Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

He digs around in trunk, tossing handfuls of my gear into the backseat of the car.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Seeing what else you have in here. We could use a weapon or two.” He pulls up the bottom of the trunk, revealing a spare tire, jack, and lug nut wrench.

  “What do you think about this?” He hefts the lug nut wrench in one hand. “For crushing zombie skulls?”

  “How are we going to carry it?”

  He taps the wrench in his palm, considering. “Could we lash it to the back of a pack?”

  “Maybe.”

  There’s a zip cord meant for securing a jacket on the back of Frederico’s pack. I take an extra shirt and wrap it around the wrench like a sling. After some fiddling, I get the wrench semi-secured to the zip cord.

  “Not very stable,” I say, rocking it back and forth. “But at least it won’t swing free and hit you.”

  “Probably worth the nuisance if we get in a jam.”

  “We won’t be able to get it out very fast if we need it.”

  “We could figure out a way to hang it from my waist, but I’d get bloody and bruised from it.”

  Another good point. I sigh. “I guess this is as good as it’s going to get.”

  We stand there in contemplative silence. Nearby is the occasional hum of a car as it whizzes down the freeway. And in the far, far distance is a smaller, distinct sound: screaming.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask softly.

  He nods. “It’s spreading.”

  I set my GPS watch to zero. For the next seventy-two hours, our lives will revolve around this watch as it tracks our time and miles.

  My eyes meet Frederico’s.

  Our packs are full of water and supplies. We’re laced into our shoes.

  Time to run.

  8

  Don’t Be An Idiot

  THERE’S A FAMOUS SAYING in the ultra world, penned by runner-writer Scott Douglas: In the first half of the race, don’t be an idiot. In the second half of the race, don’t be a wimp.

  This bit of wisdom has been hammered into me over my years of ultrarunning. It’s guided me through dozens of races.

  Even so, I find myself scowling when Frederico says, “We’re doing nine-minute miles. Let’s slow it to nine thirty.” He catches my look and raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.

  I swallow my frustration. He’s right. We can’t help Carter and Aleisha if we push too hard now and collapse at mile fifty.

  I force my legs to slow and my breathing to ease. The act makes me feel like a wild horse in a cage. I want to bust free and run hard and fast. I want the world to blur by on either side, to pass in a rush and transport me to Arcata, to my son.

  “Perfect,” Frederico says. “If we can hold this pace for the next fifty miles, we’ll be in good shape.”

  He’s right, of course. We settle into a familiar rhythm, running side by side down the frontage road. We pass wineries, houses—some so old they look like they’ll tip over in a stiff breeze—vineyards, and even a lonely church. I try not to think about how little food we have and how shitty we’re going to feel when it runs out. Thank goodness the next town isn’t far away.

  Despite my worry about food, tension leaches out as we move down the road. It always does when I run. There’s an odd normalcy to me and Frederico running together. As I cruise along—my shoes landing lightly on the pavement and my breath feathering in and out of my lungs—I can almost imagine the world is still normal. That zombies aren’t real, that my husband is still alive, and my son is safe in his dorm.

  The road meanders northward, sometimes drifting closer to the freeway than I’d like. There’s a chain-link fence separating us from the main highway. Will that be enough to protect us if we run into zombies?

  “Do you think the news reports are right?” I ask. “Do you think this is a bioterrorism attack?”

  “Don’t know,” Frederico replies. “It’s not outrageous to think whatever it is—a virus, bacteria, whatever—came in on a cargo ship. It wouldn’t be the first disease to get past customs.”

  I shiver. Nothing to do but put our heads down and keep running.

  At mile three, we encounter our first car wreck. It’s a single car crashed into a pine tree on the side of the road. Both driver and passenger side doors are open. A thin stream of steam hisses up from the engine.

  At first I think the car has been abandoned, but then I see the pair of legs sticking out from behind the car. The legs are attached to a woman, who lies prone on the dirt while a man dips a hand into her stomach cavity and feast on her entrails. I gag and look away as we run by.

