Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

  “I’m hallucinating,” I said flatly.

  Frederico and Carter laughed even harder, clapping one another on the back and wiping at tears. Kyle finally gave in to the hilarity of the situation, breaking into laughter.

  “I’m hallucinating,” I grumbled.

  “Babe,” Kyle said, “I told you this ultrarunning stuff was batshit crazy. You just proved my point.”

  The three of them dissolved into more guffawing.

  A few days later, I was able to look back at the situation and laugh. But at that moment, blistered and baked to a fucking crisp, it was not funny. At all. Scowling at my crew, I jogged off into the night.

  The jackalope continued to hop along beside me. That furry fucker had the audacity to talk to me. About management.

  “They need to put capitalists in charge of this race,” he said. “Then there wouldn’t be any of this pansy-ass bullshit happening.”

  Even though I knew he was a figment of my imagination, I fired back at him anyway.

  “What are you talking about?” I snapped. “There isn’t a single pansy ass out here on this course.”

  “Look at you,” the jackalope replied. “You can barely stand up. Efficiency has gone out the window.”

  “I’m efficient,” I growled, even as I wondered why I was arguing with my imaginary friend. “It takes physical efficiency to run one hundred thirty-five miles.”

  “No, it takes stupidity to run one hundred thirty-five miles,” the jackalope replied. “Capitalists would consolidate this madness. What will the big bosses say when they see your low performance rates? What are you doing right now, fifteen-minute miles?”

  “What the hell do you know?” I asked him. “You’re nothing but an imaginary animal.”

  The jackalope cackled madly. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

  He continued hopping along beside me for the next five miles, yammering in my ear. That little imaginary asshole knew how to push my buttons. I put my head down, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and quit talking to him.

  That was the last road race I ever ran.

  FREDERICO AND I WALK delicately away from the overpass, doing our best not to make any noise. With luck, the zombies won’t be smart enough to find us.

  With any luck, we won’t be stupid enough to tip them off.

  We walk about a half mile up the road before we see the white-and-black sign proclaiming our location: Highway 101.

  I sag in relief. “Thank god.” I wasn’t sure what we would have done if we hadn’t found the highway, especially since Mr. Rosario took all our maps.

  “One-oh-one isn’t safe,” Frederico replies dourly. By the dark expression on his face, I can tell he’s still working through his bonk. “We’re too exposed and there’s too much chance of us running into zombies.”

  “Agreed,” I say slowly. “But there’s no other road to take us north.” I glance toward the trees on either side of us. “We could go into the forest and run parallel to the road. It would give us some cover.”

  “We need to get these fucking collars off.” He tugs at the cloth-bound chain around his neck. “I can’t even think straight with this thing choking me. I wish we had our goddamn map. Fuck. This is a rotten fucking day.” He glares at nothing in particular. “God, I wish I knew Aleisha was all right. I wish I had tried harder to get her to break up with Dumbo Dan.”

  “She’s a grown-up,” I begin. “You—”

  His scowl cuts me off. The expression is directed at me, but his eyes are distant and unfocused.

  “I didn’t want to fight with her. That’s why I dropped the conversation. It was the first time in months she answered one of my calls. God, I’m such a fuckup.”

  He leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. A second later, he throws up.

  “I feel like shit.” He’s talking as much about his stomach as his heart. “I’ve always been a fuckup. If we find Aleisha—when we find her—I’m getting her out of Laytonville. I don’t care what I have to do. I don’t care if she hates me for it.”

  He heaves again, throwing up stomach bile and bits of energy bar.

  “Walk it off,” I say, tugging on his arm. “Come on, you have to walk this off.”

  Stomach trouble is common on long runs. The body, busy pumping blood to the arms and legs, leaves the stomach to fend for itself. As much as the body needs fuel, it often has trouble digesting it.

  “We’ve been running for” —I glance at my watch— “ninety-six miles. We’ve barely taken any breaks. We just need to slow down for a while and give our bodies a rest.”

