Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

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by Picott, Camille




  Undead Ultra Box Set

  Undead Ultra

  Camille Picott

  Published by Camille Picott, 2020.

  Undead Ultra

  Box Set

  Books 1 - 4

  By

  Camille Picott

  www.camillepicott.com

  Undead Ultra Copyright 2016

  Dorm Life Copyright 2019

  Lost Coast Copyright 2019

  Fort Dead Copyright 2020

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Undead Ultra

  1 | Dropping A Deuce

  2 | Dead Drunk

  3 | Red Hats

  4 | Disconnected

  5 | Car Trouble

  6 | Broken Skull

  7 | Prep

  8 | Don’t Be An Idiot

  9 | Boy Scouts

  10 | The Tracks

  11 | One Tough Man

  12 | Spikes

  13 | Ultra Dog

  14 | Hopland

  15 | Ace Hardware

  16 | Storewide Clearance

  17 | Fuel

  18 | When The Wheels Falls Off

  19 | Bonk

  20 | If I Get Eaten

  21 | Breaking and Entering

  22 | Portland Malady

  23 | Visitors

  24 | Bonging in the Brambles

  25 | Pigs

  26 | Regrets

  27 | Zombie Rollers

  28 | Purple Passion

  29 | Tunnel

  30 | Granola Bitch

  31 | Fun Run

  32 | Jingle Bells

  33 | Dead End

  34 | The Next Right Thing

  35 | River Crossing

  36 | Happy Campers

  37 | Silver Buckle

  38 | Attack and Stack

  39 | Paperclip

  40 | Strong Enough

  41 | Nausea

  42 | Nothing But The Dead

  43 | Aleisha

  44 | Separate Ways

  45 | Out Of Gas

  46 | Suffer Better

  47 | Tourist Trap

  48 | Run, Jackalope

  49 | BFF

  50 | Fatigue Factor

  51 | Batshit Crazy

  52 | Death Run

  53 | Avenue of the Giants

  54 | Arcata

  55 | Finisher

  Acknowledgements

  Dorm Life

  Prologue | Outbreak

  1 | One Week Later

  2 | Clearance

  3 | Disposal

  4 | Awake

  5 | First Kill

  6 | Ultra Brew

  7 | Darkness

  8 | Stairwell

  9 | Water Run

  10 | First Fight

  11 | Stripping Paint

  12 | Stairs

  13 | Scavenging

  14 | Paint Job

  15 | Ham

  16 | The Depot

  17 | Neighbors

  18 | Goodnight

  19 | Reunion

  20 | Map

  21 | Surrounded

  22 | On Foot

  23 | Distraction

  24 | Beat It

  25 | At Gunpoint

  26 | Trading Post

  27 | Trapped

  28 | Ignite

  29 | Chair

  30 | Fire

  31 | Run

  32 | Meeting

  33 | Course

  34 | Sleep Deprivation

  35 | Library

  36 | Late Night Chat

  37 | College Creek

  38 | Death

  39 | Gift

  40 | Tithe

  41 | Hazing

  42 | Assignments

  43 | Errand

  44 | Pancakes

  45 | Eavesdropping

  46 | Premeditated

  47 | Zombie Catchers

  48 | Pasture

  49 | Clean Up

  Epilogue | Mama Bear

  Acknowledgments

  Lost Coast

  Prologue | Massacre

  1 | Shift Change

  2 | Caffeine

  3 | Pack

  4 | Practice

  5 | Hair

  6 | Spam

  7 | Mayday

  8 | Horde

  9 | Road Crossing

  10 | Marshland

  11 | Fairhaven

  12 | Highway 101

  13 | The Dodge Gap

  14 | Five Leaf

  15 | Wounds

  16 | Survivor’s Remorse

  17 | Horde

  18 | Yellow Light

  19 | Arm

  20 | Stand

  21 | No Way Out

  22 | Improvise

  23 | Rubble

  24 | Double Feature

  25 | Wake

  26 | Sixteen

  27 | Hang Over

  28 | Fortifications

  29 | Shark Bait

  30 | Foot Soldier

  31 | Idea

  32 | Carnival Game

