“You should call it a purse,” she says. “Only old women say pocketbook.” Ava snags the elastic off her ponytail. “Here, use this to keep the paper on your finger.” I fumble around. “No, tighter,” she says, looping the elastic a few times. Her fingers are chilly against my skin.
My hand still throbs, but maybe I’ve kept myself from getting a raging infection. I stare at her improvised bandage. I gotta admit, it’s pretty smart. But I sure as hell ain’t telling her that.
I glance up. Her hair, now loose, clouds her face in a mass of white-blond curls. I ain’t sure which is more pale—her skin or her hair. For an instant, she looks different. Softer. Less harsh. Almost…pretty.
Then she opens her mouth and I remember what a pain in the ass she is.
“I’m cold,” she whines. “Can’t we make a fire?”
I bark out a disbelieving laugh. “In a tree? On a plank? Without matches?”
“Yeah.” Her brow furrows. “If only we had some matches.” She shoots an accusing stare back at me. “You’re Mr. Boy Scout. Can’t you build one with some rocks or something? Flint and a piece of string?”
“You got any flint and string in that magic pocketbook?”
“Er, no.”
She’s quiet for a minute staring into the gathering dark. “But I just remembered—I do have something useful.”
My ears perk up. “What? A machine gun? Throwing stars?”
“Better. I have snacks.”
My stomach growls before I get a chance to reply. “You have food?”
She hauls out a half-f bottle of water and a bag of sunflower seeds. Maybe it is a magic pocketbook after all.
“You got more food in there?” I ask, getting excited. “More snacks? We can drink river water here in the forest—we’re high up and away from people—but we definitely need more food.”
She shakes her head. “This is it.”
“Better than nothing.” My mouth waters, but common sense wins out. “I reckon we should ration it. Just eat a handful now.”
She counts ten seeds apiece and returns the bag to her pocketbook. Maybe it makes her feel good to keep control of the food. Fine. But I know that bag of seeds won’t get us far.
For a long heartbeat, the sun pulses fire along the ridgeline and then sinks like a rock. Within minutes, darkness presses in on us. My ears strain, trying to catch growls or footsteps, but I hear only the steady gurgle of the river.
“You go ahead and sleep,” I tell Ava. “I’ll keep watch.”
“Are you kidding? Sleep up here? It’s not like this deer stand has a bannister. I could roll off in the middle of the night, get eaten by the entire cast of
Deliverance
.”
“Here, switch places.” My body stretches over hers as we swap positions. “The tree’ll keep you from falling off and I’ll block you this way.” Now my right leg’s smushed against Ava’s. Sudden heat flares along that side of my body. It ain’t like I’m attracted to her or anything; my body’s having a typical guy reaction, I reckon. Stupid damn hormones.
I lean against the support limb, watching more stars emerge and trying to get my mind off the warmth spreading along my thigh. I rack my brain, hoping to remember what my dad and brother said before they left on their hunting trip.
I ain’t telling Ava this, but we’re not exactly making a beeline to town. Dad and Jay are out here somewhere and I
gotta
search for ’em. Only I ain’t sure exactly where. When we hunt, we move around—following tracks and stuff. This time of year, they probably took the AT—the Appalachian Trail—toward Weaver Bald. Or, maybe, if I’m lucky they’re still somewhere along this river.
I just hope I find ’em before the zombies do.
…
Darkness and silence and a flimsy piece of particleboard—is this enough to hide us? From the Beavers? From the hunting pack?
I shift positions, trying to get comfortable…trying not to touch Cole any more than I already am. Here I am, the girl who isn’t supposed to spend too much time outside and
I am
sleeping in a freaking tree.
Madness.
Weee-eeek.
A sudden sound from a nearby oak makes me jump. Of course, I end up jerking even closer to Cole.
“Just a branch moving—from the wind.” He doesn’t try to shift away. But maybe he can’t on this narrow board. “Seriously. You go on to sleep.”
I’m about to tell Cole that there’s no way I’ll
ever
get to sleep up here when a wave of exhaustion knocks me out cold.
I wake with a start. One of them has me. A monster. It’s on top of me, hands covering my mouth, blocking my air. I try to scream, but a voice hisses in my ear. “They’re coming. Stay still. Not a peep.”