  He nods numbly, taking a sip of water. He swishes the water in his mouth, then spits to the side.

  I blink, peering down at my watch. My eyes are dry and a bit bleary. I rub them twice to make sure I’m seeing clearly.

  “Shit, it’s only nine-fifteen in the morning. We just might make one hundred miles in twenty-four hours.”

  The beginning of a smile tugs at the corners of Frederico’s mouth. Then he throws up a third time. He laughs while he dry-heaves. I find myself smiling.

  “Those undead fuckers gave us the kick we needed,” Frederico says between heaves. “Damn. What a fucking day.” He straightens, wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, and takes another drink of water.

  We plod on, moving at a tired walk. Frederico throws up two more times before his stomach settles.

  Finally, at mile ninety-eight, he says, “I’m feeling better. I’m ready to jog.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “I’ve been thinking about this. We need to stick to the road as much as we can. It’s the fastest—and the only direct route—to Laytonville and Arcata. If we hear or see something we want to avoid, we go into the woods and pick our way around. Sound okay?”

  “It sounds okay so long as we’re lucky enough to spot trouble before it spots us.”

  I glance up at the tree-and-shrub-choked land on either side of us. “Bushwhacking through the woods will take too long. The quickest way to get our kids is to run on the road.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long time. When he does finally speak, resignation is thick in his voice. “I don’t like it. The odds aren’t good.”

  I make a face. “The odds went downhill with the start of the apocalypse.”

  Frederico grunts. “All right. Let’s take the road.”

  We break into a jog, setting an easy ten-minute-mile pace. The road is eerily empty—no cars, no people. There isn’t even a sign of wildlife—no whir of insects, no chirp of birds, no rustle of squirrels. It’s just us and the trees out here. For now, anyway.

  A short distance later, I glance down at my watch. It reads: 100.06.

  “Frederico!” I turn and grin at my old friend. “We’ve officially hit one hundred miles!” Even though this is only the halfway point, it gives my spirit a boost. My aches and exhaustion don’t seem nearly as bad as they did a few minutes ago.

  Frederico is shading his eyes and staring up the road. He’s so intent that he doesn’t hear me.

  “Frederico!”

  “Hmmm?” He turns to me, a dent between his eyebrows.

  “Did you hear what I said?” I demand.

  “What?”

  “We just hit one hundred miles!”

  He blinks in surprise. Then a smile creases his face. He turns my wrist, taking a hard look at the watch.

  “Damn, Kate. It’s nine fifty-eight. We did that shit in a sub-twenty-four.”

  We slap high fives. In the world of ultrarunning, sub-twenty-four hours is every runner’s dream for a one-hundred-miler. In most races, it gets you a silver belt buckle. Not that Frederico or I have ever worn any of our buckles, but it feels damn good to win one.

  “If we survive, I’m going to have belt buckles made for us,” I say, still grinning.

  He returns the smile, then shifts his attention back to the road. “Do you see that?” he asks.

>   “See what?” I squint, peering up the tree-lined road.

  “That white smudge. Do you think it’s a car?”

  “I can’t tell. It’s too far away.”

  “I think it’s a car,” Frederico says. “Let’s go into the trees. We need to approach with caution.”

  I sigh, following him into the forest bordering the road. We’re forced to a vigorous walk as we pick our way through the foliage. If there are zombies up the road—or something worse—at least we’ll have some trees between us and them.

  38

  Attack and Stack

  “IT’S AN RV,” I WHISPER.

  We crouch in the trees, staring at the road below us. A Cruise America RV lies on its side in the middle of the road. No other vehicles are in sight.

  “I don’t see any zombies,” Frederico whispers.

  “They could be on the other side of the RV,” I reply. “Or inside.”

  We continue to watch the motionless scene in front of us, as if something miraculous will happen by the sheer force of our stares.

  “We need to get inside that thing,” I say at last.

  “I know.”

  “There’s probably food in there.”

  “I know.”

