His expression takes on a quality that is fierce and wonderful at the same time.
“Day before yesterday…when I said I should’ve left you at your house. I called you an idiot. You’re not.” He licks his lips, working up to something difficult. “Ava, you’re smart. And a whole lot tougher than I thought.”
Then he turns and continues walking. Suddenly, I’m not cold at all. A warmth burns through my stomach, my chest. A sort of fierce pride. And a weird desire to make this strange boy turn and look at me that way again.
…
Ava and I spend most of the afternoon hiking down the shady side of the mountain, working our way back toward the river. With each step, the ground crackles with dead leaves and ice. Trees stretch naked arms toward the clear, blue sky. The path, which has been mostly orange clay, has completely transitioned to large boulders.
“Careful,” I say, as Ava attempts to navigate a patch of icy rock. “Go around the slick spots. Like this. Step on the moss or the leaves. Try to find natural traction.”
She trails behind me, trying to place her feet in the exact spots as mine. She stumbles a few times, but I don’t offer any more advice. Maybe we’ve finally found a good rhythm.
My stupid-ass brain will not behave. Every few minutes it conjures up a mental picture of Ava’s underwear. Yep, that’s right. Her damned underwear. Black and lacy. I don’t even remember seeing her underwear when I pulled down her pants to give her the injection. Hell, my brain was focused on one thing and one thing only—saving her life. But apparently, some small, male part of my mind was taking a mental picture to drag out later. And it makes me feel like a jerk. But I also can’t seem to stop.
Is it bad, now that she’s safe, to keep remembering how hot she looked?
Yep
, I decide.
You’re totally taking advantage of the situation. Now quit being a perv.
And then the image pops up again.
And I beat it back down.
Crap. This is like playing whack-a-mole with my subconscious.
Panties? Quit being a perv. Panties? Quit being a perv.
Beside me, Ava pokes a loose strand of hair into her ponytail. I wish she’d let her hair down. She looks so much softer, less rigid. Maybe I should cut my finger, just so she’d bandage it again with her ponytail holder.
Get your mind off the girl, Cole. You’ll get ambushed by a mob of undead while you’re thinking about her hair. And her underwear.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts, but it doesn’t work. I’ve been walking next to this girl for two days wishing she’d just shut up, and now, there’s nothing in my head but her.
And her underwear.
Without even thinking about it, I start singing.
“Are we in bear country again?” Ava asks.
I simply nod.
I hate this uneasy feeling. Knowing the Beavers and the people from the country club are behind us somewhere. Wondering if Bethany’s group is behind that. Or if Bethany’s found
all
the zombies in the national forest and added them to her army. That would make for a scary-sized band of infected.
“Where the heck is this Shady Grove you keep singing about?” Ava asks suddenly, a note of humor in her voice. “It’s getting dark. Monsters are chasing us, and you want to sing about some shadowy place? Sing something cheerful.”
I pause and blink a few times, not even realizing the meaning behind what I’ve sung for the past few days. “Shady Grove’s not a place. It’s a person.” I clear my throat. “It’s uh…it’s a courting song. An old one.” I start again. “Cheeks as red as the blooming rose and eyes of the prettiest brown.” I stare at Ava. Into her brown eyes. “She’s the darling of my heart, sweetest little girl in town. Oh, Shady Grove, my little love.”
Cheeks burning, I lift my gaze and sing the rest of the song to the trees. “Shady Grove I say, Shady Grove my little love, I’m bound to go away.”
Ava and I are now completely unable to look at each other.
I trail off and the last notes fade away. We’ve just stepped into a small clearing, ringed with dense green holly bushes. A smooth, almost flat boulder sits to one side.
“This is pretty,” Ava says, glancing around. “Almost like a park.”
Is it my imagination, or have things grown awkward between us?
I swallow hard, forcing myself to act normal. “If you want, we can stop here for supper. We’re making good time—you’ve been going fast.”
She nods, but I see her fighting the urge to grin. It’s like she doesn’t want to give me any clue how proud my words make her. Instead, she focuses on getting the trail mix from her pocketbook, carefully divvying out equal amounts.
Together, we sink onto the boulder. Instant exhaustion settles into my muscles.
“Ugh,” Ava says, “I might never get up again. It feels so good to sit.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
She still looks pale to me, with high spots of color in each cheek. But I know better than to bring up the allergy attack. I’ll take my cue from her and not dwell on the incident.
Carefully, she pours half the remaining trail mix in my outstretched palm.
“This is crazy,” I say, studying the meager handful of food. “AT hikers burn through seven thousand calories a day. Ain’t no way we can keep up this pace for the next two days on a handful of seeds. We’ll start feeling it soon.”