Cole’s voice. Cole’s arms pinning me down.
And behind his words, the low growl I already recognize as the undead.
I go rigid, sucking in a deep breath. Cole keeps hold of me, but shifts his weight off me slowly, careful not to make noise. My feet are still hanging over the lip of the board, and I draw them in until I’m crouched in a fetal position. I peek over the edge.
The stars give just enough ambient light to illuminate a ten-foot radius—beyond that, the world is inky black. How far off is the dawn? Will we have to fight for our lives in utter darkness?
I shake with fear. Cole clutches me tighter.
Two figures shamble along the river trail, shifting into my range of vision. Broad-shouldered, thick-necked, and reeking of rotten meat. The infection has changed their eyes—made them almost luminous—and they glow pale white in the dark. One of the glowing eyeballs hangs loose in its socket.
The Beavers have found us.
They sniff the air like hounds on a scent and stop at the base of the tree.
Directly below the deer stand.
Fear freezes us into statues. We don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t
anything
for the next minute.
I grit my teeth together, trying to make the Beavers leave through sheer force of will.
Go away. Please. Just keep walking.
And then, almost like he hears me, Mr. Beaver takes a few shuffling steps farther down the path. Bubba sniffs the air one last time and follows his father. Two steps…three. They’re moving away.
My breath comes out in a relieved rush.
We did it. We tricked them.
Cole flashes me a triumphant grin.
At that exact moment, my phone rings.
Chapter Five
“Rawrr!” Mr. Beaver lets out a bellow of rage, like he realizes we tricked him.
“Lord God almighty,” Cole swears.
There’s no point in hiding. We rise up just in time to watch Mr. Beaver rush back to the tree and ram the trunk with one massive shoulder. The flimsy deer stand quivers in place.
“No!” I yell grabbing for the board’s edge, hoping to hold on.
Wham!
As usual, Bubba follows his dad’s lead. His head slams the tree like a battering ram. That’s gotta hurt. Or, it would if his nerve endings still functioned.
The particleboard creaks. Still clutching it with both hands, I peek over the edge. The phone keeps ringing in my coat pocket, and I’m
sure
it’s my parents, but I can’t answer—I’m too busy holding on for dear life.
Mr. Beaver tries another tactic—grabbing the tree and shaking, like we’re coconuts he’s trying to knock free. His loose eyeball shakes and swings with the motion.
My horrified brain latches on to one important detail—any tree strong enough to hold me and Cole shouldn’t succumb to all this shaking. News stories filter back through my memory—the reporters talking about increased strength. My terror doubles. Not only are the Beavers violent monsters—they’re
super strong,
violent monsters.
“This deer stand ain’t gonna hold!” Cole yells.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Move to that limb!” He points. “No, that one!”
I squint into the darkness, trying to see where he’s pointing. Every fiber of my being is shrieking,
No! hold on! Don’t move!
But the deer stand isn’t nailed down—only wedged into the fork of the branches. It won’t last much longer.
I force myself to stop watching the Beavers. To focus on relocating to the nearest sturdy branch. Fingers shaking, I shoulder my purse and ease myself off the stand.
Not a moment too soon.
Wham!
Both Beavers slam the tree at the same time, making every leaf shudder.
I shriek, digging my fingernails into the knobby bark and praying I won’t fall. Cole fights for balance, leaning dangerously as the deer stand finally rattles loose. He grabs the branch above mine and hoists himself up. Below us, the wooden board tumbles end over end to the ground.
Wham!
I hug my branch even tighter, struggling to stay in the tree. My phone stops ringing and some small, insane part of my brain wants to fish it out and check if my parents left a message. Above me, Cole is in motion, scooting along his branch, creeping
away
from the trunk where his limb is thinner, less stable.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shriek.
With every inch, his branch becomes flimsier, bobbing with each Beaver hit. Any second, he’s gonna topple out of his perch and become Bubba’s breakfast.
“I’m trying to reach that!” Cole points at the neighboring tree—a massive oak with boughs long enough to span the river. Even in this darkness, I can see the bulk of its trunk. I don’t care what kind of super-strength the Beavers have—there’s no way they could knock down that colossal oak.
