Dead Over Heels

by Alison Kemper

  “Did you ever drive to Glenview? Almost forty miles. Maybe you didn’t realize it City-Girl, but we live on the back side of the biggest national forest in North Carolina. And I got news for you—that truck we hijacked—it took us on a little detour. I’m making a beeline to town, but we’re deep in the heart of the woods now. It’s gonna be a while before Mama and Daddy can rescue you.”

  No smart-aleck response for that. She snorts once and continues walking—keeping her back turned. At least she’s trying to go faster. Finally.

  We been pushing so hard the last few hours, it’s my first real chance to size her up. I mean—size up her gear. Her jacket’s decent—down-filled, I reckon. She’ll need it tonight when the temperature dips below freezing. Good hood on the coat, but that color. Cherry red—visible for miles. What was I thinking, grabbing a red jacket off that peg in her hallway?

  That’s the problem, I wasn’t thinking, just nabbed the first thing I saw.

  Her sneakers might be okay. Decent tread. Thank God she wasn’t wearing heels or something stupid when I got to her house. Her pants…what do they call them things, yoga pants? Thin, cotton material. Her legs’ll be cold when we stop moving. Jeans would be better. Damn, she has a nice ass.

  I mentally slap myself. You’re being chased by dadgum zombies! Quit staring at this girl’s ass.

  She stops abruptly, startling me back to reality. For a second, I wonder if she’s lost the trail. Then I spot the metal sign she’s reading: Bear Preserve.

  “Is this for real?”

  “Yep. Ready for me to take the lead again?”

  I figure she’ll cower and duck behind me. Instead, she stomps on ahead. Lord God, but she’s stubborn.

  “What kind of bears?” she asks after a few minutes.

  Is she serious? “We live in the eastern United States,” I huff, like I’m talking to a little kid, “so what kind of bears do you think?”

  “What do I look like, the Bear Whisperer? Why don’t you just tell me, instead of making me feel like an idiot?”

  “Well, beg your pardon. I do think it’s ignorant you don’t know what kind of bear lives in the entire eastern half of our country.”

  “Fine,” she mutters. “I’m totally ignorant. 2000 on the SAT, and I’m ignorant.”

  “You might be book smart, City-Girl, but you ain’t got a lick of sense about the world around you.” I pause and walk a few more steps before I tell her reluctantly, “Black bears live here. Not grizzlies, but vicious enough. Especially if they got babies. Let’s hope we don’t run into any mama bears.”

  Her brown eyes widen.

  For some reason, I’m having a good time pushing her buttons. It melts away some of my fear. “Did you know the largest bear ever recorded was found in North Carolina?” I ask. “Damn thing weighed eight hundred eighty pounds.”

  Ava doesn’t respond, just shoots me a quick, worried glance. She keeps walking, but now she’s acting more spooked than before, jumping and cowering like there’s a bear or a zombie around every tree.

  And who knows? Maybe there is.

  Me, I’m more concerned about the sun sinking low on the horizon. We got a long night ahead of us. Why did all this zombie crap go down on a night with no moon?

  “We’ll hit the river trail soon,” I tell her. “And then we best be searching for a place to stop.”

  “No way,” she says in her usual bossy tone. “If we stop, the Beavers will catch up. Not to mention those fifty infected people from the country club.”

  For such a little thing, she sure does have a big mouth. “We took so many turns, maybe we lost ’em.”

  “I’d rather not take that chance.”

  “I hate to break this to you,” I say, trying to keep calm, “but unless you got a Coleman lantern in that pocketbook of yours, we’ll be hiking a pitch-dark trail in a few hours. We ain’t gonna see squat-diddly. You wanna stumble on a bunch of infected people in the dark?”

  “No,” she answers in a small voice.

  “And I’m guessing you’ll walk even slower when you can’t spot the tree roots. There ain’t no point going farther. Let’s find us a good place to hide.”

  …

  It takes another half hour of downhill scrambling before we reach the river trail Cole was searching for. I’d imagined a creek like the one by our house, but this is wider—at least twenty feet across. The current tumbles from the arms of the mountains into a rocky channel, where water gurgles and foams along the bank, throwing mist on the border of the trail.

