Dead Over Heels

by Alison Kemper

  “What do we do?” I squeak out.

  “The hell if I know.”

  Hiker-zombie flexes his fingers a few times, like he’s imagining our skin in his hands.

  I whip my head in the other direction. The bear appraises us, a string of drool dangling from his enormous jaws. A low growl thrums in the back of his throat. He might be a teensy bit upset that three people have wandered into his territory. Or maybe he’s just mad because the zombie is trying to steal his snack.

  Behind me, the hiker lets out a growl of his own.

  “Okay,” Cole says, stepping sideways, “let’s move this way instead.”

  But our attackers simply change trajectory. They’re only feet away now.

  Cole tries to push me behind him.

  “Stop doing that,” I hiss, batting away his arms. “Every time there’s danger, you push me behind you. I can help. I can fight.”

  “Fine,” he mutters. “You take the bear. I’ll take the zombie.”

  Take the bear? On my own? Is he kidding?

  For a few seconds, the four of us simply stare, waiting for someone to make the first move. Ultimately, it’s too much excitement for the bear. Three humans in his lair. He charges, his enormous legs making the ground shudder.

  The zombie snaps his teeth at the air, ready for his next meal to fall right in his grasp. He and the bear lunge forward.

  “Dive!” Cole yells.

  I have no idea which direction he’s talking about, so it’s a good thing he loops an arm around me and pulls me sideways. My body is cushioned by the jacket as we tumble into a bed of ferns and brambles.

  Thunk. My head slams Cole’s.

  “Ow!” we say in unison.

  A few yards away, hiker-zombie and the bear collide with an ungodly yowl. Brute strength against superhuman strength. With one swipe, the bear rips the hiker’s half-rotten face to bloodied shreds.

  “Rawr!” The hiker responds by baring his teeth, flashing his jaws and chomping an enormous chunk from the bear’s shoulder.

  “Grrrrr!” The bear throws his weight at the zombie, knocking him to the ground.

  The zombie holds him off—his hands braced against the bear’s chest. It’s one thing to hear news reports about superhuman strength, and another to see a two-hundred-pound hiker use his bare hands to push away a five-hundred-pound animal.

  Beside me, Cole gapes. “I ain’t sticking around to find out who wins!”

  We inch away, staying low, hoping to remain unnoticed.

  “Stand up real slow,” Cole mutters, his gaze glued to the battle. “Nice and easy.”

  As we rise, I realize we’re clutching each other’s hands. Like we always do when things attack us.

  Eyes fixed on the bear and hiker, we take careful, quiet steps out of the clearing into the cover of the forest.

  “I’m gonna keep watching our friends,” Cole whispers. “But I want you to check behind us. If there’s one zombie, there’s gotta be another one who infected him.”

  I squeeze Cole’s hand in fear, realizing the simple truth of his words.

  Behind me, the leafless trees allow me to scan a few yards in every direction.

  “Nothing,” I say, breathlessly. “There’s nothing.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to run out of here and straight into Bethany.”

  The woods are brown and quiet.

  “No,” I gasp. “No one.”

  The bear lets out an enormous yelp. I clutch Cole’s hand harder.

  “You…are…breaking…my…fingers,” he mutters.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t manage to loosen my grip.

  Blood coats both the bear and zombie. It’s like one of those awful B monster movies. Godzilla versus Mothra.

  “Go!” Cole yells. And we’re sprinting through the forest. The rawrs and growls shake the trees behind us.

  And then I discover why I couldn’t see anything behind us: we’ve bolted directly toward an embankment. I arch my back, trying to stop short. For an instant, our bodies balance precariously on the ledge. Cole regains his footing, but I’ve still got his hand—and way too much momentum.

  “Dammit!” he yells as I yank him forward.

  The incline is slick with pine needles. I manage to keep upright for a few seconds, tripping my way down the steep hill, and then I’m cartwheeling. Cole’s hand rips from mine.

  Smack! The back of my head slams a rock. The sky spins above me. Then the ground. Then the sky. The whole process repeats. Faster. I close my eyes from the flying leaves and dirt.

