Dead Over Heels

by Alison Kemper

  “You’re right,” he says.

  A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, you’re right about—”

  He glances up. Sees me grinning, recognizes the teasing.

  His expression is easy to read: this girl could not be any more of a pain in my ass.

  He doesn’t return the smile, so mine fades. Note to self: remember that Cole has zero sense of humor.

  “Let’s back it up farther,” he says, sounding serious and a little annoyed. “How’d them infected people from the country club know to cross the ridge to find, uh…food?”

  “Good question. Did you see the Beavers sniffing the air? Do you think they can smell us?”

  “Yeah.” He nods slowly. “I reckon that’s the answer. Like the virus ramped up their animal instincts. Hell, they act like animals. Maybe they track scents like ’em, too. And another thing, Beaver is a big fella. Strong. But damn—the way he shook that tree. I ain’t never seen a man that strong.”

  “So, the virus increases strength.” I tick off a list on my fingers. “Improves their sense of smell. And the way they stopped on the riverbank—must be some water phobia, too.” A memory niggles at the back of my mind. “Hydrophobia,” I say aloud.

  “Fear of water?” he asks.

  I nod. “We’ve been studying rabies in bio class—you know, mainly because our teacher was obsessed with the Chinese flu—with this flu.” I gesture at the woods. “I was writing a paper on Pasteur—the guy who invented the rabies vaccine—”

  “I know who Pasteur is.” He cuts me off. “I ain’t stupid.”

  “Okay, okay.” I try to sound placating. I don’t want to get sidetracked into another argument. “Well, like I was saying, I did a bunch of research on how they treated rabies in the olden days, before Pasteur’s vaccine. Back then, they called rabies Hydrophobia, because the infected animals developed a distinct fear of water.”

  Now he appears intrigued. “So maybe the people infected with this virus manifest similar symptoms?”

  My eyebrows tick up at his use of “manifest.” I give my shoulders a noncommittal lift. “Maybe.”

  “Good enough reason to keep following the river. If the Beavers show up, we can cross again. Lose ’em that way.” He exhales in a dejected way. “Let’s hope it’s only the Beavers trailing us, not the entire zombie gang.”

  I know immediately what he means. A shiver creeps down my spine. If the Beavers can track us by scent, so can that group of infected from the country club. Cole and I might be able to take on two infected rednecks, but a herd of fifty? We won’t last five minutes.

  …

  I can’t believe this girl. Acting like we’re out for a Sunday stroll—joking around, messing with her phone, chatting about her science paper and not paying a damn bit of attention where she’s walking.

  And then she’s got the nerve to act like I’m the one being a jerk—when all I’m trying to do is keep her hind-end alive.

  Smelling us. The damn zombies are smelling us.

  Does Ava know what this means? Does she have a clue? Every step we take—every single step—leaves a trace. It ain’t only the Beavers. Or them zombies from the country club. Any infected who stumbles across our tracks is gonna turn on the spot and start following our scent. By now, we might have hundreds of those things on our tail.

  “The water might be shallow here,” Ava says out of the blue.

  “Huh?”

  “Well, shouldn’t we walk in the river for a while? To get rid of our scent? Take off our shoes, roll up our pants…”

  My brain swirls. I ain’t sure if I’m pissed ’cause she thought of the river before I did, or if I’m sort of impressed. Maybe both.

  “Uh, yeah.” I stoop to unlace my work boots, trying to hide my face.

  Okay. So maybe this girl’s not a total dipshidiot. What’d she say? 2000 on the SAT? Twenty points above my score. We ease through a mess of rocks and old weeds, stopping at the frosty edge of the river.

  I’ve just stepped out of my left shoe when Ava’s phone makes a sudden noise like a doorbell, scaring the absolute crap outta me. I jump upright.

  “A text!” She clutches the phone with both hands. “From Mom!”

  My heart thumps even faster. Her parents were in town. Maybe they’re with other people. Maybe my dad and Jay are there. I hobble over on my one boot, trying to get close enough to see the screen.

