Every Wrong Reason

by Rachel Higginson

  Was I a little bitter about Quarterback-Chris? Hell, yes.

  Did I not mention he tried to eat me?

  My parents were killed by Feeders. Haley’s dad was killed by a Feeder. I was almost killed by a Feeder.

  They were everywhere.

  What we did have was an absence of a lot of people and an abundance of guns. Thank you, farmer Fred, for your once unnecessary stash of ex-military contraband.

  I hopped over the counter, sliding my butt across the filthy glass. My already-grimy jeans smeared a dust-coated path the size of my hips. I landed on the pads of my feet and my toes were smashed even worse in my small hiking boots, but it was a soundless landing I was kind of proud of.

  I had the reflexes of a cat, thanks to living every minute of my life expecting an attack. If the world ever got its f-ing act together and cleaned up this mess, I imagined they would make a movie of my life about the whole Zombie thing. I’d obviously be played by that hot brunette from the Vampire Diaries in which I would run around in a sexy Cat Woman suit, totally playing the super hero.

  I opened the cabinets behind the makeup counter and slipped my backpack off my shoulder. Inside my hiking pack everything was orderly and neatly packed for maximum space and easy access. But I didn’t have time for that now. I would reorganize everything later.

  I started swiping handfuls of products into my bag, not caring about color or usefulness. This was what Haley and I called the Grab and Go- get as many supplies as we could now, as fast as we could, then leave the scene before either Feeders or protective townsfolk happened upon us. We could sort it out later. Without even having to discuss it with Haley, I knew she was picking out shirts and jeans for me and she knew I would cover her with whatever I could find.

  After makeup, I hit up the clearance shoes, except there wasn’t anything hiking, nature resilient or weather-proofed. Haley’s shoes were in good condition actually, so I didn’t bother debating over her. She was tiny by nature, not just because we only ate every three days and probably had scurvy since we were lacking serious vitamin C. She barely cleared 5’3, and her feet were average size enough that she could double up on socks and fit almost any pair we found.

  I had clown feet even for my 5’8 frame and most the time found myself searching the small-feeted men. There were plenty of feet to choose from, but we didn’t run across the right kind of shoe very often.

  Like right now. There were a pair of tennis shoes that I could upgrade to, and they were my size. Or should I stick with the weather-proofed boots that would protect my feet from the elements?

  The other part of the debate- tennis shoes were much lighter than these things, easier to walk across country in and much, much nicer to run in.

  Still, I had to protect my feet. And I definitely didn’t want trench foot. Not that I knew what trench foot was…. but I knew it was a big deal for everyone on Band of Brothers- my go to reference for everything survival.

  “Get the shoes that fit,” Haley said from across the room while digging through every style of jeans.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. A shoe that fit had to be infinitely better than what I was wearing now. I toed off my boots and ripped off my socks. There was a whole rack of socks near the checkout counter, so I grabbed handfuls of them and stuffed them in the bag, saving a crazy-patterned neon pair for now.

  “Sweatpants?” Haley asked from a new rack.

  Moving quickly was essential to our survival, and we had honed this skill in order to stay alive. “Absolutely,” I agreed. Jeans were practical and resilient, but there was nothing better than a pair of yoga pants when running for your life.

  As I moved on to underwear-which might as well have been gold at this point- the light grew dimmer in this department. We were already squinting and stumbling around in the dark, and I knew we had been here too long. I had a flashlight that hadn’t run out of battery yet, but I really didn’t want to use it if it meant drawing the attention of wandering Feeders.

  “Haley, we need to go,” I whispered harshly.

  I heard her zip up her pack and shoulder it, but I could barely make out her form anymore. We’d learned to act as soon as a command was given between us. There was no time to hesitate anymore, so by the time I’d slipped my heavy backpack on again, she was already moving toward the exit.

  One of the weirdest parts of the Apocalypse was the quiet. I couldn’t get used to it. Back in my old life, before the infection, there seemed to always be noise around. Cars on the highway, music from my iPod, airplanes overhead, my parents talking at me; there was always something in my ear. Now, there was nothing, no background elevator jazz to soothe us while we shopped, no other shoppers bustling around and bumping into us. The only sound to break up the silence was our careful footsteps and the heavy mouth-breathing from a Feeder in the next room.

  Oh shit!

  I grabbed the handle on Haley’s backpack and tugged her backward. Her head whipped around and she opened her mouth to probably ask what the hell, but I held my finger to my lips and motioned with my head toward the way we just came from. It took her a second, but as soon as she heard the panting and wheezing in the next room she was instantly game for my plan of retracing our steps.

  There was plenty of food for the bastard in the room he was in now, but I knew he would be able to sniff out our live, fresh flesh in the next two minutes and that was like the difference between prime rib and an old, moldy hot dog.

  Best case scenario, he was going to lick the hot dog first, and come back for it later, after he ate his prime rib.

  Which was me.

  I stepped carefully until we were back in the Junior’s Department, always keeping my gun trained on the direction of the Feeder. Haley stood a little bit behind me, her gun aimed to the left where this area opened up to the children’s section.

  “Son of a bitch,” she breathed on a strangled whisper.

  A quick glance toward the direction of her pointed gun, showed the glowing red eyes of two different Feeders. That was the signature of the last stage of their digression into Zombie-hood: first came the cravings for flesh, then the heart stopping in a semi-death, the disgusting process in which their brain still worked, but their bodies started to decay and then the tell-tale red eyes, showing basically that all humanity was lost. By then, they were stronger, didn’t feel pain and only craved brains.

