Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

  With a sad sigh, I strip off my wet socks and inspect my feet. Frederico wordlessly passes me the blister kit. I angle the headlamp, studying the new blisters that have popped up between my toes. There’s one under the middle toe on my right foot that has swollen to the size of a large blueberry. The toenail has started to pop off. The blister under my big right toe has nearly doubled in size, blood and clear pus oozing around the loose nail.

  With a grimace, I grab the flagging edge of the loose nail and give it a firm tug. It comes free with a brief sting. I repeat the process on the middle toe.

  “Two toe nails down,” I say, tossing them to the ground. “Eight more to go.” I wrap the injured toes with Band-Aids.

  “With luck, you’ll have a few left by the time we get to Arcata.”

  I laugh, using an alcohol pad to wipe down my skin. Then I pull out a needle and get to work lancing the blisters.

  “This was the only part of ultrarunning Kyle couldn’t stomach.” I squeeze clear fluid out of the first blister. “We used to joke that it was a good thing he didn’t have a foot fetish.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Frederico chuckles. “I think he actually turned green the first time he saw me rip off a toenail.”

  “I was on my own when it came to my blisters.” I smile at the memory. “He didn’t care if I puked or shit my pants, but he wouldn’t come near me when I broke out the blister kit.”

  “You shit your pants?”

  I pause, glancing up at my friend. “Only once. I never told you about it because it was disgusting. It was at the San Diego One Hundred. I thought it was a really good idea to eat spicy Indian food the night before the race.” I look away, aiming my headlamp back at my feet. “I paid for that decision the entire one hundred miles. I went through three pairs of running shorts. Kyle and Carter thought it was hilarious. They made poop jokes all the way home.”

  Frederico bursts out laughing. I smile despite myself, keeping my attention on my feet.

  Frederico, still chortling to himself, leaves me to my work. He goes about conducting a second search through the backpacks. He finds Skittles, M&Ms, and another pocketknife.

  “Aren’t you going to check your feet?” I apply some Neosporin to the lanced blisters.

  “Nah. They feel okay,” he replies. “I’ll check them at our next stop. Whoa, look at this.”

  He holds up a small Ziploc. At first all I can see is a black lump inside. Frederico moves his headlamp, aiming the light and illuminating the contents. It’s a small glass pipe and a dark green plug of marijuana.

  “No wonder our friends couldn’t escape the outbreak,” I say.

  Frederico sits down next to me, turning the Ziploc over in his hands. He’s quiet, intent on the weed and pipe. The intensity in his gaze makes me nervous.

  “Frederico?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I was just thinking.” He sighs. “When I first went sober, I used to fantasize about a time like this.”

  “A time like what?”

  “The end of the world. An excuse to break my sobriety and go nuts.”

  My brow wrinkles with sympathy. “I understand.”

  “Of all the drugs I used, pot is the one I miss the most. This” — Frederico holds up the baggie— “was my favorite. It’s called Purple Passion. See the little purple flowers?” He holds the bag out to me.

  I take it, not wanting to leave temptation in his hands. Under the light of my lamp, I see the little purple flowers.

  “I’d have the most fantastic hallucinations on that stuff.” His voice goes soft around the edges, like he’s recalling a long-lost friend. “I went to a Pearl Jam concert high on it once. Everyone around me sprouted angel wings. The ground fell away. The audience floated with the stars. Pearl Jam’s music turned into ribbons of silk and flowed around us as we danced in the sky.” Another nostalgic sigh. “That was a good high.”

  I close my fist around the Ziploc. “You’re not thinking of getting high, are you?”

  He raises his head to look at me. The bright light of the headlamp sinks his face into shadow.

  “After the concert, I drove out to the beach with my friends. We took turns taking hits. Each time we took a puff, we held our breath and ran as far as we could across the sand before letting the smoke out. No one could run as I far as I could.”

