“Depressing.” Frederico flips the channel, turning it to a classic rock station.
We stop at the ranger station. The light is on and the door is ajar, but no one’s inside.
“Maybe the ranger went to grab a coffee or something,” I offer.
Frederico shrugs. “Guess they’ll hear about the dead pigs eventually. Can’t say we didn’t try.”
“Guess so.” I shake off the image of the gutted pigs, pressing the accelerator and exiting the park.
We drive back toward the town of Healdsburg with the windows rolled down, letting the morning spring air infuse the car. The rolling, tree-covered hills of Lake Sonoma disappear behind us. Vineyards take their place, the tips of green buds pushing out of the bare brown vines.
The thought of going home to an empty house makes my insides feel like a crushed can. I feel some relief as I detour toward the Plaza in downtown Healdsburg, where Bread Box diner is located.
The once-quaint farming town, nestled in the heart of Northern California wine country, has transformed over the years. The town I grew up in has morphed into a tourist destination with overpriced clothing stores, winery tasting rooms, and restaurants with menus that require a French-English dictionary. Even at this early hour on a Saturday morning, the sidewalks are already thronging with tourists.
Thankfully there are still a few places, like Bread Box, that cater to locals. Maybe I’ll ditch the apple fritters and get scones instead with my breakfast. Bread Box makes the best cheddar cheese scones. They were Kyle’s favorite. There was a time when he ate them every day for breakfast. That fad lasted until he started having trouble buttoning his pants. After that, the scones became a rare treat, though they were no less loved. Eating one will make me feel close to him. And I want to feel close to him.
“What the hell?” I slam on my brakes as a twenty-something in six-inch heels staggers off the sidewalk and nearly falls into my car.
2
Dead Drunk
“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE going!” Frederico shouts at the drunk girl.
She laughs uproariously, as if nearly walking into a moving car is worthy of a Comedy Central skit. Her pack of girlfriends laughs with her, hauling her back onto the sidewalk as they grin and wave at me. Every last one has on skin-tight clothing and ten pounds of makeup. They carry wine glasses and sport matching fluorescent-green wristbands, the sort you’d get at rock concert.
It’s only nine in the morning and it’s clear this pack of Barbies is already shit-faced. Did they start the day off with Bloody Marys and mimosas? Seriously, who greets the day and says, “Please pass the six-inch stilettos, I’m gonna get shit-faced today!” You’d think they’d at least wear sensible shoes for a long day of drinking calisthenics. But hey, if you’re going to make an ass out of yourself, might as well look good, I suppose. That way everyone will notice you.
The drunk Barbie band roves off in search of the next tasting room. Hopefully they packed a few barf bags in those designer purses.
My car rolls farther into downtown. There are people everywhere, all of them carrying wine glasses and wearing fluorescent-green wristbands.
“Barrel Tasting weekend,” I groan. I’d forgotten about that.
“Two weekends of drunken festivities.” Frederico purses his lips.
People come from all over the world to sample wine out of the barrels of Healdsburg wineries. Our population of ten thousand will literally double with the influx of tourists.
I thought it was cool when I first moved to town twenty-five years ago. Now, as I nose my car through the streets, hoping to avoid hitting another drunk idiot, I just find it annoying.
I manage to snag a parking spot only a block away from Bread Box. Dressed in spandex compression pants, with sweat stains on my face and in my armpits, I look absolutely fabulous amidst the decked out stiletto tourists. I tug my visor down, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Frederico practically struts into their midst, my pink shorts ablaze.
Despite myself, I have to smile at the odd looks he gets. At least he doesn’t smell like shit anymore. That would get attention.
We shoulder our way through the tourists and their wine glasses before finally arriving at Bread Box. The inside of the restaurant is like stepping through a time machine. Formica tables. Vinyl chairs. Chipped linoleum floor.
I love this place. While the rest of the Healdsburg Plaza has transformed over the years, Bread Box has remained unchanged. It’s too dive-like to attract the fancy tourists that roll into town, which means it’s mostly empty this morning. No French-English dictionary to eat here, thank you very much.
