Chapter Thirty-Eight
I AM BARE. EXPOSED. VULNERABLE. Stripped down to my underpants.
Greeley needs a sample from the center of the lake, and I need dinner. There’s certainly a better way to accomplish our goals, but we don’t have a net, a rod, or a boat. We have Greeley, and we have me. And only one of us has something to prove.
That’s why I’m here, at the edge of the bank in my panties.
I’m about to dive into cold, hidden waters to prove something.
To prove something to myself, to Greeley, to everyone who’s ever used me, not believing me capable of doing or thinking or acting on my own. Which, admittedly, is a lot of people.
I’m doing this because Greeley is right—they all are. I need to learn how to survive. And I will.
But why is the only solution to dive headfirst into death’s grim arms?
The sky churns and rumbles. Cold air blows a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I twist it into my ponytail as Greeley elbows me in the ribs. “Better be quick,” she says, handing me a small capped tube. “I reckon we’ve got about fifteen minutes before that storm rolls in.”
“Weather’s been unpredictable lately,” I say. A shadow blankets the lake, turning the water a deep emerald.
“Excellent observation, Captain Obvious,” Greeley huffs. She leans in close to me and points to the lake. “Look for striped bass.”
“Let me get this straight. Not only do you think I’ll be able to find—and catch—a single fish in this murky-ass water, but a specific species? Are you out of your mind?”
“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly, “I am. And so are you, Crocodile Dundee.”
“Wait. There are—”
“No crocodiles. Do you know anything about geography?”
“Well, there are zombees and zomboar and maybe zombass, so I don’t know. I thought it was a logical fucking question, Greeley.”
“You thought wrong.” She bends down and picks up another rock. One, two, three, four skips. “Any further questions?”
“What if—what if there’s a body in there? One that’s turned?”
“You and all your questions. Relax. I’ve swum in this lake a dozen times and have never encountered anything other than a flailing zombie fish.
All you’ve gotta do is take that tube, fill up a clean sample for me, and take this spear—” Greeley bends to unzip her bag where it rests at her feet.
She pulls out goggles and a short, four-pronged spear, then waves them both around.
“—and stab a fish. In the brain, of course, so it doesn’t turn when it dies.
Nothing to be scared of. Here. My gifts to you. ”
I accept the goggles and spear, but my hand shakes so hard I drop the weapon, and its prongs stab the sandy shore. “Screw this. I’m not going into the water.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Greeley says, peeling off her shirt. Without a backward glance, she plunges into the water.
I hold my breath. One, two, three seconds she’s beneath the surface.
During those three seconds, fears race through my brain.
If Greeley drowns, I can’t drive home. I don’t know how to drive a stick.
If she dies, Macoby’s best chance at a cure dies, too.
And, if Greeley is bit underneath the surface and comes back up as a zombie, she’ll kill me.
I can’t defend myself against a zomGree.
She bobs back up and swims to the shore. When she’s out, she jimmies her wet pant leg like she’s shaking out a turd. A small fish hits the earth and flails around. “See how easy that was? This little guy swam right in. Hand that back. Thanks.” Greeley bends down and stabs the fish in the head.
Thunder claps overhead.
Prove yourself, Kota. You’re a good swimmer. You have a weapon. You’re strong, you’re strong, you’re strong.
“Jesus, fine, I’m going.”
I pick the spear off the ground, square my shoulders, and take a slight step forward.
As the cold water’s edge kisses my toes, I curl them into the rocky sand.
I imagine the lake looked a lot like this before Z Day.
Quiet, blue, calm. But I’ve never felt more unlike myself.
Ignorant, weak, reckless. I’ve made questionable decisions before—like shoving a dozen Quaker bars in my hoodie—but they were always made to keep me and my family safe.
That’s what this is, too, though, isn’t it?
I’m planning for the future. Maybe next time I go fishing, I can take Bunny and Grandma.
They’d like the lake. And then we could trade the fish we catch for cups of lemonade.
I slide the tube into the side of my bra and shove the spear between my thighs, squeezing while I slide the goggles over my eyes. The trees turn fuzzy, blurry, like looking at Jasper through a wine-drunk haze. Distinctly beautiful, but soft around the edges.
I suck in a breath, clutch the spear in my hand, take a big step forward. The cold water hits my shins, sending needles into my skin. I’ve got to bite the bullet, just like Coach always said.
This one’s for you, Coach Wang.