  Light is fading fast, and I’m glad there’s a wide, worn path here. If I ever have to wrestle my way through another blackberry thicket, it’ll be too soon. A sudden realization creeps over me: a well-used path might be a bad thing—other people could be following this same trail. Infected people.

  Hugging my jacket tight around me, I peer ahead into the gloom, sure any second a pack of flu people will emerge from the rising mist.

  Cole’s not interested in the trail. He scans the branches overhead. Rows of ancient trees stand along both banks, forming a sort of canopy over the river.

  “What are you searching for?” I ask softly. “You think infected hide in trees?”

  “No, look.” He points to a basic wooden platform in the joint of two limbs. “Right there.” Narrow slats run up the trunk to make a crude ladder.

  “A tree house?” I ask.

  He mumbles something that sounds like beer stand.

  “A beer stand?” I picture rednecks selling beer like kids sell lemonade from a stand.

  “Deer stand,” he corrects. “Hunters sit in it and shoot deer.”

  I blink at him a few times.

  “And it’s up high,” he continues. “We can hide there and the zombies—beg your pardon, the infected—can’t get us.”

  “How do we know they can’t climb?”

  “They can’t if I break off the rungs as we go.”

  Is this kid a total idiot? “Um, Cole, without rungs, how will we get back down the tree?”

  “The nails’ll still be here. We can slide down. Slow our momentum on the nails.”

  “Sliding down a tree full of rusty nails. That sounds fun.”

  “Listen, if you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

  I’m too exhausted to argue, and with daylight failing, we don’t have time to find another spot. I move toward the tree. For a minute all I do is stare up at it, weighing my options.

  Is this really a good idea? Could we get trapped in this tree? Like, for the rest of eternity?

  “Lord God, this sucks,” Cole says coming up behind me. And for the first time, I notice his voice is low and deep—not twangy like some rednecks. “You go on up before I start breaking these rungs.”

  I’ve never climbed a tree before. Not once in my entire life. I study the wooden slats, unable to take that first step. A few cold stars have popped out above the sunset. I can’t shake the feeling we need to get off the path and out of sight before darkness falls.

  Cole snorts impatiently. “What’s the hold up? You scared of heights?”

  “No…bugs.”

  He studies me for a full second—like I might be the craziest person ever—then gestures at the leaf-strewn ground. “Well, by all means, stay down here with the zombies instead of the scary bugs.”

  The boy has a point. With a sigh, I begin scaling the ladder. Cole follows behind me, and kicks off the first rung.

  “You know, City-Girl, insects hibernate in winter.”

  Secretly, I’m pleased to know something he doesn’t. “Actually, Banjo Boy, a large percentage of North Carolina wasps remain active in November. Some of them swarm right before they go dormant.”

  “Hibernate, dormant, whatever.”

  Snap! Below me, another rung bites the dust.

  I reach the top of the rickety ladder and haul myself onto the board. And really, that’s all it is. Just a four-foot square of particleboard wedged in the tree. Thin, wobbly, and small
. But my entire body wants to throw a party because it can stop walking and rest.

  “So, what are you, a wasp expert?” Cole yells up to me.

  I peek over the platform edge.

  Snap! He kicks another thick slat to the ground. For a brief instant, I forget the bugs and infected people and my complaining muscles. How in the heck can he break those boards so easily? This boy must have some seriously strong thigh muscles. Suddenly, without meaning to, I’m picturing the bare legs beneath his camo pants. And it’s not an unpleasant image. Not in the slightest…

  “Hello!” Cole says, reminding me we’re in the middle of a conversation.

  My face burns. “Me, um, no. I’m not a wasp expert.” My brain snaps back to the present. “I’m, just uh…interested in insects.”

  Wow. That’s the understatement of the year. For a second, I consider telling him the truth. After all, if I hang out with a person for any length of time, they should know about my allergies—not the generic ones, like, pollen makes me sneeze and I can’t wear wool. I’m talking about the other allergies, the life-threatening ones: penicillin, cephalosporin, insect bites and stings. Stuff that seriously messes me up. Stuff that could kill me in ten seconds flat.