  I look at him. He ignores me, then finally turns and meets my eye.

  “There’s probably a kid or two in there,” he says at last.

  I swallow, understanding the self-loathing in his expression.

  “We could move on,” I say. “But it might be a while before we get another opportunity as good as this. The next wreck might be a ten-car pileup with thirty zombies to contend with.”

  “I know.” He grunts. “I’m just being a pussy. Come on. Let’s do this.”

  We creep toward the road, both of us armed with our railroad spikes. A quick circle around the RV turns up no zombies. Which means . . .

  “They’re all inside,” Frederico says grimly.

  “That’s a good thing,” I say.

  He frowns. “How so?”

  “Remember when we met Fallon O’Keefe at her book signing?”

  Fallon O’Keefe is a sixty-something ultrarunner who’s been running and racing ultras for over thirty years. She set a lot of records at a lot of tough races during her prime. Her memoir is a fascinating account of many of those races.

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Do you remember Attack and Stack?”

  Attack and Stack was one of O’Keefe’s race tactics. The theory required her to “attack” the course right at the start of the race. She pushed hard to get out in front of her competitors when the trail was wide. Then, when the trail narrowed to a single-track—as it often does in ultra races—she forced all the other runners to “stack” up behind her. Passing on a single-track can be challenging, especially if there’s a long line of runners. To a large degree, this allowed her to dictate the pace for large portions of the race.

  “You want to Attack and Stack the zombies?” Frederico raises one eyebrow.

  “Yeah. We make a narrow opening and force them to come at us one at a time.”

  He mulls this over. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  We circle the RV once more, looking it over with critical eyes. Inside, we hear several zombies scratching at the walls and moaning softly. The door faces skyward.

  “Front windshield,” Frederico says. “We smash it.”

  “Force them to come at us in a single file,” I agree.

  “Attack and Stack.” Frederico grins at me. “Good thinking, Jackalope.”

  We go back into the trees and forage around until we find a solid tree branch.

  “This should make enough racket to draw the attention of every undead fucker in that RV,” Frederico says, hefting the branch and smacking it against his palm.

  “You do the smashing,” I say as we return to the road. “You’ve got a stronger arm.”

  “Windshield glass is a bitch to get through.” He makes a face. “I’ve smashed more than one or two.”

  “In your drinking days?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll have to tell me more about them someday.”

  He shrugs. “I was a stoned, drunk, lonely asshole who did shitty things. They’re not stories worth retelling.”

  With that, he swings the branch. It connects with a dull thud, tiny crackles appearing in the glass. He swings a second, then a third time—and then a zombie smashes into the window from the inside. It hits so hard the crackling glass bows outward.

  “Oh, fuck.” Frederico takes an involuntary step backward, raising the tree branch defensively.

  The zombie snarls, smashing several more times against the windshield with frenetic desperation. Nails claw and teeth snap. Blood smears the glass.

  It’s a big, burly man in a tight T-shirt with shaggy dirty blond hair. I experience a terrifying moment where I imagine an RV full of WWF-sized zombies rushing me and Frederico en masse.

  Holy fuck. What are we getting ourselves into?

  There’s an explosion of glass and blood. The burly zombie careens through the opening and skids across the asphalt.

  Even though I’m supposed to be the one picking off the zombies as they crawl (or, apparently, rocket) out of the RV, Frederico closes in and starts hammering on the head of the monster, hitting him before he can even get to his feet.

  Two more zombies follow right behind the first one. Fuck. The plan was to deal with these fuckers one at a time. But the hole in the windshield is larger than expected, thanks to the rabid, dinosaur-sized zombie. And the two undead crawling out are children.

  Fuck me. More kids. Honestly, I would have preferred another dinosaur zombie.

  I summon an image of my son: tall, broad-shouldered, lanky Carter with his lumberjack’s beard.

  “This is for my kid,” I say to myself. With that, I angle my railroad spike and dart forward.

