“Please,” I say again, “please don’t spontaneously combust.”
Nothing happens—except my nose burns like fire. Ethyl ether is some strong crap. I dump more along the ancient floorboards. Even though I’m not inhaling, I still have to use one hand to pinch my nose against the strong, sweet-smelling fumes. My eyes tear like I’ve peeled a thousand onions.
When the container is half empty, I place it on the rickety back deck and head to the part of the yard that fronts the river. I run up and down the trail, flattening grass, and creating a line of my scent from the water to the cabin. Then I stroll around in the yard. I roll on the leaves near the front step. I pee on the doorframe. I spit all along the ground in a straight line to the door. Then I walk back through the house and douse the back porch with more of the ether.
“There,” I announce. “Good enough.”
I’m two steps into the backyard before I realize what I’m doing. What’s to keep Bethany and her goons from following my scent line—and Cole’s—through the cabin, into the yard and directly to the trees where we’re hiding? I freeze in place like my feet are stuck in concrete.
I untie my remaining shoe and carefully step out.
I wish we had some white lightning. My paw-paw used to tell a tale about his uncle Ed who escaped from the chain gang Ed poured white lightning in his footprints. Burned out their nostrils.
I eyeball the almost empty container. The odor is strong. But strong enough to hide my scent? To burn out their nostrils? I fling my remaining shoe into the cabin. Then I douse my socks in what’s left of the fluid. I pour out every last drop until my socks are drenched. Then I retrace my steps, carefully coating each footprint in ether. Halfway across the yard, I sling my socks into the cabin also.
Anyone watching would think I’m an idiot, leaping in a crazy zigzag pattern through the rest of the yard, careful not to trample the grass. When I reach our hiding spot, I wipe my feet obsessively on the dirt. If I survive the next few hours, the bottom of my feet will probably melt from chemicals.
On the dirty ground beside me, Cole sleeps fitfully, moaning and pawing at the bite. But he remains unconscious. I can’t look at him without a painful stutter in my heart.
Is there any chance my cauterization burned the infection out? If that was the case, it seems like he’d be awake now. Unless he has some kind of raging infection? Or a concussion like mine—from the waterfall? There’s another possibility—one that’s almost as bad as him becoming a zombie. What if Cole is like Bethany now? Bitten, but not a zombie. What if he turns into another power-hungry weirdo who controls the undead like puppets and wants to infect every human on the planet?
I can’t think about this now. Can’t figure it out. And there is work to be done.
Below us, the cabin and the river stay silent. My breath comes fast. If only my luck holds a little longer.
One more task. Hurry, Ava, hurry.
I am out of calories, out of energy, probably out of time, too. I want nothing more than to sit and rest. But this last chore is the most important of all. I can’t quit now.
A solitary crow sits on a bare branch, my only companion. The sun lingers along the ridge, not in a hurry at all, like it has nothing better to do than watch me practice throwing my purse at a distant stump. I toss the purse again and again, praying the strap will withstand the workout. Praying the motion will dry the last of the river water from the fabric. Praying Bethany will give me enough time to work out the kinks in this plan. My arm aches with the repetition of the movement, but I have to get this right. Better than right. I have to get this perfect. I’ll only have one shot. As I practice, the words to Shady Grove loop through my mind over and over, until I’m sure I’ve sung the song a hundred times in my mind.
Suddenly, in the sunlit breeze, a faint odor of decay fills my nostrils. The scent of the dead seems to drift from far away. I straighten, peering through the cover of the evergreens. I can’t see them yet. Can’t hear them. But I can sure as hell smell them.
In an instant, my exhaustion vaporizes. Every sense is fine-tuned to the world around me. My vision hones on the stretch of field in front of me, the cabin just beyond it, and the river flowing behind. I’m about to turn this whole place into a battleground.
“Well, Cole. Wish us luck. Here goes nothing.”
