…
My gaze skims the acre I’ve been clearing, the once-gold-brown field now stubbed with rocks and tree roots. Another half hour and I’ll have this licked. Mr. Pegg stopped on his way down the hill to say my check’s waiting in the mailbox. It’d be so damned easy to ditch this job and take off with the money. Let someone else demolish the grouse habitat. But I don’t do that stuff no more. Guess all of Dad’s lectures about “you start something, you finish it” finally sunk in. Maybe that’s why I got this job and Bubba Beaver didn’t.
Wind kicks up, tossing the flames and threatening to scatter my carefully raked leaf pile. I yawn into my hand. I stayed up half the night watching an old DVD of David Holt playing “Shady Grove.” I’m dead tired, but I finally got a handle on the tune. My fingers pick the notes on the Weed eater as the music loops through my brain.
I’m nearly done when a dadgum bramble slips under my jacket cuff. I mash the button to shut off the weed-eater. As I roll my sleeve, a soft growl drifts over from the copse of Virginia pine.
What the hell?
It ain’t grouse or bobcats or any of the other million sounds I can pick out in these woods. This is lower. And more humanlike. There’s a crapload of animals that make noises that sound like people—screech owls…goats…pigs—but this ain’t none of ’em. This is something I never heard before.
A panther? Old-timers say panthers still live in these woods. Painters, they call them.
I hold my breath and watch the copse. A rustle, a shift of branches, and the arms of the trees part.
It’s not a panther.
Chapter Two
People. Floridiots. Three of them stumbling out of the woods dressed like they’re ready to play golf or drink cocktails.
What the hell are they doing on Walnut Creek Road? Did they walk all the way from the country club? That’s a long way over the ridge—fifteen miles, as the crow flies.
I step toward the dude in golf clothes. “You lost, buddy?”
He says, “Rawr.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Rawr,” he repeats.
All three of ’em shuffle closer. Slow, but steady.
The breeze kicks in again, but this time the autumn air is tainted with a sharp, nose-cringing scent. It’s like stumbling over a decomposing animal corpse in the woods—one that’s been sitting too long. It’s the scent of death.
A jolt of dread hums through me. No—it can’t be. Not the Chinese flu. It’s too far away.
“Rawr.” The man takes another step closer. His right leg drags slightly.
No, there’s got to be another explanation. Got to. Because if these three Floridiots caught that damn flu… And if they bite me, I’ve got about twenty seconds. And then I’m a goner.
I try to step backward, but my feet tangle on the Weed eater. Wham. I land on my ass.
“Rawr!” Golf-man lunges for my outstretched legs.
In an instant, the Weed eater’s in my hand, and I punch the button.
Vrrrr-vrrr! The motor whirrs to life. The people back away, startled, their blank eyes widening with basic, instinctive fear.
Vrrr-vrrr! I find my feet and wave the Weedwacker like a sword. Vrrr-vrrr! The vinyl string spins close to their ashy flesh.
At that moment, my brain seems to unlock. On TV, they been joking around, calling the infection “Zombie Flu.” And now I know for sure that’s exactly what’s in front of me. Because these three people look like something straight out of a horror movie. Scabbed, slimy skin, streaked with dirt and blood. Rough, jerking motions.
Jesus. This can’t be happening.
My breath comes fast. I keep my eyes locked on the flesh-eaters. One gal trips over her high heels but keeps reaching in my direction, arms extended, eyes rolled back in her sockets.
Vrrrrrr-vrrrrr! I herd them back, revving the motor into a loud whine. “Take that, flu people!” They retreat into the copse. Vrrr-v—
The motor spins into silence. Oh, no.
No, no, no. Damn thing ran outta gas! For a moment I stand staring at the useless Weedwacker.
“Rawr!”
I toss the machine to the ground and take off.
In two seconds flat, the infected are out of the trees and on my tail, moaning their dadgum heads off. That sound they make—“Rawwwrrr!”—it’s like T-Rex crossed with dying cow.
Or exactly like the sound a zombie makes.
My pulse drums in my ears as I clamber up the steep hill.