  The frontage road drifts away from the freeway. All is eerily silent and deserted. A lone cyclist passes us, bent low over his bike. He swings wide around us, looking at us with wide, panicked eyes before disappearing over a hill.

  Two pit bulls bark as we run by their chain-link fence. Their shrill voices echo, crashing in my ears like cymbals.

  “Is there a way to shush pit bulls, short of shooting them?” I ask.

  “Maybe they’ll pipe down when zombies show up to eat them,” Frederico replies.

  The dogs throw themselves at the fence as we pass, their snarls following us.

  At mile six, we come upon a second car wreck. There are four cars in all. One engine still hums, the front wheels dangling into the drainage ditch on the side of the road.

  There are five zombies, all of them clustered around the car with the purring engine. Glimpses of eerie, lifeless white eyes make my skin crawl.

  I slow, worried my footsteps will draw their attention. Will that chain-link fence be enough to protect us? Can they climb?

  “Keep moving,” Frederico says. “Run on your toes.”

  I follow his instructions, rising up onto my toes. With less surface area to make contact with the road, my footsteps become softer, lighter.

  The zombies don’t turn toward us. They are fixated on the car. They claw and scratch at it, snarling and growling.

  In the distance, a siren wails. The zombies hear it the same instant I do. All five of their heads turn, looking north toward the new sound.

  Seconds later, an ambulance and two cop cars zip by, tearing southward. As a unit, the five zombies peel away from the car. They turn, breaking into a run, and follow the sirens.

  One of them, a forty-something woman in blue jeans, smacks right into one of the other cars. She drops. An instant later, she’s back on her feet. Snarling, she reaches out with her hands and feels her way around the car, then resumes her run down the freeway.

  “Carter was right,” Frederico says softly. “They are blind.”

  “And attracted to noise,” I add, watching the zombie in blue jeans disappear down the road with the others. “I hope they don’t have enhanced hearing.”

  Frederico’s lips set in a grim line. “We’ll be fine so long as there’s something louder and more obnoxious to draw their attention.”

  “But if we’re the only ones around, we’re screwed,” I reply.

  The small town of Cloverdale comes into view at mile eight. It’s a cute hamlet nestled on the northwestern side of Lake Sonoma. Frederico and I slow, stopping to survey the town from a distance. From where we stand, it looks peaceful.

  “Maybe Cloverdale is safe enough for us to get a car,” he says. “How much money do you have in your bank account?”

  I hesitate. “I have Kyle’s life insurance money.” The idea of spending it opens an ache inside me. As if one more piece of Kyle is being taken away.

  You’re being stupid, I tell myself. Kyle’s gone.

  “There’s a used car dealer on the south side end of Cloverdale,” Frederico says.

  “You sure we should go into the town?”

  “No. But I do know this journey will be faster if we can knock out some miles with a car. I’m willing to run it, but faster is better.”

  I draw in a breath. “Okay. Let’s get closer and have a look.” I pause. “Maybe we should unho
ok your lug nut wrench?”

  “Good idea.”

  Two minutes later, we’re on our way again. Frederico, wielding the lug nut wrench in pink running shorts and polka-dot calf compression sleeves, looks like a vagabond nut job.

  The frontage road, which has been running parallel to 101, climbs a small hill and meets up with the freeway off-ramp. We jog up the rise and cross onto the overpass. We drop into crouches at the top, staring out at the scene.

  What stretches out before us is nothing short of suburban perfection. A Safeway shopping center dominates the scene, the parking lot flanked on either end by a gas station and McDonald’s. There’s a Boy Scout troop outside the McDonald’s gathered around the outside of a big white van. A few cars roll in and out of the parking lot, most people going into the grocery store.

  My gaze is drawn to the McDonald’s. It’s been at least a decade since I’ve set foot in a fast-food restaurant, but this one holds a potent memory for me.

  I SAT IN THE CLOVERDALE McDonald’s bathroom stall, positioning the pregnancy strip between my legs. My bladder was about to burst. I clenched the muscles, holding back the urine.

