“If you make it to Arcata,” Frederico says, “maybe you’ll forgive yourself. Carter isn’t the one holding resentments, Kate.”
I have nothing to say to that.
Mile thirty-eight.
The city of Ukiah glimmers in the distance. It’s the only thing that qualifies as a city in the next one hundred miles. The town is large enough to boast a Walmart, a Home Depot, and legalized marijuana.
“Fuck this.” Frederico comes to an abrupt halt. “I’m not going out with regrets. Give me your phone.”
“My phone?” I stare at him stupidly.
“I’m calling her.”
“Who?”
“Aleisha.”
I blink in surprise, then obediently dig out my phone. A quick glance shows me there’s no text from Carter. Ignoring the tinge of worry that slithers through my belly, I pass the phone to Frederico.
“How the hell do you use this fucking thing?” He swipes at the phone.
I wrestle it back from him. “Here.” I pull up the keypad, then pass it back.
Drawing a deep breath, Frederico dials. He looks like a wild man in my pink running shorts and polka-dot compression sleeves. Curls have come loose from his ponytail, framing his face in sweaty locks.
“Aleisha.” His voice is low and tinged with intense emotion. “It’s Dad. I want you to know . . . I want you to know I love you. I love you, and I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. I’m sure by now you’ve heard about all the crazy shit that’s going down. I want you to know that I’m on my way to you. I’ll be there soon. Stay safe.”
A shudder goes through him as he disconnects. “No answer,” he mutters, passing the phone back to me.
I stare at the phone, willing a text from Carter to appear. Nothing happens.
Just got 2 Ukiah, I type. See u soon. Stay safe.
When I look up, my eyes meet Frederico’s. I see my own worry and anxiety reflected back at me. Without another word, we continue on.
27
Zombie Rollers
THE TWO-LANE ROAD STRETCHES into a bona fide four-lane freeway as we near Ukiah. The railroad tracks run parallel to it. We switch off our headlamps and survey the scene before us.
At the south end of town, huge floodlights have been positioned on either side of the four-lane highway. They cast the dark road with blinding light. The faces of the soldiers are concealed by biohazard masks. We didn’t see those on the soldiers in Hopland.
A large white tent has been raised on the west side of the road. A blue square with a white silhouette of a bird and the letters CDC is painted on one side.
“The CDC is here?” I whisper. “Shouldn’t their efforts be focused in Portland?”
“Don’t know,” Frederico replies. “Maybe they’ve found something here worth studying.”
Not good. A desperate need to find Carter tightens my chest.
I pull out my phone. Still no text. My battery is two-thirds of the way gone. Despite this, I pull up the browser and type Ukiah CDC.
A minute later, my phone brings up a list of headlines that make my stomach churn.
OUTBREAKS IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA. MILITARY DEPLOYED TO HALT SPREAD.
CDC BLOCKADE IN UKIAH AND EUREKA. MORE REPORTS OF OUTBREAK IN HUMBOLDT UNIVERSITY.
RESIDENTS IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA URGED TO STAY INDOORS.
VIOLENT RESTAURANT ATTACK CONNECTED TO PORTLAND LONGSHOREMAN VISITING FAMILY IN UKIAH.
OUTBREAK AT FRAT PARTY IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA’S HUMBOLDT UNIVERSITY. MILITARY DEPLOYED TO PROTECT STUDENTS.
“Shit,” Frederico breathes, reading over my shoulder.
I close the browser and dial Carter’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. Tears of frustration well in my eyes.
“Kate.” Frederico puts a hand on my shoulder. “Keep your head in the race. Don’t fall apart on me now.”
I swallow and close my eyes, trying to quell the panic and despair inside of me. Carter!
“Ultras are finished with the mind, not the body,” Frederico says. “Keep your head in the race, Kate.”
“Head in the race,” I repeat, opening my eyes.
He’s right. Panicking about Carter isn’t going to save him, and it isn’t going to help us reach him. If anything, it’ll get us killed.