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself. It’s obvious Cole already regrets bringing me along, and I’m about to make myself sound like an even bigger liability. But I need to tell him the truth.

  Snap!

  “Dagnabbit!” Cole shouts from below.

  I peep over the edge again. He’s close now. Just a few rungs down.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Tried to break one with my hands.” Cole cradles his left hand. Blood coats his fingers.

  “Crap,” I say. “Is it bad?”

  “Not deep. Just hurts like hell.”

  He scales the last few rungs, kicking out the boards with his heavy boots, and hauling himself beside me on the deer stand. It creaks with our weight. Are we really going to spend the entire night here? With one flimsy board to hide us from the infected?

  “Let me see your hand,” I offer.

  “Forget it,” he mutters, still clutching the bleeding finger. “Like you could do anything to help.”

  His words sting. Why is he so mean? Sadness bubbles in my chest. I can’t stop it—I’m perilously close to tears again.

  I want to go home. I have to fight not to say the words aloud.

  I drop my chin to my chest, hoping to catch a remnant of my mom’s scent on her jacket, but there’s only the sharp tang of my own sweat and fear.

  I cannot let Cole get to me. He’s annoying, sure, but he’s not the real problem here.

  The flu is the problem. The fact that the flu is here in my country, in this state, in this forest. And there’s the likelihood it’ll decimate our population just like China’s. I think back to bio class—Ms. Smythe showing us all those pictures of people with rabies. How it took centuries to find a cure. How millions of people died a horrible death. And that’s nothing compared to this new virus. Complete infection within twenty seconds. Total loss of cerebral function in ninety.

  The horror of my circumstances crashes down on me with sudden weight. My parents are gone—possibly dead. Eaten.

  And if not, odds are they’re infected like the Beavers.

  An image flashes through my mind—my sweet, funny, slightly clumsy dad, foaming at the mouth, lunging, biting—all the kindness gone from his eyes. And my mom, stumbling through the Home Depot, trapped there forever as a member of the walking dead. I bite my lower lip to keep down a sob.

  I have to find my mom and dad. Before it’s too late. But Glenview is far from here. So far.

  My mind seems to back up, like a computer map after you click the enlarge button. I picture myself, a tiny black dot, surrounded by forest, miles and miles of hostile woodlands filled with dangerous insects and flesh-hungry monsters.

  And I realize with startling clarity that I’ll probably never see my parents again. Odds are, I won’t make it out of this forest alive.

  …

  This deer stand ain’t no bigger than a bathtub. I have to sit slap-up against Ava so we’ll both fit. Neither of us is crazy about the setup.

  High in the mountains, a bird’s cry echoes long and cold in the empty forest, filling in the spaces of the gathering dusk.

  “Why’d you want to see my hand?” I ask after a few long minutes of silence. “It ain’t like you got bandages and antiseptic in that pocketbook.”

  Damn, my finger hurts. I managed to roll out of a speeding car with barely a scratch, and then I mangle my hand on a little piece of wood. So dumb. Makes me want to lash out at someone.

  Ava gives me another one of those death glares. She’s pretty good at those. And then a determined expression passes over her face—almost like she’s decided something.

  “Here.” She fumbles in her pocketbook and passes me a cute little container of hand sanitizer—the kind from that trendy place in the mall. It smells like tropical fruit or some crap, but burns against the cut, so there must be some real antiseptic under all the frou-frou junk.

  “Thanks,” I say reluctantly.

  “I’m not done,” she snaps.

  She hands me an old receipt from her pocketbook. I study the slip of paper—it’s from a Chinese restaurant at Valley Mall. Figures.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Wrap it around your wound.”

  “How long’s it been collecting lint at the bottom of your pocketbook?”

  Her brow furrows in annoyance. “You got anything better?”

  I coil the paper around my finger.

  “You should call it a purse,” she says. “Only old women say pocketbook.” Ava snags the elastic off her ponytail. “Here, use this to keep the paper on your finger.” I fumble around. “No, tighter,” she says, looping the elastic a few times. Her fingers are chilly against my skin.