  A fond smile pulls at his lips, showing a brief flash of white teeth. “At some point, everyone went home. I stayed at the beach alone, talking philosophy with a sand crab for hours. I lay on the shore, watching clouds turn into the Shanghai acrobats as the sun rose.”

  He raises his chin, eyes meeting mine. “I’ve told that Purple Passion story at least a hundred times. The part I’ve never told anyone is what happened when I finally sobered up and returned to the real world. I worked at a 98 Cents Store. Turns out I’d missed two days of work on my high. The manager fired me, of course.

  “I loved that job; I could go into work stoned and no one ever complained or gave me shit. I pretended I didn’t care when I got fired, but inside I was pissed at myself for fucking up a good gig.” He looks down, headlamp shining on his shoes. “I was a fuck-up from a young age, Kate. If I took a hit of that stuff now” —he gestures to the Purple Passion concealed in my fist— “it would be the end of my world. If I’m going to die on this run, I’m going to die as the best person I can be, not the worst.”

  My grip on the Purple Passion relaxes. A moment later, I fling the Ziploc and its contents into the night. It soars through the air, momentarily captured in the beam of my headlamp, then disappears into the darkness.

  “Thank you,” Frederico says.

  “I’ve got your back.”

  I reach over and give his hand a brief squeeze before returning to my feet. I apply liquid Band-Aid to the blisters and tug on the dry pair of socks. Then I pull out my phone, holding my breath as I swipe the phone and check for a message from Carter.

  Nothing.

  I swallow and shove the phone back into my pack, refusing to let myself dwell on possible reasons for my son’s silence.

  “You ready to get out of here?” I ask.

  Frederico, who watched my silent exchange with my nonresponsive cell phone, nods. “Yeah.” He rises, shaking out his arms and legs. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “We need to figure out our next move,” I say.

  I gesture to the tiny town about a mile away in front of us, illuminated by a scattering of streetlights. The tracks run straight into the center of town. No way do I want to go close to a town, not with zombies, soldiers, and CDC quarantines.

  Frederico pulls out the map and spreads it out on the ground, weighting the corners with rocks. The two of us angle our heads, illuminating the map.

  “It’s going to be slow, going around in the dark,” I say, studying the map and remembering the tedious trek around Ukiah.

  Frederico shrugs. “We’ve both done our share of night running. We’ll just have to move a bit slower and be cautious.”

  He pauses, peering at the map. “Look here.” He points to a section on the map where the tracks veer away from Highway 101 and head in an easterly direction. “The tracks won’t take us more than ten or fifteen miles past Willits. Once they head east, we’re going to have to follow the highway.”

  I study the map, following the tracks with my finger. They split away from the 101 and run northeast for miles and miles, never circling back.

  “Shit,” I mutter. “You’re right. We’re going to have to use the highway.”

  “Come on.” Frederico folds up the map and stashes it in his pack. “Let’s get mov—”

  There’s a flicker of movement over Frederico’s shoulder. I move instinctually, snatching the railroad spike out of my pack harness.

  When the zombie steps out of the shrubbery, I fly into him, ramming the spike through his eye with brutal precision. His body crashes backward. I fall on top of him, grunting from the impact.

  I s
tand up, brushing myself off and extracting the spike from the dead zombie’s eye. When I turn around, I find Frederico staring at me.

  “Damn,” he says. “You’ve come a long way in less than twenty-four hours.”

  I look back at the dead zombie. The gashed eye socket yawns blackly. Frederico’s right. Compared to my first few kills, this one was practically professional.

  “I’m a mom on a mission.” I clean the spike on the zombie’s pant leg, then slide it back into my pack harness. “Don’t fuck with me, and don’t fuck with my friend.”

  29

  Tunnel

  IT TAKES US A GOOD hour to pick our way around Willits in the dark, even though we only travel about four miles. We’re too far away from the main artery of town to see if there’s any military presence, but I suspect we’d find a checkpoint at the very least. All the more reason to keep ourselves to the shadows of the open land.

