Chapter Seventeen
SLOWLY, METHODICALLY, THE TWO OF us maneuver through the Costco parking lot. We weave between the litter and carnage, careful to step only on asphalt, careful not to make too much noise. Which is only one of the many reasons I’m scared to shoot the gun in my backpack—sounds bring zombies.
Jasper’s a few paces ahead, but he doesn't to stray too far. He glances back every couple of steps and points to obstructions to watch out for, like melted orange cones, bits of jagged concrete, and large shards of glass. Femurs, elbows, kneecaps, the like.
A gust of wind blows tangled hair into my face, sending greasy strands into my mouth. I gag and pull my hood over my head. The temperature is dropping, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins keeps me warm.
Before I know it, I make it to the entrance of Costco.
Zombies: 0. Kota: 1.
Let’s do this thing.
Jasper waits for me at the double doors, which are either wide open or blown off. Greeley is still nowhere to be seen.
“Get a move on, Kota,” he urges, waving me forward.
My stomach plummets and my heart jumps into my chest. This is my chance, isn’t it? My chance to change. To shoot.
I spin around and aim my gun at—
Nothing.
There’s not a zombie in sight. I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn to Jasper, confused.
“I think there are only a few boxes of those big blueberry muffins left.”
“Very funny,” I say, my voice shaking.
We tiptoe inside and—
To my left, a zombie lies splat on the ground, black blood oozing from its temples.
Its mutilated face is contorted into an open-mouthed scowl.
Gnarled teeth protrude from its unhinged jaw, ichor dripping off its ashen tongue.
Bones jut out from every angle of its body.
Brittle ribs, sharp and splintered elbows, dented knees.
But what’s more horrifying is the smell—like a hot, rotten flounder that’s been soaking in bodybuilder sweat and toe jam.
Flies circle its misshapen head, feeding off the zombie’s rancid meat.
“Jesus Christ!”
I jump backward and fall into Jasper, knocking us both a step back. He wraps his hands around my arms and stills me, squeezing once before releasing me. My racing heart slows as I realize we aren’t in immediate danger. We’re going to be okay. The zombie is dead.
Greeley steps out from the shadows, a knife gripped in her palm. “Clean up on aisle one!”
I drop my gun, and it hits the ground with a clang.
“Yeah, so don’t do that again,” Jasper says to me.
“Sorry.”
Greeley tucks her knife in her side and strides forward. She scrunches her nose as she kneels down next to the zombie, the grotesque smell of its pus-oozing sores penetrating the air.
She lifts the zombie’s withered, spindly hand and waves it, only to pull it right out of the socket like taffy. Black blood pours from the wrist. “Oops.” She throws the hand back to the ground.
Jasper, for some ungodly reason, offers Greeley his hand. She refuses. “Did you find anything yet?”
“Nada,” she says, looking around the warehouse. “This place has been sifted through.”
I follow her gaze. Costco is more intact than I expected.
But it’s also bare. Discarded boxes are strewn everywhere, the shelves completely picked over.
I expect this was one of the first places surviving populations came after Z Day.
They probably stocked their shelves with whatever they could, hoping to hunker down at home and wait it out. Only, there was no waiting it out.
Because the zombies came in droves.
We hid in Grandma’s attic, peeping through the small window at our neighbors shooting and screaming at one another. Just the day before, Bunny delivered Thin Mints to the bungalow in the cul-de-sac, and Tagalongs to the house with the white picket fence. Their kindness dried up in minutes.
Our neighbors turned on each other, and then they turned into zombies. The zombie population outgrew the human population in a matter of days.
Which is why I cannot comprehend the lack of zombies around here. Other than the one Greeley slashed at the entrance, there are none. No zombies. Anywhere. Zero, zip, zilch.
“I’ll take the back,” Greeley says, thumbing toward the meat and seafood area. Her eyes glitter with excitement. “Here’s hoping I find a few more!”
“I’ll take electronics. Jasper points to one of the only areas in the warehouse that’s still stocked.
