Ben sees one eye staring at him in the darkness.
“Who’s Cynthia?”
Maybe hearing his shitty story will help her forget her own. “One of the young college women I ... lost.” He swallows back the emotion that tries to fight its way free. “Cynthia. Ricky. Jim. KP. Suzy. Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. Shelby. Jen. Ditto. Erin. Jason. Scarlet. Andy. Ted. Ginger.” The names fall from his lips, dropping into his lap like hundred-pound weights.
Kate’s eye never wavers as he speaks. Bloodshot and grief-stricken, that single eye watches him from the pillow. “The kids from College Creek?” she asks.
He nods. “I need to find a tattoo artist.” He rubs absently at the blank spot on his shoulder, the place that will some day bear a tattoo memorializing those poor kids. “I know what you’re going through, Kate. It’s shitty. I’d be a lying asshole if I told you it gets better. It doesn’t. You just get better at dealing with it.” Sort of. If insomnia is a clinical definition of dealing with it.
She rolls onto her back, staring up at the posters on the ceiling. “You would have been a shitty motivational speaker.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I signed up to carry a gun around for a living.”
Her laugh catches him off-guard. It fades as quickly as it came.
“I feel like it’s my fault,” she whispers. “I feel like they’re dead because of me.”
“I know.” Something inside him breaks at the pain in her voice. “Shit, Kate, the only thing that really makes it better is time. We both have to live long enough for time to work its magic.” He stands. “You should sleep. Drink some more water if you can.” He doesn’t envy the hangover she’s going to have in the morning.
“Don’t leave.”
He stands in the middle of the room, feeling awkward. More than anything, he wants to stay. He’s never wanted to stay with a woman more than he wants to stay with Kate at that moment.
“Please don’t leave,” she says again. Tears leak out of her eyes.
Terrified he’s going to wreck this perfect, fragile moment, he grabs a pillow off the bed and lays down on the floor.
He could lay on the bed. He’s pretty sure that’s what she meant when she asked him to stay. But he suspects this moment between them is because she’s drunk and sad. She’ll still be sad in the morning, but she won’t be drunk. He can’t stomach the idea of her waking up and recoiling from him. She can’t recoil from him if he’s on the floor.
“Here’s a blanket.” She pushes a quilt in his direction.
When he reaches up to take it, their fingertips brush. Kate grabs his hand.
“Thanks for not lying to me,” she whispers.
He says the only thing that comes to mind. “You’re welcome, Kate.”
She laces her fingers with his. A few minutes later, her breath evens and the grip of her hand relaxes.
She’s asleep. Kate is asleep, her hand laced with his.
For once in his life, his words hadn’t completely fucked things up.
27
Hang Over
KATE
I wake up with the worst hangover of my adult life.
I open my eyes. Psychedelic Grateful Dead posters hang on the ceiling above me, but all I see is Lila’s face—the calm, determined set to her jaw when she raised the Sig to her temple.
Next, I see Jesus. His brave expression in the face of death. His earnest look when he asked me to put him down.
I close my eyes, trying to block out their faces. I still feel the jolt of the knife when it punched through Jesus’s temple and into his skull. I still feel the way the air vibrated when Lila discharged the gun into her own head. I shrink back from the memories, wishing I could hide from them.
The only thing that really makes it better is time. Ben’s gruff voice trickles in from my drunken memories of the night before.
That’s when I notice my left arm hanging over the edge of the bed, the skin cold from being left uncovered. My fingers twitch, held in place by something.
I scrunch forward and find Ben on the floor, fully clothed. A thin throw blanket is draped over his torso, too small to cover his tall form. His eyes are open. He gives my hand a squeeze before releasing it.
; I realize with a shock that he’s been here with me all night. I’m equal parts grateful and embarrassed.
Our eyes meet. “When’s the last time you had to hold back a girl’s hair?” I ask.
“Technically, you don’t have any hair to hold back.”
I squint at him. “Did you just make a joke?”
His response is cautious. “Did you think it was funny?”
“I’ll let you know later. When my head doesn’t hurt so much.”
The skin around his eyes crinkles. I think that might be his version of a smile. Another thing to ponder when my head doesn’t feel like it’s going to crack in half.
