Dead Over Heels

by Alison Kemper

  My stomach growls as loud as the bear. Hunger drowns out my guilty feelings about the hiker.

  “Anything in there?” I ask anxiously trying to see into the backpack.

  Cole shuffles through the bag.

  It’ll be nothing. I’m sure of it. A complete waste of time. If there was food, the bear would’ve found it.

  “Jackpot.” Cole tosses me a granola bar.

  My fingers shake. “We can split it.”

  “No, got another one.” He pulls a second bar from the bag. We rip open the packs. The smell of cinnamon is enough to make me drool all over my first bite. The granola bar is manna from heaven. Peanuts and raisins and sugar.

  “So good,” I mumble. “And I hate raisins.”

  He nods. “Best granola bar ever. And I hate raisins, too.” Cole continues rummaging through the knapsack. “Cooking pans…spork…Ohmygod. Check this out!”

  “Did you just say ‘ohmygod’?”

  But Cole ignores me. He holds up several flat blue packs. “MREs,” he says in awed voice.

  “That sounds like a standardized test,” I say. “In English?”

  “MRE. Meals ready to eat. Beef stew, lasagna. There’s five here.”

  I eye the flat pouches. “That’s food?”

  “Yep. Or I guess MRE is more of a military term. This is some fancy hiking variety.” He studies the blue pack. “It’s all freeze-dried. We just need to boil some water, and we got a meal.”

  “Great, if only we had some—”

  He cuts me off, holding up a pack of matches.

  Now I’m seriously excited. “Matches! We can have a fire!”

  Warm, oh God, I can finally be warm again.

  Cole slides the book open. “Only four left.”

  I whistle. “That’s close, but probably enough to get a fire going, right?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem—as long as they didn’t get wet.” He digs farther and stops suddenly, then looks up at me, his eyes wide.

  “What is it? What’d you find?”

  Gently, gingerly, Cole pulls an object free from deep within the pack. No doubt it’s something precious and valuable. A weapon? A charged cell phone? A miracle antivenom cure?

  Cole holds up the small red-and-white envelope.

  We stare in disbelief for a full five seconds.

  Then we say in unison, “Hot cocoa mix.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Our trail turns south, slanting downhill as Ava and I reach the river and face the final run toward Glenview. I should feel jubilant, triumphant, but that would be stupid—the area ahead of us—the most populated area we’ve been through yet—will also be the most dangerous. These last fifteen miles we gotta get through fast. Or we won’t get through at all.

  Sunset is drawing close now. Should we try to push through in the dark? In spite of our run-in with the Beavers at the deer stand, I still reckon it’s better to hide than face monsters I can’t see.

  On top of that, Ava is obviously exhausted from the hiking and the allergy attack and the lack of food. She had me worried at the cave—when she broke down. I started to wonder if she’d make it to Glenview. Shoulda known she’d pull out of it. That she’d tap into that inner strength of hers. But still—I’m thinking we better stop and sleep tonight, knock out the last leg tomorrow in the daylight. And I hate to admit it, but I’m slap wore out.

  When was the last time I slept? In the pin oak?

  “Lord God, but this has been the longest day ever,” I say, as we finally reach the river.

  “I miss my bed,” Ava says.

  “This’ll sound crazy,” I tell her, “but I miss my banjo.”

  “I heard you play a couple times. While you worked in our yard. Sounded pretty good. Not that I know anything about banjos.”

  “I thought you hated my music.”

  She gives a mild shrug. “Keeps the bears away.”

  “You feeling any better?” I ask.

  She glances up, appearing defensive, and then registers the genuine concern on my face.

  Something in her expression loosens. “Sorry I cried,” she says. “It was just, you know, stress from the last few days. And then, well…I hate the idea of you tromping through the Zombie National Forest for an extended period. You know, on your own and everything.” Now she’s the one who’s genuinely concerned. “I’m holding out hope we find your family before we get to Glenview.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “That you won’t have to leave.”