  Bam. I’m on my butt at the bottom of the hill.

  Bam. Cole lands beside me.

  “Sonofabitch,” I say simply.

  We’re facing each other. Leaves and pine needles stick to Cole’s hair. He spits out a twig. “Random fact,” he says. “The smell of food attracts bears.”

  “And zombies,” I add, looking up at the cliff we just tumbled off.

  I don’t know if it’s stress or lack of food or the fact we just escaped being eaten, but I start laughing. Like crazy, full-blown guffaws.

  I figure Cole will slap me at any second. Instead, he starts laughing, too.

  My brain tries to wrap around that one.

  “A bear!” Cole says, snickering like a crazy person.

  Tears stream down my face. “You told the bear ‘shoo’!”

  “Oh, Lordy, I did, didn’t I?” Cole clutches his stomach.

  His laugh is easy and full-throated—husky like his voice. It dawns on me that Banjo Boy might be fun to hang out with under different circumstances.

  “Your hair’s full of pine needles.” I giggle, reaching over to pick them out. His hair is so soft I have to fight the urge to run my fingers through it.

  “Uh-oh,” Cole says, suddenly sober. He points at my waist. Somehow, the tumble down the cliff screwed up my mom’s jacket. Now the entire zipper gapes open, showing my black tee underneath.

  “Crap.” I stand and fiddle with the zipper. This is bad. I’m already freezing half the time and an open jacket will just exacerbate matters. “It’s no use,” I say after a few minutes. “Completely busted.”

  “Um, Ava.” Cole stands up beside me. “I think you’re cut.” He reaches for my shoulder, spinning me gently so he can check the wound.

  I touch the back of my neck and my fingers come away with blood. But not much. “Must’ve smacked a rock on the way down that cliff.”

  “It ain’t bad.” Cole frowns. “Where’s your antiseptic stuff?”

  I hunt in my purse for the bottle of Bath & Body Works antibac gel.

  “Let me do it,” Cole offers. “You can’t even see it.”

  I decide not to mention the cut burns something fierce—I can feel exactly where it is.

  I angle my back toward him. Gently, he frees my hair from the elastic, pulling strands away from my neck. The motion makes me shiver. A quick sting of antiseptic and then the warmth of his touch. His fingers are calloused from hard work, so rough and gentle at the same time that gooseflesh spreads across my skin.

  “You cold?” he asks.

  I turn to face him again. “Yes,” I lie.

  “Well, c’mere then.”

  And he shocks the hell out of me, taking me in his arms, wrapping me in an enormous hug. My breath catches. Now the gooseflesh is everywhere.

  “I know hugging me is the last thing you want to do,” he mutters, his voice gruff, “but at least let me warm you up.”

  The last thing I want? How could he possibly believe that?

  My cheek presses the soft cotton of his undershirt, just above his jacket zipper, his chest heating my skin. Again, the scent of woodsmoke. It’s a good smell. Comforting. Warm.

  He continues talking—nervous babbling—and it takes only a moment to realize this is just as disconcerting for him. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, his words rushed. “That touching me ain’t the last thing you’d want. Maybe second to last, or third to last, but you’re willing to e
ndure it if—”

  I slide my arms around him. Up and under his jacket.

  Now it’s his turn to catch his breath.

  Sure, his shirt is between my hands and his skin, but somehow this feels intimate. He exhales, losing his train of thought. Or his power of speech.

  And then he hugs me tighter, burying his face in my hair.

  For a moment, everything falls away. The bear, the zombies, the allergy attack, the zip line. There is no danger in the circle of his arms.

  “Cole,” I ask, my voice shaking, “do you honestly think I hate you? H-have I been that mean?”

  “Not hate. Just dislike. I’m a dumb redneck and a know-it-all and my singing sucks.” His voice sounds unsteady. It matches how I feel.

  “No.” I shake my head against his shirt, my face buried in the cotton. “You’re none of those things. Well, the singing does suck, but you’re definitely not dumb. I’d be dead now if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Thanks,” he says softly.

  “A bear,” I say into his chest. “We just got attacked by a freaking bear.”