  33 | Language Department

  34 | Company

  35 | Newcomers

  36 | Check In

  37 | Infrasound

  38 | Security System

  39 | Recipes

  40 | Surprise

  41 | Rooftop

  42 | Missed Call

  43 | Siege

  44 | Apocalyptic Bounce House

  45 | Out of Gas

  46 | Manila

  47 | Speedboats

  48 | Dead Waters

  49 | Open Water

  50 | Dead in the Water

  51 | Swim

  52 | Tide

  53 | Sprint

  54 | Impassable Zone

  55 | Inventory

  56 | Pacer

  57 | Chafing

  58 | Pain Cave

  59 | Confession

  60 | Old Friend

  61 | Hot Water

  62 | Deal with It

  63 | Candelabras

  Acknowledgements

  Fort Dead

  Prologue | Salesman

  1 | Vilomah

  2 | New Currency

  3 | Trade

  4 | Barbed Wire

  5 | Beachview

  6 | Balance Beam of Death

  7 | Recording

  8 | Sand

  9 | Shelter

  10 | Pink House

  11 | New Regime

  12 | Assholes Live Forever

  13 | Broken Glass

  14 | Smoke

  15 | Precipice

  16 | Tennis Racket

  17 | Truck

  18 | Why

  19 | Rest

  20 | Sprint

  21 | Nails

  22 | Raining Zombies

  23 | Wet Run

  24 | Phone Home

  25 | Zombie Train

  26 | Duct Tape

  27 | Recon

  28 | Red Flower

  29 | Reunion

  30 | Closer

  31 | Prisoners

  32 | Wild Thing

  33 | Endure

  34 | Hallucinations

  35 | Serve

  36 | Assault

  37 | RV

  38 | End

  39 | Angel

  40 | Hope

  41 | The Real Dead

  42 | Strong

  43 | Goodbye, Hello

  44 | Neighbors

  Epilogue | Right Here, Right Now

  Acknowledgments

  Ultra Couch Potato to Ultra Badass: | Your Ultimate Guide to Ultramarathon Training in the Zombie Apocalypse

  What’s an Ultramarathon?

  How will ultramarathon training prepare me for the zombie apocalypse?

  The Only Rule


  Transforming from a Couch Potato to an Ultra Zompoc Badass with 3 runs a week

  Phase 1: Prepper

  Phase 2: Survivor

  Phase 3: Zompoc Badass

  Zompoc Badass Maintenance

  Bonus Round: Zompoc Ultra Badass

  Author’s Note

  Free Gift: the untold story of Alvarez

  Join the Zombie Recon Team

  Also By Camille Picott

  Undead Ultra

  Book 1

  By

  Camille Picott

  www.camillepicott.com

  With deepest gratitude to my Zombie Recon Team, who helped me explore the trails and rails traversed by the characters in this book.

  Lura Albee

  Lori Barekman

  Jordan Costello

  Chris & Kylah Picott

  Chris Urasaki

  1

  Dropping A Deuce

  THERE’S SOMETHING LIBERATING about a long run. I love everything about it: the salty dribble of sweat in my eyes; the smell of wet dirt on the trail in the morning; the burning in my calves as I plow uphill; the exhilaration of a stunning view after that uphill climb; the thrashing of my quads on the inevitable downhill; and the screaming ache in my biceps from pumping up and down for hours on end.

  My soul finds peace in the mindless labor of the run and the untamed nature of the trail. Some call it the runner’s high, some call it trail surfing. I call it joy. Bliss. Oblivion.

  Unfortunately, all these fancy adjectives evade me this morning. I’m stalled only three miles into today’s run. Standing on the singletrack trail that circumnavigates Lake Sonoma in Northern California, I wait for my running buddy to drop a deuce in the woods.