“I’m feeling it now.”
Personally, I’ve been too scared to think much about eating, but I know my body can use more fuel if we’re going to make it to Glenview.
“We’ve got such a lead,” I tell her, “I wonder if we could risk stopping long enough for me to set a snare. Maybe catch a rabbit or a squirrel or something?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until we stop for the night?”
I chew thoughtfully. “You’re right. My stomach is talking louder than my brain.”
“Is there stuff we can eat out here? You know, wild plants or whatever?”
“Maybe. It’s not a great time of the year for it. In spring, this place would be covered with ramps.” I give her a wink. “Wild onions for you city girls.”
The sun has already shifted low in the sky. Only four or five hours of daylight left.
I stand and dust my hands on my pants. “Guess we better get a move on. Probably should try for another five miles today.”
“Five miles?” she groans, hauling herself to her feet.
Before I have a chance to reply, Ava’s head jerks to the left. “What was that?’
“I didn’t—”
“Shhh,” she holds up a hand to silence me.
And then I hear it, too. A low growl, not human, not even zombie, more like—
The holly bushes rustle and spread apart. Out walks a four-hundred-pound bear.
Chapter Sixteen
Cole utters about twenty different swear words in a row. I can’t breathe. I didn’t realize a bear would be so…big. I start to back up.
“Don’t run,” he whispers, seizing my shoulder. “It’ll chase you.”
Don’t run?
It suddenly occurs to me: we’ve been walking through a bear preserve for three days, but I never asked what to do if we encountered an
actual
bear.
Cole stands on his tiptoes and starts waving his arms. “AAAAAH! GO ON, BEAR! Move! Shoo!”
Shoo? Seriously?
“Maybe we should’ve tried ‘shoo’ on the zombies?” I suggest, my voice shaking with fear.
“Make yourself look big and threatening,” Cole sounds completely panicked. “Be loud. They hate noise.”
Cole’s fear is contagious. I rise to my toes, wave my arms and shout. But my voice half sticks in my throat. And I’m not exactly tall. The bear decides I’d make a short, quiet treat. He points his nose toward me.
Cole claps his hands a few times. Clapping! Yes! Great idea—at least I can slap my hands together and add to the commotion.
Slap. Slap.
“Shoo!”
The bear does not care that I can clap. He sniffs the air once, not unlike the zombies, and takes a few steps closer. For such a big animal, he’s surprisingly agile.
Cole jumps in front of me. “Go on, bear! Shoo!” He claps his hands a few more times and flaps his arms over his head.
The bear responds by rising up on his back legs and letting out a loud “Grrrrrr!”
“Okay, he wins. He’s taller.” I tug on the back of Cole’s jacket. “Please. Let’s run.”
Cole slides back beside me and talks out of the side of his mouth. “We can’t. Don’t let his size fool you. He’s fast. He’ll catch us.”
The smell of bear drifts to my nostrils. Wild and musky. He crashes down on all fours with a
thud
that vibrates the forest floor.
Damn, maybe the animal weighs closer to five hundred pounds.
“Keep clapping,” Cole says. “But start backing up. Slowly.”
“Yes,” I say, my words trembling. “I like this plan.”
With each step, the bear matches our pace, advancing as we retreat. Cole and I reach the edge of a clearing, our shoulders together, backs to the tree line. My hands have gone numb from clapping.
The bear tilts his head. Inspects us. Lifts one paw, edged with ebony, nonretractable claws.
Another scent mixes with the bear’s. Something familiar. Like meat. Or rotten hamburger.
I sniff the air.
Holy hell, is this a zombie bear?
But the animal acts so normal—so
bearish
. No white eyeballs, no loss of motor control. That means…
I actually turn away from the large, threatening animal. Oh crap, the scent is coming from
behind
us. The leaves on the evergreens rustle menacingly.
“Cole!” I yell, but before I can voice my suspicion, a zombie crashes out of the pines.
“Rawr!” He adds his growl to the bear’s.
“Hellfire!” Cole yells, spinning in place. “Why do we have the worst damn luck?”
But Cole is wrong. We
are
in luck. This zombie is alone—not part of the country club horde or Bethany’s group of teen minions. He reminds me of AT hikers I’ve seen in town—huge backpack still attached to his shoulders, strong boots, knit cap, grizzled beard.
“What do we do?” I squeak out.
“The hell if I know.”
Hiker-zombie flexes his fingers a few times, like he’s imagining our skin in his hands.
I whip my head in the other direction. The bear appraises us, a string of drool dangling from his enormous jaws. A low growl thrums in the back of his throat. He might be a
teensy
bit upset that three people have wandered into his territory. Or maybe he’s just mad because the zombie is trying to steal his snack.
