Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home Popovich, A.D. (any book recommendations txt) 📖

He coasted around the corner onto Skylark Street. Not a single Z. At first glance, it could have been a quiet Sunday afternoon—if he overlooked the dried brown lawns and ocean of leaves drifting the streets. Neighborhoods like this brought back memories of his once hunky-dory life when his biggest worry had been Wi-Fi speed and nomophobia.

A wave of gloom hit him at the sight of the empty neighborhood: no skateboarders or people washing cars or mowing lawns or tending flower beds. A lone scraggly white rose daring to bloom next to a broken mailbox seemed to call out to him. Was it lonely? There was no one to admire it but him.

“Hold on to hope. At times it’s all one has.” His mother’s voice echoed into the far reaches of his mind. He shook his head vigorously, feeling like a Scooby-Doo meme.

Mom, Dad, I so miss you. Sorry I flaked out on our family vacay that summer. The summer of the Super Summer flu. It had been the crucial decision in a long chain of events as to why he had survived. Fate or luck?

His thoughts raced to Ella. She wasn’t doing so well. Physically and emotionally. This Andara better not be bogus. Otherwise, he didn’t think she’d have the heart to go on. Not if Mateo died.

Their latest safehouse was on the next street. Movement in his periphery startled him back into hyper-alert. A mini-horde stumbled through a thorny hedge up ahead. No problem. He could easily outrun Zs on the bike without leading them to the safehouse.

He cut across a corner lot, passing an RV. “Big yikes!” Justin almost wiped-out. A hella-horde rushed him. The leader of the pack floundered for him like a cadaverous bobble-head while the rest awkwardly followed. Still on the bike, he kick-boxed it with one foot, and sent it careening to the asphalt right onto its bloated face. Splat! It gave him time to force-stop the spinning pedals.

Justin pulled a U-ie and sped off. Simple. He’d go around the block and coast in from behind them. By then, the horde should have ambled around the corner—out of sight.

He braked at the intersection of Whippoorwill Way and Robin Road before riding willy-nilly down the street. The hinky thought he was about to run into another hella-horde sent a rash of goosebumps bubbling up his arms. It was like he felt the fanic oozing into his DNA.

He scrutinized everything in a surreal slow-mo state, noticing for the first time the fake birdhouses built into the peaks of the garages. The neighborhood’s corny bird theme was definitely getting on his nerves.

He counted six houses down and focused in on the safehouse with the compact binocs he always wore around his neck. “No way!” He zoomed in tighter. Shattered windows! Movement inside! Their safehouse had been invaded.

“They’re okay,” Justin muttered over and over. Dean knew the drill; he would have gotten everyone out the upstairs window. But to where?

“The hair cutting place,” a tiny voice hounded.

He sensed Twila’s urgency. Still, he hated it when she invaded his mind like that. So rude. Wasn’t there a cosmic law against that? And why the heck had they gone back to the strip mall?

“You’re welcome,” Twila snarked.

A horde lurched his way in ghastly excitement. He pushed the pedals so hard he feared they might break. Justin flew past the intersections as more and more Zs rambled into the streets.

He stopped to scan Bixby Avenue. “The hell?” Zs on bicycles? A bicyclist waited in the intersection. It waved at him.

“Phew, that’s Scarlett . . .” Justin wiped the gunk off the binocular’s lenses, feeling like a douche.

He pedaled like crazy, wanting to know what was happening. He was about to ask what was going on when Scarlett shushed him and pointed to Main Street. He heeded the warning. She led the way through deserted streets until they came to the strip mall.

“We’ll talk inside,” Scarlett whispered as they silently parked their bikes next to the barbershop.

After they entered the barbershop, Dean shoved a sheet of plywood in front of the glass door. “Hell’s bells, where’s Luther?”

“Long story. I think he’s okay—” Justin scanned the room for Ella.

“You think . . .” Dean was ready to rip into him.

He needed to see Ella and Mateo like now! There she was, behind the counter, rocking Mateo in the baby sling around her chest. He rushed to her, but Ella wouldn’t look at him. “How’s Mateo?”

He was answered by the irksome silent treatment. Ella often went speechless during extreme bouts of depression. “What happened?” What he really wanted to know was how they had escaped the safehouse. With Ella. Lately, the most she had walked was to the bathroom.

“If I didn’t know better,” Dean said. “I’d say the hordes are corralling us.”

Scarlett turned to him. “Twila’s friend, Katy, is helping us. The creepers think we’re hiding in a house—”

“A blue house,” Twila corrected.

Justin couldn’t stop gaping. Was everyone insane?

‘I know,” Dean intervened. “This mumbo jumbo’s beyond me. But we can’t deny the facts. And the facts are, there’s no way we would have escaped the safehouse with Twila, Ella, and the baby without Katy’s help.”

Twila gave him one of her kooky cross-eyed grimaces, which told him she was hacking his brain again. Did she know about the bus?

“Don’t think it,” Twila scolded. “Katy and I are tricking them. Pretend you’re sleeping in a pretty blue house.”

“Twila told us about the b-u-s,” Scarlett said.

“So, now we’re spelling out words?” Justin scuffed his shoes on the tiled floor, trying not to spout off about how crazy they sounded.

Ella’s lashes fluttered disdain as if all of this was his fault. But, she had been the one who had insisted on living in Last State. Not him. He bit