  I fight to keep my tone even. “Probably a slim chance I’ll ever see them again.” I try to sound tough, but she sees right through me.

  “I really hope we find them,” she repeats.

  “I hate to admit this, but I’m a little worried we will.” My head droops and I stare at the ground. “But they might not look like my family anymore.”

  “Don’t talk like that!”

  I swallow hard. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. If that’s the case, then at least I’ll know what’s happened. If they’ve changed. If they’ve been ea—” I take a deep breath. “If they’re dead. I want to know that, too.”

  “Hey, how about some optimism?” she asks. “We’re almost there, right?”

  I nod, finally able to raise my head.

  “There’s a chance they’re still hunting,” she continues. “Maybe they were so deep in the forest they didn’t even realize what’s happening. And I bet no one knows these woods as well as your dad and brother. They might be waiting for us around this corner.” She glances up, almost like she can see them beyond the rise.

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  A sudden gust of wind breaks the quiet. It lifts her fair hair, blowing it away from her face. She appears hopeful for the first time in days.

  “Hey, Ava,” I say, as her eyes level back on me. “Thanks for sticking with me.”

  Her gaze is so strong, so direct, my neck begins to burn.

  “Likewise,” she whispers.

  I suddenly notice that she’s favoring one leg.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Just a blister. I hate to be such a wimp.”

  “You’re not a wimp.”

  I pause for a heartbeat, then risk moving closer. I put an arm around her side, supporting her, just slightly. It feels so damned good to touch her again.

  “What?” she jokes, “Aren’t you gonna tell me to pick up my feet or move my ass or—”

  Ava stops short. I freeze, adrenaline kicking my senses on high alert. But the trees, river, path—everything’s clear.

  “Over there.” She bobs her head at the river.

  Ahead of us, where the trail dips lower to carry our path into the valley, the river drops in a sudden plunge of three or four stories. White water swirls and eddies downriver. Spray rises above the rapids like bath mist.

  “Oh,” I say. “A waterfall.”

  “No, up here.” She points to spot in the center of the river, about thirty yards from us. “Above the waterfall.”

  And then I glimpse something through the drizzly haze. An island. Well, maybe “island” is too strong a word. A hundred years ago, seeds and dirt must have got trapped in the rocks above the falls. Now, a single pine grows in the middle of the river, towering over a patch of earth maybe fifteen by twenty feet wide. Rocks frame either side, bordering the top of the rapids. Not an island, but definitely a piece of land. A haven.

  “If we could get out there,” Ava says excitedly, “we’d be safe for a while. We could build a fire. And boil water.”

  I nod, catching on. “And make food.”

  “And eat food.”

  She gives me one of those big open smiles. We’re thinking the same thing. We can rest. Let down our guard. Face these last fifteen miles tomorrow.

  Her grin fades. “Only one problem: how to get to there. That current’s rough, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to tumble over those rapids.”

  I study the rushing water. “I’ve got a plan.”

  …

&
nbsp; Cole’s plan is fairly simple. We approach the island from upstream—where we’re standing, where the water remains somewhat calm. He uses vines to braid a rope that’ll keep us from going over the falls. Something I would’ve never thought of.

  His fingers knot the vine in an easy, confident way—like he’s done this a gazillion times. My mind flashes back to the day I met him—how his hands were grimy from soot and hard work. I’d been so relieved when he didn’t offer to shake my hand.

  Now I’d give anything to feel those rough hands on my skin again.

  Leaving. He’s leaving. No point in getting closer, Ava.

  He gauges the distance from the bank to the island, checking if his rope’s long enough. His jaw sets in concentration. And I realize it’s too late to warn myself against falling for him. I already feel so close to Cole.

  He ties one end of the vines to a poplar near the shore—if the current gets too strong, the rope will keep him from plummeting over the rapids. Hopefully.

  Together, we transfer everything in two piles: stuff like cooking pans that can get wet, and stuff that can’t, like the sleeping bag and matches.

