Chapter Eleven
The tree we’re in—Cole called it a pin oak—stands in a flat bog beside the creek, limbs stretching over the water. Dead, crinkled leaves cling stubbornly to its branches, rattling every time the wind kicks up. Making it hard to hear if anyone’s approaching.
The last thing I want to do is sleep in another tree, but I understand Cole’s reasoning. We’re high enough to be out of harm’s way, but with the creek and the bog—and the zombies’ fear of water—we’re not in a position to get trapped.
Of course, there’s one teeny problem with this scenario: Bethany doesn’t have a fear of water. And her crossbow could shoot us right out of this tree.
I peer at the ground from behind the flimsy screen of leaves. For the past few hours, I’ve been keeping watch. I’ve never kept watch in my life. I feel hidden, but not safe. Not comfortable. A tiny sliver of moon creeps across the sky, like a fingernail scraping the stars.
Nearby—close enough to touch—Cole sleeps in a crook of the tree. Damn, Banjo Boy sure can snore.
I should concentrate on guard duty, but my mind keeps replaying the moment I slammed the knife in the meth head’s eyeball. The squishy feel of it. The goop spattering my hand. It’s like a bad horror film stuck on a loop.
I stabbed someone.
I freaking stabbed someone.
I’m so exhausted and cold and…heartsick. I ended someone’s existence. True, the guy was infected. Not really a person. And even when he
was
a person, apparently he wasn’t a good one. But still, it doesn’t feel like
I
should be the one dealing death.
I rub my eyes like I can wipe away guilt.
You’ll have to get over it,
I tell myself.
Cole didn’t dwell on the decapitated zombie—he concentrated on finding this tree, on getting out of harm’s way. If you want to survive in the forest, you have to be tougher, stronger, smarter. More like Cole.
I study his sleeping body. Cole might be a slim guy, unassuming, but there’s something behind those quiet eyes. Something beyond Boy Scout. Something that understands these woods and the terrain that lies ahead of us.
Begrudgingly, a bit of respect blooms in my chest.
I like to learn new things. Tomorrow, I’ll start watching him. Mimicking him. Getting an education about the forest. I’ll try harder tomorrow.
No. This can’t wait until tomorrow. Tonight. I need to do a good job tonight. It starts now. Everything changes now.
I’m
changing now.
I inhale deeply, letting the chill air clear my senses. I scan the creek, the ridge, the field. We’ve climbed high. Much higher than the deer stand. Thirty feet below, the ground slants away. Flat and open. If anything’s coming, I’ll spot it ahead of time.
Creek. Ridge. Field.
I press my back against the knotted bark, trying to wedge my hips more securely between the trunk and a thick branch.
Creek. Ridge. Field. I let my eyes settle on each landscape for five-to-ten seconds, checking for movement.
Cole snores harder.
How long do I watch? An hour? Six? I can’t tell. The fingernail moon sinks low on the horizon.
Creek. Ridge. Field.
My eyelids threaten to crack from exhaustion. Even worse, my brain starts conjuring phantom zombies. Groans on the sighing wind. Shining eyes that disappear when I squint. But I must stay awake.
Creek. Ridge. Field.
Must. Stay. Awake.
I slap myself. Cliché, I know, but it helps. I bob my head back and forth, flap my arms like a bird, disco-dance in my seat—anything to get my blood pumping.
I make faces. Happy-face. Frowny-face. Fish-face.
Suddenly, I realize the snoring has stopped.
Cole watches me, an amused smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I say, dropping my fish-face.
“I have been. I did.”
“I probably looked like an idiot just now, but I was just trying—”
“To stay awake, I know. I been there.”
Embarrassment fuels a burst of energy and my eyes return to their circuit: creek, ridge, field. Anything to keep from meeting Cole’s eyes.
Ugh. Did he watch me dancing?
Cole goes back to being quiet. It’s nice for a change. He’s not giving nature lectures or singing about the shady grove. I figure he’s fallen back asleep. Carefully, I work up the nerve to glance over. He’s just staring at the horizon, his eyes crystal bright. I’ve only know him two days, but I’ve already learned when he’s this quiet, it means something.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask. “Spill.”
