Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

  The zombie lets out another long, low moan. In response to her call, two more teenage zombies appear around the bend, a girl and a boy.

  Frederico’s grip on my wrist tightens. I latch onto him with my free hand, digging my nails into his shoulder. More bile rises in my throat.

  Stay down, I tell my food. Stay—

  Round two of chili surges up my throat. My stomach heaves as another pile of vomit hits the pavement at my feet.

  41

  Nausea

  THE ZOMBIES IMMEDIATELY break into a run, coming straight for us. And it’s not just three. Five more teenage undead round the corner—making it eight in total. I have only an instant to wonder what eight teenage kids are doing out in the middle of the woods before Frederico hauls me away.

  “Too many,” he whispers.

  I nod in agreement. Even if my legs weren’t shaky and my stomach was in better shape, going up against eight zombies on the open road would be suicide.

  Frederico picks up a stick and flings it across the road. It thumps into the underbrush. The zombies veer toward the sound. Frederico throws two more in the same direction, herding the zombies away from us.

  He gestures for me to move. I follow him, tiptoeing up the road. Frederico keeps bending down to scoop up rocks and sticks, keeping up a constant barrage of sound to keep the zombies occupied on the other side of the road.

  We can only hope it will be enough.

  We draw abreast of the zombies; they’re a mere fifteen feet away, grunting and growling as they rifle through the underbrush. They were probably out here smoking pot before all hell broke loose and they turned.

  The scent of rot wafts in the breeze. My stomach clenches in response. I swallow back rising bile and keep moving.

  Frederico throws another rock. A zombie boy shifts, and the stone that should have flown into the trees hits the undead in the shoulder instead. The creature grunts and spins in our direction. A long, low growl issues from his throat.

  We freeze. The other zombies turn, heads cocked as they listen. The girl in the yellow dress flares her nostrils, sniffing. She takes one step toward us, then another.

  Wild fear rises within me. I imagine this is how deer feel when being stalked by a mountain lion.

  I look at Frederico, running one finger along the rusted spike that rests in my pack strap. A silent question: do we fight? I lick my lips nervously, eyes moving between my friend and the zombies.

  He hesitates, my fear reflected in his eyes. He gives the barest shake of his head: no.

  No, we don’t fight. I nod in agreement. Eight against two are impossible odds. We’d be overrun in minutes, if not seconds. Frederico and I are many things, but we are not ninjas.

  The sundress zombie takes another step in our direction. Her lips pull back from her teeth in a snarl.

  My mouth goes dry. My palms grow sweaty. My stomach clenches painfully, violently.

  This time it’s the Cheetos that choose this instant to develop an exit strategy. They surge up my throat and eject out of my mouth in a gooey, orange stream.

  The zombies rush us en masse.

  Even as I wipe a ribbon of vomit from my chin, I break into a sprint. Frederico follows suit, the two of us plowing up the road. Now that we’re running, the zombies lock onto the soft tap of our feet.

  I pump my arms and legs, propelling myself forward as fast as I can. I don’t consider myself a sprinter, but I can haul ass for short distances. So can Frederico. He streams along beside me, curly gray ponytail bouncing between his shoulder blades.

  “Think we can outrun them on the road?” I huff.

  “We have to. I’m too tired for another forest run.”

  I understand how he feels. At almost one hundred thirty miles, our senses are dulled and exhausted. Neither of us has the focus or the strength for a good forest bushwhack right now. Not to mention my upset stomach.

  The zombies move at a decent pace, though it soon becomes apparent that Frederico and I are outstripping them. Even exhausted, we’re stronger runners than the undead.

  A mile in front of us, Laytonville comes into view. The tiny town bisects Highway 101. Even from afar, I can see why Frederico wasn’t thrilled to have his daughter living here. There’s a scattering of homes, a biodiesel gas station, a beat-up motel, and a quilt shop. It’s the sort of town that offers little to no opportunity to its residents.

  “Do you see what I see?” Frederico asks.

  “The jeeps.”

  “Yeah.”