Wham!
Bubba head-butts our smaller tree again. Cole’s branch wobbles like he’s riding a bucking bronco. The Beavers take a few steps backward, getting momentum for another hit, but Cole’s making his move, using the upward motion of his branch to half leap, half grab the nearest oak limb.
For the briefest instant, I think he won’t make it. That his hands will miss the bough and he’ll fall right on Bubba’s head. But Cole’s sure and steady—his movements almost catlike as he snags the limb. He pulls himself to safety. I want to cheer and faint simultaneously.
And then I realize it’s my turn to repeat the same stunt.
“Ohmygod. No.” I squeeze my branch tighter. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, no,” I repeat, pressing my forehead against the rough bark.
“I’m gonna help you, Ava,” he shouts from twenty feet away. In the darkness, his clothes seem to melt into the background. “Just move closer. It’s only a few yards.”
But I’m frozen in place.
Cole swears. His tone changes. “Suck it up, Ava. Move your ass. Stop being such a damn wuss.”
Something in his words spur me into motion. I am
not
a wuss.
Mr. Beaver tries that tree-jiggling thing again. A few more good shakes and he’ll knock me loose.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod.” I force myself to take a brief scoot along the limb.
“Don’t look down, girl.”
Now,
that
was the wrong thing to say. I tilt my head to peek around the branch. Bubba has moved away from the tree trunk and now stands directly below me. Just waiting for me to fall.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod.” I press my face back into the bark.
“I’m serious, Ava. Get your ass in gear, or I’m leaving without you.”
Goddammit, I hate this boy.
Hate
this stupid boy. I drag myself a few more feet. The branch droops with my weight.
“You’re almost there. Almost.”
Wham!
The limb jerks and my purse slips from my shoulder, sliding, getting trapped on my wrist where my right hand grips the tree.
“No!” I scream, as my purse dangles in the air. If I move my hand to secure it, I’ll lose my hold on the branch.
“Don’t try it!” Cole shouts. “Let it fall.”
I clench my jaw. “No. Way. In. Hell.”
I sit up, clamping the branch with my thighs, squeezing hard with my left hand, my nails digging into the bark.
“Rawwwrrr….” Bubba moans from below. His glowing eyes fix on my body. One false move and I’m his next meal. But I
need
my purse.
Gingerly, I raise my right hand, one centimeter, two. I snag the straps. Inside my pocket, my phone rings again, startling me. I jump only the teeniest bit, but it’s enough to shift my precarious balance.
“Whoa! Whoa!” My legs aren’t strong enough to keep me upright. My fingers scrabble for the branch, but I grab only air. My arms flap like a bird’s wings, and I begin to slide.
“No! No!” I shift sideways, still grabbing for the tree. Nothing there. I’m done for. And then a vise grip snares my wrist. My shoulder jerks painfully. Cole, flat on his stomach, hugging his branch, one arm below clutching my hand.
…
I reckon I can hold Ava about three more seconds. She dangles in midair, pocketbook in one hand, just above Bubba’s head, her other hand gripping mine. I don’t know what’s louder: Ava’s screaming, Bubba’s hungry moans, or my cussing.
Bubba takes a swipe at Ava’s pocketbook.
“No!” she hollers, jerking it out of reach.
The sweaty hand in mine slips just another centimeter.
“Crazy…ass…girl. Quit moving!” I curve my free hand around to join the other. “Stupid…damn…pocketbook.”
My free hand catches, as my thighs grip tighter to keep my hold around the tree limb. With both hands, I haul her up, inch by inch, cuss by cuss. She whimpers, groping for a limb to steady herself. She clambers onto the bough, grappling for something solid to hold—my shoulder, my shirt, anything to keep from falling smack on top of Bubba.
“Stop! I’ve got you.” I try to steady her, but she’s too panicked. Her fumbling knocks off my Trout Magnet cap. I grab and miss, watching it tumble in the dirt.
Damn it all to hell.
My favorite hat.
“Go!” I shout at her, gesturing at the oak limb spanning the river. “Just go!”
“Where?”
“Across the river.”
“On this branch?” she asks, peering into the darkness.
“You know of a better way?”
She gulps and starts scooting.