Behind me, the hiker lets out a growl of his own.
“Okay,” Cole says, stepping sideways, “let’s move this way instead.”
But our attackers simply change trajectory. They’re only feet away now.
Cole tries to push me behind him.
“Stop doing that,” I hiss, batting away his arms. “Every time there’s danger, you push me behind you. I can help. I can fight.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “You take the bear. I’ll take the zombie.”
Take the bear? On my own? Is he kidding?
For a few seconds, the four of us simply stare, waiting for someone to make the first move. Ultimately, it’s too much excitement for the bear. Three humans in his lair. He charges, his enormous legs making the ground shudder.
The zombie snaps his teeth at the air, ready for his next meal to fall right in his grasp. He and the bear lunge forward.
“Dive!” Cole yells.
I have no idea which direction he’s talking about, so it’s a good thing he loops an arm around me and pulls me sideways. My body is cushioned by the jacket as we tumble into a bed of ferns and brambles.
Thunk.
My head slams Cole’s.
“Ow!” we say in unison.
A few yards away, hiker-zombie and the bear collide with an ungodly yowl. Brute strength against superhuman strength. With one swipe, the bear rips the hiker’s half-rotten face to bloodied shreds.
“Rawr!” The hiker responds by baring his teeth, flashing his jaws and chomping an enormous chunk from the bear’s shoulder.
“Grrrrr!” The bear throws his weight at the zombie, knocking him to the ground.
The zombie holds him off—his hands braced against the bear’s chest. It’s one thing to hear news reports about superhuman strength, and another to see a two-hundred-pound hiker use his bare hands to push away a five-hundred-pound animal.
Beside me, Cole gapes. “I ain’t sticking around to find out who wins!”
We inch away, staying low, hoping to remain unnoticed.
“Stand up real slow,” Cole mutters, his gaze glued to the battle. “Nice and easy.”
As we rise, I realize we’re clutching each other’s hands. Like we always do when things attack us.
Eyes fixed on the bear and hiker, we take careful, quiet steps out of the clearing into the cover of the forest.
“I’m gonna keep watching our friends,” Cole whispers. “But I want you to check behind us. If there’s one zombie, there’s gotta be another one who infected him.”
I squeeze Cole’s hand in fear, realizing the simple truth of his words.
Behind me, the leafless trees allow me to scan a few yards in every direction.
“Nothing,” I say, breathlessly. “There’s nothing.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to run out of here and straight into Bethany.”
The woods are brown and quiet.
“No,” I gasp. “No one.”
The bear lets out an enormous yelp. I clutch Cole’s hand harder.
“You…are…breaking…my…fingers,” he mutters.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t manage to loosen my grip.
Blood coats both the bear and zombie. It’s like one of those awful B monster movies. Godzilla versus Mothra.
“Go!” Cole yells. And we’re sprinting through the forest. The rawrs and growls shake the trees behind us.
And then I discover why I couldn’t see anything behind us: we’ve bolted directly toward an embankment. I arch my back, trying to stop short. For an instant, our bodies balance precariously on the ledge. Cole regains his footing, but I’ve still got his hand—and way too much momentum.
“Dammit!” he yells as I yank him forward.
The incline is slick with pine needles. I manage to keep upright for a few seconds, tripping my way down the steep hill, and then I’m cartwheeling. Cole’s hand rips from mine.
Smack!
The back of my head slams a rock. The sky spins above me. Then the ground. Then the sky. The whole process repeats. Faster. I close my eyes from the flying leaves and dirt.
Bam.
I’m on my butt at the bottom of the hill.
Bam.
Cole lands beside me.
“Sonofabitch,” I say simply.
We’re facing each other. Leaves and pine needles stick to Cole’s hair. He spits out a twig. “Random fact,” he says. “The smell of food attracts bears.”
“And zombies,” I add, looking up at the cliff we just tumbled off.
I don’t know if it’s stress or lack of food or the fact we just escaped being eaten, but I start laughing. Like crazy, full-blown guffaws.
I figure Cole will slap me at any second. Instead, he starts laughing, too.
My brain tries to wrap around that one.
“A bear!” Cole says, snickering like a crazy person.
Tears stream down my face. “You told the bear ‘shoo’!”
“Oh, Lordy, I did, didn’t I?” Cole clutches his stomach.
His laugh is easy and full-throated—husky like his voice. It dawns on me that Banjo Boy might be fun to hang out with under different circumstances.
“Your hair’s full of pine needles.” I giggle, reaching over to pick them out. His hair is so soft I have to fight the urge to run my fingers through it.