  Other than tripping on a rock and disturbing a dog chained to a doghouse, we make it without any major mishap. We reconnect with the railroad tracks at mile sixty-five.

  “We’ve run over one hundred kilometers,” I say. One hundred kilometers is a popular distance for ultra races, which is equivalent to 62 miles.

  “Only one hundred thirty-five to go,” Frederico replies.

  I’m about to respond when I feel my phone vibrate. A shot of elation goes through me. I nearly drop the phone in my haste to fumble it out of my pack.

  “It’s Carter,” I say, naked delight and relief in my voice.

  Had 2 move 2 another room, his text says. Everything OK. Where r u?

  What happened? I type back. I recognize my son’s reticence to give me the whole truth. He’s trying to protect me, like he did when Kyle died.

  You don’t have to protect me anymore, baby, I think.

  A few seconds later, his answer comes.

  Fire in room next door. Burned through wall. Everything OK now.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter, ire rising in my voice. Fire? A hole burned in the wall of his dorm room?

  “What’s going on?” Frederico asks, tense as he watches my face.

  “What the fuck are the soldiers doing on campus if they’re not helping the students?” I snap.

  Where r u now? I type.

  Another dorm room. I’m safe. Where r u?

  I grind my teeth, knowing I’m not going to get any more information from him.

  Just passed Willits. Only 135 miles to go.

  LOL. Only u and F can say that about 135 miles on foot.

  A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, dispelling some of my earlier anger. He must be relatively safe if he can joke.

  Keep safe baby, I type. See u soon.

  See you soon.

  I pass the phone to Frederico, letting him read the exchange. I study my old friend as he scrolls through the conversation, seeing the telltale signs of weariness. His shoulders slump, eyes blinking a little too rapidly as he struggles to focus on the text. We need to stop and rest before he falls and breaks something.

  “Our boy is smart and strong.” Frederico passes the phone back to me.

  “Takes after his dad.” I glance at the phone. Shit. Battery is three-quarters of the way gone.

  “Takes after his mom, too,” Frederico replies.

  I shrug. I might be able to run a long way, but I didn’t have the strength when it really counted.

  “It’s three in the morning,” I say. “We’ve been on our feet for seventeen hours. “Let’s find a place for a catnap. Thirty minutes or so will give us some extra energy.”

  He nods. “We’ll have to sleep in shifts. Let’s find a place that offers some shelter.”

  We move at an easy lope down the tracks. Two miles later, we find it: an abandoned tunnel running through a mountain. The tracks lead inside, disappearing into complete blackness.

  “Here,” I say, drawing to a stop. “We rest here.”

  Either side of the tunnel opening has been spray-painted. On the left side is a purple-and-green, one-eyed dragon bursting from a blue egg. On the right side is a blue head of an old man with a giant nose and mustache.

  We pick our way inside. I’ve done my fair share of running in the dark, but nothing has prepared me for the inside of a tunnel. Even on nighttime trail runs, there’s ambient light from the moon and stars.

  There’s nothing inside the tunnel except unrelenting blackness. The light from our headlamps is swallowed, our circle of illumination shrinking inside the stone walls.

  I crane my neck, trying to get a look at the walls and ceiling, but there isn’t enough light. My headlamp illuminates nothing more than flecks of dust and more darkness.

  I turn my attention back to the ground, focusing on the small patch of ground illuminated at my feet. We move at a walk. Forget running. I can barely see six inches in front of me.

  The tunnel smells like wet dirt and stone. Somewhere around us, water drips. I keep my ears peeled for any telltale moans or groans. Inside this place, we’re as blind as the zombies.

  In front of me, Frederico thumps into something.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  “What?” I inch up behind him.

  “It’s just an old crate.” He leans forward, headlamp shining on a battered wooden crate. It’s intact, the lid held in place with great metal clips.

  “There’re more.” I move past Frederico, hands feeling along the sides of three more crates. A rose is branded on top of the crates. The image tickles something in my memory, but I’m too tired to dwell on it. “What do you think is inside?”