I’m forced to follow as she makes slow progress along the branch, creeping along until the black water of the river churns below us. Something weird happens when our bough passes the waterline: the Beavers stop tailing us. They stand on the bank, shuffling and stomping, raising their arms in our direction and making a god-awful racket. “Rawr…reee-rawr!”
“It’s the river,” Ava says, turning back to watch them for the millionth time. “They’re afraid of the water!”
I whoop with relief. We might actually get away from these zombie MFers. “Keep going! Quit turning around, just go!”
I ain’t sure if it’s fear or adrenaline or what—but Ava suddenly moves faster, scooting along the limb. On the other side of the bank, she doesn’t hesitate—just picks her way down the oak tree, branch by branch, like she can’t wait to get back on solid ground. There’s a trail on this side of the river too, and as soon as Ava’s feet slam to earth, she streaks purposely down the path, leaving me to catch up again.
“Wait! Ava, hold up!”
But the girl is gone into the night. I have to run flat out to get her back in sight. “Damn, girl,” I shout up to her. “You on the track team or something?”
“Hah!” she yells over her shoulder. “I do a lot of Zumba.”
We pound our way down the riverbank, making good time on the flat surface. Within fifteen minutes, I figure the Beavers are a good half mile away.
That’s when Ava slows to check her damn phone again.
“Leave it alone!” I yell as we run.
“Screw that! If it was your family, you’d be checking, too.”
True.
“Goddammit!” she screams into the forest. “They didn’t leave a message!”
I don’t respond.
“Maybe…maybe…” she continues, “the voice mail didn’t pick up because we were out of range.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll call back next time we’re in a life-or-death situation.”
She halts in place, her mouth open in shock. “You think—when the phone rang—you think that was
my
fault?”
I pull up beside her. “I think you got a talent for screwing things up. Your damn phone rings when we’re hiding, you fell out of a frigging tree, and then…and then you knocked off my favorite cap.”
“Your cap? That’s what you’re upset about?” She gives a half-crazed giggle. “I’m sorry, but it was just a hat!”
“Says the girl who almost got us killed over her stupid pocketbook. Why is it so important to you?”
She doesn’t answer, just mashes her lips tight and starts messing with her phone again.
This makes me blow a gasket. In one swift motion, I yank the pocketbook from her shoulder. “Let’s see what’s in this magic purse we keep risking our lives for.”
“Give it back!”
I thrust my hand inside.
“Oh, sugarless gum. Tons of calories in that. At least we’ll have fresh breath.”
She makes a halfhearted grab for the bag.
“And makeup. Real helpful.”
I’m being such a dick. I’ve never gone through a girl’s purse before. Would’ve never even considered it. But I’m mad. Not at her. Or the pocketbook. Just mad. I don’t know where to go, what to do next.
“Benadryl,” I say, removing a pink box. “Great. No sniffly noses for us.”
She grabs for the purse again, but I jerk it out of her reach. This earns me another one of her trademark death glares. Red flushes of anger burn in her white cheeks.
I pull out a clear plastic tube. “What the hell is this?” I wave it around.
“Stop! Be careful!”
Utterly confused, I hold it to the light. “What’s in it?”
“It’s an EpiPen.” The red in her cheeks fades, leaving her pale. “Adrenaline. It’s full of adrenaline.”
I alternate looking between her and the pen. “Why do you have this?”
“Because I’m allergic to, well…everything.”
I open my mouth, but words don’t come.
She continues. “Bees, penicillin, certain types of ant bites. A simple wasp sting—a normal person itches for a week. It could kill me. One teeny bit of the wrong thing in my system, and
bam
! My throat closes and I can’t breathe.”
She snatches the EpiPen from my fingers, shakes it in my face. “If I don’t give myself this shot within the first minute, I go into anaphylactic shock. And that means, well…it means I’m deader than those corpse things chasing us.”
I try to speak, but she cuts me off.
“That’s why I don’t hike. Or camp. Or even freaking step outside much. It’s not because I don’t want to. Trust me, I’d love to. But for me, outside is bad. Outside is dangerous.” She grabs her pocketbook from my hands and thrusts the pen back inside. “And that, Mr. Know-It-All, is why the
stupid pocketbook
is important to me.”