Dead Over Heels

by Alison Kemper

  “Gah!” she screams, dropping the bow. In the murky dark, I can barely manage to see her massaging her shoulder.

  She lifts her head. From this distance, I can’t read her eyes, but I can hear the grit in her tone. “Get him!” she screams to the herd. “Kill them both.” And then she leans forward, clutching her arm, obviously in pain.

  Cole pushes me back. “Hurry. Before she loads the bow again! Get outta range.”

  Cole steers us to the far side of the island. My toes dip in the water, and my shoulder hits the rough bark of the giant pine.

  I look back. Zombies stand beside Bethany, shuffling and snapping their jaws.

  Take it easy, Ava. No rushing. Keep being strong. Keep being smart.

  I make a quick, shaky observation. “St-still just kids from the teen center. Not the Beavers. Not the country club horde.”

  “Thank the Lord. Listen,” Cole says in a low, rushed voice, quickly studying the river between us and the other bank. “We’re gonna have to cross. I know it’s dark—I know the current’s strong, but we can do this. Just keep hold of my hand.”

  I nod, my blood freezing even though we haven’t set one foot in the dark rapids.

  “Move it!” Bethany yells to her zombies, her words filled with pain and rage. “That’s an order!”

  Without meaning to, I let out a squeak of panic.

  “They won’t cross,” Cole mutters to me as we plunge into the river. “Remember? Hydrophobia. Just like the wild dogs from your rabies paper. They won’t cross the river.”

  But he’s wrong. Cole’s friend Jarrod—the one with the bloodstained shirt—takes a first step into the current. Any natural inclination to avoid the water is overridden by Bethany’s commands. She was right—her soldiers do what she says.

  “Faster,” I say, becoming frantic. “Before she regains use of her arm.”

  My feet carry me farther into the dark water. The other bank appears so far away. And we’ve got to move quickly. The rapids churn beside me. Close. So close.

  “Just keep holding my hand,” Cole mutters, and I can tell he’s reassuring himself as much as me. “Keep back from the current and we’ll be fine. Just keep holding my—”

  “Ree-raw!”

  I freeze. The sudden sound—from the bank ahead of us—shocks me like a bolt of lightning.

  My gaze jerks upward. On the opposite shore—exactly where we were planning to cross, something moves in the darkness. Shadows explode into motion—arms, heads, and then…the white eyes.

  The herd from the country club. Mr. Beaver and Bubba stand at the front.

  A mass of zombies on each bank. Cole and I trapped between.

  “Guess what?” Bethany yells from behind us, still trying to keep her voice calm. “I forgot to mention—I ran into your neighbor. Mr. Beaver, right? His group needed a leader, too.”

  By now, the other side of the river crawls with infected from the country club. I recognize the disemboweled man in a sweater vest from the logging road; he takes a first step in the water. He’s followed by a heavily jeweled redhead in an evening gown, and endless corpses in tennis clothes—the white material streaked with blood and mud. The Beavers take the lead, dredging their stiff limbs through the river, drooling like we’re first prize in their personal redneck-zombie vendetta. Mr. Beaver slices through the water. After several days of decay, most of his skin has melted away. His eyeball hangs even lower, and I catch a glimpse of skull beneath the graying flesh.

  “So in addition to my friends from the rec center,” Bethany continues, “I also took charge of this little posse.” Her voice is strong and steady now. She has obviously recovered from her rock hit. “As you can see, I got a nice setup.” She shakes her injured arm. “And your asses are in trouble.”

  Cole and I backtrack, retracing our steps along the riverbed until we’re on the island again.

  By now, zombies are waist-deep in the river. On both sides of the island, an army of undead churns through the black water. Every few seconds, one loses its footing and with a loud splash, sinks below the surface only to reappear as its rotten body tumbles over the falls. But there are still too many. They advance, raising their arms, bony and skeletal.

  Cole grabs a piece of wood from the fire.

  “Go,” he tells me. “Up the tree.”

  Frantically, I climb the pine knowing in my heart that is a temporary stopgap. The flimsy trunk is not strong enough to hold my weight, and it bends, creaking, dipping me over the dark water, perilously close to the rapids.

