Girls Save the World in This One

by Ash Parsons

  Or something.

  A perfect image appears in my mind, plotting the graph of the variables—two groups of zombies, some fast and some slow, one group of survivors, fast, but way ahead of me. And that scream is a giant unknown symbol, no, a variable, dammit. Wait. Is it. An exponent? Is that the thing it is? Get it right, June.

  I don’t have time to solve for X.

  But it doesn’t matter, because I can see it, clear as day. The water feature, the locked doors, the security booth and one long wall of the exhibit hall, boarded-up doors and no time to break them open. And the zombies, inexorable, all vectors and quadrants—my mind predicting and following arcs and parabolas, point-to-point-to-line-to-conclusion—suddenly, with perfect clarity.

  I am not going to make it.

  Even if I run like an Olympic sprinter. Even if I call out to Rosa, and she waits for me, and tries to whack some of the zombies away with her lamp, and just ends up eaten for her trouble. Even if I dodge and weave, dip and slide, flip around like a superhero on steroids who’s made of pixels and CGI instead of flesh and bone.

  I’m simply too far away.

  There are too many of them, funneling around the bottom of the water feature—plus the group at the top fixated on Rosa and the scream.

  But if I don’t yell for help . . . if I don’t try to follow the others . . . if I just think clearly, if I can think clearly—

  A single flower flutters down from the mound of fake volcanic rock, waterfall, and orchids. The flower lands in the small, surrounding pool.

  And I know what to do.

  I run up the semicircular entryway, looping behind the first group of zombies, the mangled group of injured and slow, one uninjured and faster, stumbling after Rosa. The woman zombie with the chewed-up leg is up again, from when Simon knocked her down.

  Only Mr. 305 sees me. The others are distracted by the scream.

  Mr. 305 is up, sorta, falling and crawling and standing again, making his unsteady way back toward me as he registers my movement.

  My friends, my group, can make it back to the stairwell and safety. I think they will. Even though I don’t know who screamed or why.

  They have to be safe.

  Imani and Siggy and Blair have to be safe.

  I run toward the smaller group of zombies, but off to one side. If they were normal people, there’s no way they wouldn’t see me in their peripheral vision.

  But their eyes. The bloodshot hemorrhages in the eyes of all the infected. The occluded black of impact cataracts, or clots, or whatever incredibly gross thing has happened in their eyes means . . . maybe it means . . .

  They won’t see me yet.

  Of course, it’s only a matter of time and field-of-vision until they do.

  As if hearing the thought, the other zombie man with the dragging leg turns toward me, a zigging motion, whipsawed away from the noise of the scream.

  I rush at him, silent, although I want to yell, swinging the microphone arm with all I’ve got. It catches him on the side of the head, connecting with a resounding impact I feel up my arms, and throws him sideways into the woman zombie.

  They fall and I leap into the fountain, splashing with huge steps until I reach the base of the volcanic rock, actually poured and stained concrete.

  I shove the microphone arm through the loops of the backpack I’m wearing on the front and I grab the rock, seeking a foothold alongside the smaller waterfall on the side of the feature.

  My feet squish in my Converse and my fingers fumble at the rock, but I find a foothold, and push myself up, jutting my other foot out to find another rock ledge.

  It’s there, almost where it would be if it were a step and the entire water feature had a built-in ladder.

  I climb and climb; by the time I’m halfway up I realize I am on a ladder or stairwell, of sorts, because the entire water feature is man-made, and therefore allows for easy, if mostly hidden from the casual eye, maintenance paths.

  Behind me the zombies I felled are growling and roaring again. I glance back. They’re straining against the bench-like ledge of the water feature, as if they don’t understand how I got where I am.

  Just like on the stage.

  Then the woman zombie with the floppy foot falls into the water, thrashing around in hectic spasms as she tries to stand, bashing her head and arms against the rock, the ledge, the next zombie that falls into the water.

  It’s only a matter of time before they manage to get to their feet and come at the rock wall. Hopefully they won’t be able to find the steps I used to climb.

  I’m actually counting on it.

  That, and the fact that so far the noise of other zombies doesn’t seem near as entrancing as the sounds and sight of regular humans.

  Which means, even as I strain to listen over my own labored breathing and the rushing fall and gurgle of the waterfalls around me, that I don’t think the other pod . . . group . . . whatever of zombies has seen me, or even knows I’m here.

  They turned like a flock of confused birds when they reached the atrium, moving almost as one, the scream and the flutter of movement drawing the entire pod back the way they came, focused on the rest of my group. But they hopefully had enough of a lead and are safe back in the stairwell.

  Except for whoever screamed.

  Please, please, please don’t be Imani or Siggy or Blair.

  I reach the top of the water feature, just short of being able to see into the second-floor ballroom lobby, but I can see down all around the atrium and entryway.

  I was right, the larger group of zombies hasn’t looked my way at all, even as the trio in pursuit of me moan and gurgle their frustration at the rock or the ledge.

  Movement catches my eye. I crouch and lean, craning my neck to see down. Reaching out from behind the security booth’s door, there’s a frantic pale hand and dark-sleeved arm waving at me. I can’t see the rest of the body that belongs to the hand, but it keeps pulling, urgent and somehow curt come here gestures.