  At the edge of town are three abandoned military-issue jeeps. One of them is crumpled against a light pole. Another sits in the middle of the road, doors flung wide open. A third one lies upside down in a pile of broken glass. Bright-orange road cones are scattered on the pavement.

  There are only two zombies in the road with the cars. Or at least, only two zombies we can see. They’re civilian zombies though, not military. Where are the soldiers?

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see the sundress zombie and her posse two hundred yards behind us. We’re ahead of them for now, but how long will that last?

  “Let’s take the car.” I can’t believe I make the suggestion, but I don’t see a better option at the moment.

  “Agreed,” Frederico huffs.

  “I’ll take the zombie on the left,” I say. “You take the other one.”

  In silent response, my friend draws his railroad spike. The zombies at the car wreck hear our approach. They straighten, heads turning in our direction, and growl.

  If I weren’t on the verge of puking up more Cheetos, I’d probably have paused to admire the swift efficiency with which Frederico and I dispatch the two undead. As it stands, we don’t even pause to wipe the blood off our faces before jumping into the jeep.

  I land in the passenger’s seat, slamming the door as Frederico dives into the driver’s seat. He lets out of bark of satisfaction.

  “Keys!” he crows, jingling the ring that still hangs in the ignition. He fires up the vehicle and throws it into reverse. Sundress zombie and company are a hundred yards away as Frederico completes a three-point-turn.

  “Do you know how to get to Aleisha’s house?”

  Frederico grunts, then floors it. “No, but I googled the bar where she works. We’ll start there.”

  A half-full bottle of water bumps against my foot. I take a long drink, then pass it to Frederico. He downs the rest before tossing the bottle into the backseat.

  Ahead of us, several zombies stagger down a long gravel driveway. Behind them is a faded, beat-up mobile home. Their heads turn in our direction, teeth pulled back in a snarl.

  “The jeep is drawing attention,” I say.

  “I noticed,” he replies tersely. “We’ve got company on this side, too.”

  Looking past him, I see several zombies stalk out from a gas station. A chill creeps down my spine.

  “Holy fuck, what’s happened to this place?” I whisper. “We haven’t seen a living person anywhere.”

  He gives me a tight look. “I know.” Uncertainty and worry flicker across his face, and I know he’s thinking about Aleisha.

  Why isn’t there a heavier military and CDC presence in Northern California? How far south has the zombie outbreak spread? Why are the authorities concentrating their efforts on Portland, when it’s so clear other parts of the country are in deep shit?

  Another cluster of zombies, all emerging from a gas station, race out into the road in front of us.

  “Seat belt,” Frederico barks, pulling on his own.

  My stomach roils. I snap on the belt, bracing myself. The car whips hard to the left, then to the right as Frederico tries to avoid the zombies. We clip one with our right bumper; the undead rolls onto our hood and smashes into the windshield. The glass spiders into dozens of cracks under his weight.

  Instead of flying off like a decent piece of roadkill, the zombie latches onto the top of the hood.

  “What is it with these fuckers?” I snarl. Did they come emb
edded with How-To-Cling-To-A-Moving-Vehicle handbook?

  The zombie is a middle-aged, skinny man in black jeans. Wet blood is smeared over his mouth, chin, and neck. He keens and claws at the broken glass. The windshield begins to cave beneath his weight.

  Frederico jerks the steering wheel left and right, trying to toss the zombie. The monster refuses to be dislodged. It’s like he has superhero suction cups on his body. The glass begins the crumple, the first few shards raining down beneath his fist.

  “The windshield’s gonna give!” Frederico yells.

  Dammit. I unbuckle my seat belt and roll the window down. Sticking my torso out the opening, I shout, “Hey! Hey zombie!”

  The beast snarls, clawing his way toward me. I aim my spike for his head. Closer . . . just a bit closer . . . one more inch . . .

  “Come and get me, you dead fuck!”

  I jab the spike downward. At the same moment, Frederico swerves. I flail, scrabbling the keep from flying out of the car. My stake falls out of my hand, hits the hood, and bounces away.