Up the hill? Why the hell am I climbing up the hill? Toward the house? Toward that girl? What am I thinking? Now ain’t the time to be a hero. I need to get the hell outta here! Down the road, in the woods—someplace far, far away. These infected people aren’t fast; I could outrun them in two seconds on level ground.
But the girl. Eva, Ava, whatever. She doesn’t know about the flu monsters in her front yard. Her parents are gone. She’s alone in that house. I can’t just leave her.
I scrabble up the incline, my feet twisting on loose rocks.
“Rawr!”
Golfer-zombie’s slap-up behind me, lower down the slope. He might be slow, but I’m slow too, fumbling up this slant. He grabs and catches my shoelace. Desperate, I thrash out and kick his mouth. Crack. The steel toe of my boot connects with his teeth.
Part of me wants to apologize, but instead I’m screaming my fool head off. A terrified, frantic sound in the back of my throat. Gotta get up this hill.
I reach the crappy, half-rotted steps, concrete crumbling beneath my shoes. Almost there.
“Girl!” I shout. “Hey, girl.”
My feet hit the gravel drive and I’m sprinting now, leaving the infected still halfway up the hill.
“Evie,” I yell. “Ada!”
No movement at the house.
Damn it all to hell.
I throw myself against the front door, pounding with my fists, kicking with my boots. The infected finally reach the top of the slope and regroup on the gravel driveway.
“Rawr,” they chorus and begin to shamble in my direction.
Crap. The girl’s probably got her iPod cranked up and can’t hear a thing. One last try and then I gotta bolt.
“Girl! Girl! Hey, you.” I holler.
A rattle at the lock and the door swings open. Hair in a ponytail, workout clothes, and sneakers. And attitude oozing from every pore.
“My name,” she says, “is not Girl or Hey you. It’s Ava.”
“Well Ava, let me in your damn house. There’s zombies out here.”
…
I can’t believe Cole’s at my door. Out of breath. Clothes caked with dust and clay. Eyes blue and cold as the November sky. And that funny fishing cap.
“Say again?” I tell him.
“Zombies!” he yells. “They’re coming.” His face is a mask of panic. “The infected people. That flu!”
My eyes narrow. “Have you been hitting the moonshine?”
“We gotta go. Before they trap us.” He stands just inside the doorframe, stock-still, his voice shaking. “Grab a coat.”
What does he expect? That’ll I’ll follow him blindly out of my house? “So, what is this?” I ask. “Some kind of practical joke? Something you do to people who move here? Zombies.” I snort. “Honestly. That’s not very funny.”
He mumbles something about Yankee idiots and grabs the nearest coat from the rack.
“That’s my mom’s coat, Cole. And really, I’m not buying this. I don’t believe you.”
My mouth forms the words, but a small part of me registers that he’s acting completely terrified. Maybe I just don’t want to believe him. His fingers dig into my arm as he yanks me halfway out the door.
“There.” He points toward my driveway.
Some preppy dude stands at the woodpile, flirting with two women in formal wear. Sure, it’s odd, but not terrifying.
Until my eyes focus on their dirt-streaked clothes. And the irregular, twitchy way they all turn in our direction. And the symphony of h
owls that raises goose bumps on my arms.
My stomach turns over. Normal humans do not make noises like that.
Fear explodes in my veins.
“We gotta move,” Cole orders, pulling me back into the house and slamming the front door. “They’re slow, but what if a bunch of them try to get in?”
I hold still, standing in my foyer, taking a moment to…to…absorb this. To collect my thoughts. To not freak out completely.
Cole’s fingers stay locked around my elbow. “Come on! We can go out your side door. Toward the creek.”
He probably expects me to scream or faint or pull some stereotypical-girl nonsense. Instead, I calmly say, “Let me get my purse.”
“Your purse?” His mouth drops open. “We’re not going to the mall. We gotta run. Now!”
But I’ve already slipped through his fingers and into the kitchen. I might appear composed on the outside, but inside, I’m beating back the panic in my chest. Shock tightens my throat. I force myself to take deep, calming breaths—just like the doctor showed me.
