“I’m pretending I’m making a supply run for mom at an ultra,” Carter says, turning away from the window. “Dad and I always used to run to the local drug store to get her stuff during races.” His voice drops. “Except this is the first time I’ve ever had to deal with a bullet wound.”
“She’s going to be okay,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze. “We’ll get her the things she needs.”
We finish searching the room. We find a half-used tube of Neosporin in a desk drawer—which Carter pockets—but no other first aid supplies.
“I don’t think this is Kevin’s room,” Carter says.
“We’ll find it,” I reply. “Let’s go search the others.”
As we cross the hall to the next bedroom, we hear a shout of glee from the kitchen.
“Ghirardelli brownies,” Eric crows. “These things are the best!”
Carter rolls his eyes as he enters the next room. I spot a stack of textbooks on the floor.
“Carter, look at these.” I spread the books out on the desk so we can read the titles. Emergency Response Guidebook. Paramedic: On The Front Lines Of Medicine. Paramedics Care: Principles and Practice.
“This must be Kevin’s room.” Carter hurries to the closet.
I yank open desk drawers. I find two more books and add them to the ones on the desk; those could come in handy. Just as I head to search under the bed, Carter lets out a yell of triumph.
“First aid kit!” He emerges from the closet, beaming. Clutched in his hands is a red canvas first aid kit. The price tag still dangles from the zipper.
“It doesn’t look like it’s ever been opened,” I say, returning his grin.
Carter unzips the kit, laying it open on the bed. He pulls out a folded inventory list tucked inside the interior pocket.
“Everything we need is in here,” he says, scanning the list.
“Looks like you guys scored.” Eric wanders in with two boxes of brownie mix under one arm. “Mrs. S. will be patched up in no time.”
“Did you find anything else useful in the kitchen?” I ask.
Eric shrugs. “There’s food and stuff.”
Food and stuff. I check a sigh, making a mental note to come back later to organize and inventory things.
“We should clear out these bodies,” Carter says, zipping shut the first aid kit. “Take them outside with the rest.”
Outside in the hallway, we each grab a body by the ankles and drag them toward the stairwell. I grimace at the blood we smear across the floor. It joins several other smears, leftover from the zombies we cleared out of our current residence earlier this week.
I make it a point not to look directly into the ruined face of Jennifer, who had once been a living, breathing person. Spear-wielding Jenna doesn’t let herself get caught up in memories of the dead.
3
Disposal
JENNA
The head of the dead thump against the stairs, filling the air like discordant drumbeats. My hands, gripping the dead girl’s ankles, are slick with sweat.
I have dragged exactly four bodies out of Creekside. I helped kill more than that, but I only had to dispose of four. How many more will I have to drag out before I get used to the heavy weight of a dead body?
We reach the lounge on the first floor. I pause just inside to catch my breath as Eric and Carter drag their burdens toward the exit.
“Where’s Reed?” I ask, realizing the lounge is empty except for the three of us.
Carter frowns, scanning the room. “Do you think he went outside?”
“Why would he go outside?” Eric asks, wrinkling his nose. Except to get rid of bodies, no one in Creekside has gone outside since the military slaughter.
“He went down the stairs,” I reply. “We all saw him and he’s not here.”
“We’ll look for him,” Carter says. “He couldn’t have gone far. Maybe he just needed some fresh air.”
The swinging glass front door of Creekside is mostly intact. There’s a jagged hole near the bottom corner, but overall, it came through the military attack in better shape than any other dorm entrances I’ve seen.
Outside, Humboldt University campus is eerily quiet. Between the students that evacuated before the quarantine went into effect, the hundreds that were turned into zombies, and those slaughtered by the military during the riot, we have yet to see other humans around here.
The bodies left to rot all along the street are an inescapable memory. The smell is almost enough to knock me over. It’s worse than a gym locker room, worse than the dump, worse than the time my childhood cat left a dead squirrel under our house. It’s like all three smells combined, then magnified.
I’m not sure whether to breathe through my nose or mouth. I should have thought to bring a handkerchief. I pull up the collar of my T-shirt, covering my nose.
I glance over at Carter to see how this is affecting him. His mouth is set in a hard line, the skin around his eyes pinched.
I try not to look at the bodies, but it’s impossible. I recognize some of them.
Darren from Chemistry 101. Laura from Spanish 2. Clinton from Creekside.
All killed. All gunned down.
There are soldiers mixed with the students. Some of the soldiers fell from zombies, but others were taken down by students. In the panic of the shooting, some students seized weapons from fallen soldiers. Others attacked with bats, kitchen knives, whatever they had on hand. Someone fired a rocket launcher at one of the dorm buildings, leaving half of it collapsed.
I swallow, letting myself succumb to the memories. There’s no blocking out the horror of that day. What did Carter’s mom think when she saw the carnage?
I don’t see any sign of Reed. Where could he have gone?
We add the bodies to the growing pile in the far corner of the parking lot near a gazebo, sending a dozen vultures into the sky. I avert my eyes, even though it’s impossible not to see the writhing maggots in the bodies. Sooner or later, we’re going to have to figure out what to do with all the dead, especially if we plan to stay in Creekside for the long term.