  I didn’t want to fuck this up; the test kit cost twenty dollars. I couldn’t afford to buy another one. Hell, I could hardly afford this one.

  When the stick looked to be in the right position, I let out a trickle of pee, bending forward and intently watching the yellow stream. It successfully hit the end of the stick.

  I relaxed, releasing a gentle stream of urine. I was careful not to let it gush out. The box said the urine needs to run over the tip for at least five seconds. I dragged it out for ten.

  Nothing to do now but wait. Three to five minutes, according to the box.

  I put the test strip on the toilet paper dispenser, rising to reposition my skirt. It was Kyle’s favorite, a filmy blue-and-brown maxi I’d picked up at a thrift store. I wore it on our first date.

  It seemed like the right thing to wear today. Like maybe my choice of clothing could influence the result of the pregnancy test. It was a stupid thought, but wearing it made me feel less afraid. I needed to feel less afraid. I needed—

  My eyes jerked, gaze drawn to the white plastic stick balanced on the toilet paper dispenser.

  A bright-pink plus sign blazed up at me.

  I burst into tears, staring in horror.

  I’m only nineteen, I thought. I’m only nineteen. The sentence repeated itself over and over in my head.

  This was not how my life was supposed to go. I was supposed to transfer to UCLA, get a master’s in psychology, and make a career for myself.

  I hauled myself out of the bathroom stall, wiping my nose and forcing the tears away. I did my best to fix my makeup in the mirror. With puffy red eyes and smeared mascara, I looked like hell. Not even Kyle’s favorite skirt could make me look any less a mess.

  Screw it, I thought, glumly exiting the bathroom.

  Kyle waited anxiously for me just outside, two uneaten Big Macs on a tray in front of him. We’d met six months ago in a speech and debate class at the local junior college. Since then, we’d barely left each other’s side.

  Kyle’s eyes were wide with anxiety. He wore loose blue jeans and a plain blue T-shirt that matched his eyes. He was tall and lanky, with a kindness that ran down to his core. Even in my current state, my heart swelled at the sight of him.

  His mouth opened to form a question, but no words came out. Silence hung between us as I stared at him with my swollen eyes. I saw the silent confirmation of my pregnancy hit him: a fleeting expression of terror passed over his face.

  Then he closed his mouth, stood up, and wrapped me in a hug. I burst into tears all over again.

  I sobbed uncontrollably, grateful that it was a Wednesday and the McDonald’s was virtually deserted. Kyle rocked me, his arms never wavering in their grip. His embrace made the angles of the world seem less sharp. I clung to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. I wanted him to hold me forever.

  I don’t know how long we stood like that. At some point, Kyle peeled himself away. Despair filled me as space opened up between us. He was going to break up with me now. I just knew it. That’s what the tears on his cheeks had to mean. He was going to break up with me. I cried harder.

  When he dropped to one knee in front of me, I stared at him in complete confusion.

  “Will you marry me, Kate?” he asked softly.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I said harshly, confusion and disbelief churning in my stomach. “You don’t want to marry me.” Did he?

  “Yeah, I do,” he replied. His blue-eyed gaze was steady. “I love you, Kate.”

  You don’t get any more unromantic than that: knocked up and proposed to in a McDonald’s, two uneaten Big Macs our only witnesses. I said yes to the tall, sweet, awkward boy I loved, even though every part of me was terrified.

  GOD HOW I MISS HIM. I miss the good times, the bad times, and everything in between. I miss the sense of completeness we had when we were together. I spend too many days feeling like half my heart is missing. I’d give anything to argue with Kyle one last time or to cook his favorite dinner.

  “What do you think?”

  Frederico’s voice pulls me back into the present. I carefully fold up my memories of Kyle and tuck them away. Now is not the time to be distracted.

  I refocus on the scene below us, taking a long, hard look as I consider Frederico’s question. “It looks safe,” I say. Maybe, just maybe, the whole world hasn’t gone to hell. Maybe it’s just Healdsburg and Portland. I dare to let myself hope. “I think we should go into Safeway and stock up on food.”