  My hand still throbs, but maybe I’ve kept myself from getting a raging infection. I stare at her improvised bandage. I gotta admit, it’s pretty smart. But I sure as hell ain’t telling her that.

  I glance up. Her hair, now loose, clouds her face in a mass of white-blond curls. I ain’t sure which is more pale—her skin or her hair. For an instant, she looks different. Softer. Less harsh. Almost…pretty.

  Then she opens her mouth and I remember what a pain in the ass she is.

  “I’m cold,” she whines. “Can’t we make a fire?”

  I bark out a disbelieving laugh. “In a tree? On a plank? Without matches?”

  “Yeah.” Her brow furrows. “If only we had some matches.” She shoots an accusing stare back at me. “You’re Mr. Boy Scout. Can’t you build one with some rocks or something? Flint and a piece of string?”

  “You got any flint and string in that magic pocketbook?”

  “Er, no.”

  She’s quiet for a minute staring into the gathering dark. “But I just remembered—I do have something useful.”

  My ears perk up. “What? A machine gun? Throwing stars?”

  “Better. I have snacks.”

  My stomach growls before I get a chance to reply. “You have food?”

  She hauls out a half-full bottle of water and a bag of sunflower seeds. Maybe it is a magic pocketbook after all.

  “You got more food in there?” I ask, getting excited. “More snacks? We can drink river water here in the forest—we’re high up and away from people—but we definitely need more food.”

  She shakes her head. “This is it.”

  “Better than nothing.” My mouth waters, but common sense wins out. “I reckon we should ration it. Just eat a handful now.”

  She counts ten seeds apiece and returns the bag to her pocketbook. Maybe it makes her feel good to keep control of the food. Fine. But I know that bag of seeds won’t get us far.

  For a long heartbeat, the sun pulses fire along the ridgeline and then sinks like a rock. Within minutes, darkness presses in on us. My ears strain, trying to catch gro
wls or footsteps, but I hear only the steady gurgle of the river.

  “You go ahead and sleep,” I tell Ava. “I’ll keep watch.”

  “Are you kidding? Sleep up here? It’s not like this deer stand has a bannister. I could roll off in the middle of the night, get eaten by the entire cast of Deliverance.”

  “Here, switch places.” My body stretches over hers as we swap positions. “The tree’ll keep you from falling off and I’ll block you this way.” Now my right leg’s smushed against Ava’s. Sudden heat flares along that side of my body. It ain’t like I’m attracted to her or anything; my body’s having a typical guy reaction, I reckon. Stupid damn hormones.

  I lean against the support limb, watching more stars emerge and trying to get my mind off the warmth spreading along my thigh. I rack my brain, hoping to remember what my dad and brother said before they left on their hunting trip.

  I ain’t telling Ava this, but we’re not exactly making a beeline to town. Dad and Jay are out here somewhere and I gotta search for ’em. Only I ain’t sure exactly where. When we hunt, we move around—following tracks and stuff. This time of year, they probably took the AT—the Appalachian Trail—toward Weaver Bald. Or, maybe, if I’m lucky they’re still somewhere along this river.

  I just hope I find ’em before the zombies do.

  …

  Darkness and silence and a flimsy piece of particleboard—is this enough to hide us? From the Beavers? From the hunting pack?

  I shift positions, trying to get comfortable…trying not to touch Cole any more than I already am. Here I am, the girl who isn’t supposed to spend too much time outside and I am sleeping in a freaking tree. Madness.

  Weee-eeek. A sudden sound from a nearby oak makes me jump. Of course, I end up jerking even closer to Cole.

  “Just a branch moving—from the wind.” He doesn’t try to shift away. But maybe he can’t on this narrow board. “Seriously. You go on to sleep.”

  I’m about to tell Cole that there’s no way I’ll ever get to sleep up here when a wave of exhaustion knocks me out cold.

  I wake with a start. One of them has me. A monster. It’s on top of me, hands covering my mouth, blocking my air. I try to scream, but a voice hisses in my ear. “They’re coming. Stay still. Not a peep.”