  Her voice shakes as she starts reading. “Ava, g-got your message, thank God you’re okay. Your phone not picking up. Dad and I safe at Glenview Army reserve center. Soldiers won’t let us leave. Trying to sneak out to get you.”

  “No!” Ava screams, startling me. “That’s the worst idea ever!”

  Her words surprise me. Stun me, in fact. I expected her to jump up and down with joy. I expected her to scream, “Yay! Mommy and Daddy are going to rescue me!”

  I make a quick study of her face. “You don’t want them to come for you?”

  She ignores my question. “What is this army-center place?”

  “It’s the training facility for local reserve soldiers.” I concentrate hard, trying to remember details of the brick structure in the heart of downtown. “Big building. Sturdy. I see army reservists there sometimes. Jogging…and practicing with their weapons.”

  “Weapons,” she says firmly. “And soldiers.” Her face resumes one of those calm, stoic expressions; I’ve already realized this look means she’s trying to master her emotions. “It’s settled then. My parents need to stay in town. Where it’s safe.” She stares at me, her brown eyes intense and stubborn. “There are hundreds of infected people in these woods. I don’t want my mom and dad to get killed for me.”

  My mouth starts speaking before my brain has a chance to catch up. “It’s the same with my dad and brother. I ain’t sure if they’re still hunting—maybe they don’t have a clue about all this zombie crap. But if they know, they’ll try to find me. They’ve gotta be here—along this river, or…or nearby. I need to find ’em before they go home for me. Before they meet what’s back there.” I gesture behind us, toward the Beavers and the pack of infected.

  “Yes, yes.” Her gaze bores into mine. “So you get what I’m saying.”

  At that moment, something clicks inside me. Ava and I might not like each other, but we do understand one another.

  Her fingers swipe the phone screen. “I must have service here. Maybe I can finally talk to my parents.”

  She puts the phone to her ear, just as it lets out a loud beep! beep! She checks the screen. “Connect phone charger? No! No!”

  “Turn it off!” I order. “Save it!”

  “No, I know this phone. It won’t come back on.”

  Beep! Beep!

  “Turn it off,” I repeat. I’m panicked at the thought of losing our last link to the outside world.

  “Shut up! I know my phone. It’ll do one last text if I hurry, but you’ve got to be quiet and let me think.”

  Beep! Beep!

  Mom, stay put, she texts. Coming to you. She turns to me. “Are you sure about the three days?”

  I calculate quickly. She’s a fast runner when she’s spooked, but a crappy hiker overall. Slow. Clumsy. Ten miles a day might be optimistic.

  “Three, maybe four days to Glenview. Not sure.”

  Be there in under five days, she texts. Phone dead. If you see Cole’s family, tell them stay put.”

  She hesitates. Bites her lip. I love you and Dad—forever.

  She takes a deep breath. Punches what must be the send button.

  Beep! Beep!

  “Come on you piece of crap,” she fumes, “send the damn message.”

  Beep! Beep!

  I move to look over her shoulder. The screen stays dim.

  “Please send,” she murmurs. “Please, please, please.”

  The screen goes pitch-dark.

  Nothing.

  Then a brief flash—dark words against a pale background.
>
  “It sent,” she says, her words coated with relief. “The message sent.”

  …

  Three days. If I can live through the next three days, I might see my parents again.

  The river gurgles beside me, infusing me with a new feeling: hope. I follow its flow with my eyes, until the current disappears in a misty tangle of horizon and trees. I just have to keep walking along it for three days. And avoid the infected. And stay away from the bugs. Then I’ll be someplace safe—with my family.

  I tear off my sneakers. “Let’s get in the water, Cole.” I’m trying to hurry, not wanting to be the one slowing us down.

  Seventy-two hours. I can do this. I won’t think about all the terrible things that could happen in those hours.

  A barefoot stroll through the river sounds easy. In reality, it’s more like plunging my feet into a snowbank. A thousand icy needles prick my skin. Within seconds, I stop feeling my toes altogether. Slick rocks coat the riverbed, making it hard to stay upright. This is nothing like walking in the ocean at home.

