Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

  “There’s a grandma!” I cry. “Watch out for the grandma!”

  I dash to intercept the old woman, putting myself between her and Frederico. I don’t have time to get my spike into position. Instead, I ram both my hands into her chest. Her wrinkled, light form flies backward and strikes the hood of the RV.

  Not giving her a chance to recover, I leap forward and jam my spike into her eye socket. I barely notice when blood sprays me in the face.

  Spinning back around, I find Frederico picking himself off the ground. One of his spikes sticks out of the sixth zombie’s skull. Pursing his lips, he pulls it free, wiping the blood off on the girl’s shirt.

  Our harsh breathing fills the air. We stand there, both of us poised and intent on the RV. Nothing else stirs inside. The vehicle is silent and still. And yet . . .

  “Do you hear that?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Frederico’s mouth is pressed into a tight line. “There’s another one.”

  It’s a small, faint growl. At first, I think there’s a zombie somewhere out in the woods, making its way toward us and all the racket we’ve just made. Then I realize the sound isn’t coming from the woods.

  Moving back to the mother, I roll over her body.

  “Ah, shit.” I stare down at her. What I had mistaken for a pregnant belly is in fact a very small infant secured tightly to her torso with a blue cloth that matches her dress.

  The little thing turns its head sideways, baring bloody teeth at me. Now that I’m looking closely, I can see where it tore huge chunks out of its mother’s breast and chest.

  My hands go clammy. Tightening the grip on my spike, I take a few steps back.

  “Should we . . . should we put it down?” Frederico says.

  I shake my head. “We just took out the fucking undead Brady Bunch. I’m done.”

  Turning away, I step toward the RV. “I’ll go in and forage,” I say. “You keep watch.”

  Not giving him a chance to argue, I slip through the shattered glass and into the cab.

  39

  Paperclip

  A FEW YEARS AGO, A neighborhood raccoon was hit by a car outside our house. The poor animal had the grace to drag itself off the road and onto our front lawn, where it died. Animal Control won’t remove any animal on personal property, so the disposal of the raccoon corpse fell to Kyle.

  Being an efficient man not overly burdened by details, Kyle scooped up the raccoon with a shovel and dumped the body into our garbage can.

  We then went camping for two weeks, during which time the raccoon body commenced the decomposition process.

  Inside the RV is an aroma similar to the one that plagued our trashcan after the raccoon incident—only multiplied by ten. If we hadn’t gone to such efforts to empty the RV of zombies, I would have moved on.

  I partially unwrap my shirt from around the collar, pulling it up over my nose and mouth. Breathing through an open mouth, I will myself not to gag. After hauling the dead teen off the steering wheel, I steel myself and venture into the RV.

  The next thirty minutes are spent ran-sacking the interior. I get two pillowcases from the sleeping loft and fill them with everything edible I can find. And with nine people living in this tiny RV, there’s a shitpile of food.

  Canned chili, canned peaches, canned corn, and SpaghettiOs make up the bulk of the foodstuffs. There are enough cracker-type foods to stock an aisle at Walmart: Wheat Thins, Goldfish, Cheez-Its, pretzels, Triscuits, Cheetos, and Ritz peanut butter sandwiches. Dessert for this family consisted of Hostess Twinkies and CupCakes.

  There isn’t a bottle of water in sight, but there are several cases of juice packs for kids. I rip open a case of apple juice and dump the boxes into a pillowcase.

  I leave behind the stuff that requires preparation: Top Ramen, mac-n-cheese, and Rice-A-Roni. I rummage through the kitchen and find two forks, two spoons, a can opener, and—miracle of miracles—a tube of super glue. Super glue can be an ultrarunner’s best friend. I stash it in the pocket of my running pack.

  In the tiny bathroom, I score a portable first aid kit, complete with Band-Aids, scissors, and Neosporin.

  Pretending not to see the blood smeared all over the RV interior and pooled on the floor near the sofa, I grab my pillowcases and haul them up to the cab.

  “I don’t suppose you found any bolt cutters inside?” Frederico asks as he takes the pillowcases from me.