God, what I wouldn’t give for a hug from Kyle right now. The feel of his arms around me would be a salve on my aching heart.
But Kyle’s not here. Kyle is gone. All I have is myself, and Frederico.
It will have to be enough.
It is enough. I have water, food, and friendship. And a headlamp. I have everything I need to make it to Arcata, to Carter.
“I’m okay,” I say, shaking myself. A familiar steel wells within me, solidifying my will. “Fuck self-pity.”
There’s a point in every ultra race where a runner has to decide to finish. There’s always a reason to quit. Multiple reasons, usually. It takes a solid will to finish, to push through pain and doubt and excuses.
I seize that unflinching willpower, wrapping it around myself like a blanket. I will see this through. For Carter. For Kyle.
“Fuck self-pity,” I repeat.
“Fuck self-pity, and fuck pain.” Frederico grins and gives my shoulder one last squeeze.
“We have to sneak around the city,” I say, my resolve solidifying into a plan. “If those soldiers see us, they won’t let us pass.”
“Yeah. Come on.”
The tracks run directly into Ukiah. We step off, moving northeast through open grassland. We creep along, keeping one eye on the soldiers.
It’s slowgoing. The moon is nothing more than a bare sliver, casting only the barest illumination for us to see by.
A quarter mile later, hidden behind industrial buildings and out of sight of the military barricade, we switch our lights back on. We cut around the city, going through fields, vineyards, and oak groves. Our progress is slow without a clear path for running, but we press doggedly forward. Neither of us suggests trying to get a car.
An eerie silence rests over the city—no hum of traffic, no distant voices. There’s no sign of the chaos you’d expect from a city in the throes of a zombie outbreak. No screaming, no outward signs of panic or mayhem.
“What do you think’s going on in there?” I whisper, glancing at the city.
Frederico shakes his head. “Nothing good, Kate.”
“I think things are going to get worse the farther north we go.”
“It could.” He glances over at me. “One mile at a time, right?”
“One mile at a time,” I echo.
Mile forty-five.
We leave Ukiah behind. Pausing only to check the map, we locate the tracks and continue on our way.
This far north, the population dwindles to almost nothing. I’ve driven this route enough times during the day to know there’s an occasional house, but in the near-darkness, I don’t see any of them now. Not even a telltale light in a bedroom window. With only the illumination from our headlamps to combat the darkness, it feels like running down a black tunnel.
Miles roll by. I run often enough and far enough that I’ve built up a good base over the years. My body can go a good fifty miles—especially with proper fuel and hydration—before it starts to feel the effects of the pounding.
When we hit mile fifty-five, I begin to feel early signs of wear and tear. There’s a familiar fatigue in my legs, torso, and arms, though that’s to be expected. With our last meal a good twenty-miles behind us, hunger is setting in again. I’m also getting low on water. The blisters on my feet are more uncomfortable than painful. I’ll need to lance them again eventually, but for now, they’re manageable. There are a few itchy spots on my arms from the poison oak, but again, the discomfort is manageable.
My biggest issue is the knee I injured when I fell outside of Hopland. I thought I was going to be able to shake it off, but the aching has returned. It wants to stiffen up on me. I do my best to push on and ignore the discomfort. Quitting isn’t an o
ption, and to be honest, I’ve run through much worse.
“How’s your inventory?” I ask Frederico.
“My IT band,” he replies, referring to the large ligament that runs along the outside of the thigh to the shin. “It always squawks at me on long runs.” He glances at me. “How are you holding up?”
“Just the usual, but I’m okay. Knee is irritating me from the fall. We have to find food and water soon.”
“I know. I’m not looking forward to that.”
“I wish we had different packs.” I think of the larger hydration packs I have back at home. They’re made for long, self-supported runs. Because of their size and weight, I only use them for longer runs of thirty or forty miles, when I need to carry more gear, food, and water. “Of course, today would have been the day we suited up with smaller packs.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that same thought in the last ten miles.”
At mile sixty-five, we reach the outskirts of a town named Willits. It’s a small town with barely five thousand people. We need to stop and forage for food. The knowledge makes my stomach queasy.