Greeley says, “To take yourself home a defunct iPad, or guard the entrance like the upstanding gentleman you are?”
“Give it a rest, Gree.”
“In your dreams, pansy.”
“I’ll see what’s left in the health section.” I nod my head to the left.
“You’re not going anywhere on your own,” Greeley says. A grin spreads across her sharp face as she tells Jasper, “Don’t let her slip from your sight.”
Jasper nods as Greeley skips toward her destination.
“Is this like a treasure hunt for her?” I turn to Jasper. “Only zombies instead of gold?”
“Afraid so,” Jasper says. He glances at the gun in my hand. “Don’t hesitate to use this. And don’t drop it again.”
“You’re letting me wander around by myself?”
“Only a fool would try to escape,” he says. “And Kota, you’re not a fool.”
I MAKE MY WAY TO the medicine section and sift through the shelves.
Since I’m currently not under Chandler’s jurisdiction, I can technically take back medicine for Bunny.
And Grandma. Technically. But I’m not seeing a huge selection here—laxatives are basically all that’s left.
Dieting isn’t a priority in a post-apocalyptic world, I reckon.
Ah! And there it is: Kirkland Signature aspirin. I whisper a thank-you to the Costco gods above and pocket the bottle.
If only I could find insulin . . .
I slide over the pharmacy counter and search, gasping when I spot it just waiting for me. The tiniest, dustiest, most beautiful box of shelf-stable insulin I’ve ever seen.
Is this my lucky day, or what?
Because here come the doughboys. Oh, does it feel good to see them. Well, everyone besides Peter.
Peter, Milo, Fred, and Indy stride into the store like they own the place. And they’re noisy. If these idiots are always this loud on supply runs, then no wonder they attracted a raging zombie on the last run.
“Shit!” Milo shouts at the zombie Greeley offed. At once, the four boys unsheathe their knives. The initial joy of seeing my friends (not Peter!) wears off as a weird, uncomfortable feeling squirms into my belly. It feels a lot like disappointment.
Peter bends down and inspects the splat zombie. He pinches the skin on its face and pulls off a section like a black banana peel. “Someone’s been here.” He tosses the rotting skin to the ground. “Today.”
Fred whips his head back and forth like a kid who just learned he should look both ways before crossing the street. “What do we do? Should we leave?” He takes three quick steps backward, right into a wall.
“No.” Peter’s voice echoes through the warehouse. “We stand our ground. We get what we came for.”
The boys have their knives at the ready as they move deeper into the warehouse. Their heavy shoes clomp on the ground as they mutter to one another. Really, boys. Can’t be quiet even in the presence of imminent danger?
“I think I’m going to puke,” Fred says, covering his bulbous nose with his shirt.
I crouch down behind a shelf as the boys move further away from me. It’s time to make a choice: Do I move toward the boys or away from them? Should I give them some sort of clue that I’m here? To save me?
Toward. Definitely. Right?
I duck behind the tattered shelves, the worn soles of my shoes allowing me to move quietly but quickly through the shelves.
The boys walk toward what used to be the seafood section, full of empty display coolers and wall-to-wall, banged-up glass windows.
It also stinks like spoiled seaweed, reeking through the warehouse.
Three years weren’t enough to get the worst of it out.
The air is full of a frightening excitement, the tension buzzing through my veins. The boys are occupied with the empty seafood display, fixated on what’s right in front of them. I have to warn them about Greeley. She’ll open fire. And it will be the end for all of us.
I reach an aisle with the tall orange shelves that once stored boxes of excess supplies. I could hoist myself up, get a bird’s-eye view of the warehouse. But no. I have to get to the boys and get the hell out of here.
I pull the gun out of my waistband as Fred trips over Peter, who shoves him off. If it comes down to it, can I shoot Greeley? Was Jasper’s thirty-second shooting lesson enough? And where the hell is Jasper?
I spring forward as Greeley steps out of the shadows, behind the glass, and points her gun at my friends.
This is certainly not going to end well.