  Any second, Bethany will reload her crossbow and shoot me out of this tree.

  Think! I tell myself. There’s gotta be a way out of this.

  Below me, Cole waves the burning stick. A handful of zombies reach the island, more on their way, just behind, sloshing up the shore. Cole simply can’t fight that many of them.

  “Hurry, Cole! Climb up!”

  He tries to scale the trunk, only making it up a few feet. “It ain’t strong enough to hold both of us!”

  The pine bends further, arcing toward the water. Now I’m dangling directly above the falls, the tree threatening to snap, zombies crawling from every side. The monsters press forward, ringing Cole and the bottom of the tree.

  I need a solution, but my brain is full of moans and the thunder of the waterfall and my own panic.

  Cole tries to reposition himself, inching slightly higher up the trunk. The pine lurches violently. His torch falls to the ground, useless.

  “Aaaagh!” I close my eyes, hanging on for dear life.

  When I crack my eyelids again, Cole has lost his grip on the slick surface of the bark. My heart stutters. He’s sliding, slipping down the trunk.

  “No!” I scream.

  He fights, scrabbling, frantic to stay up, but there’s no traction on the bark.

  “No!” I shout again. But I’m powerless to help. Cole slides to the ground.

  Into the arms of the waiting horde.

  His knife flicks open, slashing at the grabbing hands.

  “Rawr!” Bubba Beaver’s triumphant howl rises over the bedlam. His slimy, white fingers jerk forward, quick enough to snare Cole’s wrist. Cole struggles, trying to resist, but Bubba is stronger. He pulls Cole, slowly, dragging his arm closer and baring sharp teeth.

  “No!” I beg.

  Cole makes one last, desperate stab with his knife, but it lands in Bubba’s chest—mortal to humans, pointless to zombies.

  Bubba sinks his teeth in Cole’s bare forearm.

  I am crying, pleading. “No! No! No!” But the sound can’t leave my mouth.

  Twenty seconds until infection.

  The world drags into slow motion.

  One…two.

  Cole thrashes, throwing Bubba off his arm and kicking the fire logs in the process. Sparks scatter in all directions, and the zombies draw back, desperate to get away from the fire.

  Three…four.

  Cole brandishes his knife. But he’s woozy. Infected. Already losing control. He staggers a few steps.

  “Cole!” I yell.

  And I’m sliding down the tree. Mr. Beaver grabs for me, but I’m faster—fast enough to seize his dangling eyeball, rip it from the socket, and pitch it in the river.

  “Rawr?” he asks, his attention shifting to the current carrying away his eyeball.

  Five…six.

  My brain burns. Panic churns through my blood, but something else happens—the synapses keep firing. Smart. Must be smart.

  Seven…eight.

  Time is a fluid thing. Endless seconds of startling clarity. Prior to Pasteur’s rabies vaccine of 1951, the only cure for rabies was cauterization. The line from my rabies paper loops through my mind.

  Nine…ten.

  I ease the sleeve of my jacket over my fingers, and then, in one swift motion, I reach toward the fire and grasp the handle of the pan, now empty, the cocoa water having boiled away hours ago as we snuggled in the sleeping bag. I kick the remnants of the campfire again, sc
attering sparks and buying myself a few more zombie-free seconds.

  Eleven…twelve.

  There is no time to prepare Cole. Not to even brace his arm against a tree. I seize his wrist and press the white-hot pan to his skin, searing the bitten area.

  Cole sways on the spot, staring at his sizzling forearm.

  “Jesus Christ!” he yells…staggers…and then vomits everywhere.

  Thirteen…fourteen.

  I raise the pan again. Cole’s eyes meet mine. Comprehension. Fear. I press the blistering hot metal to the wound a second time, hating myself for what I am doing. Another scream splits the air. Another sizzle of seared skin.

  Fifteen…sixteen.

  The zombies, momentarily halted by the fire, have resumed their advance. “Get back in the tree.” Cole’s voice wavers. He’s almost gone.

  Seventeen…eighteen.

  The fire’s out completely. There’s too many zombies for me to think of anything else, to do anything else but drop the pan and scramble back up the slippery pine, clinging on for dear life.