  I pull the empty EpiPen container from my purse and snatch the matchbook from the “dry pile,” folding it so it fits entirely inside the canister. “Ta-dah,” I announce. “Waterproof container.”

  “Pretty smart.” Cole removes his jacket and socks, adds them to the dry bundle. “You take the things that can get wet.” He gestures at the sleeping bag. “I’ll do my best to balance this stuff on my head, keep it from getting soaked.” In the center, inside everything else, he wraps our precious matches.

  “When you get ready to come over,” he tells me, “take off your jacket and socks. Carry them above the waterline. That way you’ll have something dry to put on after you get to the island.”

  Behind him, the rapids roar ominously.

  I nod, already remembering the pain of icy water. But I make myself a promise: I’ll go slowly this time. I won’t fall.

  “I can see dead wood from here,” I tell Cole. “From the pine tree.”

  He gives me a confident smile. “We’ll build a fire. We’ll make that hot cocoa.”

  In the fading autumn twilight, I watch his hands expertly tie knots around his own waist. I can’t believe I ever thought his hands were ugly. Those hands that have saved my life in so many ways. My eyes drift up his arms, his shoulders, his face.

  God, how could I have ever thought anything about him was ugly?

  “What are you staring at?”

  “You,” I say. “You’re kind of handsome, you know.”

  I freeze, my pulse hammering. Ohmygod. I can’t believe I said that! The words sort of tumbled out of my mouth before I realized it. Probably something to do with my terrible fear he’s about to go over the edge of a waterfall.

  “I’m not handsome,” he mutters, and now it’s his turn to blush. Head down, eyes on the river, he moves toward the bank.

  He hesitates at the waterline. Then turns and strides back to me.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “This,” he says.

  And he’s kissing me.

  Kissing. Me.

  There’s nothing tentative about it. His hands reach for me, cradling my face. The weight of his body presses me against the poplar, the knot of the rope digging into my back.

  For a second I’m too stunned to respond. Then my brain kicks in—or my hormones—and I remember to kiss him back. My lips part and he deepens the kiss, giving up all pretense of being polite. His mouth is strong, rough, raw.

  We break apart. His face is a mask of shock and surprise. I have a feeling I’m wearing the same expression.

  Cole exhales, long and ragged. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to, since, I don’t know when. It feels like a long time. I know it’s just been a few days, but it feels like a long time.”

  I understand. After everything we’ve been through together, it’s like time slowed down—years crammed into endless, scary long hours. No matter what happens after this, I’m bound to Cole in a way nothing could ever undo.

  Blood sings through my veins. I shift back toward him. This time, I kiss Cole. He presses me harder against the tree. Almost like he’s fighting against me, wanting to be in charge of the kiss—the same way he wants to be in charge of everything else. I smile against his mouth, letting him take over. Letting him press his body along the length of mine. Letting him taste me and touch every curve with those strong hands. I can only thread my fingers through his soft hair as the kiss carries me into dizziness.

  He pulls away suddenly. The kiss ends as abruptly as it started. “I’ve…damn…Ava. I’ve got to stop.” Silver fire burns in his eyes.

  I’m smiling like crazy. The kiss got to Cole as much as it got to me.

  He shakes his head. Laughs once. “Damn,” he repeats.

  “Getting distracted?” I tease.

  “Something like that.” He grins. “But at least I’ll be warm when I get in the water.”

  His words dissolve our smiles. We both glance over at the rapids. Darkness is falling fast.

  “If we’re going to that island tonight,” Cole says, “It’s now or never.”

  I pull him back to me, giving him a stern stare. “Don’t go over those falls, Cole. I can’t do the rest of this without you.”

  “Yes, you can, Ava. Don’t ever say that.” His face is fierce, his eyes flashing. “Anything happens to me, you just go on. Follow the river. Keep walking and get to your family. Don’t let nothing stop you.”

  He brushes rough fingertips against my cheek. I can tell we’re both fighting the urge to kiss again. He heaves a deep sigh and pulls away, his face all business. The moment he stops touching me, my body feels his absence.

