Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

  I let out a long sigh, understanding his silent message. Ben always gets me, especially at times like this when I feel loss. Probably because he’s endured his fair share of loss during his years of service in the army.

  I need to look forward. I need to stay sharp and keep my people alive so we can get to Fort Ross and help Alvarez. Dwelling on decisions made in the past will only bog us down.

  “What’s the plan, Mama Bear?” Caleb asks, breaking the silence.

  I turn to the map in my lap, which I’ve been staring at since we left Westport. “We should be able to drive the SUV for the next fifteen miles to Braggs. We’ll leave the car outside the town and make our way on foot. Once we’re clear of the town, we can see about finding another car.”

  In our current shape—exhausted and beat to hell from our tangle with the Lost Coast—I estimate this car is saving us a solid three to four hours of travel on foot, which will put us in Braggs well before noon. We’ll have daylight on our side when we push through to the other side of the city.

  I have to admit, it’s nice to chew up the miles in a car. I wish we could drive all the way to Fort Ross. But I know better than to try and drive through Braggs, and not just because Medieval John warned us against it. It’s the largest town out here and straddles Highway 1. I’m not stupid enough to think we can drive through a town that size without getting mobbed by zombies.

  “I think food should be on our list of things to do when we get to Braggs,” Reed says. “We don’t have much bear meat left. I’m so hungry I could eat a fire-roasted zombie.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Ash makes a face. “Can we add clean clothes to our to-do list? I’d like to wear something not saturated in dry salt.”

  I give them the thumbs up. They’re not the only ones sick of salt-encrusted clothes and hungry enough to eat a zombie. “Food and clean clothes are officially on the list of things to do in Braggs.”

  A green road sign comes into view, telling us we’re a mile outside of Braggs.

  It also tells us Fort Ross is ninety miles away. I try not to think about what my body will feel like if it goes another ninety miles on foot.

  “Pull over,” I tell Ben. “We go on foot from here into Braggs.” I turn to look at the others. “Daylight is on our side. We take our time and do this right. Everyone gets through Braggs alive.” I fold the map and stash it in a pocket of my pack.

  Ben pulls over to the side of the road. We pile out of the car, everyone clipping on running packs. Caleb shoulders the largest pack with the bulk of our weapons.

  I pick up a small box of grenades resting on the floor of the Escape. This had been a parting gift from Medieval John.

  “Blow that bitch to hell,” he’d said, grinning like a feral wolf just before we’d driven out of Westport. “If you get the chance, shove one these up her ass for me.”

  I pass out the grenades, making sure we each have a few of them.

  “Let’s go,” I say. Running on the road will be much faster than running the Lost Coast trail. “We’ll alternate between running and walking. Five minutes on, five minutes off.”

  No one argues. We set off at a brisk jog.

  My body groans in protest. The time spent sitting has not done me any favors. My muscles have stiffened. New aches have settled in. I do my best to ignore them.

  The highway snakes along the ocean. Dark clouds mass in the sky, promising rain later in the day. Despite the lack of sunshine, the views are stunning.

  The dried salt in my clothing burns along the raw patches of chafed skin. The two worst spots are under my sports bra and along the inside of my thighs. Those parts of my body have always been prone to chafing. The pressure on the top of my left toe and back of my right heel tells me I have large blisters in the works.

  “Anyone else feel like they’ve been run over with one of those monster trucks and dragged through mud?” Reed asks, the usual lightheartedness missing from his voice.

  The slump to his shoulders tells me how rundown he feels. I know for a fact that everyone else is feeling the same way, possibly worse. If I don’t get their heads into the game, we’ll never make it to Fort Ross.

  “Everyone is hurting,” I say, giving them all a nod of acknowledgment. “That doesn’t matter. We push through the pain and keep going. Pain isn’t a reason to stop. That’s a lesson every ultrarunner learns early. If we all quit as soon as something hurts, no one would ever make it to the finish line.”

  “Seven hours in the boat,” Ash mutters. “That’s it. It was supposed to take us seven hours by boat to get to Fort Ross. We were never supposed to do any running.”

  Ultrarunning isn’t about being a runner,” I reply. “It’s about sucking it up and pushing on no matter what.”

  Eric gives me a sidelong glance. “You’re good at pep talks. Even if everything you’re saying freaks me out.”

  “It’s okay to be freaked out. You just can’t let self-doubt worm its way into your psyche. I know I use the ultramarathon analogy a lot, but there’s a lot at stake. If you give in to fear or pain, it could get you killed.” That’s the simple truth. I don’t want to scare anyone, but if it keeps their heads in the right space, it’s worth it.

  As we near the city limits, a sign proclaims Braggs, Population 39,612. The land is covered with golden grass and weathered cypress trees that have been sculpted into eastward leaning contortions by the constant barrage of wind over the years.

  A scattering of houses dot either side of the road, all of them on large plots of land. The dwellings are small one-story homes, most of them looking like they were built back in the 1950s. More than a few of them boast large piles of what I would have called garbage less than a year ago.