  Behind me all the zombies are now in the fountain, Mr. 305 thrashing in the water, the others on their feet, straining and reaching up to where I sit perched on the top of the concrete rock.

  A central pump feeds all the waterfalls from the top—a cauldron of water in the middle with four spillways, one in each direction. I hook my leg over the cauldron edge, praying I won’t get electrocuted somehow if I dislodge a light or something, and I splash-fall across the knee-deep water, and lunge over the opposite edge, clinging where I think the hidden access steps would be, if I were a maintenance worker.

  Sure enough, I find a toehold and I slip down, out of sight of the zombies trying to learn how to rock climb.

  The acid test. Are they like zombies on the show? Or in movies? In other words, are they inexorable and terrifying, but also completely mindless?

  Can they think?

  If so, will they think to walk around the base of the volcanic rock?

  If yes, how long will it take them to do it?

  If no, how long will it take for them to forget I was ever there, and to start their aimless, shuffling meandering like fish in an aquarium, but that might result in the same thing—

  The zombies moving around the edge, and able to see me again.

  My foot slides, then loses its perch. I fall several feet, one cuff of my jeans gets pushed up by the jagged concrete, and it gouges into my lower shin. I let out a quiet noise at the pain as the other foot shoves on a step, and my hand grips a thick tuffet of hearty green fern.

  I breathe a curse and finish climbing down, into the pool, trying not to splash more than the waterfall behind me as I turn to face the security booth.

  The door stands open, but there’s no gesturing arm anymore.

  I sit on the ledge of the fountain and lift first my banged-up leg over, then the good one. The water slaps loud
ly on the tile, running off my clothes onto the floor as I lurch across the floor to the open door.

  I fall in, ducking under the desk, beneath the window line.

  Under the desk there is a bank of angled screens showing footage of the security cameras positioned all around the ground floor of the lobby and atrium.

  Nearby a voice hisses, “Shh!”

  I scoot back on my butt, pivoting to face the door while simultaneously pressing my back against the wall under the desk.

  Hunter Sterling is crouched behind the door, holding a finger to his lips, begging me with his eyes to be quiet.

  24

  Hunter Sterling is sitting right there.

  Hunter Sterling basically just saved me.

  I was doing okay without Hunter Sterling, more or less. But I am appreciative, because Hunter Sterling is apparently an all-around good guy. Yay!

  Look! It’s Hunter Sterling.

  Hunter Sterling watches the angled video monitors next to my head, and I understand how he knew where I was, what I was doing, and that he could signal to me.

  Not taking his eyes off the screens, Hunter Sterling gently eases the booth door closed, painstakingly slow, gentle push, pause, gentle push, pause, almost like he’s making a stop-motion movie.

  Then it clicks, quietly. And he reaches up to shoot the deadbolt. Then he glances at me.

  I mouth the words.

  “Thank you.”

  Hunter Sterling nods, and looks back at the screens. He crawls nearer to me and sits with his back against the wall that meets mine in the corner, so we’re nearer and also perpendicular to each other.

  There’s not much space in the security booth.

  Hunter Sterling picks up a small handheld radio. Probably a guard snuck it in to listen to a game.

  Hunter Sterling puts it to his ear and turns it on. He’s quiet, listening.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  “Just the usual stuff,” he whispers back.

  Our knees are close enough to touch, so I’m careful not to accidentally bump his as I stretch my injured leg out, flat on the floor.

  The injury is kind of impressive.

  It’s gratifying when something painful looks as bad as it feels. As opposed to, say, heartbreak. Which feels like hell and looks like self-indulgence or worse. Mopey songs and mopier face.

  Not the raw bleeding pain that it feels. Or the sinking, sucking weight in your chest.

  Or the humiliation. If you’re me.

  “I can see them on the monitors,” Hunter Sterling whispers, gesturing to the screens next to my head. “I saw them coming, the second group. I tried to warn you guys.”

  The voice that yelled “Run!”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Even in a whisper, I can tell his voice is raspy, cracked. “I couldn’t think of how to warn you before, then when you started making noise, I could see them coming, and that’s when I yelled.”

  “I think it helped,” I tell him. Then I remember the scream. I glance as the angled TV monitors under the counter.

  There’s a fat streak of blood on the floor at the top of the hall. As if someone got injured and then dragged.

  “I heard a scream,” I whisper, and I can’t take my eyes off the screens because the zombies are suddenly there, shuffling back, aimlessly, under the lenses of the cameras.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hunter says. “I couldn’t see much, but I think someone in the group got bitten. Or worse.”

  My heart clenches. It wasn’t Imani. It couldn’t be Siggy. Certainly not Blair.

  I will not believe it.

  And with my heart, I can’t believe it. My Spidey senses reach out and I swear I can feel her, I know she’s okay. Imani is okay.

  And if she’s okay, Siggy must also be okay. And Blair, too.

  They’re okay. I know it.

  “We’re getting outnumbered,” I whisper back. “But we thought we could get out.”

  Hunter nods, and glances away from me, checking the monitors again.