  “Now, take it easy,” Cole says, stepping into the water beside me. His voice soothes me, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. “Slow down. You don’t want to fall in.”

  I swallow against my rattling teeth. “You’re right. Hypothermia would not be a good look for me.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I said, you’re right, hypo—”

  He grins.

  “Holy crap, Cole! Are you actually joking around with me?”

  He doesn’t respond, just keeps trudging through the current, a crooked smile tilting his mouth.

  A sudden burst of warmth spreads in my chest. What happened to Banjo Boy? Why the sudden mood shift? Did I finally do something to thaw his frigid personality? Something in the last few minutes? Something with the phone?

  He glances over, his eyes still crinkled at the corners. He’d be an incredibly hot guy if he smiled more. And, you know, got a new wardrobe.

  “Something puzzles me,” I say, trying to ignore the shivers now shaking my shoulders. “You country people and all this camo. What exactly are you hiding from?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Um. Zombies, I reckon. And bears.”

  I actually laugh. “Zombies and bears. Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

  “Hey, I thought you didn’t use that word—the zombie word,” Cole teases.

  I laugh again. “Last night, with the Beavers, I suddenly realized it doesn’t matter what I call them, they’re still going to try to kill me.”

  He nods. “Yeah, a bunch of brain-dead cannibals don’t care whether you use the PC term to describe their affliction.”

  I try to laugh once more, but this time it sounds numb. Almost as numb as my toes. I’m getting really cold, really fast. I’m amazed how quickly my legs have turned to lifeless stumps. My waterlogged pants billow around my knees, weighing me down.

  “Damn,” Cole swears. “I’m colder than a witch’s left butt cheek. I bet the temp’s dipped into the twenties.” He checks the sky. “And the sun won’t burn it off this afternoon. You can feel it in the air pressure. See it in the clouds.”

  Maybe he can, but I sure can’t. When it comes to weather predictions, all I can do is tap the Weather Channel app on my phone. Presto! A weather forecast.

  Cole keeps talking—about the texture of the sky and how we might get snow tomorrow, but I’m losing the ability to focus. All that matters are my Popsicle feet. My legs have lost connection to my brain. I’m dying to get out of this water.

  You can’t quit. Cole will call you a wimp. He won’t ever smile at you like that again. And it’ll just take longer to reach Mom and Dad.

  I force myself to take one more step. And another. My vision tunnels on the murky river. Nothing exists beyond my ability to put one foot in front of another.

  My legs aren’t stumps. They’re logs. I have to drag them along the riverbed to take a simple step.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” Cole says. “Let’s get out. Before we lose toes.”

  Bliss. His words are bliss.

  “Well, if you need to,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m fine if you want to keep going.”

  “Girl, you are so full of crap,” he snickers.

  I half walk, half stumble behind him toward shore. Fifteen feet away, the muddy trail looks like heaven. My legs sputter into motion, knowing it’s only seconds until we’re back on dry land.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Cole says beside me, “slow down or you’ll end up—”

  But I miss the last of his warning. My foot skims a boulder, green with moss. And then I’m completely underwater.

  Chapter Seven

  I resurface, coughing and spluttering, pinwheeling my arms, now weighted with my mom’s sodden jacket. Heavy, gray sky looms above me, tilting as I fight to regain my balance. One word cycles through my brain: hypothermia.

  I scrabble up the bank on all fours, my fingernails digging dirt and frost.

  Cole rushes up beside me. “Take off your jacket. Before it freezes to your skin.”

  Freezes to my skin? I yank off the coat as the wind kicks up. A million small knives slice my chilled arms.

  He searches the ground. “Nothing but dadgum pine needles.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. My brain struggles to latch on to his words, but I’m so cold. Beyond cold. Icebound.

  “Over here.” He jerks me away from the river, rushing me to a small stand of birches. White trunks shimmer like ghosts against the dark pines. “Sit.”

  I practically collapse to the forest floor and pull my knees to my chest, searching for warmth. Cole starts piling leaves on top of me. It takes only seconds to realize the leaves are dry and block the wind.