  “No, but I found a first aid kit. We can take care of our blisters.”

  “How about a paperclip?” He fingers the fabric-wrapped collar around his neck. “There’s got to be something in there to help us get these fuckers off our necks.”

  I duck back inside and continue my rummaging. After pawing through two drawers in the galley kitchen, I let out a garbled exclamation of triumph.

  “There’s a whole box of paperclips in here,” I call out. “The jumbo ones!”

  “Thank god. Bring them up!”

  I scramble back outside and present the tiny box of paperclips to Frederico as if it’s a bar of gold from Fort Knox. I eagerly unroll the shirt from around the collar. Wet dirt showers down as I do. The bells ring softly, making me wince.

  Frederico bends open a paperclip and leans forward to inspect the chain. I feel him blow against the lock at the back of my neck, clearing away the dirt. Then the metal of the paperclip scrapes the inside of mechanism. A few seconds later, the lock pops open.

  I let out a sigh of relief as the collar falls into my hands. I momentarily close my eyes, reveling in the weightlessness around my neck. There are chafe marks under my chin, but nothing worse than that.

  “My turn.” Frederico pushes the paperclip at me. “It’s a cheap lock. Just poke around and it’ll come free.”

  Careful not to make too much noise, I set my collar on the ground, then get to work on Frederico’s. I’ve never picked a lock in my life, but he was right about the locks being cheap. After twisting and prodding for a minute, it pops open.

  Frederico wads the collar into a ball and hurtles it through the broken window of the RV. There’s a loud racket when it lands, making me wince.

  “Did you have to do that?” I scowl at him.

  “Yeah,” he replies tersely. “I did. Come on, let’s eat.”

  We haul the pillowcases a quarter mile into the woods. Finding a small clearing covered with damp pine needles, we settle down.

  It’s been about sixty-five miles since our last food binge. Time to fuel up.

  We spend the next forty-five minutes in graceless consumption of food, passing the can opener back and forth. A pile of discarded packaging grows next to us. I barely taste the SpaghettiOs as I shovel them into my mouth. Frederico sucks down the syrup after polishing off a can of peaches. I use a few squirts of apple juice to clean a smear of blood off my arm.

  In a perfect world, we wouldn’t binge like this. There’s a good chance one of us will get an upset stomach. But there’s no way to carry the food we need for a run of this magnitude, and it’s not like we can count on a well-stocked aid station every ten miles. No, we have to eat when we can.

  “I used to buy these for Aleisha when she was a kid.” Frederico holds up a box of Hostess CupCakes. “I always brought them home after a drinking binge, hoping she’d forget the fact that I’d been gone for two or three days. It really pissed off her mother.”

  “Can’t blame her for that,” I reply. “They don’t exactly qualify as food.” Despite this statement, I help myself to two of them. “Did it work?”

  “Dif whaf wurf?” Frederico looks up around his own mouthful of Hostess.

  “The bribe. Did Aleisha forgive you for being gone when you gave her the junk food?”

  He shrugs, swallowing the last of his cupcake. “When she was little. By the time she was a teenager, she’d wised up to my game. I remember the day I brought them home wrapped with a red bow. She was twelve. She said, ‘Dad, those will make me fat and rot my teeth. If you really loved me, you’d buy me an iPhone.’”<
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  I snort with laughter. “Smart kid. Did you get her one?”

  His shoulders sag. “Couldn’t afford one. Wasted all my money on liquor and pot.”

  We eat the rest of our meal in silence.

  By the time we’re finished, there are only two boxes of Triscuits left. A huge mound of trash sits next to us. Frederico’s brow is still furrowed in self-revulsion.

  Knowing there’s nothing I can say to make him feel better, I find a semi-comfortable spot against a tree and remove my shoes. The tread is two-thirds gone, worn down over the nasty miles behind me. Gingerly, I tug off my socks. The blisters I find underneath are to be expected after one hundred miles.

  I get to work lancing blisters and applying Neosporin. The second toenail on my left foot comes off. I toss it to the forest floor without a second thought, barely noticing the pain.