Something tickles the edge of my hearing. I put out an arm, halting Frederico.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper.
I tilt my head, straining my ears. After several seconds, I hear it again: low, wordless moans.
“Is it coming from the town?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. It sounds closer. Maybe up ahead on the tracks?” He brandishes his tire iron.
I pull out my railroad spike and screwdriver, gripping one in each hand. Slowing to a walk, we carefully advance. Part of me feels like we should switch off our headlamps, but I know that’s the scared, irrational part of my brain. With the zombies being blind, the headlamps will only give us an advantage.
Another two hundred yards, and we see them in the distance: three zombies standing to the side of the tracks. They walk in small, sightless circles, moaning softly. The light from our headlamps glosses them with the faintest illumination.
They look not unlike the homeless zombie we encountered outside of Cloverdale. All wear clothes that have seen better days. Each has a frame backpack and a sleeping bag.
They’re young, perhaps in their early twenties. One wears a beanie over dreadlocks. Another has a big forked beard he’s divided into two braids. The third wears a guitar slung in front of him.
They each have a ruddy, tanned face. They’re the faces of homeless young men who spend their days exposed to the elements. There’s a layer of grime on their skin and arms, more evidence that they spend their days without the common comforts of life.
The sight of the three men saddens me. What paths did they travel to end up here today?
“Kate,” Frederico says, “we may not have to forage in Willits.” He tilts his head toward the three zombies.
“You want to—what?” I whisper. “Roll the zombies?”
He shrugs. “I was thinking more along the line of spiking them and ransacking their packs.”
I stare at him flatly. “You want to roll the zombies.”
“You have to admit it has a nice ring: Zombie Rollers.”
Despite myself, I laugh softly. “You’re insane.”
“You want to run two hundred miles to Arcata. You’re insane.”
“Fuuuuck.” I tilt my head back, staring up at the spangling of stars. “We’re both insane.” I exhale sharply, then look my friend in the eye. “What the hell? I’m in.”
I CROUCH ON THE RIGHT side of the railroad berm, weapons clutched in each hand. Frederico stands on the opposite side with his hammer and his lug nut wrench. The wind blows, carrying with it the chill scent of rot.
I nod, the beam from my headlamp bobbing up and down. At my signal, Frederico starts clacking his weapons together.
The three zombies instantly straighten, heads swiveling in our direction. They moan, arms outstretched as they walk toward us. I scan our surroundings, watching for other zombies. The grassland and oak trees around us are quiet, rippled by the nighttime breeze.
The first of the zombies—Dreadlocks—trips on a rock and goes down. He’s back on his feet in seconds, a determined moan rising from his throat.
Guitar bumps into a tree, then quickly reorients and continues forward.
Forked Beard is in the lead. He’s the most nimble-footed of the bunch, his booted feet practically gliding over the earth. He’s the first to stumble into our barricade.
It’s nothing more than a pile of sticks and branches we salvaged from the surrounding landscape. Three feet wide and one foot tall, it’s just big enough to trip Forked Beard and send him sprawling.
That’s my cue. I dart over the berm, weapons raised. Forked Beard rolls on his side as he hears me coming. My headlamp illuminates his yawning maw. His blind eyes shine like white marbles.
As I dart in, one hand closes around my ankle. I yelp in fear and ram the spike down as hard as I can. The hand goes slack as my rusted steel punctures his skull.
Breathing hard, I lean back on my heels and yank out the spike.
“Kate, look out!” Frederico’s shout splits the air like an axe.
I look up just as Guitar trips on the barricade and goes down—right on top of me. I squeal, twisting around to get the screwdriver between me and the monster. The wooden guitar slams into my hip and grinds painfully against bone as the zombie lands on top of it.
Snarling, he lunges for me. I slam my hands against his throat, straining to keep his snapping teeth from my flesh. The screwdriver tumbles from my grasp.