“Have you guys noticed there aren’t any guns?” Eric asks.
“What?” I frown at him.
“With the bodies,” he replies. “There are lots of dead soldiers, but no guns.”
I hadn’t noticed. I glance at the nearby pile of dead on the road. It’s a jumble of soldiers and students.
Eric is right. There are no weapons.
“You think someone came through and rounded them up?” Carter asks.
“Yeah.” Eric nods. “It’s what I would do. Maybe the military did it before they pulled out.”
“Maybe.” I try to pretend it’s no big deal, even though the absence of the weapons leaves me uneasy. Where could they have gone?
Two gunshots split the air, sending a jolt of fear through me.
Reed comes tearing around the side of a nearby dorm. “Hide!” he hisses. “We have to hide!” His eyes are wide with terror, the whites showing all the way around his irises. His skin is pale with fear. Reed sprints into the darkened alcove of Willow, a dorm in the same cluster of buildings as Creekside.
Carter grabs my hand, pulling me after Reed. Eric is right behind us.
Reed darts through the jagged opening of Willow’s front door, which was shot to pieces with bullets. He catches his shoulder on a glass shard. He never even slows, tearing his shirt free and disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Shit. There could be more zombies inside. Or possibly other people. What the hell is going on?
I hesitate outside of Willow, my eyes sweep the buildings and parking lot, looking for the source of the gunshots. All I see are bodies and abandoned cars. The only thing that moves is a paper Starbucks cup, pushed across the blacktop by an invisible wind.
“We should get inside,” Carter says. “Someone shot at Reed.”
I want to go back to Creekside, but it didn’t miss my notice that Reed ran away from our dorm, not toward it. I
nod in reluctant agreement and duck into the dark building with Carter and Eric. Inside are bodies, blood, and overturned furniture.
“Back here!” Reed gestures to us from behind an overturned sofa.
We obey, hurrying to the blood-smeared sofa. I grab Carter’s hand. He flattens himself in beside me, putting his free hand around my waist. I rest my head against his chest, breathing hard.
Eric turns toward Reed, mouth opening in question. Reed shakes his head emphatically back and forth, his message clear: be quiet.
We wait in silence. Reed’s eyes are wild, his usually perfect afro in disarray.
Seconds tick by. They stretch into minutes. When fifteen minutes has passed, I gesture to get Reed’s attention. Is it safe to move yet?
Reed hesitates.
Then I hear it. The voice.
“Where the fuck did that little weasel go?”
“I saw the others in the parking lot. He must be around here somewhere,” says a second voice.
“They could be hiding in any of these buildings.”
The two people don’t speak loudly, but in the dead quiet of Humboldt University, they may as well be shouting through a megaphone.
“Mr. Rosario will be pissed if he gets away. You know how she feels about thieves.”
“We’ll find him.”
The voices fade as the two people move away. The four of us wait in silence.
When several minutes have passed, Reed peeks over the sofa. “Out the back,” he whispers.
“There are no doors in the back,” Carter points out.
Reed shakes his head. “We have to use a window. Too risky to go out front. They could find us.”
“Who are they?” I ask. What has Reed gotten us into?
He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later.”
We follow Reed to the back of the downstairs dorm lounge. Even though I’m pissed that he put us all in danger, I don’t want to compound the situation by arguing with him now. The darkness is thick, but the smell of death is unmistakable. We find three bodies near the bathroom, all with headshots. Bullet casings crunch underfoot. From the grisly wounds on their bodies, they look to have been zombies when they were executed. I hope so.
Carter opens a busted window. Pieces of glass shake free. We slip outside.
“We have to get back to Creekside, but we have to stay out of sight,” Reed tells us, voice compressed with fear. “We don’t want those guys to know where we live. Come on.”
His fear is contagious. My skin crawls. I glance up at the dark, empty windows of Willow dorm, feeling like we’re being watched. Carter grabs my hand and squeezes it, giving me a reassuring smile.
The dorm buildings sit in a loose circle, broken up by chunks of land crowded with redwood trees. Following Reed’s lead, we race along the back of the dorms and dart through the forested areas.
The wooded parts leave me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I wish I’d brought my spear outside. I make a silent vow never again to leave Creekside without some sort of weapon, not even for a minute.
We sprint as fast as we can, making as little noise as possible. Only when we reach the back of Creekside do we double over to catch our breaths.
This short little run makes me see how out of shape I am. I vow to do something about that, too.
I glance at the minivan parked under the trees behind the dorm. Carter and I bought that van together a few months ago and named it Skip. It’s covered in a layer of grime, looking as sad and ruined as everything else out here.
“You owe us an explanation,” Carter tells Reed. “What’s going on?”
“Inside first,” Reed says. “I’ll explain after that, I promise.” He reaches for the nearest window, his hand and wrist snaking through the shattered opening.
The loud click of a gun’s safety sends a jolt of panic through me. Carter leaps forward, pressing me back against the wall as two figures emerge around the building.
“There you are,” says the foremost of the two men, leveling his gun at us. “You should have known better than to run from us.”