  “I’m sorry,” I chatter through rattling teeth. “I shouldn’t have rushed up the bank like that.”

  “Just concentrate on staying under these leaves.” Cole is all business. “Take off your clothes so I can wring out the water.”

  I can’t even summon the energy to tease Cole about getting me naked.

  He hurries to collect armloads of leaves, piling them high around me. I don’t complain about the dirt and grit, or that I’ll have pieces of leaf stuck to me for the next three days. And even more surprisingly, I don’t worry about what sorts of bugs might be lurking in the leaves. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting warm.

  Struggling out of my pants and tee, I shiver, half naked in my bra and underwear, and try desperately to breathe around the enormous lump forming in my throat.

  I can’t believe I fell in the water. I’m such an idiot. What did Cole say? A talent for screwing things up.

  Sudden tears spill down my cheeks, warm against my chilled skin. All the fear and frustration of the last twenty-four hours threatens to boil over. “I’m a c-complete liability,” I sputter, wiping the tears before he sees them. “You should have left me at my house. You should leave me now. I’m only slowing you down.”

  “I ain’t leaving you, so shut up.” Cole has successfully buried me in leaves to my neck.

  I shove my bundle of muddy clothes through the pile. “You’ll get to Glenview faster on your own. Send some of those soldiers back for me.”

  For a full ten seconds, I think he’s going to agree. Take me up on my offer and dash into the woods, never to be seen again. There’s nothing to keep him here—he doesn’t know me, doesn’t owe me anything.

  Cole opens his mouth, clamps it shut again, and gives his head a quick, terse shake. I understand without words. He’d like nothing more than to be rid of me, but he’s not that type of person. He’ll see this through. It’s got nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his personal code of honor or some crap like that.

  An explosion of shudders racks my body. “I w-wish we had a fire,” I stammer, fighting back more tears.

  “If only we had some matches.” It’s the same line I used yesterday, but there’s no sarcasm today. Only panic.

 
His alarm cuts through my pity party. Should I be worried? Is hypothermia a real possibility?

  He wrings out my yoga pants, twisting them into a giant cord, then moves to drape them over a branch.

  “No, just give them back,” I sputter through my chattering teeth. “I’ll wear the wet clothes while we walk. We can’t linger. We’ll lose our lead.”

  He thrusts a hand through his dark hair. “I know, I know. But I reckon it’s twenty-five degrees out here. Less with the wind chill. You can’t walk around in wet clothes.”

  “I have to.”

  I wriggle into my pants, trying to stay covered as I move. I slide socks and shoes on my iced feet. Still no feeling in my toes. Fear bubbles up again. Can I walk on frozen feet? Am I going to lose my toes?

  Pull yourself together, Ava.

  I wipe tears away with a gritty hand, hoping Cole will think river water is dripping from my hair to my face.

  Cole tosses my jacket on the leaf pile and starts wringing out my tee.

  To our left, behind the pines, a branch snaps with loud clarity. My head swivels toward it.

  “Probably a squirrel,” Cole says, but his voice stays low.

  “It sounded heavier. Maybe a deer?” I try to ignore the spike in my heart rate.

  “Squirrels make more noise than deer. Deer are quiet.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the pines.

  Another branch snaps, closer this time. And in the opposite direction—between us and the river.

  I gesture frantically for my shirt. If something’s going down, I don’t want to face it undressed. “Hurry.”

  “Shhh.” Cole turns to the woods behind me.

  At that instant, noise everywhere. Breaking branches. Voices. Footsteps.

  I burst from the leaf pile, scrambling for my shoes, my jacket—no longer caring if I have to run half naked all the way to Glenview.

  That’s when we hear it. “Rawr.”

  Another voice joins in. Closer. Upriver. “Rawwr.”

  A chorus, echoing all around us. “Rawrrrrr.”

  My eyes scan the pines, searching. My ears are filled with groans. There’s nowhere to run.

  “No, no, no,” I moan, moving close to Cole.

  Pine trees rustle and shift. The infected appear in every direction—ringing us in, surrounding us completely.