“Uh-oh,” Cole says, suddenly sober. He points at my waist. Somehow, the tumble down the cliff screwed up my mom’s jacket. Now the entire zipper gapes open, showing my black tee underneath.
“Crap.” I stand and fiddle with the zipper. This is bad. I’m already freezing half the time and an open jacket will just exacerbate matters. “It’s no use,” I say after a few minutes. “Completely busted.”
“Um, Ava.” Cole stands up beside me. “I think you’re cut.” He reaches for my shoulder, spinning me gently so he can check the wound.
I touch the back of my neck and my fingers come away with blood. But not much. “Must’ve smacked a rock on the way down that cliff.”
“It ain’t bad.” Cole frowns. “Where’s your antiseptic stuff?”
I hunt in my purse for the bottle of Bath & Body Works antibac gel.
“Let me do it,” Cole offers. “You can’t even see it.”
I decide not to mention the cut burns something fierce—I can feel
exactly
where it is.
I angle my back toward him. Gently, he frees my hair from the elastic, pulling strands away from my neck. The motion makes me shiver. A quick sting of antiseptic and then the warmth of his touch. His fingers are calloused from hard work, so rough and gentle at the same time that gooseflesh spreads across my skin.
“You cold?” he asks.
I turn to face him again. “Yes,” I lie.
“Well, c’mere then.”
And he shocks the hell out of me, taking me in his arms, wrapping me in an enormous hug. My breath catches. Now the gooseflesh is
everywhere
.
“I know hugging me is the last thing you want to do,” he mutters, his voice gruff, “but at least let me warm you up.”
The last thing I want? How could he possibly believe that?
My cheek presses the soft cotton of his undershirt, just above his jacket zipper, his chest heating my skin. Again, the scent of woodsmoke. It’s a good smell. Comforting. Warm.
He continues talking—nervous babbling—and it takes only a moment to realize this is just as disconcerting for him. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, his words rushed. “That touching me ain’t the last thing you’d want. Maybe second to last, or third to last, but you’re willing to endure it if—”
I slide my arms around him. Up and under his jacket.
Now it’s his turn to catch his breath.
Sure, his shirt is between my hands and his skin, but somehow this feels intimate. He exhales, losing his train of thought. Or his power of speech.
And then he hugs me tighter, burying his face in my hair.
For a moment, everything falls away. The bear, the zombies, the allergy attack, the zip line. There is no danger in the circle of his arms.
“Cole,” I ask, my voice shaking, “do you honestly think I hate you? H-have I been that mean?”
“Not hate. Just dislike. I’m a dumb redneck and a know-it-all and my singing sucks.” His voice sounds unsteady. It matches how I feel.
“No.” I shake my head against his shirt, my face buried in the cotton. “You’re none of those things. Well, the singing does suck, but you’re definitely not dumb. I’d be dead now if it wasn’t for you.”
“Thanks,” he says softly.
“A bear,” I say into his chest. “We just got attacked by a freaking bear.”
“And another zombie,” he adds.
“And then we fell off a cliff.” I snort in amazement. “But we made it through. We’re still alive.”
“We’ll keep making it through, Ava. We’ll get to Glenview.”
I nod against his chest, wanting so much to believe him. I hug harder. He responds by clutching me tighter.
I have no idea how long we stand there, hanging on to each other for dear life. Long enough for my hands to stop shaking.
A nearby rustle in the leaves makes me startle.
“Shh,” he whispers, “it’s just rain. Raindrops hitting leaves.”
I laugh. “Never thought I’d be so happy to hear rain.”
The mood broken, we pull apart—but even after he moves away, I somehow feel a little less alone in the world.
…
“Get the garbage bags out,” I tell Ava as the rain increases. “We’ll use ’em as ponchos.”
We’re at a lower altitude now, which means it’s warmer—but not by much. I ain’t crazy about the idea of getting soaked.
I flick open my knife to cut a slit in the sealed end of each bag, then help Ava ease one over her head.
“Keep your arms inside,” I holler over the increasing noise of the raindrops. She copies my movements, pulling the bottom edge of the bag tight and tying it in a knot from the inside.
The rain falls harder.
“Let’s work our way along this cliff,” I say.
Ava jerks her head in the opposite direction. “But Glenview is that way!”
“Check out those clouds. This storm’s gonna be a doozy. We need shelter.”
“So let’s find shelter on the way to Glenview.”
“But there’s a cliff here. Cliffs mean caves. C’mon, Ava. Not too far, I promise. Just till the storm passes.”
She frowns but takes a few steps in the direction I indicated, her face tilted upward, scanning the cliff wall.