I remove my lip balm from the pile of purse contents and roll it until the mass of ChapStick is extended to its full length. The petroleum goo crushes easily against my shaking fingers. I smear it around the fabric of the purse, careful to avoid the strap. Then I crumple each of the remaining flyers from the fire tower into a loose ball and stuff them in the purse. The goo on my fingers transfers to the paper. I douse the last of the antibac on the flyers.
I wipe my fingers on my pants, forcing them to stay steady. My pulse thrums in my veins. With each second, Bethany’s army draws closer. Now there’s the pounding of feet, the bark of Bethany’s orders.
Panic tightens around my neck like a noose.
From this distance, I hear them climbing the hill before I see them. And then suddenly, they are here—amassing in front of the cabin. I can’t breathe.
Just like at the fire tower, they sniff the ground like dogs, tracking a scent.
I know our smell is everywhere, and that it’s enough to lure Bethany and her goons away from the river and into the cabin. But once they realize we aren’t inside, my chance is up.
“Where are they?” Bethany screams, striding up to the building, almost like the infected might answer. Which of course, they don’t. She disappears into the house. The dead follow.
“I can tell Cole’s in here. I smell him. And his little Yankee ho, too.”
A minute later, her slim figure is silhouetted against the open back door. She sniffs the air. Then the ground.
Please God. Please let the ether block my scent. If it doesn’t, if she catches any hint of my scent, any trail at all, she’ll be out that back door, up the hill and in my face in less than five seconds.
She makes a face like she smells something sour and turns back to the cabin.
“Give me that! Her shoe! She’s in here. Find her!”
My fingers quiver so hard, I almost drop the match.
Please. Please. Please. I swipe it along the strip.
Nothing.
Holy crap. What if the match doesn’t light? It’s over. If the match doesn’t light, it’s over.
My eyes flit back to the cabin.
“Check the bathroom!” Bethany yells. “Hellfire. Smells like a dadgum hospital in here.”
Get your act together, Ava. Stop watching Bethany.
Remembering Cole at the island, I flip the match and strike the strip a second time.
Flash. For a second, I’m amazed it’s lit and just stare. Then I get my butt into gear and light a flyer. The purse catches easily. The lip balm does the trick. Once it gets going, I drop in the rock.
I inhale, glancing up, hoping Bethany is still in the cabin. For a split second, my heart almost stops—she’s no longer in the door. I check to my left and right. Did she sneak up on me while I was busy? In my hand, the purse flames, the material catching.
And then I hear her in the cabin. “Move that couch! She must be under there.”
My breath comes out in a relieved rush.
Concentrate. Don’t screw this up.
I loop the strap once around my hand. The purse flames, threatening to burn the skin off my arm. I take a few steps away from the trees. Then another few. I’m in the open backyard.
If Bethany glances outside, I’m in a hell of a lot of trouble. I shaking now, and whimpering, too. The fear is so strong, I’m worried I’ll pass out.
Closer. Just a little closer. Hurry. Before the strap catches. I stand in the backyard, fifteen yards from the shack—the same distance I’ve practiced throwing the purse against the stump.
Wind ruffles my hair, my face set, grim, determined. I will not fail. I wind up, aim, and let loose. The ro
ck lands with a dull thud on the wood deck.
I duck behind a tree trunk. My legs are like water. I can’t catch my breath.
“What the tarnation was that?” Bethany shrieks. “Wait! God! Get it off. Get that damn thing off the porch.”
The rest of her words are lost. I’m running—sprinting through the woods, away from the house, back to Cole.
I crouch in the dirt. Panting. Crying. Nothing happens. Nothing. I’ve failed. She’ll be through the door in a second. She’ll find us. She’ll kill us.
The cabin explodes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Flash.
Boom.
The sound lifts me off my feet, sends me flying several yards, landing on my back. A geyser of wood and dirt spatters the sky. The explosion burns my eyes, deadens my eardrums. I crawl across the ground, covering Cole instinctively. The air smells of chemicals and burned hair. And something else: charred flesh.
But not my flesh.
I blink. I’m blind. I’m blind and deaf.
Chemicals. All the chemicals in the air. Cole’s words echo in my head: “There’s stuff in there that’ll mess you up, just by inhaling it.”