  Pulling out the super glue, I apply small drops between the wounds and the loose, lanced skin on top. It stings like hell, but it’ll wear off in the a few minutes. When it dries, I’ll have a nice, hard shell over the raw skin. The loose skin on top will stick to it, creating an extra barrier of protection. Way better than Band-Aids in a situation like this.

  After a moment’s thought, I even decide to apply super glue to the top of the toes with missing nails. The skin is tender and sore. A little extra protection will be a good thing.

  When I’m finished, I toss the blister kit in Frederico’s direction. I lie on my back and elevate my feet against the tree trunk. They hurt like hell.

  Just fifteen minutes, I tell myself. Fifteen minutes to let blood drain from my feet while Frederico takes care of his blisters. I stare up at the blue sky, determined to keep my eyes open . . .

  “Kate. Wake up. It’s time to go.” A gentle hand squeezes my shoulder.

  My eyes snap open. I’m on my back, feet still propped against the tree. A bit of drool warms the right side of my jaw.

  I roll sideways, getting guiltily to my feet. “Sorry.” I rub at my eyes. “How long was I out?”

  “Thirty minutes or so.” Frederico’s easy smile is back.

  “You want to take a quick nap?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m feeling okay. We’re not too far from Laytonville. I’m anxious to get to Aleisha.

  I nod in understanding, wondering where Carter is and if he’s safe. A knot of anxiety immediately forms in my stomach, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand.

  I take the two remaining boxes of Triscuits and open them, then tear a corner of the bags to let the air out. I pass one bag to Frederico. He has a zippered compartment on the outside of his pack where the crackers fit. I shove mine into the hydration compartment, on top of the water bladder.

  “Ready?” I ask, surveying the mess we’re leaving behind in the clearing. It’s hard to care about litter when the world has ended.

  “Ready,” Frederico replies.

  40

  Strong Enough

  MILE ONE HUNDRED FIVE.

  With a freshly refueled body, I feel oddly energized. My body hurts from one hundred miles of pounding, but that’s to be expected. I lock the discomfort into a small corner of my mind, focusing on the task at hand.

  The landscape subtly changes as we run. Pine trees infiltrate the oaks, slowly and steadily taking over the terrain. The grassland disappears, succumbing to the forest. The miles are blessedly shady, the trees growing right up to the roadside and providing protection from the sun.

  Human dwellings are few and far between. We pass the occasional rundown home or mobile trailer. These sparse pockets of humanity have yards filled with various debris: broken-down cars, piles of half-used building supplies, and plastic bags filled with trash and recyclables.

  A few homes have a zombie or two in the front yard. So far, all of them are contained by a chain-link or wooden fence at the perimeter of the property. Even so, Frederico and I slow to a walk, making as little noise as possible until we pass the danger.

  Mile one hundred nine.

  There’s something that happens during long runs. The miles blur together and pass in the blink of an eye.

  The running feels good. Life feels good. Some people call it the runner’s high. Some call it trail surfing.

  It happens to me there on the road in the shade of the pine trees. Even with all the death and mayhem behind me—and likely in front of me—I find joy in running. It’s fucked up, but it’s the truth.

  Mile one hundred thirteen.

  We pass a rest area on a downhill climb. Other than a semi-truck, the parking lot is deserted.

  “Do you see the drinking fountain down there?” I ask, pointing.

  “Yeah.” Frederico peers down into the rest area. “My water bladder is still half full. Yours?”

  “Yeah, mine is fine.”

  “God, it’d be nice to take a shit in one of those toilets,” he says. “Wipe my ass with real toilet paper. I’m sick of leaves.”

  “Yeah. It’d be nice to break into that vending machine, too. Get some snacks for the road.”

  Despite this conversation, neither of us suggests stopping. For my part, I’m loathe to go where I might have to fight zombies. I’d rather scrounge by with our meager supplies for as long as possible before facing the undead again.

  I don’t know what Frederico’s excuse is.

  Mile one hundred seventeen.

  The green-and-white road sign informs us that Laytonville is ten miles away.