4
Awake
KATE
My eyes snap open from a black, dreamless sleep. I stare at the white popcorn ceiling above me, trying to figure out where I am.
Pain hits me with the force of a swinging socket wrench. It’s a head-to-toe, all-consuming ache.
There is only one thing that can make me hurt this much, and it’s not childbirth. In comparison, childbirth had been a cakewalk for me.
Running. Only a long, brutal ultramarathon can leave me feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck. Or in this case, chased by zombies and shot by my best friend.
With a soft groan, I ease myself into a sitting position. Thinking of the bullet wound on my arm makes me think of Frederico, my best friend. He died on our two-hundred-mile run from our home to Humboldt University. He died so I could reunite with my son.
Where is Carter? I look around the room. Blue curtains cover the windows. Gray carpet, spotted with lopsided stains, sits beneath my bare feet. On the other side of the small room is a six-person table and kitchenette.
Dorm room. I’m in a dorm apartment on the second floor of Creekside. I vaguely remember tottering up the stairs as Carter told me how he and his companions had cleared one of the suites and taken up residence there.
Sitting at the table, hand poised above a note pad, is a young man. He’s a handsome kid if you can see past the huge, ridiculous sideburns that conceal half his face. A joint dangles in one hand, which he stubs out when he catches me looking at it.
“Sorry, Mrs. S.” He gestures to the joint. “I only use it to stimulate my creativity. I’m not a pothead or anything.” He crosses the room, holding out a hand in introduction. “My name is Johnny. I was hiding under the kitchen sink until Carter and the others cleared this dorm room after theirs caught fire.”
I shake his hand, trying to imagine this young man folded into the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. I can’t fathom how he fit, but I’m glad he’s alive.
“You can call me Kate,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”
He plops down on the coffee table across from me, eyes intent as he rests his elbows on his knees. The way he stares at me is unnerving. I feel like a bug under a microscope.
“Mrs. S.—Kate—I’m a writer. Carter told me a little bit about your running. I want to write your story. Will you tell me about your run to Arcata?”
This kid is intense. I rise, stifling a groan as I head toward the kitchenette for a drink of water. Stiff does not begin to cover how I feel. I’m pain on two legs.
Moving is good, I remind myself, focusing on the sink piled high with dirty dishes. Moving will loosen up muscles and speed up the recovery process.
Except that my rolled ankle throbs, which makes moving hurt that much more. What I wouldn’t give for an Epsom salt bath right now.
“Kate?” Johnny trails after me.
“I need some water.” And perhaps a table to put between me and this intense kid. “Where’s Carter?”
“He’s out getting first aid supplies for you.”
I pause mid-stride, turning around to look at Johnny. “What?”
“Carter wanted to get first aid supplies for you. Don’t worry, he’s in the building. A few of our friends are with him. They should be back anytime now.”
Panic constricts my throat. I fight against it, reminding myself Carter and his friends are capable of watching each other’s backs. They survived together, cleared this dorm room, and even cleared the downstairs lounge.
“How long have they been gone?” I ask.
“Forty-five minutes or so. They should be back any minute. Don’t worry.”
I turn away, attempting to calm the unreasonable panic clenching my chest. This, unfortunately, gives me a close-up view of the sink. Not only is it piled high with dirty dishes, but there are ants crawling on the hardened lumps of food stuck to the plates and silverware.
The crowning glory is the cast iron skillet sitting on top of the pile. It looks like someone cooked chili in it. The ants are in a full frenzy on the congealed food.
The sight of the ants makes my skin itch. I hate the insidious little fuckers. Even in a world where shit’s gone sideways, I still have the energy to hate ants.
As I focus on my surroundings, I realize the mess doesn’t stop at the sink. The trash can overflows. I count three garbage bags mounded next to it, a trail of ants going into each of them.
Just because the world has ended doesn’t mean young adults have become any better at cleaning up after themselves. Apparently, I’ve left zombie-infested roadways and entered a pigsty.
I hurt way too much to form a coherent plan to deal with the disgusting mess. There has got to be a clean water glass around here somewhere.
I open a few cupboards and find a pint glass printed with the backside of a naked lady. The text across the top reads Bottoms Up.
Yep. I’m in a pigsty. A pigsty populated with college kids.
Stacked along the countertop are all matter of containers, every last one of them filled with water. Larger containers are on the floor, also filled with water.
I take a long drink, then refill the glass and take a second one. “No more running water?” I ask, gesturing to the various containers. It takes every scrap of willpower not to comment on the ants.
Johnny shakes his head. “We lost power a few days ago. We knew it was going to happen, so we filled up everything we could with water. There’s also the water heater. We’ve been using that for the toilet. We should be set until help comes.” His eyes dart at this last statement, communicating his discomfort.
Until help comes. I consider my words carefully, not sure how well the young man in front of me has adjusted to this new world. “How secure is this building?”
He shifts, eyes once again darting away. “We haven’t cleared any other rooms, but we did the lounge on the bottom floor. That gave us a way in and out of the building.”
Apparently, they half-ass survival the same way they half-ass dish duty. This does nothing to calm my nerves.
Dorm Life Page 3