  “And another zombie,” he adds.

  “And then we fell off a cliff.” I snort in amazement. “But we made it through. We’re still alive.”

  “We’ll keep making it through, Ava. We’ll get to Glenview.”

  I nod against his chest, wanting so much to believe him. I hug harder. He responds by clutching me tighter.

  I have no idea how long we stand there, hanging on to each other for dear life. Long enough for my hands to stop shaking.

  A nearby rustle in the leaves makes me startle.

  “Shh,” he whispers, “it’s just rain. Raindrops hitting leaves.”

  I laugh. “Never thought I’d be so happy to hear rain.”

  The mood broken, we pull apart—but even after he moves away, I somehow feel a little less alone in the world.

  …

  “Get the garbage bags out,” I tell Ava as the rain increases. “We’ll use ’em as ponchos.”

  We’re at a lower altitude now, which means it’s warmer—but not by much. I ain’t crazy about the idea of getting soaked.

  I flick open my knife to cut a slit in the sealed end of each bag, then help Ava ease one over her head.

  “Keep your arms inside,” I holler over the increasing noise of the raindrops. She copies my movements, pulling the bottom edge of the bag tight and tying it in a knot from the inside.

  The rain falls harder.

  “Let’s work our way along this cliff,” I say.

  Ava jerks her head in the opposite direction. “But Glenview is that way!”

  “Check out those clouds. This storm’s gonna be a doozy. We need shelter.”

  “So let’s find shelter on the way to Glenview.”

  “But there’s a cliff here. Cliffs mean caves. C’mon, Ava. Not too far, I promise. Just till the storm passes.”

  She frowns but takes a few steps in the direction I indicated, her face tilted upward, scanning the cliff wall.

  Within minutes, my boots and pants are soaked clean through—only the trash bag and jacket keeping my torso warm. Cold rain falls so hard, I can barely see.

  My feet plod along the muddy ground, but my brain is going a million miles an hour. Bears, zombies, Ava’s underwear—but something new, too. Something important.

  We’re getting closer to Glenview. That zip line shaved a crapload of hours off our journey. If this downpour doesn’t delay us too long, and we don’t run into more trouble, we might actually reach the Army Reserve Center tomorrow night. And that means I’ve got to make a decision.

  As much as I like the idea of going to town—getting somewhere warm with food and fences and guns—what if my dad and Jay ain’t there? The soldiers won’t let Ava’s parents leave the reserve center, so why would they let me? Is there a chance I’d get stuck there?

  “No caves,” Ava yells above the downpour.

  “No caves,” I agree.

  She nods her head toward the bluff. “What about that?”

  Through the drizzle I make out a narrow, rocky shelf about twenty feet up. The cliff wall arches slightly over the ledge. “Not much cover, but at least it’s off the ground.”

  “Yeah, we’re still not far from that zombie.”

  “Or the bear. Damn, I hate to do this, but we’ll need our arms to climb up.” My fingers poke through the trash bag, making armholes in the improvised poncho. Within seconds, the rain soaks my jacket sleeves, chilling my arms and hands.

  Ava mimics my motions, freeing her arms.

  Ancient, twisted tree roots knot along the wet, bare rock. I use them as foot and handholds, my back and legs aching from the days of constant hiking. I can’t imagine how Ava’s feeling after that allergy attack. I swing my hand down to help her, but she’s definitely getting the hang of hiking and trailblazing. She pulls herself up to the narrow outcropping like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

  A stone cliff ain’t the most comfortable place to sit. Ava starts shifting boulders, trying to make a place to rest.

  “I wouldn’t mess with that,” I warn. “Great place for a copperhead nest.”

  She freezes.

  “They’d be half comatose this time of year,” I continue. “But still—I wouldn’t mess with it.”

  “Okay…putting the rock down…” She chooses a different place to sit—one a little closer to me. We stare out into the deluge.

  “Do you know where my hair tie is?” Ava tries to smooth her curls. “You took it when you put the antiseptic on my neck.”