We order and take a seat next to a window that looks out on the Plaza. This was Kyle’s favorite table, even if watching stupid drunk people wasn’t his favorite pastime.
“I just signed up for an ultra,” Frederico says, sipping his coffee.
Ultra is short for ultramarathon. An ultramarathon is any race longer than a marathon, or twenty-six point two miles.
“I hope you don’t plan to eat Mrs. Crowell’s chili the night before,” I reply drily. He chuckles, a warm rich sound that eases the tension in my muscles. “Which one are you running?” I ask.
“Mount Tamalpais Fifty Miler.” He cocks his head. “You should come. You haven’t raced since you lost Kyle.”
Part of me shrivels inside. I ran ultras all the time when Kyle was alive. He came to every race as my support crew. When I ran into an aid station, he’d be waiting with snacks, fresh socks, electrolyte tablets, a blister kit—whatever I needed to help me refuel and finish my race. His presence always kept me going, especially on the hard runs.
“I’ve raced since then,” I say, trying to maintain a chipper exterior.
Frederico gives me a serious look. “You’ve signed up for races. You haven’t actually run any of them since the accident.”
“I don’t like to start things I can’t finish.” I shrug. “My plantar fasciitis has been bothering me. You know that.” It’s true. Kind of. I’ve struggled with plantar fasciitis—an inflammation of the foot tissue—on and off for years.
“Kate, don’t give me that. You’re in the best shape of your life and we both know it.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, studying my coffee. Without Kyle, I just don’t have the desire to race. I have no one to run to.
“Race entry fees are too expensive,” I say at last. “I need to save money to help Carter with school.”
I’m full of shit and Frederico knows it, but he doesn’t push me. I deal with the awkward silence by fishing my phone out of my purse and absently checking for texts or missed calls.
I’m not really expecting to find any messages, but to my surprise there are three missed calls, two voicemails, and two text messages from my son. He’s twenty and attends college in a hippie town four hours north of Healdsburg. Frowning in surprise, I thumb through the texts.
Mom, where r u? the first message reads. The second one says, Call me asap.
“Huh,” I murmur to myself.
“What?” Frederico asks.
“Carter texted me twice and tried to call three times.”
Frederico raises an eyebrow. “It’s barely nine o’clock in the morning. He must need money.”
I chuckle at the joke. We both know Carter isn’t the type of kid to ask for money. Rather, he’s the sort of kid who would call to ask the best way to cook brown rice or how to make chicken stock from scratch. There’s no telling what he’s up to.
As Frederico smiles at my laughter, I know I’m off the hook for bullshitting him. I put the phone to my ear, expecting to hear my son’s cheerful voice. Instead, his words come out in a harsh whisper.
“Mom? Mom, where are you?” There’s an edge to his words that borders on fear. “Look, call me as soon as you get this message, okay? Wherever you are, I need you to find Frederico and get back to the house. God, I hope you’re not on the trail today.”
I blink in surprise, a lump of anxiety forming in my st
omach. I’m always out on the trail on Saturday mornings. What’s going on with my laid-back, quasi-hippie son? If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was playing some sort of fraternity hazing joke on me, but Carter would just as soon shave his legs as join a college fraternity.
“What’s up?” Frederico asks, studying my face.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
I thumb to the next voice message. Carter’s voice fills my ear. The edge is still there. If possible, it’s been amplified.
“Me again, Mom. You’re probably out on the trail. Hopefully with Frederico. Look, I need to you to drive home, lock everything, and barricade all the windows and doors. Fill up the bathtubs with water. I know this sounds weird, but please, trust me. Call me as soon as you can.”
The lump in my stomach grows. I immediately call him back, chewing on my lower lip as the phone rings.
And rings. And rings some more, finally switching over to voicemail.
“Hey, sweetie,” I say. “It’s me. I’m with Frederico. Call me, please. You’re scaring me.”
