Chapter Eighteen
“GREELEY, STOP!” I YELL, JUMPING out of the shadows. Milo and Indy run toward me, their eyes bugging out at the sight of the gun in my hand.
“Kota,” Milo says, pulling me into a hug. “Are you okay?”
“For now,” I answer, pushing him off. Peter stands still, facing off with Greeley through the glass barrier. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”
Greeley cocks her head to the side, a sly smile playing on her lips. She lowers her gun, seemingly interested in letting the scene play out. “ ’Bout time you showed up, Blondie. Ready to roll out?”
I move to Peter’s side and aim the gun at Greeley. My hand shakes as I say, “Let us go.”
Greeley huffs. “You really want to go back with that fuckwad?”
No. I don’t. Staying with Peter is the last thing I want. But I have to leave with him to protect Bunny and Grandma.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
Greeley raises her eyebrows as if to say, Good luck with that.
Peter steps forward. “I’m not leaving without getting what we came for: food. Supplies. Medicine.”
“Already searched the place,” Greeley says. “There’s nothing left. You’ve wasted your time coming here.”
Milo says, “Well then, so have you!”
“Nah,” Greeley answers. “I live for the drama.” She ducks behind the fish-filleting table and disappears from sight.
Indy gasps. “Bloody hell, where’s she going? She’s armed!”
“So am I!” I bite back. I turn to Peter. He grits his teeth, his body tense and unyielding. “We need to go. Jasper will find us and—”
“Do not tell me what to do,” he says. “Ever.”
Peter pulls a gun out from under his hoodie.
The boys gasp.
No guns, Peter said to me when he brought me home to Egal. Chandler’s rule, but for good reason. They’re loud and attract zombies. And they’re a crutch. What happens when you run out of ammo and don’t know how to use a knife? No guns. Learn how to use a knife. Or leave.
Gaslighter. Cheater. Liar.
“C’mon, lover boy, show me what you’ve got,” Greeley says, stepping out from the shadows. She points her gun at Indy. “And you—show me what you can do with those fingers! All nine of them!”
“You,” Peter says to Greeley. “You stole our bars from the factory. You stole our driver. You looted this warehouse when you knew it was Egal’s territory. And now we’ve got an unguarded vehicle and a hundred-something people whose rations are about to get severely cut. And it’s your fault.”
I step forward. “Rations are getting cut?”
“Shut up,” Peter says. He wraps a hand around my arm, keeping the other trained on Greeley.
Bunny and Grandma—they won’t survive on cut rations. I’d be fine, but . . . I can’t bear this domineering grip any longer. I won’t be forced to watch my family suffer. I can’t go back.
Peter says, “I’m going to sleep very well tonight after sending this bullet through your skull.”
“Lad,” Indy says. “Think about what you’re doing before you—”
“No!” I scream, just as Peter lifts his gun.
But I’m too late.
He pulls the trigger. Greeley dodges the bullet as a sharp blast sounds through the warehouse. With Peter’s fingers still wrapped like a snake around my arm, I throw my hands over my ears, the noise reverberating in my head.
A deafening silence fills the warehouse. Nobody moves as we wait. I press my middle fingers into my palms. Goose bumps prick my arms. Indy and Milo stare at each other, and Fred turns blue. Peter’s grip on his gun wavers.
And finally, it happens: A single gravelly growl breaks the quiet.
We’ve awakened the zombies.
Inhuman roars, rattling bones, haunting bellows. Too many sounds to count—and they’re inside Costco.
Indy shouts, “They’re coming from the break room! Run!”
“Let me go,” I say as Peter drags me through the warehouse. I won’t leave with him. “Peter! I’ll shoot!”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Peter says.
He thinks I’m a joke, and maybe I am. I can’t shoot while I’m running. I’ll end up blasting myself in the foot.
Peter’s grip on my arm tightens and burns my flesh. My loose skin pinches the hair on my arm. Before I know it, he lifts me up in the air and slings me over his muscled back. I can see nothing but his feet and the dirty ground as I flop against him.
No. I’m not his helpless doll.
I slam my curled fists against his back and shout, “Put me down!”
“You’re making a scene, Kota.”
I hit his back with the butt of my gun, but he doesn’t release his hold on me. He holds me tight to his body as he moves through the warehouse at a jog. I imagine this is what Zara felt like when Peter was slamming into her again and again and again—
Blood rushes to my head. White flecks speckle my vision. A high-pitched hum buzzes in my ears. The peanut butter’s coming back up.
As my stomach heaves into my throat, something yanks Peter, and he tumbles backward toward the ground.
I throw my hands in front of me to protect my skull from cracking on the hard earth.
The wind gets knocked out of my lungs as I hit the ground, and Peter’s body slams into mine.
I land with a thud, my upper body taking the brunt of the impact.
I feel around my head. I’m okay. I’m whole.