I reach out and find his hand. “Thanks for everything you did last night.”
He squeezes my hand without speaking.
It’s what Ben does that always touches me. It’s the tattoos on his arms commemorating thirty years of life and loss in the army. It’s the way he looked after me last night when I was no better than a drunk teenager. It’s the warm coffee on a cold morning. It’s the way he holds my hand in silence right now.
I remain prone on the bed. Eyes closed, I savor the feel of Ben’s hand in mine. His palm is rough with callouses, his grip strong. I like the way it feels. I like him more and more every day.
My eyes snap open. “I forgot. I have a present for you.”
“A what?” He frowns, as though convinced he didn’t hear me correctly.
“A present. For you. Don’t get too excited. It’s not a Ferrari or anything.”
I push myself into a sitting position with a groan. My stomach threatens to revolt. I lean back against the wall to let it settle.
Ben, watching the operation, wordlessly hands me a bottle of water. I down it with a grateful sigh.
“How are you feeling?” Ben ventures.
How am I feeling?
I want to stay in bed and let the world fade away. I don’t want to wait out the agony of losing Lila and Jesus. I don’t want to face the terror of losing more of my new family every morning when I get up. I want to run away from it all.
But after Federico died, I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t run away from my problems. I owe it to him to stick it out. Hell, I owe it to all the kids.
I want to tell Ben all of this, but instead, I say, “I feel like any college kid feels after a night of binge drinking.”
I groan again as I fumble at the top desk drawer. My brain feels like it wants to pound its way out of my skull.
“Here.” I produce a stick of Secret deodorant hand it to Ben.
His brow furrows. He turns it over in his hands, frown deepening. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
My eyes widen. “That’s not—I didn’t mean it that way. We’re all a little smelly. That’s for your chafing.”
He stares at me. “My what?”
“Your waist. The chafing from your fatigues.”
“I thought runners used Vaseline for chafing.”
“No.” I shake my head, grimacing at the backlash of pain. “There’s too much moisture in Vaseline. That just makes it worse. Antiperspirants work much better. They’re designed to get rid of moisture. I use it under my sports bra.”
At the mention of my sports bra, his eyes travel to my chest. I clear my throat, feeling embarrassed. I’ve never had much up top, even less with constant running chewing up my fat reserves.
“You’re carrying a lot of heavy fabric around your waist,” I say. “I don’t know how well it will work, but it’s worth a try.”
He averts his gaze, suddenly absorbed in the blue deodorant stick. He turns it over in his hands, face unreadable. After what seems like forever, he shakes his head and sticks it into his pocket. “Thank you. It’s weird as shit, but I’ll try it.”
“It’s the least I can do. You know, for holding up my non-existent hair while I puked like a high school kid on prom night.”
His eyes soften. “Anytime.” He hesitates before reaching across the short distance that separates us. He cups my hands between both of his, running his thumbs over my palms.
He’s never looked at me the way he’s looking at me now. I’m too hungover to grapple with the emotion squirming around in my chest. All I know is that I want to hang onto his hand. Hell, I want to do more than that. I want to hang onto him.
I don’t do either.
I force myself to my feet, breaking away from him. I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat.
“We should go check on the others.” Realizing I’m being an asshole, I attempt to soften the abruptness. “None of them had a sober friend looking over them last night.” I give him a soft smile, wishing I didn’t feel like vomiting all over my bare feet.
The skin around his eyes crinkles again. I decide it’s definitely his version of a smile. I’ve never seen Ben smile before today. It looks good on him.
“Let’s go,” he says to me. “We don’t want to leave the little shitheads up to their own devices. No telling what they’ll get up to unsupervised.”
As we exit the room side by side, I lament my obscene intake of alcohol. I’m in no state to deal with whatever is manifesting between me and Ben. Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, things between us have changed. I make a silent promise to think on it when my head stops hurting.
Right now, I have my kids to think about. I don’t intend to fail them again.
I may have been drunk last night, but that doesn’t mean my brain wasn’t working. At least, it was before my sixth or seventh shot of whatever that brown stuff was.