I plunge into the lake. Cool water streams through my hair, and water gurgles as it fills my ears. The world goes quiet. A mossy green blanket covers my eyes.
I don’t think; I only kick. My feet join together into a makeshift tail, and I pretend I’m a mermaid.
The water shifts to a bitter cold as I dolphin-kick myself toward the center of the lake.
I look left and right, left and right, my feet wading ferociously to keep me from sinking to the muddy ground.
No fish.
Where are the fucking fish?
I gasp as I break the surface, my lungs filling with sweet, damp air. I’ve made it maybe a pool length’s way toward the center of the lake. And still, no fish.
Please don’t let this be how I die.
No. I will not give up. I will find a fucking fish. I will kill it and feast on its flesh and share it with nobody.
I am Poseidon gripping his trident, threatening all fish who beseech me to live.
I swim further toward the center.
Kick, kick, kick.
Don’t quit.
Chandler’s chiding voice echoes in my ears: I’d never trade two men for one woman—especially one so dispensable. Bring me something I want, and we can talk about a trade. In the meantime . . . keep her. She’s yours to babysit.
My thoughts spiral with words she’s said before. Then, words she hasn’t.
Your sister does not need you. Bunny has not a mother or father, and get this, she doesn’t even have a functioning endocrine system, yet she’s still fine without you, Kota. Peter gave her the insulin. Peter. Not you.
Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you. You’re a drain on our resources, and we’re all better off without you.
I kick harder.
The water turns icy cold, and I remember I’ve got to get Greeley’s sample. I take a quick breath of air, then plunge below, wading while I pull the tube from out of my bra. Careful not to drop the spear, I fill the tube with water and pop the lid on. Mission accomplished. And now? Now it’s my turn.
Screw Poseidon. I’m a goddamn mermaid with a golden tail and pearly-white hair and gills, and I’m going to survive.
I spot a fish.
Am I hallucinating? No, there are its fins. And it’s not a zombie fish—in-tact scales, breathing gills, black eyes, and a closed jaw.
I move as little as possible, lightly wading just to stay afloat. Like cats and like Greeley, should you wait for fish to come to you?
Bunny ran off the infamous neighborhood cat we used to feed on the front porch growing up.
The moment her stubby little talons latched on to its swirling black tail, it never came back.
No matter how many times we ran up and down the cul-de-sac, chanting, “Black Jack, come back! Black Jack, come back!”
My gut tells me Black Jack’s still prowling a blown-up neighborhood somewhere. My gut also tells me that this fish, who from here forward will go by Bass Jack, will come to me if I can keep myself still enough.
Sure enough, the fish drifts closer to me.
Spear clutched in my right hand, I extend my left hand out—slowly, methodically—and then I snatch.
Bass Jack puts up a fight, his fins slicing into my palm.
But I don’t let go. I wrench myself into the fresh air, breaking the surface.
I kick my feet wildly and stab the fish in the head.
It goes limp. The blood drips down my wrist, finding its way into the water and turning it a muddy shade of brown.
I drop the spear, but I don’t care. I’ve won. I pound my fist proudly in the air, but something grabs my ankle. And sinks its jagged nails into my flesh.
A warped, bloated zombie claws toward the surface.
Spongy skin droops down its cheeks, eyes bulging out of their sockets.
The zombie can’t swim, but it can’t drown, either.
Unlike me. Water gurgles in my throat as I cry out for help.
The zombie’s own underwater shrieks ring in my ears as its nails sink deeper into my calf, hitting tendon.
I ignore the searing pain coursing through my leg and kick.
My foot connects with the zombie’s shoulder, but it doesn’t release its grip.
Try harder, Kota.
I kick again. Finally, the zombie’s arm breaks off like a soft pretzel.
My calf throbs with the release of its sharp nails.
Bass Jack in hand, I freestyle back toward the shore as the one-armed zombie struggles to tread water.
Its gnarly screams echo across the lake’s surface.
Blood gushes from my calf as I swim like my life depends on it. Because it does.
Coach Wang would be proud.
The water turns to blurs, like drunken paint strokes. My chest aches for sweet, fresh air. I’ve never wanted anything more. Blobs of black and purple and gray cloud my vision.
My calf throbs even more than my oxygen-depleted heart. As pain pulses up my entire leg, the water turns warm. Then, I can stand. As soon as I make it to shore, I drop Bass Jack and collapse onto the rocky sand. I sputter out water, every part of my body aching, and cough until my lungs are dry.
Blood pools on the sand by my ankle.