  He shrugs. “Who knows? Who cares?” He thumps the crates with his hand. “This is a good spot to sleep. If zombies do wander in here, it will be good to have something between us and them.”

  He unhooks his pack, tossing it to the ground to use as a pillow. “Give me thirty minutes,” he says, lying down on the rocky ground. “Just thirty minutes, then you can sleep for thirty.”

  I nod, hopping onto one of the crates. Frederico is asleep within seconds, snoring softly. After a few minutes of consideration, I switch off my headlamp. No reason to waste the battery, especially when I can barely see anyway.

  Complete blackness now surrounds me. I feel swallowed by unending nothingness.

  Carter would like this. He wasn’t into running, but he loved a good adventure. Skydiving, hang-gliding, zip-lining, hiking, rafting—he loved it all. I’m sure exploration of an abandoned tunnel would be at the top of his list. He’d love the graffiti art and the sheer unknown of it all.

  Carter.

  I pull out my phone again. To my surprise, there are two bars of reception.

  Can u talk? I type.

  I wait. No response comes.

  I add, We stopped 2 nap. I have first watch while F sleeps.

  Again, I wait.

  Again, no response comes.

  There aren’t even little ellipses to indicate an incoming reply.

  The battery icon turns red, indicating I only have ten percent battery life remaining.

  Battery almost dead, I text. When phone dies, will try 2 find another. Luv u. Stay safe. See u soon.

  “Where are you, baby?” I say softly. What had happened during the short time between our last conversation and now?

  I close my eyes, willing myself not to give in to anxiety. I summon an image of my son’s face. His tall, lanky body, so much like his father’s at that age. His lumberjack beard, the cotton T-shirts with quirky slogans that he always wears.

  I was a shitty mom those first few weeks after Kyle died. Here, in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse, I’m being given a second chance to be the mother I want to be. A mother who doesn’t quit when things get hard. A mother who takes care of her son.

  A mother who saves her son from monsters.

  Please be safe, baby, I say silently. Please be safe.

  30

  Granola Bitch

  I LET FREDERICO SLEEP for an extra fifteen minutes. When I wake him, he
glances at his watch and gives me a look that’s half grateful, half reproachful. I just shrug and toss my pack onto the gravel.

  The rocks poke me as I settle down, but they don’t really bother me. In my years of ultrarunning, I’ve napped on roots, rocks, gravel, and boulders. I consider myself a master of the power nap and am asleep as soon as my head nestles onto the pack.

  My eyes fly open when a hand presses over my mouth. I jerk, bolting upright and slapping the hand away. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, or why everything is so fucking black.

  “Kate.” Frederico’s soft whisper brings reality crashing back into place.

  I remember the zombies, the running, the railroad, and the tunnel. I relax, reaching out for his hand and grabbing it.

  “What—”

  His hand flies up, covering my mouth again. “Someone’s here,” he whispers. “Listen.”

  Rhythmic squeaking sounds in the distance. I strain my ears, trying to discern which direction it’s coming from. The sound, coupled with the surrounding blackness, sparks panic in my belly. As the sound draws closer, the murmuring of voices materializes. People.

  “We have to get out of here,” I hiss. After our last run-in with the maniacs who killed Stout, I’m not eager to meet up with more strangers. “Can you tell which direction they’re coming from?”

  “South, I think. Does that look like a light to you?”

  The sleep and the darkness have disoriented my sense of direction. For all I know, I could be facing the tunnel wall right now.

  I turn my head left and right, looking for—for something. Anything. A wrinkle in this perfect darkness.

  After several seconds, I see it: a single bobbing light off to my right. I have no idea if that’s north or south. Whatever the case, we should be moving away from the light.

  Which is easier said than done in the current situation. We don’t dare switch on our headlamps and draw attention. Then again, without our headlamps, we can’t see anything.

  I reach out, turning in a half circle until my hands come in contact with the cool, damp wall of the cave.