  “Hey, Kate.” Frederico pokes his head out from behind a tree. His shoulder-length, curly gray hair is pulled back in its customary ponytail. In his early sixties, he’s been running and racing for over thirty years. “Can I borrow your socks?”

  I make a face at him. “What’s wrong with your socks?”

  “I used them.”

  “Both of them?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I ate chili last night.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Mrs. Crowell’s habanero chili?”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed for holding out on me. The little old lady who lives next door to Frederico is legendary for her chili.

  Grumbling, I plop onto the ground and unlace my shoes. I hate running without socks. Knowing one won’t be enough to mop up Mrs. Crowell’s chili, I pull off both of them.

  “You’re washing these,” I say, tossing them in Frederico’s direction.

  He gives me a wicked smile as he catches the socks. “Did I mention my washing machine is broken?”

  “Fuck you.” I half scowl, half grin at him. “Those are brand-new socks. The least you could have done was get some chili for me.”

  “I knew there wouldn’t be enough socks for both of us, so I ate it all myself.”

  I chuck a rock at his head. He ducks back behind the tree. The rock bounces harmlessly into the brush.

  I’d like to say this is the first time something like this has happened. I’d like to say I’ve never asked to borrow his socks. When you run for hours and hours out in the middle of nowhere, shit happens. Literally. And if you’re lucky, you’ll have a friend to help you out.

  “All done.” Frederico jogs back out to the trail. The front pouches on his hydration pack bulge with the soiled socks.

  “Yick.” I plug my nose. “You smell like shit.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “I’ll have you know, little jackalope, that my shit doesn’t stink. It smells like roses.”

  Jackalope is Frederico’s nickname for me. It’s a jackrabbit with antlers, an urban myth in North America.

  “You wish,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “I’m running in front so I don’t have to be downwind of you.”

  I break into an easy lope, skimming up the narrow, uneven trail. The thick tread of my trail shoes grip the damp earth and provide sure footing.

  The morning is glorious, crisp with the smell of last night’s heavy spring rain. Bars of sunlight break through the trees, ephemeral strands that dance with life. To my right, I glimpse the serene blue of Lake Sonoma. A hawk glides on invisible currents of air.

  Frederico and I have twenty miles planned for today. I feel myself slipping into the joy of the run. My brain moves into a state of pleasant numbness, a special place where the ache in my heart subsides. Out here, running through the woods, I can almost pretend Kyle is home, waiting for me.

  “Kate, I gotta go again.”

  Frederico’s voice draws me up short, reality snapping back in around me. I turn around in time to see him dash behind another tree.

  “All my other socks are in the car,” I call, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. We haven’t even done four miles yet. “I saw some poison oak a little ways back. Want me to get you some?”

  “Fuck you, Jackalope,” he calls back cheerfully.

  I sigh, scuffing the tread of my running shoe irritably in the dirt. Through the dappled morning light, something red flashes in the corner of my eye.

  I turn, peering through the trees. After a moment, I realize what it is I’m seeing: a dead pig.

  Wild pigs are pretty common at Lake Sonoma. They wreak havoc in the parks with their rooting. What’s not common is to find a dead one with its blood and entrails pooling on the forest floor.

  “There’s a dead pig over here,” I call to Frederico. “It’s stomach has been ripped out.” Flies and maggots have already congregated on the animal’s body. Poor thing.

  “It’s hunting season,” Frederico calls back.

  That’s true. We’ve run into hunters out here on our runs, some with guns and some with bows. It can be creepy to come across armed men in camouflage in the middle of the woods, but so far all our encounters have been friendly.

  “Poor bastard probably got shot but managed to get away,” I agree.

  “Mountain lion or coyote could have taken it down once it was wounded.” Frederico trots out of the trees and takes a look at the dead pig. “Yeah, I’d say something with claws and teeth definitely got into that guy.”