Our campus was almost overrun yesterday. The appearance of the alpha zombies has changed everything. We have to adapt to our new environment if we want to survive. I won’t risk leaving us vulnerable again.
I have a plan.
28
Fortifications
KATE
Surrounded by the Creekside crew on the rooftop of the dorm, I shade my eyes and survey the campus below. My brain feels like it’s taking an axe to my skull, though I do my best to conceal the ill effects of my hangover.
“Dude.” Beside me, Johnny squints. Based on his grimace, he’s as hungover as the rest of us. “I wish you’d let us use some of that Tylenol.”
“Nope.” I keep my eyes on the ground below. “Resources are finite. Hangovers don’t qualify for medication.”
“Carter, your mom is a hard ass,” Johnny mutters.
“I’m having a moment,” Jenna says, who stands on my other side.
“What sort of moment?” Ash asks.
“One of those moments where you fall asleep drunk,” Jenna replies. “Then you wake up and you’re not drunk anymore, but the alcohol is still in your body and everything hurts like hell.”
“I think we all had that moment, babe,” Carter says.
“We are that moment,” Reed adds.
I’m glad the mood is lighter today. Grief isn’t something we can escape, but I hope Ben is right. I hope we’ll scab over with time.
Standing with my Creekside family gives me strength. It’s a good reminder not to let grief get the better of me. Last night was for loss and sadness, but now it’s time to lock that grief away and get on with living. I can’t take care of my living kids if I wallow in the ones I’ve lost.
“There are still a lot out there on campus.” Caleb stands on the corner of the building, binoculars up to his face.
“They’re in clumps of five to ten,” Ben says, also with a pair of binoculars.
It’s better than I had hoped. Even though there are a fair number of zombies on campus, their numbers are spread out. I have a plan to deal with them.
I turn to my companions. “Let’s go back downstairs. I want to gather everyone for a Creekside meeting.”
Once in the main dorm, I lean up against the wall beside the flat screen and Xbox. I take in the faces of all those who have entrusted me with their safekeeping.
Carter and Jenna, holding hands. Eric, looking lost and dazed without Lila. Reed, eyes puffy fro
m missing Jesus. Caleb and Ash, always near one another but never in physical contact. Our newest companion, Susan, with her husband still unconscious in a dorm room.
And Ben. Sometimes I think he should be leading our small group. He knows more and has more experience than I could ever hope to have. Except even I’m not dumb enough to think he could hold our small family together. The kids count on me for that.
“First, we need to clear the university. We’re going to split into two teams and kill every zombie on campus. I’ll lead one team and sweep west. Carter, you lead the second team and sweep east.” My son nods. “If you encounter any alphas, be sure to take them out first. The rest of the zoms will be confused when their alpha goes down. That will give you ample opportunity to take them out. That’s Phase 1.”
“What’s Phase 2?” Jenna asks.
“We can’t continue as we have. Humboldt University isn’t safe.” I sweep my eyes over them. “We have to fortify Creekside. That’s Phase 2.”
They shift and exchange looks. Susan raises a hand.
“Yes, Susan?”
“You don’t expect us to blow up more buildings, do you?”
“Nothing that extreme. But you are right about one thing. Our home needs a wall.”
“Like a Medieval village?” Jenna says.
“Exactly. We’re going to start with Creekside and all the neighboring dorms that share our parking lot. We create a home base that is secure and self-sufficient. We can’t run around blowing up buildings every time a horde comes. The way I see it, there could be a lot more. We don’t know how prevalent this alpha phenomenon is.”
“How do you plan to build the fortifications?” Ben asks.
“We dig up the fencing along the frontage road and bring it here,” I reply. “I saw bags of cement in the maintenance shop a few weeks ago. We erect the fence here in the gaps between the dorm buildings. Then we get some cars. Put them in neutral, roll them in front of our perimeter and pop the tires. We scavenge rebar from the rubble of College Creek and jam them into the hoods and front grills of the cars. These will impale zombies that get too close.” I make eye contact with everyone in the room. “It’s not a sophisticated plan, but it will work with the resources and manpower we have.” I push off from the wall. “We need to get started right away. I’m putting all endurance workouts on hold for a week. All our efforts need to be focused on campus clearance and fortifications.”
Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 74