I gasp for air, Peter’s bony tailbone cutting into my back like a knife. I slide out from under him. Jasper points a gun at his face. “Run, or I shoot.”
Peter rolls over and looks at me. “I’m not leaving without—”
“You have two seconds.”
Without another word, Peter pushes himself up and bolts.
“Come on,” Jasper says, outstretching a hand to me.
Zombies roar from inside Costco’s break room.
“Thanks,” I say. The word hurts to get out, but I’m free. I place my hand in his and feel a wetness between our palms. I look down and see red—blood. “Jasper, you’re bleeding.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says, hoisting me up. “You are.”
Jasper urges me forward and pulls me toward the exit. At least two dozen zombies have come out of hiding and meander toward us. They’re slow, but only because they’re hungry. The moment they get a bite of flesh, they get fast.
Their grotesque bodies are covered in sores: sickly mustard-colored spots of dried pus and blood.
They wander toward us with rattling jaws and broken teeth.
Their bones jut out at odd angles, gray-black skin peeling off in big flakes.
Monstrous sounds erupt from their throats.
A smell like rotten fish knocks me backward.
“Move, Kota!” Jasper’s tone has lost its tenderness. He squeezes my arm, and I force my feet to move.
I spin around and wave the boys forward.
Indy takes off, knocking over a bin of Tide Pods, but Milo stays by a dry-heaving Fred’s side.
After a few gentle pats on the back, Milo gives him a good whack, and finally, Fred pukes.
Milo takes one look at the lumpy vomit splattered on the ground and blows chunks of his own.
I flip back around as the horde of zombies progresses toward them.
More zombies make it out of the freezer section and into the center, where sweatpants and socks were once sold. Still, no sign of Greeley.
I’m not sure if it’s the commotion, or if they can sense fear and smell sickness, but the zombies pick up speed.
When the outbreak first happened, the zombies were fast. They feasted on any human body available, but as more people died—mostly from bombs or zombie attacks—the number of warm bodies dwindled, and the zombies proliferated.
The same thing happened to the animals. That’s why we’re here, in Costco, risking our lives for non-perishables.
Together, Jasper and I weave between registers, careful not to stumble over cardboard boxes or sideways carts. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I check back over my shoulder.
“Stop turning around,” Jasper says, tugging me forward.
I’m relieved to see all the boys are on their feet now, hurtling toward the exit. Milo catches my gaze, and his eyes widen with confusion. Why aren’t you leaving with us? they seem to ask.
Why aren’t I leaving with them? Why don’t I want to?
Panting, heart racing, we reach the entrance. Somewhere in the parking lot, a horn honks. Greeley. I stop dead in my tracks.
“Keep moving.” Jasper takes my hand and urges me forward.
I shake my head. “We have to help them.”
A wall of zombies reaches the boys.
Bang.
Peter shoots off a round.
A zombie crumples to the ground, but springs back up half a second later.
Milo screams, “Don’t shoot! More of them are coming from the back!”
I raise my gun, ready to launch into battle. “Kota,” Jasper says, stepping around in front of me. “Save the ammo.”
“But—”
Honk.
“Kota, we have to move. Now.”
I ignore Jasper and raise my gun as a zombie gains on Fred and nearly grabs on to the nape of his shirt. My heart beats in slow motion.
“Kota.”
Thump . . . Thump . . . Thump . . .
Fuck it.
I close my left eye, aim, and shoot, just as Fred stumbles forward—onto Milo.
As the entire weight of his body clashes with Milo’s, a zombie T-bones him from the left.
Milo lets out a shriek that sends goose bumps down my arms. I’ve never heard anything like it.
Animalistic, savage, heartbreaking. Helpless.
Chills shimmer down my spine like a thousand poison darts.
At the same time, my bullet hits the zombie—but in the cheek.
Its body contorts as the bullet slices through, the monster writhing like a vampire in sunlight, but relentless in its hunger.
Refusing to stop. Refusing to give up its fresh meal.
The zombie bites a chunk out of Milo’s neck. A filet of uncleaned fish.
The horn honks.
“Kota,” Jasper is pleading now.
I turn. His eyes are wide and scared. But it’s too late now. I have to finish this. I lift my arms, readying to shoot, to put Milo out of his misery. He’s no longer Milo. He’s a feast. And soon, he’ll come back as one of them. Milo deserves more than that. We all do.
Shoot, Kota, just shoot. Do it for Milo. One, two, thr—
A bullet. But not mine. Not my bullet that pierces through Milo’s skull. I never pulled the trigger.
Blood splatters onto the pouncing zombies. I draw my arm back, my stomach turning as the zombies form a dome over Milo’s body. They feast. And feast.
A single tear falls down my cheek.
Jasper grabs my arm, but my feet are already moving. Together, we run to the Jeep.
And then man became flesh.