Messed up. That’s me. Too messed up to move.
Did I get Bethany? She’s so fast. Did she get out before the explosion? What about the zombies?
I don’t have the strength to find out. Collapsing, I press my face against Cole’s warm body.
I’m going to pass out. Once I pass out, Bethany will get me. Or zombies will get me. Or even worse—Cole will get me.
Almost as though he heard me, Cole encircles my body with his arms. Adrenaline spikes through my veins, clearing my senses. I jerk back to find him staring at me. His expression is soft and slightly confused. But his eyes are the same beautiful ice blue as ever.
I gaze at him, mesmerized. And I almost miss the two figures edging along the tree line, creeping up behind me.
“No!” I scream and whirl away, a rock in my grasp, ready to fight.
The shorter zombie seizes Cole.
I won’t let them bite him again.
I raise my rock, ready to break some skulls. “Get away from him, you freaks!”
I can’t think, can’t hear, can’t see. It’s Bethany. It must be Bethany.
No.
I blink. It’s not Bethany.
Two figures in camo—a man and a boy. The boy bends over Cole, his mouth snapping in rapid chomps.
“Leave him alone!” My own screams echo in my head.
He turns, refocusing his attention on me. My stomach gives a jolt.
The boy is Jay, Cole’s brother. And beside Jay, his father. They turn to me, jaws flapping.
“Stay away!” I lift my rock. I lunge.
Cole’s dad leaps away. He stands out of range, arms raised in surrender.
Wait.
That leap was too…controlled for an infected person. But why are they snapping their jaws like that?
Talking. They are talking. Only I can’t hear them.
Their eyes are clear and their movements are normal. Mr. Greer kneels over Cole again, trying to shake him awake.
I drop my rock. Jay and his dad are not infected.
And now I’m crying. Tears course from my eyes, washing away the pain and the chemicals. Jay puts his hands on my shoulders and says something.
I point to my ears. I can hear a little, but not well. Like I’ve been at back-to-back loud concerts.
He moves his head closer and shouts, “We were downriver. We saw flashing this morning. Near here. Like someone was signaling. By the time we got here—that explosion.” He uses his hands to pantomime something blowing up.
I nod. “I…I think I killed them. A…a bunch of them. But not all of them. Probably.”
Jay’s eyes widen in shock. “You blew up that cabin?” I nod and amazement flits over Jay’s face. But he has more important things to worry about. “What…what happened to my brother?”
I don’t want to answer.
Smoke billows from the direction of the cabin. “More will come,” I say. “Hurry, we have to get out of here.”
Jay gives my shoulders a shake. “Ava, please! When was Cole bitten?”
“Last night,” I murmur.
Jay releases my shoulder and crouches beside his father on the ground. Mr. Greer has found the wound on Cole’s arm. My ears are clearing—just enough to hear Jay swearing as his dad cries.
“We have to go,” I say again. “They’re coming.” What remains of Bethany’s army is now making its way up the hill.
Jay lifts his head, his face a mask of anguish. “Dad, she’s right. Look!”
Cole’s dad jerks to attention. “Get in the cart!” he orders me.
Cart?
Jay points. Two ATVs are parked a few yards away, with carts attached—the kind my dad uses for hauling mulch.
“Cole,” I say. His eyes are closed again. Did I imagine him waking up? And then I’m sobbing too. All the fear and confusion of the last two hours is replaced by agonizing pain. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
The zombies are closer now. Halfway up the backyard. No sign of Bethany.
“I tried to burn out the infection,” I sob. “To c-cauterize his wound.”
Mr. Greer and Jay exchange a look.
“Ava.” Cole’s dad takes a turn yelling in my ear. For a few seconds I can’t focus. “Ava, listen this is important. Did he wake up at all?”
My mind shuffles through the confusion. Cole’s eyes staring into mine, moments ago, just after the explosion.
“Yes. And his eyes,” I point to my own eyes. “They weren’t…” I shake my head violently, trying to clear it, trying to think of the right words. “He acted…okay.”