Now it’s Cole’s turn to avoid my gaze. “Back at the shed—you were right. I’m making a detour. A long one. It’ll add another day to our hike.”
I huff out a breath. “I thought so.”
He pulls a brown leaf from a branch, rolls it in his fingertips. “I should’ve told you up front. Should’ve been straight with you.”
He’s right, but this doesn’t feel like the time to chide him. “Why do you want to go so far out of our way? Is it because you’re afraid of Bethany?”
“No, nothing like that.” His mouth twists downward. “When my family hunts, we move around a lot. We follow animal tracks, weather, that sort of thing.”
Oh, this is about finding his family. Suddenly, the situation makes a lot more sense. And I find my anger ebbing away.
“I don’t know
exactly
what Dad and Jay were hunting this time of year,” he continues, “but I do know where Dad’s favorite winter camp is—Weaver Bald.”
“The place with the zip lines?”
“You know it?” Now Cole’s studying me, surprise lifting his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I went once. With my parents.” It hurts to think about them. I push the feeling away—I’ve got to be tough. “Weaver Bald seems like a weird place to hunt.”
“It’s only a half mile from the best turkey spots. The zip lines shut down at Labor Day and forest service doesn’t staff the fire tower after October.” He tries not to sound too excited. “The Appalachian Trail goes through there. We might find other people, or some information. Food. Or a vehicle.”
“Or your family,” I say softly.
He nods once. Still won’t meet my eyes. This means
everything
to him. Like me, he just wants to be reunited with the people he loves. He’s going to that tower—no doubt about it. Now I have to decide if I’m going with him.
Today, when I was mad, it seemed so easy to part ways. But after the incident with the meth-lab zombie…
“There’s vending machines at the bald, right?” I ask, making a quick decision. “I could totally go for some stale potato chips.”
“Seriously?” Cole blinks at me a few times. “I expected an argument. Or at least a little resistance.”
I fumble for an explanation. “It took…well, it took both of us to kill that zombie today. If that adventure taught us anything, it’s that we should stick together.” I try to sound less cheesy. “Safety in numbers and all that.”
He lets the leaf crumble in the wind, shifts position on the branch so he’s facing me. “Listen, Ava. I’m sorry about everything. About being an ass. You’re right about Bethany—I’ve put you in danger.”
Our eyes lock, and for some reason, it knocks all the air from my lungs. “No, Cole, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Words tumble out before I realize what I’m saying. “You keep helping me, and I haven’t acted very grateful. Thanks for rescuing me at my house—and back there at Bethany’s camp. She would have killed me. Quickly. And mercilessly.”
“I’m pretty sure you’d have found a way to annoy her to death.” Cole’s teasing grin takes the sting from his words. “Really,” he continues, “it’s my fault you had to deal with her anyway.”
“Yeah,” I joke, “next time, try to pick someone more sane to date.”
“I reckon I will.” He holds the gaze a second too long. My lungs threaten to collapse from lack of oxygen.
Why is he staring at me like that?
“Truce?” I finally squeak out.
“Truce,” he agrees. “You’re right. We gotta work together if we’re gonna make it to Glenview.”
I nod.
He is so freaking cute when he smiles. Especially now that he’s lost that silly hat.
“You go on and sleep,” he says. “I’m okay now. Dawn’s only a few hours off.”
I nod, knowing I’ll need rest to get through the detour. But when I settle myself against the rough bark, the Meth Monster still waits behind my eyelids. Lunging with his rotting hands, gnashing with his putrid teeth. My knife sinks into his pupil, his brain.
I open my eyes and there’s Cole, just above me, silhouetted against the night sky, leaning against the other limb of the oak. His body relaxed, but his eyes watchful. And I realize, at least for a little while, I can let go. He’ll keep an eye out for the monsters.
“What is it?” he asks, and I suddenly realize I’ve been staring at him for the past minute.
“Uh,” I say, thinking quickly. “How’d you get that scar?”
His fingers reach instinctively for his chin. “Fell out of a pin oak.” The corners of his mouth quirk up. “I’m kidding. Relax, get some rest.”
I smile and lean my head back on the branch.
“And, Ava. Thanks for keeping watch tonight. I’m…uh, not used to letting someone else take care of me. But you did good.”