  “What do you think about trying to get a car?”

  I shift, uncertain. “Let’s focus on food first.”

  We jog down the overpass and into town. A minivan full of kids in pee wee football uniforms rolls by us. Go Bulldogs! is written in white paint across the van’s side windows.

  The woman behind wheel gives us a skeptical look before rolling onto the on-ramp. To her, we probably look like whack jobs on really good weed because who would run over an overpass wielding a lug nut wrench?

  We jog up behind the McDonald’s, wading through a margin of waist-high weeds as we circle around toward the parking lot. The drive-thru is empty, though I see a blond-haired teen spraying cleanser on the pick-up window ledge.

  Two yards into the grass, a stomach curdling stench hits me. I draw to a halt, covering my nose and checking my shoes, wondering if I stepped on roadkill.

  In the same instant, Frederico trips on something. He grunts in surprise, then lets out a surprised yelp.

  “Kate, look out!”

  9

  Boy Scouts

  A DREADLOCKED KID REARS up from the weeds like an animal, baring his teeth and snarling. His eyes are the now-familiar eerie, opaque white. His right arm hangs awkwardly, strands of sinew showing through the bloody gash in his shoulder. He’s wearing a green shirt that says Meat is Murder. Go Vegan.

  Oddly, the kid only rises to his knees before lunging. Frederico easily dodges aside, raising the wrench defensively but not attacking.

  The zombie crashes to the ground, snarling. He struggles to crawl through the grass, fingers slipping in the damp earth. A closer look reveals a pair of legs twisted at odd angles.

  “Something happened to him,” I say, easing around the zombie. “His legs are broken.”

  “Good for us. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  We retreat, scanning the grass as we back away from the zombie. There’s no one else around. The blond teen has disappeared from the drive-thru window. A battered forest-green Camry pulls around the corner of the drive-thru, the driver not even glancing in our direction.

  The beast snaps his teeth, struggling to follow us. How did this poor kid end up here, anyway? From the looks of him, he’s homeless. Northern California has its fair share of hippie-esque homeless and vagabonds.

  “Kate, look what I f
ound.”

  Frederico pulls a big frame backpack out of the grass. It’s faded on the top and covered with dirt splatters. A dingy sleeping bag is rolled up and fastened to the top.

  Poor kid. My eyes flick to the zombie, who’s now a good twenty feet away from us. He really was homeless.

  Frederico rummages through the backpack. He tosses me a granola bar, then takes a wrapper off a second one and starts to eat. I don’t argue, scarfing down the bar in a few quick bites.

  Frederico finds one last granola bar, which we squirrel away for later. He also finds a nice Swiss Army knife, which he slips into a pocket. A minute later, he pulls out a tie-dyed shirt that says I Don’t Eat Anything With Eyes. Though part of me registers the humor in this, I can’t find it in myself to laugh.

  We leave the vegan zombie behind for good, jogging past the McDonald’s and into the parking lot. Safeway is on the far side of the shopping center. I start compiling a mental list of the things we need to stock up on. Electrolyte powder, if we can find it. Some zip locks to put it in. Portable food. Energy bars would probably be the best, and maybe some—

  A scream draws my attention. I freeze, head swiveling toward the sound. The Camry has pulled up beside the Boy Scouts and the white van. A woman—presumably a mother of one of the boys—screams hysterically. At her feet is a pile of McDonald’s paper bags. Latched onto her right forearm are two Boy Scouts. Both of them have deep wounds on their shoulders and necks, blood covering their small bodies.

  They snarl, digging their teeth into her flesh. The woman stumbles back. Blood spurts from her wounds onto her plain white T-shirt.

  Frederico takes several steps forward, lips parting in a silent shout. The rest of the Boy Scouts shift, trampling the to-go bags as they converge on the woman. Growling and snarling, they bear her to the ground in a blur of green-and-khaki uniforms. She screams one more time, then goes silent.

  Just like that, the poor woman is gone. It happens so fast that I can only stand there, paralyzed by the horror unfolding before me.