  Nineteen…

  Clutching the bark, I chance a look back down. Cole stands at the waterline. He takes one last look at me. Sees that I’m safe and gives me a weak smile.

  Twenty.

  My heart thunders. Cole’s eyes roll back into his head. He topples backward, headfirst into the river.

  Bubba lunges, but the current is too strong. For a moment, the water carries Cole toward me and he floats directly below the pine. His body hangs suspended at the top of the falls and for several heartbeats, I see him so clearly—the dark, wet hair, the closed eyes, the pale skin, a flash of scarlet near his bleeding arm.

  And then Cole goes over the waterfall.

  I am still screaming his name. Over and over and over.

  “Hey, lookee there! A little birdie’s stuck in that tree!” Bethany aims her crossbow. “I’m real good at shooting birds outta trees.”

  Oh God, please help me. What do I do? I don’t want to die!

  Cole, Cole, Cole.

  But Cole is gone now.

  Bethany releases an arrow. Mr. Beaver, his eyeball forgotten, begins shaking the tree. I jerk sideways and the arrow goes wide, barely missing me. Below, the island crawls with zombies. My weight bows the pine lower. Spray clouds my vision—I’m inches from the water.

  I close my eyes. Try to think. Try to be smart. But I’m out of options. Any moment Bethany will shoot me out of this tree.

  What if I just let go? What if I drop into the water, go over the falls?

  My brain tells me this is stupid. It’s a three-story plunge with jagged boulders at the bottom.

  My heart tells me suicide is better than being eaten. Or serving the rest of my days as Bethany’s mindless minion.

  Zombies paw at the tree trunk. The pine jerks more violently. Bethany lines me up in her sights. Spray clouds my eyes, cold and disorienting.

  I know what I’m going to do.

  For some reason, my brain pulls up one last image: me and Cole, sitting at the bottom of the hill, laughing after we’d just been attacked by the bear.

  “You told that bear, ‘Shoo’!”

  Cole’s beautiful eyes, shining with laughter.

  I release the branch.

  For a moment, like Cole, I hang at the top of the falls. I’m weightless. Free. Then water chokes my lungs. Invisible fingers of current yank my body. And I hurtle over the lip of the waterfall.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The world drops away. I plunge through a column of water and sky. One gasping breath and my lungs flood with liquid.

  Pain slams my skin. Sharp, pointed bursts where rocks thrash my body. The world is a tangle of foam, rocks, blood—my blood. I struggle underwater.

  Holy crap. Which way is up?

  I try to cry out, but my lungs won’t inflate.

  Yank. Hard pressure on my middle.

  My shoulder slams something solid.

  The current tugs, drawing me lower. I try to swim against it, to fight where it’s taking me. But it twists my body like a doll, forcing me beneath a mass of debris—logs, leaves, trash—everything that’s tumbled over the falls. I’m shoved beneath the rubble—until I run out of room.

  I stop, completely pinned. A log crosses my chest from left shoulder to right hip, my leg twisted the opposite direction. My lungs scream for oxygen.

  This is it. I’m going to drown.

  My vision spins. Panic turns the world red.

  And then a memory forces itself to the front of my brain, eclipsing everything else.

  I’m in a car. The backseat of my dad’s car. The first time I’d been stung by a bee. My dad driving frantically to the ER. My mom holding me, stroking my hair.

  “You have to concentrate, Ava. You’re having an allergic reaction. A bad one. If you panic, your throat will close. Do you understand?”

  My eight-year-old self nods.

  Her hands brush my skin. Soothing. “You have to concentrate, Ava. You’re a smart girl. You know how to stay calm, right?”

  I stop fighting the current. Calm. I must work with the current.

  It’s okay. You’ll rise to the surface. Just stop fighting—no one can fight against a waterfall.

  I will my limbs to relax. To reserve the little air I have left. I’m not pinned. The pressure of the current simply makes it feel that way. Keeps me trapped under this log, unable to go backward or forward. In reality, only one foot is caught—my right foot. I’ll have to work my shoe free, then trust the current to propel me to the other side of the debris.

  My wet sneakers are like concrete. With the toe of my good foot, I try to pry off the shoe wedged between rocks. It’s too tight.