  I carefully pull the microphone arm out of the straps of the backpack I’m wearing on my front and place it on the floor alongside my leg.

  Then I slip the backpack off my chest and slowly, silently unzip it and dig inside.

  “Here.” I hand Hunter Sterling a water bottle.

  The appreciation in his earth-green eyes makes my stomach do a little flip.

  “Thanks,” he says, twisting the lid off and taking an enormous chug.

  I try not to watch the way his throat works, with his head tipped up, as he swallows.

  I mean, I watch. Appreciatively. But I tell myself not to make it weird.

  Myself is not listening.

  In myself’s defense, this whole thing is weird. Endorphins from my scraped-up leg are zinging through my body, endorphins, and hormones, okay—what does he smell like? I will have to make a note of it when I calm down a bit—Siggy will demand to know—

  All of it is a bit much. I’m here hiding out from zombies and I’m with the star of my favorite show, a zombie show, and it’s as if nothing is real anymore.

  Or it’s real, but it’s not real in the same way.

  There’s probably a word for it. Hyperreal. Surreal. TV-real.

  I shake my head and make myself look away from arguably the most beautiful human to ever walk the earth.

  “I’m Hunter Sterling,” Hunter Sterling whispers, putting his hand out in a pleased to meet you shake.

  It’s kind of adorable.

  I smile like a dork.

  “I know,” I say, but I take his hand anyway, trying to ignore the ZING! that shoots through my body at the touch of his skin on mine.

  “I’m June Blue,” I say.

  Then I let go and dig in the backpack again. I find a bandana in the scientist’s backpack. It looks clean so I lean over and start tying the bandana around my injured shin. My hands are shaking, adrenaline and pain and low blood sugar, probably.

  “Let me help,” Hunter Sterling says. “Watch the monitors.”

  I twist my neck to see the screens. So far, the large group of zombies hasn’t wandered back this way; they’re clustered around the hallway, their backs to the camera. The smaller pod hasn’t found their way around the volcanic fountain.

  “So far, so good,” I report as Hunter Sterling cinches the bandana tight.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I must have made a noise.

  “It’s okay. I’m just hungry.”

  Did I just crack a joke?

  Hunter Sterling lets out a quiet laugh as he sits back against the wall.

  “Too bad we don’t have a catering truck for the actual zombie apocalypse,” he says. And it takes me a second to realize he joking, too, and then I snortle a laugh out my nose.

  I glance back at him.

  Aaaaaaaaand he’s smiling at me.

  Actually smiling.

  At me.

  I smile back and hear the goofus “dur-heyuck” laugh in my head as I snortle quietly again.

  Smooth, June. Real smooth.

  Snap out of it.

  “Well, it’s not a catering truck, but—” I reach into the backpack and pull out two energy bars.

  I hand one to Hunter Sterling.

  “Wow, what don’t you have in there?” he asks, voice tinged with honest amazement.

  And I feel like an actual badass.

  We open and eat the energy bars. I’m flexing my calf and my foot, seeing how bad the injury is—now that it’s covered up it doesn’t seem so rough.

  “So, how did you end up here?” I ask, tilting my eyes to the desk surface over our heads.

  We exchange our stories. Establish we were both in the ballroom when it started, and how we got out, who was with us. Who we lost.
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  Hunter was with James. Of course, the actor who played his father figure very much seeming to fill that role in real life.

  I don’t tell him that I met James as a fan mere hours before the apocalypse started. Or how nice he was to us.

  But I listen as Hunter’s whisper urgently explains how he, like me, got separated from the rest of his group.

  It was basically the same thing that just happened to me, how I ended up split off from the others by the sheer bad luck of zombie pack (horde?) dynamics.

  Except Hunter, James, and the other actors and audience members with them actually got to the doors after they were locked, but before they were shrouded in white cloth.

  And saw out the chained glass doors, as they banged and hammered and yelled.

  There were people in hazmat suits. Whole platoons of them, as well as tenting being set up, military-grade weaponry and barricades, a double-ringed perimeter, and a woman in a hazmat suit standing right on the other side of the door—trying to communicate with them.

  She’d waved, yelled, and gesticulated, but then the zombies had arrived, chasing Hunter, James, and the others trapped inside.

  It was chaos, terror, screams, people were attacked, taken down, the group had scattered, James leading the rest up the escalators to the second floor, not realizing until he got somewhere safe, if he did, that Hunter had been isolated behind the rest, cut off by the same water feature and a smaller pack (contingent?) of zombies.

  Until he’d managed to dodge and weave his way here, under the desk, behind the locked door, and stayed there until the zombies at the door had been drawn away by something else.

  Us. Our group.

  And he’d seen on the monitors how that played out, and how I’d become isolated, how the pack (flock?) of zombies had split. As in into two groups. So Hunter was able to signal to me.

  And here we both are, hiding. With no way out.

  “We’re in a lockdown,” Hunter whispers. “Impossible as it seems, with actual zombies, or whatever they are.”

  “That scientist guy that jumped onstage said he was a biomedical researcher, so it’s probably like a rage-virus or rabies kind of thing,” I say. “They’re not reanimated corpses, technically.”