  “God.” I take a step back from him and plug my nose. “You starting to smell like portapotty.”

  He makes an apologetic face. “Oak leaves make shitty ass wipes.” His expression morphs into one of earnest wheedling. “Can we go back to the car?”

  I scowl in response.

  “Pretty please?” he says.

  “I really needed this run today,” I mutter. When I run, I don’t have to think about anything other than my next step, my next breath. Everything is better when I run and shut off my brain.

  “Remember when I ran thirty-eight miles smelling my own shit at Western States?” Frederico asks.

  I snort. Western States is a 100-mile footrace from Squaw Valley to Auburn. Kyle and I crewed for Frederico at that race, meeting him at the various aid stations with food and other running supplies. Some bad fish had given Frederico a serious case of runs. We ran out of extra shorts and socks by mile sixty-two. He was too tired by that point to care much about wiping. After that experience, he vowed never to run with a smelly ass again.

  “I’ll buy you breakfast,” Frederico says, eyes plaintive. “Bread Box?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I want breakfast at Bread Box, plus coffee and an apple fritter. And I want you to wash my socks.”

  “Deal.” He holds out his hand, like we’re supposed to shake on it. I give him a look. He chuckles. After a beat, I laugh, too. It feels good to laugh. Maybe this morning isn’t a complete waste.

  I take one last look at the dead pig. As I do, a vulture rustles through the trees and lands on the carcass, casting its beady gaze briefly on us before turning its full attention back to its feast. The bird pecks at a ropy length of intestine, its leathery, red head almost the same hue as the pig’s
blood.

  I shiver and turn away, leading the way back up the trail.

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, we trot back into the gravel parking lot. My white hatchback waits for us. It’s covered with a permanent layer of dust because I’m always leaving it at trailheads.

  “Do you have any extra shorts in the car?” Frederico asks.

  “Yeah.” I pop the trunk and rummage in my running gear box. “Here you go.” I hand him a pair of fluorescent-pink running shorts. “These will complement your complexion.”

  He chuckles, amiably moving to the passenger side of the car to change.

  I pull off my hydration pack, take a last sip from the water tube, then toss it into the trunk. As I close the hatch, I catch site of my reflection in the glass.

  God, I look like shit. My pink, moisture-wicking tee sits on thin shoulders. Short brown hair is pulled back in a tight French braid, revealing a lean face that borders on gaunt. My neck looks long and rubbery, like a turkey’s. Lots of running and not enough eating. Food doesn’t hold much interest these days, not without Kyle.

  My gray roots are showing, making me look older than my thirty-nine years. I should get them dyed, but there just doesn’t seem any point to it most days.

  I make a mental note to eat two apple fritters at breakfast. Taking care of my hair might be a pain in the ass, but Frederico is paying for breakfast. Besides, eating isn’t such a chore when I have company.

  “There’s another dead pig over there.” Frederico gestures over the hood of my car.

  I look across the gravel parking lot and catch sight of the pig carcass. Three vultures are having a field day with it.

  “Some hunter out here is a bad shot,” I mutter, plopping into the driver’s seat.

  “No kidding.” Frederico, decked out in my pink running shorts, slides into the passenger seat. “We should let the park ranger know on the way out.”

  “Yeah.” A creepy feeling crawls up my spine. I shake it off, turning my attention away from the dead animal and focusing on my friend instead. “Pink is totally your color, by the way.”

  He flips me the bird and gives me a mock scowl.

  Grinning, I fire up the engine of the car. NPR blares out of the speakers as I pull onto the road.

  “Rioting at the port of Portland, Oregon continues to escalate,” the voice of the news reporter says. “Riots started just forty-eight hours ago when dock workers attacked peaceful protestors. Protestors are from Stop Hunger Now, an organization dedicated to ending world hunger. Members are protesting the port’s union-mandated slowdown, which has caused hundreds of food containers to spoil. Thousands of tons of food have been left to rot in the containers during the slowdown—”

 

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