Jay and his dad stare at me for a long second. Jay rubs a hand along his face.
Tears spill from the corners of Mr. Greer’s eyes. He puts a hand on Cole’s head.
“Dad, we gotta go.” Jay shouts, “There’s more coming.”
Mr. Greer nods and gently scoops up Cole’s body. As he loads Cole into a cart, Jay pulls me toward his ATV.
I struggle against his grip. “Wait! My parents. I can’t go with you. I have to get to Glenview—”
“Honey,” Cole’s dad calls over, “we’ve been helping your folks search for you in these woods for two days. Thanks to that text you sent, we knew you were with Cole. We’re the only ones allowed out of the compound right now—because we were hoping to find you and Cole somewhere between here and home.”
My blood boils. “I told my parents to stay put!” I clamber into the cart.
“You honestly think they’d do that?”
He’s right, of course.
Jay revs the engine.
“They’re both okay?” I shout over the noise, wanting reassurance.
“Yeah,” Jay says, “but if we don’t get out of here soon, no one’s gonna be okay.”
I glance in the other cart. Cole looks peaceful now. Almost like he’s sleeping.
“Dagnabbit!” Jay says, sounding for a minute so much like Cole.
Ahead of us, streaming through the trees comes a second group of monsters—the bulk of the country-club herd. A mass of bodies, all oozing black blood from rotten sores, all stinking of death, and all dressed in their finest formal evening attire.
“Bethany must’ve sent half her people around to block us in,” I say.
“Bethany?” Jay asks. And he mutters something too low for me to hear.
“I think I killed her,” I say.
“Really?” Jay turns to me. Something like respect crosses his face. “Dad, give Ava the machete! Quick!”
“She’s too weak,” Mr. Greer says, revving his engine.
“No! I can fight!” I shout. “Give me a weapon.”
Mr. Greer studies me.
“Whatever you’re gonna do, make it quick,” Jay grinds out.
Cole’s dad tosses me a long-handled machete and a pair of thick gloves. “Keep your head low and y
our wrist steady. Pretend the knife is part of your arm.”
I rip the plastic cover from the machete. “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”
And we’re rolling. Jay has no choice but to drive directly toward the herd. His gun fires, again and again. I don’t know how he can drive and shoot at the same time. I duck low, then roll on my back, blade raised above me. All I can see is sky and branches and the next moment, a mass of hands grabbing at the cart.
I cry out and swipe the machete in a long arc. The hands disappear.
Our wheels hit a rock and the cart lurches sideways, almost upending me onto the forest floor and into the herd.
“Slow down!” I yell, but Jay ignores me.
The hands stay gone. The cart accelerates. I chance a quick peek. We’ve lost sight of the other ATV.
“More ahead!” Jay warns as a line of zombie kids from the rec center slides into view.
Damn. Bethany really thought this through. Sent her soldiers ahead to spread out in waves. Guess she wanted to make sure we had zero chance of reaching Glenview. I find myself praying she really is dead.
“Rawwwwwwr!”
We roll into the crowd. I slide back behind the protective walls of the cart. Head down. Knife is part of my hand.
I don’t slash. I jab. Over and over, like some kind of machete-machine. Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. Like I’m creating a shield around my body crouched in the cart. There are only hands—rotten hands that need to be batted away with the sharp end of my blade.
And then something changes. It takes a few seconds to realize it’s the feel of the ground beneath the wheels. We are riding on asphalt. I chance a peek over the lip of the cart. We’re on a two-lane road barreling through the forest.
“You okay back there?”
“Yeah!” I almost ask him the same thing, but that’d be stupid if he’s still able to drive an ATV.
“Where’s Cole?” I’m panicked at no longer seeing the other cart behind us.
“Way ahead!” Jay shouts. “They got through faster. We wouldn’t have got through at all if you hadn’t kept them from grabbing the cart.”
Momentary pride sings through my veins.
“Hang on,” Jay yells. “There’s always a bunch at the gate. Time for more fun.”
Dead Over Heels Page 20