  The zombie snatches my wrist, which only seconds before had been armed with a spike. With a wild cry, I grab his hair with my free hand. His teeth gnash as he strains against me, trying to crawl closer. I tighten my grip in his unkempt, greasy locks, pushing as hard as I can against his skull.

  He might be dead, and he might be skinny, but goddammit, he’s stronger than me. Millimeter by millimeter, he draws closer to my flesh.

  “Fuuuuuck!” I shrill.

  “Incoming!” Frederico cries. “Hold on, Kate!”

  I have just enough time to brace my feet against the floor and push my butt into the door before Frederico swerves wildly to the left. He misses three zombies, but hits a fourth. The car bucks as it rolls over the body. Bile rises in my throat.

  Teeth brush my skin. I scream, pushing on biker zombie’s head with all my might. His teeth continue to gnash, the tips brushing my skin.

  And then the Cheetos make another grand exit, spraying out of my mouth. The vomit hits biker zombie in the face and sprays my captive wrist and hand.

  My skin instantly becomes slippery. His grip loosens and he begins to slide away. Frederico whips the car around two more zombies and biker zombie at last goes flying.

  42

  Nothing But The Dead

  SAVED BY VOMIT.

  That’s a new one. Who would have thought ultramarathon digestive issues would save my life?

  Shaking from the near miss, I drop back inside the car.

  “You okay?” Frederico’s voice is loud with panic. “Did it bite you?”

  “I’m okay.” I wipe bits of vomit from my hand onto the upholstery of the car. “Fucker couldn’t hold on to me once I puked on him.”

  “Thank god.” Frederico lets out a breath, sinking back into the seat. He opens his mouth to say more, then abruptly lets out a peal of hysterical laughter. “Way to go, Jackalope.”

  I give him a weak smile in return.

  We exit the tiny town of Laytonville—population of 1,027, according to the sign at the city’s northern perimeter—with several dozen zombies behind us.

  “The car was a bad option,” I say, staring back through the rear window. “It drew too much attention.”

  “There were no good options,” Frederico replies. “We took the only one that made sense at the time.”

  “Where’s the bar where Aleisha works?”

  “A mile or so out of town.”

  I chew on my lower lip. “We have to lose the undead assholes before we get there. Any ideas?”

  “Ditch the car and figure out a way to rig the horn?”

  I roll this over in my mind, watching the zombies pursue us. There isn’t a lot to slow them down. The road is uncluttered and mostly straight. Many of them run, managing a decent speed despite being blind. They still trip and fall, but the lucky bastards don’t register pain and are always back on their feet in seconds.

  “What if we just ditch the car and leave the motor running?” I ask. “Blare the radio like we did in Cloverdale?”

  “Good idea.” He glances in the rearview mirror. “We have to do it now, before we get closer to the bar.”

  “Okay.” I tug on the straps of my running pack, mentally readying myself for another sprint, then flip on the radio. Country music fills the car. My hand hovers over the volume knob, ready to blast the twangy tune. “I’m ready.”

  “Let’s do this,” Frederico says through gritted teeth.

  Adrenaline surges through me as Frederico jerks the car to the side of the road. I turn the volume to max, then throw open the door and rocket out of the seat.

  I pump my arms, shoes grinding in the grit of the road margin as I break into a sprint. Though I’m tired and my muscles are fatigued from the long run, fear pushes all that to the periphery. I drive myself forward. I veer onto the asphalt, feet finding better traction for my shoes.

  Frederico bails out on the other side and streaks up the road. We fall into step beside one another as soon as we clear the car. Pine trees rise on either side of us, lining the road like sentinels.

  Two hundred fifty yards down the road, I risk a glance over my shoulder. The first of the zombies have reached the car. They claw at the glass windows, snarling and baring their teeth.

  “It’s working,” I gasp. “The music is drawing them—”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  I whip my head around. A handful of zombies is lumbering down the road. There are three soldiers and four rough-looking men in black leather that make me think they were bikers when they were alive.

