Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,114

fine muscles somehow twitching, writhing under the lingering sheen of a fever-popped sweat.

But I’m not looking at them as I sprint silently to my friend.

I’m looking at Blair, and remembering instead.

Blair, on the day I met her in kindergarten. This cute brunette with an upturned, freckled nose and a wide satin ribbon pinned in her hair.

Which she pulled out the minute her mom left. Just as she ignored the girls her mom tried to introduce her to, when they walked into the room, girls with ribbons of their own and smocked-bib dress fronts, or ruffles upon ruffles upon ruffles.

Instead she walked up to me. And she said, “I’m Blair. Will you be my friend?”

Like she saw something in me she liked, right away.

I felt like a flower in the sun.

When I puked on Brandon Huckabee in third grade she said he deserved it. When I got drunk for the first time at Chastain Walker’s barn party the summer before our junior year, she took care of me and wouldn’t leave me alone for a second. A kid fell out of the hayloft and broke his collarbone that night. I always knew it would have been me who got hurt if it wasn’t for Blair.

Sure, there was always other stuff between us, the competitive stuff I didn’t understand, and still don’t, and try not to feel, but even though it’s there, and even though it hasn’t changed and probably never will, it doesn’t change everything else.

She can always get a rise out of me.

Because she’s Blair. And I guess I’ll always love her, okay?

If we get out of this alive, I should end the ice-out. I should at least hear what she has to say.

I’m not sure if it’s a baby in bathwater, our friendship, but there’s something there, something important that can maybe be saved or salvaged, and I am not going to let Scott or anyone else drag her down to be zombie kibble.

If this was an action movie, I’d skid to a stop next to Scott, and I’d deck him, or something, and I’d have a cigar jammed into my mouth and I’d say, “Not on my watch, pal.” And I’d pull Blair into a bridal carry and we’d run back to safety.

But instead I sprint up and sling a sloppy punch down at his wrist, his hand still closed around Blair’s arm.

Scott is making a horrible choking sound, like his throat is swelling, or like water is pouring into it.

He doesn’t let go of Blair’s wrist, so I start peeling his fingers back, one at a time, like when I was a little kid and my dad dared me to get the quarter out of his fist.

“Run, girls!” Cuellar yells, his voice raw and ragged.

I glance up as Scott’s hand finally slips off Blair’s forearm.

The trio of zombies is almost on us, arms outstretched.

I drag Blair up. One of her arms comes up behind my shoulder as we turn.

“Wait!” Scott coughs. His voice somehow submerged.

I look down at him.

Blood courses down his face, pouring out of his nose like a spigot.

No one hit him.

He’s infected. I remember the girl on the floor of the exhibit hall, before it all started.

Selfish, scared Scott. He had to know he was already infected, when he was bitten. But he chose to hide it.

“Run!” Blair says, giving my shoulder an urging shove with her hand.

We run.

I expect to hear the ugly sounds of the zombies attacking Scott, but they don’t come.

When I reach the balcony doors, I turn to look back.

Hunter works furiously at the last lock.

The trio of pursuing zombies is close; they’ve ignored Scott, just moved right past him, something about the virus already making him seem like one of them.

Not worthy meat.

We’re going to get to the balcony in time, though. We’re faster. I stop once inside the balcony door, and glance past