  Cole moves toward the shore and swears loudly as he takes his first step in the river.

  My brain jerks back to reality. I cringe, knowing my turn is next.

  Hot cocoa, I remind myself. Don’t think about the cold. Think about how good that cocoa’s going to taste.

  But the hot chocolate has lost its appeal. All I can think about is kissing Cole again. About what might happen if we kiss some more.

  Step by careful step, Cole picks his way to the island, moving closer to the rapids, holding the sleeping bag high. It’s slow-going, and he slips a few times, taking long seconds to reestablish his sense of balance. By the time he reaches the middle of the river, he’s up to his neck in icy water. I stand at the water’s edge, choking on my thudding heart. Just when I’m sure he’s about to lose his footing and plunge over the falls, Cole steps onto higher ground and hoists himself onto the little slice of land. He gives me the thumbs-up.

  Relief for a few moments. And then it’s my turn.

  I remove my socks and jacket while Cole ties his end of the rope to the pine tree. Fingers shaking, I loosen his knots on the poplar and transfer the vines to my waist. My knots don’t look nearly as professional or sturdy as Cole’s. If I lose my balance, I’m probably toast—over the waterfall for me.

  I stare down at the murky water. I so do not want to do this.

  Hot cocoa, I tell myself, and more kissing. I plunge my foot in the current.

  For a few seconds, I’m okay. Then the water seeps through my shoes. Needles. A thousand needles. There’s no cure except to keep moving. If I thought my body went numb during the sleet storm, I was mistaken. I didn’t know the meaning of numb. I want to move slowly like Cole did, to take my time and keep my balance. But I also want the hell out of this water. I pump my legs rapidly, cursing as the water reaches my thighs.

  The current is stronger than I imagined, tugging and drawing at me as I slog to the middle of the river. From here, the drop over the falls appears even more substantial. I doubt anyone could survive that kind of plunge.

  I force myself to be calm, to think of that moment on the trail when Cole’s lips found mine.

  And I realize I’m still moving.
That I’ve stopped thinking about the cold or the rocks or the rapids, just Cole and the possibility he might kiss me again. I force myself to go slowly and let instinct take over.

  Twilight falls around me, making the water dark. Glancing up, I find I’m only ten feet from the shore. I smile at Cole and move forward.

  No. I will not rush. I will not fall.

  I force myself to test the stability of each foothold before I shift my balance. Easy, easy.

  My body is screaming: Get out of this cold water right freaking now!

  Easy, easy.

  The current grows stronger as I near the rapids. Crap, I could really use my arms for balance. I take a risk and lob my jacket across the current toward the shore. I don’t even watch where it lands.

  I’m so close to the rapids now, the sound of thousands of gallons of water pounds in my ears. Slow step and another.

  And then I’m heaving myself onto the island.

  “I made it!” I mean to sound triumphant, but it comes out more like a gasp of disbelief.

  “Damn, girl.” Cole laughs in a way like this is definitely not funny. “I thought that current might wipe you out again.”

  Water streams from my sodden clothes. I’m shivering so badly, my teeth might shatter against each other.

  But I won’t show him I’m scared. “Did my jacket get wet?” I ask, trying to sound tough.

  He laughs, loud and open. He points several feet away where my jacket rests on dry ground. “I gotta say—you do a good job thinking on your feet.” His teeth chatter as he speaks.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now put your jacket on and get in the sleeping bag. Before you freeze.”

  “No,” I argue, “I see you over there shivering in your wet clothes. I’m going to help you get the fire started.”

  Cole shakes his head. Mutters something that might be “stubborn as hell,” and starts collecting kindling.

  Sticks and pine needles cover the center of the island, still damp from the sleet storm and constant mist of the waterfall. I dig down a few inches and grab any dryish branches I can find. Cole’s already made a ring of stones. I dump everything beside it. By the lamp of the rising moon, I break sticks while Cole shreds pine needles and a tissue from my purse. I haul over two large branches to dry our clothes on.