has a nice ass.
I mentally slap myself. You’re being chased by dadgum zombies! Quit staring at this girl’s ass.
She stops abruptly, startling me back to reality. For a second, I wonder if she’s lost the trail. Then I spot the metal sign she’s reading: Bear Preserve.
“Is this for real?”
“Yep. Ready for me to take the lead again?”
I figure she’ll cower and duck behind me. Instead, she stomps on ahead. Lord God, but she’s stubborn.
“What kind of bears?” she asks after a few minutes.
Is she serious? “We live in the eastern United States,” I huff, like I’m talking to a little kid, “so what kind of bears do you think?”
“What do I look like, the Bear Whisperer? Why don’t you just tell me, instead of making me feel like an idiot?”
“Well, beg your pardon. I do think it’s ignorant you don’t know what kind of bear lives in the entire eastern half of our country.”
“Fine,” she mutters. “I’m totally ignorant. 2000 on the SAT, and I’m ignorant.”
“You might be book smart, City-Girl, but you ain’t got a lick of sense about the world around you.” I pause and walk a few more steps before I tell her reluctantly, “Black bears live here. Not grizzlies, but vicious enough. Especially if they got babies. Let’s hope we don’t run into any mama bears.”
Her brown eyes widen.
For some reason, I’m having a good time pushing her buttons. It melts away some of my fear. “Did you know the largest bear ever recorded was found in North Carolina?” I ask. “Damn thing weighed eight hundred eighty pounds.”
Ava doesn’t respond, just shoots me a quick, worried glance. She keeps walking, but now she’s acting more spooked than before, jumping and cowering like there’s a bear or a zombie around every tree.
And who knows? Maybe there is.
Me, I’m more concerned about the sun sinking low on the horizon. We got a long night ahead of us. Why did all this zombie crap go down on a night with no moon?
“We’ll hit the river trail soon,” I tell her. “And then we best be searching for a place to stop.”
“No way,” she says in her usual bossy tone. “If we stop, the Beavers will catch up. Not to mention those fifty infected people from the country club.”
For such a little thing, she sure does have a big mouth. “We took so many turns, maybe we lost ’em.”
“I’d rather not take that chance.”
“I hate to break this to you,” I say, trying to keep calm, “but unless you got a Coleman lantern in that pocketbook of yours, we’ll be hiking a pitch-dark trail in a few hours. We ain’t gonna see squat-diddly. You wanna stumble on a bunch of infected people in the dark?”
“No,” she answers in a small voice.
“And I’m guessing you’ll walk even slower when you can’t spot the tree roots. There ain’t no point going farther. Let’s find us a good place to hide.”
…
It takes another half hour of downhill scrambling before we reach the river trail Cole was searching for. I’d imagined a creek like the one by our house, but this is wider—at least twenty feet across. The current tumbles from the arms of the mountains into a rocky channel, where water gurgles and foams along the bank, throwing mist on the border of the trail.
Light is fading fast, and I’m glad there’s a wide, worn path here. If I ever have to wrestle my way through another blackberry thicket, it’ll be too soon. A sudden realization creeps over me: a well-used path might be a bad thing—other people could be following this same trail. Infected people.
Hugging my jacket tight around me, I peer ahead into the gloom, sure any second a pack of flu people will emerge from the rising mist.
Cole’s not interested in the trail. He scans the branches overhead. Rows of ancient trees stand along both banks, forming a sort of canopy over the river.
“What are you searching for?” I ask softly. “You think infected hide in trees?”
“No, look.” He points to a basic
I mentally slap myself. You’re being chased by dadgum zombies! Quit staring at this girl’s ass.
She stops abruptly, startling me back to reality. For a second, I wonder if she’s lost the trail. Then I spot the metal sign she’s reading: Bear Preserve.
“Is this for real?”
“Yep. Ready for me to take the lead again?”
I figure she’ll cower and duck behind me. Instead, she stomps on ahead. Lord God, but she’s stubborn.
“What kind of bears?” she asks after a few minutes.
Is she serious? “We live in the eastern United States,” I huff, like I’m talking to a little kid, “so what kind of bears do you think?”
“What do I look like, the Bear Whisperer? Why don’t you just tell me, instead of making me feel like an idiot?”
“Well, beg your pardon. I do think it’s ignorant you don’t know what kind of bear lives in the entire eastern half of our country.”
“Fine,” she mutters. “I’m totally ignorant. 2000 on the SAT, and I’m ignorant.”
“You might be book smart, City-Girl, but you ain’t got a lick of sense about the world around you.” I pause and walk a few more steps before I tell her reluctantly, “Black bears live here. Not grizzlies, but vicious enough. Especially if they got babies. Let’s hope we don’t run into any mama bears.”
Her brown eyes widen.
For some reason, I’m having a good time pushing her buttons. It melts away some of my fear. “Did you know the largest bear ever recorded was found in North Carolina?” I ask. “Damn thing weighed eight hundred eighty pounds.”
Ava doesn’t respond, just shoots me a quick, worried glance. She keeps walking, but now she’s acting more spooked than before, jumping and cowering like there’s a bear or a zombie around every tree.
And who knows? Maybe there is.
Me, I’m more concerned about the sun sinking low on the horizon. We got a long night ahead of us. Why did all this zombie crap go down on a night with no moon?
“We’ll hit the river trail soon,” I tell her. “And then we best be searching for a place to stop.”
“No way,” she says in her usual bossy tone. “If we stop, the Beavers will catch up. Not to mention those fifty infected people from the country club.”
For such a little thing, she sure does have a big mouth. “We took so many turns, maybe we lost ’em.”
“I’d rather not take that chance.”
“I hate to break this to you,” I say, trying to keep calm, “but unless you got a Coleman lantern in that pocketbook of yours, we’ll be hiking a pitch-dark trail in a few hours. We ain’t gonna see squat-diddly. You wanna stumble on a bunch of infected people in the dark?”
“No,” she answers in a small voice.
“And I’m guessing you’ll walk even slower when you can’t spot the tree roots. There ain’t no point going farther. Let’s find us a good place to hide.”
…
It takes another half hour of downhill scrambling before we reach the river trail Cole was searching for. I’d imagined a creek like the one by our house, but this is wider—at least twenty feet across. The current tumbles from the arms of the mountains into a rocky channel, where water gurgles and foams along the bank, throwing mist on the border of the trail.
Light is fading fast, and I’m glad there’s a wide, worn path here. If I ever have to wrestle my way through another blackberry thicket, it’ll be too soon. A sudden realization creeps over me: a well-used path might be a bad thing—other people could be following this same trail. Infected people.
Hugging my jacket tight around me, I peer ahead into the gloom, sure any second a pack of flu people will emerge from the rising mist.
Cole’s not interested in the trail. He scans the branches overhead. Rows of ancient trees stand along both banks, forming a sort of canopy over the river.
“What are you searching for?” I ask softly. “You think infected hide in trees?”
“No, look.” He points to a basic