  The closest zombie kid is a towheaded little boy. Hearing my approach, he bares his teeth and snarls up at me. One grubby hand swipes at my ankle. I let him grab me, getting in close enough to bring the spike down with brutal finality on the small skull.

  I experience that familiar sensation of rusted metal punching through the skull, then sliding through the soft, yielding brains. The small towhead collapses, unmoving.

  But the hand around my ankle is still moving, clawing me through my compression pants.

  “What the fuck?” I try to step away, but the little hand is like a shackle. I stumble, falling backward onto my ass. I frantically jerk my leg, trying to free it from the little boy’s grasp.

  At first, I think it’s some weird zombie rigor mortis. Then I realize the hand belongs to the second kid zombie—a little girl with the same intense white-blond hair. Her hand is lodged beneath her brother’s body. Saliva drips from her mouth as she snaps her teeth at me.

  Using my ankle as an anchor, she hauls herself forward. Glass shakes free and tinkles around her body. I deliver a brutal kick to her face. It’s hard enough to slow her down but not enough to kill her. Or dislodge her grip from my foot, either.

  I kick again, bashing the sole of my shoe against her nose and forehead. The delicate nose bones crack under the blow, but still the girl continues to drag herself closer to me.

  Frederico leaps in my direction, swinging his branch. One brutal thwack breaks her skull like an egg. Her grip on my ankle instantly slackens.

  “Another kid!” I yell, seeing a towheaded form rise up behind Frederico.

  He spins around, whipping the branch with him. It hits a young teenage boy in the chest. The boy falls backward, landing hard on the steering wheel. Behind him is yet another zombie clawing at part of the glass that hasn’t yet broken.

  As the teen zombie struggles to regain his footing, I rush forward and ram my spike through his eye socket. He dies, head lolling on the steering wheel.

  The zombie beating at the glass crawls over the body, snarling as he emerges. It’s another kid, this one eight or nine.<
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  “How many fucking kids are in there?” I squeal.

  Frederico swings his branch like a golf club, denting the side of the zombie’s skull. The undead kid collapses, blocking the opening. Behind him comes growls and howls.

  “There’re more inside,” I say, staring dismally at the blocked opening.

  “We have to pull the body out of the way,” Frederico says. “Give the others a way out.”

  “Honestly, I was hoping there were only four people inside. We’ve already killed five.” I grimace. “Maybe we should move on.”

  “Are you kidding?” Frederico gives me an incredulous look. “Your Attack and Stack idea is brilliant. It’s working. We can’t stop now. Just think of all the food waiting for us inside.”

  He’s got a point. “Okay.” I heft my spike and get myself into a balanced position. “Pull the body out.”

  Frederico grabs the arm of the dead zombie and yanks it out of the opening. As soon as he does, a sixth zombie scrambles free.

  It’s the mother. Her pale hair is streaked with gray and she looks pregnant—very pregnant. She rushes me, but I’m ready for her.

  I sidestep, letting her tear past me. As she does, I stick out a foot and trip her. She sprawls, growling and gnashing her teeth all the while.

  Like all the undead, she is unfazed by the pain of her fall. She barely hits the pavement before she rebounds onto her hands and knees. I pounce, stabbing her through the back of the skull with my spike.

  “What the hell?” Frederico hollers behind me. “Didn’t these people ever learn about birth control?”

  I turn around to see two more children streak out of the RV—straight toward Frederico. They’re small, maybe four or five. Two girls. I’d say they’re twins, based on their matching skirts and shoes.

  They reach Frederico at the same time. He rams the base of his tree branch through the skull of the one on his right. The second one grabs his arm, snapping her teeth as she tries to get a bite.

  With a wild yell, Frederico drops his branch and swings his arm, trying to dislodge the child zombie. I’m about to rush to his rescue when movement near the RV windshield draws my attention.

  A woman with gray hair and a wizened face climbs out, moaning. Drawn to the commotion Frederico and the undead child are making, she moves toward them.