  I glance at Frederico, gauging his reaction. His expression is tense, his eyes locked on the sign. He says nothing, so I stay silent.

  We encounter a vehicular pileup. We skirt around it, scrambling up a steep embankment and picking our way through ferns and underbrush. By the time we make our way back to the road, the wreck is far behind us and out of sight.

  God, please let Aleisha be alive, I think. I have no idea how we’re going to get her out of Laytonville if and when we find her, but we’ll figure something out.

  Mile one hundred twenty.

  My runner’s high is gone. In its place is a growing queasiness in my belly, a feeling I am all too familiar with. I know I should slow down, let my body restore some of its equilibrium, but fuck that. The road is clear and I don’t want to waste daylight catering to my pansy-ass stomach. I don’t want to give into the nausea and barf up all the food we fought so hard to get.

  I’m going to power through this. A small part of my brain tells me not to be an idiot, but I ignore it. I boarded the idiot train a hundred miles ago.

  “Remember what Carter used to say at aid stations?” I ask in an attempt to distract myself from the physical discomfort in my belly.

  Frederico doesn’t bother to look up, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’ve never been any closer to the finish line.”

  I laugh at the memory. It didn’t matter if Carter met us at mile eleven or mile ninety-six; he always said the same thing. Thinking of my son brings a mix of achy despair and desperate love.

  “Sometimes it really pissed me off when he said that,” Frederico says.

  “Yeah, me, too. Especially when I was really hurting.” I tilt my head, taking a moment to soak in the view of the trees towering above me. “But sometimes it gave me a much-needed dose of optimism.”

  “Me, too. Carter got his optimism from Kyle.”

  “Yeah. He did.”

  The temporary mirth fades from Frederico’s face, replaced by the same tension I saw earlier by the Laytonville sign. He’s thinking about Aleisha.

  “When we find her, we’re going to have to figure out another way to travel,” Frederico says. “She can’t run.”

  “Maybe we can find bicycles,” I offer.

  “Yeah, maybe.” He falls silent, and I know he’s doubting his ability to convince her to come with us.

  I mentally calculate our odds of avoiding detection by zombies and military personnel while on bikes. I like our odds better on foot, but we can’t expect Aleisha to run. For that matter,
I haven’t even considered how I’m going to get Carter out of Arcata when I find him. He can’t run, either. At least, not like Frederico and me.

  You don’t finish a race by obsessing about the finish line; you finish a race by taking one step at a time. You focus on every turn in the trail, every climb, every decline, always putting one foot in front of the other.

  First, we find our kids, I think. Then, we figure out how to get them to safety.

  Mile one hundred twenty-four.

  Fucking shitballs. Why was I such an idiot?

  I stand on the side of the road, sides heaving. The SpaghettiOs I ingested twenty miles ago lay in a nasty pile by my feet.

  “You need to walk it off,” Frederico says. “Come on.”

  “No,” I snap. “We need to keep moving.”

  Frederico gives me a firm look. “We’re not stopping. Just moving at a slower pace. Come on.”

  I open my mouth to argue. As I do, my stomach gives another heave. This time canned chili comes up.

  “What a waste,” I grumble.

  “Power walk,” Frederico says. “Just keep moving.”

  I nod, knowing he’s right. Slowing down will help my body right itself.

  Taking a drink, I rinse out my mouth. Beside me, Frederico tenses. I freeze in response, eyes flicking back and forth.

  A long moan reaches my ears. My head snaps around. A single zombie ambles around a curve in the road ahead.

  Frederico clamps down on my wrist, pressing one finger against his lips. I nod in understanding. Maybe, just maybe, if we remain silent, the zombie won’t notice us.

  It’s a teenage girl in a long yellow sundress. Even from a distance, I can see the blood matted in her short blond hair. More blood smears her face, giving the illusion of a lipstick application gone bad.

  My stomach gives a violent roil. Bile rises in my throat.

  No, no, no.

  I hunch over, pressing both hands against my abdomen, and swallow. Not now. I shut my eyes, willing my stomach to settle.