“What’s up?” Frederico asks.
I wordlessly hand the phone to him. Frederico listens to the messages, a crease forming between his brows.
“Think he’s playing a joke on you?” He sets the phone down after listening to the messages.
“Maybe,” I reply. “That’s not really Carter’s style, though.”
“No, it’s not.” Frederico scratches his head. “Well, you can try him again after breakfast.”
I nod, unable to dispel the unease lodged in my gut. I set the phone on the table so that I won’t miss another call or text from Carter.
Our breakfast arrives. We dive into the meal. As I stuff a fork of hash browns into my mouth, I idly stare through the window out at the Plaza. It’s a large grassy area with soaring, manicured trees, a gazebo, and a water fountain that doubles as a toddler swimming pool in the summer. This morning, it’s thronging with tourists. I polish off my omelet and start in on the first of the apple fritters, watching the droves of wine lovers walk by outside.
A pack of metrosexual males staggers by in loafers, slacks, and pastel shirts. God, they are even more fucked up than the Barbie brigade we saw earlier. One of them has red wine smeared all over his button-down shirt. Another has red wine splashed over his face. All of them move with a shuffling gait. Maybe they started Barrel Tasting weekend with mimosas, Bloody Marys, and tequila shots. Maybe they’re just hungover from a full night of partying. Whatever the case, they look like hell.
“This is better than reality TV,” Frederico says around a mouthful of biscuit.
I nod, shoving a chunk of apple fritter into my mouth.
The metro with red wine all over his lavender shirt lunges at a pretty girl in tight pants. The neckline of her shirt practically plunges to her navel. The metro paws at her breasts, a loud moan passing between his lips.
“This is more like a bad porno,” I reply, picking up the second apple fritter.
“Get away from me, you pervert,” the girl shouts.
She tries to shove the man away. He’s nearly twice her size and doesn’t flinch under her pathetic force. He moans again, still pawing at her breast.
“A really bad porno,” Frederico agrees, anger seeping into his voice. He shifts, and I know he’s considering going out to help the girl.
The metro suddenly seizes the girl and buries his face in her neck. She screams. It’s not a cry of disgust or violation; it’s a piercing shriek of pain that jars me to the core.
Frederico jumps up, knees hitting the table. The plates and silverware bounce and rattle.
The girl twists in the man’s grasp, her eyes wide like a desperate animal’s. The man in lavender leans back, blood staining his mouth and raw flesh hanging from his lips. Blood gushes down the girl’s throat, a river of it running between her breasts.
“What the fuck?” Frederico cries.
We both stare, paralyzed with shock and horror.
The girl is screaming, screaming, screaming. The metro in lavender leans back in, sinking his teeth into her jugular. Blood sprays, splattering all over the window—right by my face.
3
Red Hats
“FUCK!” I JUMP TO MY feet, knocking over my water glass. “Fuck!”
I gape, transfixed, as the pastel shirt club swarms the girl. They bear her to the ground, sinking their teeth into her flesh and eating her alive. I stumble back, bumping into Frederico.
“What the—” He stares as the metro horde devours the girl, mouth hanging open.
Behind us, our waitress screams. I turn in time to see her drop two orders of biscuits and gravy to the floor. The few other patrons in the diner are on their feet, all of us stupidly watching the horror movie unfolding in front of the restaurant.
A group of gray-haired men dressed in sensible sneakers—all with Barrel Tasting bracelets—stumble into the metro gore. One man sees the girl on the ground and tries to intervene. Seconds later, two members of the metro club pounce on him. One claws into the man’s enormous gut, tearing through his shirt in a spurt of blood.
Two other men—restaurant patrons—race past us, bursting through the front door. They grab onto the closest of the metros, attempting to drag him off the girl. At the table next to us, a woman is on her cell phone, eyes wide.
“I need to report an attack,” she says breathlessly into her phone. “There are drunk men mauling people in downtown Healdsburg!” Her voice goes up an octave as the body of the girl is abruptly hurled against the window.