  “Oh, sorry—must’ve dropped it.” I mumble, knowing full well the elastic band is in my pants pocket. I try not to stare at the bright curls making a halo around her face.

  We’re still just inches apart, and I have the sudden urge to bridge the distance and pull her into my arms again, to run my hands through her soft hair, to tell her how beautiful she is. I’m sick of running and being scared. I just want some comfort, some reassurance.

  Instead, I say the worst words possible. “Ava, I ain’t sure I can go with you all the way to Glenview.”

  “What?” Her gaze swivels to meet mine.

  “I’ll take you to town—in sight of the reserve center, make sure you get inside. Then I gotta turn around, come back to this damn forest. I can’t stop hunting for Dad and Jay.”

  Her face slides into a mask of shock. “But, Cole, they might be there—in Glenview. Trapped like my family.”

  “My dad wouldn’t get trapped anywhere.” I hear the pride in my words, and I know it’s true. “Him and Jay’ll keep searching. They won’t stop till they find out what’s happened to me. I gotta do the same.”

  “But…out here.” She gestures at the rainy landscape. “It’s so…God, you might die trying to find them.”

  I nod, unsure what to say.

  “It’s a crazy idea,” she whispers, placing a wet hand on my knee. “Suicide.”

  I stare into her dark eyes, cover her tiny hand with mine. “You’d do the same if our situation was reversed—if it was your family.”

  She considers this a moment. “I don’t know. I guess. But the last few days…”

  She trails off. I know what she’s trying to say. The past few days have been a nightmare—fear, confusion, exhaustion. But I can’t dwell on that—I’ll completely lose my nerve to keep going.

  “Your hand is freezing,” I say.

  She frowns and jerks her hand away, thrusting both of them in her jacket pockets—out of my reach. She’s trying to act pissed, but I can’t miss the panic crossing her face. “Fine,” she says, fighting to keep her tone steady. “We’ll go together as far as you can, and I’ll just do the rest myself.”

  “You’ll be okay without me,” I tell her. “You got the magic purse.”

  The corners of her mouth dip down. “It’s not magic.” Her sadness pierces me like a thorn.

  “Sure it is.” I reach for her pocketbook. “May I? I promise I won’t mess w
ith the allergy pills.”

  “Be my guest.” She won’t look at me, but I notice her lower lip quivering.

  I root through her bag. “This ChapStick is petroleum based. Mix it with all that lint at the bottom of your purse and you got a fire starter.”

  “If only we had some matches,” she finishes, her voice flat.

  I open a small compact. “Signal mirror. SOS, right? Three short, three long, three short.”

  “If only there was someone to signal.”

  “Oh, and here’s your very helpful phone.” I whistle, mimicking the sound of a text alert—the one that got us in so much trouble a few days ago in the tree.

  She actually cracks a small smile.

  I set the purse down, angling myself to face her. “I swear, I ain’t abandoning you. I’ll get you to Glenview.”

  “I know. It’s afterward,” she admits. “At the reserve center. How you said you’d help me find more EpiPens.” She breaks off, runs a hand over her face. “Don’t listen to me. I’m being a baby.”

  She closes her eyes. Oh, crap. Is she crying?

  She leans her head back against the rock wall, mashes her lips together.

  Does she want me to stay that bad? Bad enough to cry at the thought of losing me?

  Something inside me wrenches in two. Like my loyalty suddenly splits down the middle. Of course I want to find Dad and Jay—need to find them. But don’t I owe Ava something also? Some sort of devotion?

  No, not owe, that’s the wrong word. Being with her, it’s no longer an obligation. It’s turned into something I want. Something I need.

  Lord God almighty, have I fallen in love with this girl?

  I wish she’d open her eyes. Is she crying? Or just exhausted?

  “If you’re tired,” I say softly, “take a nap. We’re stuck here a while. We can’t move until we can see where we’re going.”

  “Okay,” she says, sounding strangely choked.

  I want her to say she’s not tired. That she doesn’t want a nap. That she wants me. That she’s upset because I’m leaving. If she just comes out and says it, I’ll tell her how I feel—that I’ll do anything to keep her safe. Anything to stay by her side.