  Dammit. We’d been so worried about the zombies behind us that we hadn’t considered zombies in front of us.

  “We drew them out,” Frederico hisses. “They must have come from Aleisha’s bar.”

  “We need to hide.” I snag his sleeve and haul him sideways into the trees.

  Our feet sink into the thick hummus of the soil as we run. We jog one hundred yards into the forest and drop down behind a copse of trees and ferns.

  We peer toward the road. The biker and soldier zombies run past us, never turning in our direction. I let out a sigh of relief.

  “We dodged that bullet,” I whisper. “We—”

  The soft snap of a branch is the only warning we have. Something big and smelly barrels into me as I jerk toward the sound.

  I scream before I can stop myself as a man smacks into Frederico and me. He’s dressed from head-to-toe in military fatigues and hits us from the side. I twist, desperately trying to find purchase for my hands. I slam into the dirt, a fallen branch digging painfully into my arm and ribcage.

  At first I think it’s a zombie, but my eyes meet those of my attacker’s. They’re black and bore into me with frenetic intensity that tell me he’s very much alive. A dirty hand covers my mouth.

  “What the hell are you guys doing out here?” he hisses. “Do you idiots have a death wish?”

  Frederico takes a wild swing, connecting with the man’s jaw.

  “Son of a bitch.” The soldier lashes back with his own punch, stunning Frederico. A gun materializes in his hand. He cocks the safety and presses the barrel against my forehead.

  The inside of my mouth turns to cotton. There’s a slight tremor in his hand that’s more unnerving than the cold metal against my skin. Frederico freezes.

  “Up,” says the soldier, the word falling from his mouth like a tremulous stone. He shifts his body weight and Frederico slowly—cautiously—gets to his feet.

  “Back the fuck up.”

  Frederico obeys, expression wild as his eyes ping-pong between me and the soldier.

  “Over there.” The soldier uses the gun to motion to a tree ten feet away. His words never go above a whisper. He keeps me pinned to the ground.

  Frederico hesitates. The soldier’s mouth thins. The barrel of the gun presses harder against my forehead. His tremble travels along its length.

  “Do as he says,” I rasp.

  Frederico retre
ats, never taking his eyes from me.

  “That’s better.” The pressure of the gun eases against my forehead. “What are you doing out here?”

  I swallow. “I don’t think you’d believe me if we told you.”

  “Try me. I’ve seen some weird shit.”

  “The last person we told tried to kill us.”

  The soldier considers us, then abruptly releases me. He stands, keeping the gun in hand. I sit up, rubbing at my forehead where the gun’s muzzle had been.

  “I was only trying to help,” the soldier says. “It’s a deathtrap out here.”

  I resist the urge to tell him that body slamming two people to the ground isn’t a way to instill trust. He’s young, I realize. Couldn’t be much older than twenty-two or twenty-three.

  “We’re looking for our kids,” I tell him, carefully inching closer to Frederico.

  The soldier shakes his head, sympathy flashing in his eyes. “Laytonville is overrun by those—those things.”

  “Zombies?” I supply.

  He hesitates, then nods.

  “My friend’s daughter lives in Laytonville,” I say. “We’re trying to find her.”

  “You two should find some place to hide until all this,” he gestures broadly with the gun, “blows over. My platoon was sent here to erect a road barricade, to keep infected people from spreading south. We were overrun at the far end of town. A few of us got away . . . I’m the only survivor now.”

  In his black eyes, I see a young man not much older than Carter. He wants to show us that he’s in charge, when in fact the world is in a tailspin. Slamming us to the ground was his way of trying to make order in a shit storm.

  “My daughter works at Rod’s Roadhouse,” Frederico says. “Any . . .” He trails off as the soldier pales.

  “Nothing but the dead at Rod’s Roadhouse,” he says, voice catching. “I just left . . . I’m just heading south to Ukiah. Their blockade is holding. You should come with me.”

  I shake my head. “My son is in Arcata. I have to go north.”

  If possible, the young man pales even more. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.