“What if they’re the ones playing a joke?” I ask. “Maybe they’re locals who just want to mess with us? Or…or they’re trying to frighten my family away?” My brain gropes for some explanation beyond the obvious one.
For half a second, Cole looks like he wants to believe me. Then his mouth tightens into a thin line. “I ain’t hanging around to test that theory.”
I nod once. “We should go out the back way instead and loop around,” I fight to keep my voice even. “Lock that front door.” I don’t think zomb—well, whatever those things are—have the motor control to unlock a door, but it makes me feel better to hear him throw the bolt before he follows me through the living room.
“Hurry!” he whispers.
I scoop my purse off the kitchen counter.
Cole’s jaw tightens. “If I die because you had to get your credit cards and bubblegum…”
I ignore him and peek out the rear window. Our back deck remains clear. So does the road in that direction. No movement except bare tree branches, shuddering and trembling in the autumn wind.
“God almighty,” he mutters behind me. “A pocketbook. I shoulda run when I had the chance.”
The front door rattles. Silhouettes appear in the frosted glass. Cole swears under his breath. “There’s more of them now. Five, six. Where’d those other ones come from?”
“I don’t want to find out.”
I crack open the back door. My eyes dart back and forth. The woods. The road. The creek. Infected people could be hiding anywhere.
This cannot be happening. Infected people? Here? They were in China. So far away.
Quit focusing on what happened and just get the hell away from them.
The deck creaks as I tiptoe across it. “Let’s circle back down to your house,” I whisper. “We’ll need your car.”
“Dad and Jay took it.”
Crap. “To the Beavers, then.” I point up the hill. “They’ve got that big truck thing.”
“Those zombies came from that way.” He nods toward the ridge. “Probably from the country club. Let’s hightail it into the woods.”
God, no. Anywhere but the woods.
“Not happening,” I tell him. “I’m guessing those infected things can’t drive a car. So that’s our best bet for an escape. And maybe the Beavers are okay. We need to warn them.” The Beavers haven’t been overly nice to us, but I wouldn’t wish this infection on anyone.
I’m already racing uphill, not giving Cole a chance to argue. In a few seconds, he outpaces me. I follow, lungs burning, peering anxiously over my shoulder every few steps. My imagination shows me infected people creeping through the trees, lurking in every shadow, those weird, pale eyes fixed on my every move. The mile to the Beavers seems to take hours. Their trailer finally slides into view. In all my life, I’ve never been so happy to see a rebel flag flapping in the breeze. The monster truck sits in the drive, silent, waiting.
“Hello!” I yell.
“Shut up,” Cole hisses. “What if they’ve already turned into those things? You wanna draw them all out here? Use your brains—before someone eats them!”
I shoot him a death glare, but he’s already busy scoping out the Beavers’ house. He pauses on their front steps, bending to study a spot on the concrete. Before I have a chance to ask what he’s doing, he holds up two fingers—they’re dark with blood.
Panic steals my breath. “But…but…the Beavers…they just drove past. An hour ago. Less. No, it can’t be. There’s got to be some other explanation.”
“Get in the truck,” Cole says, his words low. “Now.”
At that moment, a sound echoes from inside the trailer. Mr. Beaver’s voice. That same voice I’ve heard all week as his truck cruises past my house. “Yeeeee-haw!”
Except different this time. It takes me a long moment to realize Mr. Beaver just said, “Reeeee-rawr!”
“Run!” Cole yells.
…
Two seconds and I’m at the truck, Ava on my heels. I wrench open the door and scramble inside, shoving a mess of Little Debbie wrappers out of my way.
“What are we doing?” Ava shrieks, sliding in beside me. “We don’t have keys.”
“Well, we got gravity, right?” I release the emergency brake. The massive truck stays stock-still.
“We have to get it rolling,” she orders, half bossy, half frantic.
“Ya think?”
I pop the gear in neutral and jump out of the truck.
“Ohmygod.” She follows me to the rear of the vehicle. “We’re gonna be eaten.” Her calm facade is fading fast.