Frederico darts forward, swinging the lug nut wrench like a baseball bat. It connects with the zombie’s skull, making a dull thud. The force, coupled with the slick surface of the guitar, throws the monster off balance. He slips sideways. Frederico swings a second time, delivering a solid thwack to the creature’s skull.
I wriggle free and jump to my feet, turning to face the last of the zombies. Dreadlocks bumps against the barricade. Instead of tripping, he pauses and lets out a long, low moan.
He shuffles forward, straining against the barricade. Branches and sticks snap and tumble as he struggles to push through, but he doesn’t trip.
Fuck this, I think.
I sprint straight at Dreadlocks, slamming both hands into his chest. He snarls at the impact and falls, landing hard on his backside.
Frederico barrels past me, vaulting over the pile of debris like an Olympic hurdler. He swings the wrench once, twice. Blood droplets sparkle like rubies in the light of his headlamp.
Dreadlocks drops, dead.
I lean over my knees, breathing hard. Adrenaline roars in my ears. A giddy, mad laugh rises in my throat.
Frederico gives me a crooked grin. My headlamp illuminates the blood flecks on his face. He steps toward me, raising one hand for a high five. I laugh again, slapping my palm against his.
“Zombie Rollers unite,” I say.
“Zombie Rollers unite,” he agrees, grin widening.
This is a single lighthearted moment in the middle of a day that’s been fraught with fear and uncertainty. I decide to let myself enjoy it, even if it only lasts a few seconds.
28
Purple Passion
THE FIRST ORDER OF business is getting the packs off the dead zombies.
“Grab his arm.” Frederico motions to Guitar. “We need to roll him over.”
“Hold on. I have an idea.” I bend down and pat the pockets of Dreadlocks, searching. I come into contact with something long and smooth. I reach into the pocket, grimacing when I touch something sticky. It feels like dried gum or a half-eaten piece of candy. I reach farther in, smiling triumphantly when I find the prize.
“Check it out.” I pull out a pocketknife, holding it up for Frederico to see. It’s about six inches long with a rose mother-of-pearl inlay.
“Nice.” He takes the knife and flips it open.
It only takes a few minutes to saw the packs off the bodies. We drag them a short
distance away, then sit down to rifle through them.
A general aroma that has nothing to do with death hangs over the bags. It’s the scent of unwashed clothing and flesh.
“Beef jerky.” Frederico flashes me a grin as he rips open a package and passes me a few strips.
I greedily devour the jerky, relieved to have something in my stomach again.
I dig through the backpack of Forked Beard, pulling out several pairs of dirty underwear and stinky socks. Yick. I toss them away. Next comes a shirt. Then my hand touches crinkly plastic.
“Trail mix. Nice.” I pull out the bag and rip it open, dumping some into my hand before passing it to Frederico.
Ten minutes later, we have a decent pile of water and food before us. We decant the water into our packs. Surprisingly, there’s enough to just about top off both water bladders.
Most of the food is prepackaged stuff that goes well with traveling; nuts, dried fruit, granola bars, beef jerky, and crackers. We also unearth hard candies, Twizzlers, and a few candy bars. There’s a half-eaten roast beef Subway sandwich with a suspicious aroma that comes out of Forked Beard’s bag.
Frederico pulls off the stinky meat and tosses it aside, then slices the sandwich in half. Beggars can’t be choosers. We eat in silence, polishing the sandwich off and moving into the packaged food. Within ten minutes, we’ve consumed almost everything. All that remains are hard candies and a few granola bars. Those we stash in our packs.
“What do you think?” I retrieve the stinky pair of socks that, at any other time in my life, I’d have discarded.
“What do I think about a stranger’s dirty socks?” Frederico raises an eyebrow at me.
“They’re dry.” I tug off my shoes. “Which is more than I can say for mine.”
“You didn’t get a chance to blow-dry your shoes back at the house?”
“No. Ran out of time when those sick assholes showed up.” A pang goes through me as I think of Stout. If we’d left the house sooner, she’d still be alive.
If the world wasn’t filled with assholes, she’d still be alive.
Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 16