  Basically, this sucked.

  They could smell us, but couldn’t see us yet, and so they were still trying to pinpoint us before they attacked. Unfortunately, we could also smell them. What really sucked was that there were at least three of them, these two and the one munching away on all that delicious dead flesh.

  They weren’t exactly pack animals, and usually they traveled- wandered aimlessly- alone; but if they ever found themselves together it was like they shared a hive brain or something. They acted as a team, without speaking or seemingly communicating, and once their eyes were red they were a hundred times harder to take down.

  Our backs were against the wall, literally, and I wasn’t exactly sure how we were going to get out of this one.

  I glanced over my shoulder again and noticed for the first time an exit toward the corner of the room. A discounted clothing rack had been pushed up against it, and it was barely visible in the almost completely-dark room, but a reflected Exit sign was still pasted on the top.

  As quietly as I could, I whispered, “Behind us, Hale. An exit. Lead or Cover?”

  Haley let my noise settle before she answered. The Feeders had already started moving toward us. Despite every Zombie movie I had ever seen, the real life versions were not exactly the dumb and easy to kill version of walking corpses. They were hunters, fast and intuitive. While humanity still had the advantage of a rationalizing, fully functioning, not-addicted-to-living-flesh advantage, they weren’t exactly a helpless opponent.

  “Cover,” Haley finally whispered back.

  And with her blessing I turned on my heel and sprinted for the
door. I could feel her behind me, but out of experience, I knew she was keeping her gun trained on the Zombies that were now chasing us down to make snacks out of our innards. I gave up on being quiet and threw anything that stood in my way.

  The trip across the room took maybe five seconds, but it felt like the longest run of my life. I could already hear the Zombie from the other room tearing his way to join his friends. My heart was hammering in my chest, my vision focused only on the exit and my ears trained to listen for any surprises.

  As soon as they were in my reach, I grabbed onto the tightly-packed, discounted clothes and went to toss the rack, but it only swayed. Something was holding it to the ground.

  Pure panic prickled my blood and my eyes watered immediately from the stress of the situation. I heard Haley’s gun go off behind me, but because the mouth-breathing was so loud I knew she had missed.

  That meant she had four bullets left in her magazine.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I pulled again on the rack of clothes and this time it moved an inch. I realized then that it was tethered by something on the ground. While Haley shot off another bullet, I dropped to my hands and knees and felt blindly for whatever was holding onto the base of the rack. Once I found the thick rope that was tied to the base, I whipped out my pocket knife I kept in the pocket of my pants and began cutting at the rope frantically.

  Another shot from behind me and one of the Feeders dropped to the ground. Good shot, Hales. There were still at least two more Feeders left, and I could hear more commotion from the front entrance. All these shots were probably drawing everything out there in here.

  I finally got through the rope, but as soon as the slack was gone, something huge and clanging crashed to the ground just on the other side of the door. It sounded like pots or pans and a whole bunch of breaking glass.

  Shit!!!

  I didn’t have time to process that right now, so I stood up, effectively shoved the rack out of the way and went for the door handle. Another gun shot behind me and another Feeder dropped to the ground.

  I lunged for the door handle, and turned it desperately. And nothing.

  It was locked.

  “No!” I screamed, not caring about the noise level at this point.

  Haley’s last bullet exited her gun and the last Feeder felt the hit and fell to the ground directly behind me. These guys were dead, but there were who knew how many now headed toward us. Haley was out of bullets, and I had three left.

  And our only exit was locked.

  “What are you waiting for, Reagan. Let’s get the hell out of here!” Haley’s back was still to me as she faced her now empty gun at the hallway, just waiting for the rest of the Feeders to follow the sounds and find us.

  “It’s locked! Damn it!”

  Completely panicked, I yanked on the handled and kicked it with my new shoe. Nothing happened. The door stayed firmly locked, stubbornly unmoving. This was definitely worst case scenario.

  And not ten minutes ago I had been really excited about all that eye liner and a new pair of jeans.

  This was so not how I was going out. I’d survived Quarterback-Chris, the death of my parents and almost two freaking years of living as the most depressing version of Mila Jovovich in Resident Evil ever.

  “Open, damn it!” I screamed at the door, giving it another kick with my foot.

  Only this time, my foot didn’t connect with anything. The door wrenched open and my body flew, following my foot, through the empty space I wasn’t expecting. I fell straight to my hands and knees in a huge pile of glass shards and broken ceramic. I felt the thick chunks of debris dig and slice through my skin immediately. My jeans would be completely irreparable after this and, with my luck, as soon as I was able to stop bleeding; I was for sure going to get gangrene.

  What the hell?

  “What the hell, Reagan?” Haley practically screamed at me as soon as she was through the doorway. She slammed the door behind her and braced her body against it; meanwhile, I was still doggy style in a pile of glass I was too afraid to stand up from.

  The damage was going to be annoyingly excessive.

  Before I could answer her though, I heard the signature click of a bullet being loaded into the chamber. More dread slithered through my body; other humans were just as deadly and dangerous as Zombies these days. And apparently we were trespassing.

  “Don’t move,” a deep, masculine voice ordered in a quiet, steely tone.

  “Out of the frying pan,” Haley mumbled resignedly.

  “And into the fire,” I finished for her.

  I would never complain about eyeliner again.