  My lungs are on fire.

  Calm, Ava. Stay calm. Pretend like you just got home from school. You’re taking off your sneakers in the foyer. You’re too lazy to untie them. Come on, you’ve done this a million times…pull just a little harder.

  Ouch! My foot squeezes from the sneaker with a painful wrench. And I’m moving again. The force of the waterfall propels me under the layer of debris. Like a cork, I pop out the other side, my purse slamming my face. I suck in mist, but there is air here too. Blessed, blessed air.

  I clutch at one of the floating logs, letting the harsh current continue to pull me. I twist my head, craning to see behind me. I’m far away. The waterfall is already almost out of view, the fast current hurtling me and my log downriver. Panting hard, I rest my head on the dark log. The moon hangs overhead, fuzzy and haloed. The landscape feels off-kilter. Too wavy to be real. But there is such comfort in knowing which side of the world is up. My tongue lolls out of my mouth like a dog’s. I am exhausted. Eyes closed, I simply float and breathe.

  A minute ago, a log was my worst enemy. Now, one is my best friend. Without it, I’d be back underwater. I wrap my arms tightly around it, willing the river to go faster, to take me far, far away from Bethany and the zombies.

  My foot throbs. My lungs ache. I’m tired. So very tired. A tiredness I can’t fight. It drapes across me like a blanket. The world goes dark and watery.

  …

  I need a new bed. I’ll have to convince mom and dad. I know mattresses are expensive, but this one is awful. Like boulders.

  And sand. How’d sand get in my bed? Did I forget to shower after the beach? Mom’s gonna kill me when she sees all this sand in the bed.

  I crack one eyelid, expecting bright Florida sunlight streaming through my window. Instead, darkness. Bare trees canopy overhead, the moon low, peeking through branches. My mouth is rusted with blood. Dense, cold fog hovers over the river.

  It all rushes back. The island. Bethany. Her armies. Bubba’s teeth in Cole’s arm. The pan and my pointless attempt to save him. His motionless body tumbling over the falls.

  Sudden sobs choke me.

  Cole is infected. Gone. Forever.

  Tears, snot, sand choke me.

  I wrench myself to a sitting position. The dark landscape
tilts.

  Where am I? No waterfall. How far did I float on that log?

  Confused. So confused. So…dizzy. And cold. Deathly cold.

  Glenview. My parents. Have to get to Glenview.

  I stand. Pain shoots through my head and foot.

  I sink back to the ground. Doesn’t matter. Can’t walk. My right foot is shoeless and battered.

  I rub grit from my eyes and nose. How long was I unconscious?

  My fingertips press the base of my skull, tender and raw. I lean forward, my forehead resting on my knees as my breath comes in big hiccupping gasps.

  Cole. Gone.

  Glenview. I’ve got to start walking. Before Bethany catches me.

  But I want to stay here. I want to stay right here and die. What’s the point? I’ll never make it to Glenview without him.

  You’ll be okay. You’ve got the magic purse.

  Screw the magic purse. I’ve got nothing.

  Anything happens to me. You keep going. Find your family.

  Yes, my family. Mom and Dad.

  Keep following the river.

  The stupid damned river.

  I’m on my feet again. I take one step, then another. Pain needles through my right foot. The world spins.

  Why does the river seem so different? So wide? In the darkness, I can’t even see the other shore. I remember Cole saying our river would intersect with the Little Tennessee River. Or maybe it was the Big Tennessee River? I don’t know. I can’t remember. My brain is the consistency of oatmeal.

  The word “concussion” comes to me. Yes, that fits. I remember the moon with its wavy halo. I must have a concussion.

  One step. And another.

  If I can walk on the foot, then it’s not broken or sprained.

  The fog puzzles me. Makes me dizzier. Lulls me into thinking I’m alone. And I’m not. I know I’m not. I saw them all. Those things. In the darkness. Zombies. So many of them.

  Faster. I walk faster.

  How far are they behind me?

  Every step jars my brain like a blow from a hammer.

  Surely they’ll catch me. Zombies will catch me.

  Ohmygod. My brain refuses to work properly.