I mutter thanks, not wanting him notice how proud his words make me.
When I close my eyes again, the monster is gone.
…
“Wicked cold,” Ava mutters as we take our first steps away from the pin oak.
A fierce wind sprang up overnight, hurtling clouds around the cobalt sky. A strong gust bites through my thin jacket and into my bones, making me shiver. “Yeah. Flurries in the higher elevations, I reckon. Must be snowing at home.”
“Hmph.” Ava frowns. “Not my home. No snow in Florida. Ever.” She’s quiet for a moment as we pick our way across the mucky bog. “So this fire tower, it’s at a higher elevation, right?”
“Yep.” I figure once she puts two and two together, she’ll realize I’m leading her straight into a snowstorm and halt this detour. But after five minutes of solid silence, I come to the conclusion she ain’t planning any such thing.
She keeps surprising me like that. The way she jumped out of the Beavers’ truck to help me. The way she refused to let her parents come rescue her. The way she’s hiking into freezing temps just so I can check on my family.
“I hate to admit this, City-Girl, but you got some backbone.”
She smiles. The first snowflakes appear just then, one landing on her cheek. I have this sudden lunatic urge to brush it away.
What the hell happened to me last night?
Something about watching her try to stay awake. To keep guard over me. I’d been sure she wasn’t up to the task. That I’d wake up and find her zonked out beside me. But I’m starting to realize she’d never let that happen. Stubborn as hell. Maybe stubborn enough to survive this mess.
I force my brain off the girl and back to the task at hand. We’ve skirted our way around the bog. That means there’s no water left to mask our scent. Just a beeline trek through bare pastureland until our path intersects the Appalachian Trail.
“I wish we had some white lightning,” I say, moving into the open field.
Ava glances up, confused. “What’s white lightning?”
Sometimes I forget how weird she talks. “Moonshine? Liquor?”
Her face twists in a frown. “This is
so
not the time to get drunk.”
“That ain’t what I mean, Miss Priss.” I slow a little, so I’m walking beside her, instead of in front. “My Paw-paw used to tell a tale about his uncle Ed. How he escaped from a chain gang in the fifties. The law chased him through the woods. Put bloodhounds on his scent. Ed was a smart man, though—had a jug of white lightning and poured some in his footprints.”
“To hide his trail?”
“More’n that. The fumes from the liquor burned the dogs’ nostrils. Couldn’t smell enough to find Ed. I’m wondering if it’d do the same for zombies.”
She frowns at the bare fields. “No place to get moonshine out here, right? Don’t rednecks—er, I mean, Appalachian Americans keep those liquor-making contraptions in the woods?”
“Liquor-making contraptions? You mean a still? Wrong century, City-Girl. This ain’t prohibition.” I tilt my voice, trying to sound like some of the old-timers I know. “All us hillbillies buy liquor at the store now, same as you high-falutin’ folk.”
Her mouth puckers, like she’s trying to think up some good response.
I can’t help busting out laughing. Lord God, but it’s easy to push her buttons.
Her brown eyes flash. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you’re extremely vexing?”
“Vexing?” I say, throwing my voice again. Now so I sound like one of those ignorant stereotypical rednecks on TV. “That’s a tough word. Where’s my dictionary?”
She swats at me and I duck out of the way. I wonder, if she swings again, should I stay put? If she wants to play-fight, I’d love to wrestle with her.
Dang.
Now that conjures up some seriously distracting images.
I jerk my attention back to the trail. The field ends abruptly, bark-colored signs marking the border between private land and the trail.
Weaver Bald 3.2 miles
one reads. Another sign details camping regulations. A green dispenser provides plastic bags for dog walkers. A parking area stretches along the other side of the path, empty.
The laughter drains from my face. “Here it is,” I say with false cheerfulness. “The Appalachian Trail.”
Something feels different here.
Off.
“Why is everything so…still?” Ava asks, her voice dropping low.
At that moment, I realize she’s right—that she’s noticed something I missed. The world is quiet. Dead quiet. No chattering birds in the trees. No rustle of squirrels in the leaves.
“Where are all the animals?” she asks. “Hiding from the snow?”