“Hush up and push. Like this.” I’m shocked she came to help, instead of hiding in the truck, but there ain’t time to think about that now.
We put our hands on the bumper, leaning our weight into it. The level driveway stretches fifteen feet ahead. The door of the Beaver’s double-wide flies open. Mr. Beaver staggers down the concrete steps, Bubba trailing behind. Black blood stains the front of Bubba’s overalls.
He catches sight of us. “Reee-raw!”
“Push” I yell.
Ava’s no bigger than a minute, but she throws all her energy into it. The behemoth of a truck creeps into motion.
“Cole!” she screams, abandoning the bumper and bolting. “We gotta bail. Now!”
The truck inches forward. Goddang it. Slow. Too slow.
“Cole!” she screams again from somewhere near the front of the vehicle. “Behind you!”
I turn to find Mr. Beaver only a few yards away. One of his eyeballs hangs loose in its socket, connected only by a thin shred of tissue.
“Rawr,” he says, almost like he’s saying howdy.
I don’t stick around to find out where the conversation’s headed. I give the truck a final shove, hope it’s enough, and rush for the front of the vehicle. The wheels hit the downhill slant as I reach my door. There’s no time to open it. I grab the window frame and take a flying leap, heaving myself in as the truck gathers speed.
“Dammit!” I swear, my knee slamming the gearshift.
Heavy thuds echo from the back of the vehicle. Ava turns, her eyes wide.
Oh Lord God almighty, the Beavers have jumped in the truck bed.
Beside me, Ava’s starts doing that “ohmygod” thing again.
“Will you shut up?” I yell, clamping my hands on the wheel.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little panicked!” Her face still wears that weird composed expression she had at the house, like she’s willing herself to stay calm.
Without keys, there’s no way to steer the monster truck. The wheel locks and we careen down the mountainside.
Bumpitda-bumptida-bump.
“Hang on!” I yell, watching a curve approach. Thank God the brakes work.
Ava grits her teeth and grabs the handle above her door.
The truck jumps the gravel and veers onto an old logging road studded with debris. After living on this mountain al
l my life, I’ve learned it doesn’t matter what road you’re on, there’s only one direction from here: down.
Bumpa-bump-bump-bump. My head smacks the truck’s ceiling.
We level for a second and Ava screams, “Put on your seat belt! Roll up your window!”
Good advice. But it takes a monumental effort to follow her instructions while driving the out-of-control truck. She leans over to help me buckle in so I can keep both hands on the wheel, her fingers shaking spasmodically against my hip. We zigzag at the fork for the country club’s service road. I wrestle with the truck, trying to keep it on track. A massive roar goes up from somewhere to our right.
“What the hell?” I turn my head in that direction.
The service road is packed with people. Forty. Fifty. A horde. As the truck passes, they raise their arms. “Rawr”
One man swipes at the truck. Salt-and-pepper hair, argyle sweater vest, and half his intestines hanging over the waistband of his khaki trousers.
“Aggh!” Ava screeches as we slide past, her head swiveling toward the flu people. “They’re all infected!”
In the rearview mirror I watch their arms drop. And then something awful happens.
They shift direction.
That entire zombie crowd veers off the service road to follow us down the logging road. In a couple seconds, they disappear from the rearview mirror, but I seen enough to know they’re trailing us now.
“Go faster, you dumb truck!” I yell. We gotta keep moving, let momentum take us faster, farther. Away from that pack.
Crrr-ack. Crrr-ack.
“Cole!”
Behind us, Mr. Beaver and Bubba bang their meaty, gray fists against the truck’s rear window. Hairline fractures blossom in the glass.
“Search for a gun,” I order. “Under the seats.”
She reaches below, but the truck is bouncing too hard. She unsnaps her seat belt, leaning her arm farther under the chair.
Crrr-ack. This time, spiderwebs crisscross the entire window. One more good hit and it’ll shatter. They’ll reach in and grab us.
“There’s nothing here,” she screeches, panicked. “What redneck doesn’t carry a gun in his truck?”
Dead Over Heels Page 2