Blood smears the glass in thick, gloppy rivulets as the body slides to the ground. Through the red gore, I see one of the restaurant patrons go down under a rush of pastel shirts. The mass smashes against the front door of the restaurant. One metro in pastel green-and-yellow stripes nearly tumbles inside, but he rights himself and launches back into the melee, blood dripping down his chin.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Frederico says. “Move!”
The remains of an apple fritter fall from my hand. I snag my purse and phone before retreating after him.
“What’s going on?” I say, voice coming out in a squeak. “What—what’s wrong with those men?”
“They’re probably fucked up on some designer drug,” Frederico replies. “We’re not going to stick around to find out.”
Drugs. That must be it. Those guys are on drugs. It wouldn’t be first time wine tasters tried to amp up their experience with drugs.
Frederico and I hurry toward the swinging white door that leads into Bread Box’s kitchen. Behind us, patrons are on their cell phones to the police, shouting about drunken attacks and murder.
We push through the swinging door into the kitchen. The two line cooks and dishwasher look up in surprise as we burst into the tiny space. The waitress, right behind us, launches into a frenetic retelling of events.
“Those men just started—started chewing on her!” she cries shrilly.
Carter’s frantic message reforms in my head, taking a different shape. I stop dead. Has Carter seen attacks like we just witnessed? Is that why he called me this morning? Is he in danger?
I fumble the cell phone, awkwardly swiping at the screen.
“What are you doing?” Frederico snaps.
“I have to call Carter. What if—”
“Not now.” The severity in Frederico’s voice brings me up short. “Move, Kate. Move.”
My hand numbly shoves the phone into my purse. I nod, knowing he’s right. Somewhere outside is the wail of police sirens.
We head to the back door, slipping into the alleyway behind Bread Box. It’s devoid of people. In contrast to the chaos of the restaurant, it’s quiet. I can’t even hear the screaming from the street, although the wail of the police cars grows louder.
“Let’s go,” Frederico says. “If you see trouble, run like hell.”
I nod. Side by side, we hurry north toward the street. We’re nearly to the alleyway exit when
a hunched form steps into view.
The figure is dressed all in purple with a bright-red hat. The hat is a small thing perched jauntily on the owner’s head. A small red mesh veil hangs from the hat, covering the woman’s forehead and part of one eye. The hat is almost the exact same color as the red staining her lips. It could be lipstick gone bad, but it could also be blood. The one visible eye is an eerie milky white.
“Holy shit.” Frederick skids to a halt. “It’s the Red Hat Society.”
The Red Hat Society is a social organization for “mature women.” I occasionally see groups of them roving downtown Healdsburg, shopping, wine tasting, and generally having a grand time. They always wear flamboyant purple dresses and bright-red hats.
The hunchbacked woman in purple suddenly multiplies. She is joined by at least a dozen more old ladies, all of them dressed in dramatic purple-and-red outfits. All have the same milky white eyes. Many have red smeared on their mouths.
“Do you think they’re on drugs, too?” I hiss. My voice echoes off the walls of the alleyway. The red-and-purple pack swivel in our direction. As a unit, they lurch toward us.
“I don’t know,” Frederico whispers. “But something’s not right. You know that plan we talked about?”
“The one where we run like hell?”
“Yeah. That one. Now would be the time to follow it.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. We turn and run south, heading for the opposite end of the alley. Our footfalls make crunching sounds on the loose chunks of asphalt. The Red Hat Society lumbers after us, many of them gnashing their teeth. Lucky for us, they don’t move fast.
Just as we reach the other end of the alleyway, a middle-aged woman with a boob job runs screaming toward us.
“Help!” she screams. “Someone help me!”
A chunk is missing out of the shoulder of her designer dress. The skin beneath bears a large bite wound. The woman is wild-eyed. One foot is barefoot; the other limps along on a stiletto heel. Blood seeps down her shoulder.
“She’s bitten,” Frederico says, holding an arm out in front of me. “Steer wide.”
Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 2