  Now, casting my eye over the mounds of discarded lumber, rusted cars, and other assorted things, it looks like a salvage wonderland. I spot tall cabinets that had been pulled from a kitchen. What I wouldn’t give to have something like that back at Creekside in our main kitchen. It would make it easier to store and organize food for everyday use.

  There are no signs of zombies, though we see evidence of the outbreak. One cluster of houses sits in ashen ruins. Several clusters of wrecked cars sit abandoned on the side of the road.

  We also see evidence of life. I spot a chicken pecking at the ground. It flees at the sight of us, head bobbing back and forth as it runs. I even see a front door hastily shut as we approach.

  “Survivors,” Ben murmurs. “Everyone stay alert.”

  We run past a rock quarry, an RV storage facility, another scattering of homes, and two hotels that overlook the ocean. One of the hotels is half burned to the ground.

  My body has slipped back into the familiar cadence of road running. I don’t have to watch every step for fear of falling when I run on the road. I revel in the sensation of my heart pounding, of oxygen expanding my lungs with each breath. My body has loosened up, the aches fading into the recess of my mind. Even though the ocean nearly killed me, I still love the smell of it.

  The outskirts of Braggs seem to stretch on and on. We pass another hotel, this one two stories high and perched on a cliff. Another scattering of tiny homes comes and goes.

  The ocean disappears, blocked from sight by tall cliffs. A wide river, waters dark and blue, flows along at the base of the cliff and out toward the sea.

  That’s when I see the bridge.

  Or, to be more precise, what’s left of the bridge.

  Suspended above the bridge is a canvas banner that reads Annual Whale Festival. Beneath the words is the picture of a whale.

  Beneath that are the crumbled remains of the bridge.

  “Shit,” I murmur.

  A dozen or so zombies sniff around the edge of the ruined bridge. It’s the first pack we’ve seen since we left Arcata. They snarl and moan at one another, scratching at the concrete.

  I signal a stop. My hand unconsciously strays to the back of my pack, where I have a portable tape player stashed. That tape player, with its recordin
g of an alpha zombie, might be our most valuable possession.

  I study the zombies, wondering if one of them is an alpha. The group is centered around a twenty-something zombie. She tilts her head back and lets out a string of garbled sounds. The rest of the zombies straighten, clustering more tightly around her.

  Yep, that’s an alpha.

  That’s when I notice the water. The zombies are standing in puddles of water.

  But it’s not raining. And there isn’t standing water anywhere else.

  “Shit,” I breathe.

  “What is it?” Ben gives me a sharp look.

  “I think those zombies came out of the river.”

  The longer I study them in the bleak light, the more I’m convinced of it. Their clothes are wet, many of them still trailing small streams onto the ground. I pull out my map, unfolding it to look for another way over the water.

  “You think they came out of the river?” Reed hisses. “That’s fucked up.”

  “What’s fucked up is that was the only bridge into town.” I study the map, wishing desperately for another way over the water. “That big river is called Pudding Creek. It runs for miles to the east.”

  “Can we go back to the part about zombies crawling out of the water?” Reed says. “That’s really fucking creepy.”

  I gesture for my people to fall back. I want to get some space between us and the zombies so I can think.

  One thing is for sure: Swimming across isn’t an option. I may have the alpha zom recording, but there’s no way to know how well the recording will work on zombies under water. I won’t risk my people in Pudding Creek, especially not knowing how many zoms are in the water.

  Going miles out of our way to find a safe way over Pudding Creek isn’t a great option, either. That will take hours we don’t have—that Fort Ross doesn’t have.

  I draw the group to a halt when there’s a solid quarter mile between us and the zombies. I watch the alpha lead them away from the bridge to sniff around some cars abandoned along Pudding Creek.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn in a slow circle and absorb our surroundings. There’s a way around this problem. I just have to figure out what it is.

  “Hey, Mom?” Eric taps me on the shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “You ran on railroad tracks to get to Arcata, right?”

  “Most of the time, yes.”

  “What does that look like to you?” Caleb raises a hand, pointing to the southern end of the river.

  Spanning the river is a bridge. Not a bridge for cars; that much is obvious by its wooden construction. It’s old, most likely from the logging era. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s structurally unsound. Some of the supports are broken or missing.

  “It was probably built to hold a train full of redwood trees,” Caleb says. “That’s like, what, ten million pounds? I’m pretty sure it can hold us.”

  Ben snorts. “That thing’s got to be almost a hundred years old. A stiff breeze could knock it over.”

  I shake my head. “We’re checking it out. Come on.” It’s our best option so far.

  We backtrack farther up the road. I draw us to a halt outside of a two-story hotel painted a pale green. Just around the northern side of the hotel is the entrance to the railroad bridge.

  The hotel looks unoccupied. One of the doors looks like it was hacked down with an axe. A few others swing open on squeaky hinges. I spot two dead bodies under the eaves, both of them so desiccated that not even the carrion birds show interest in them.

  “Come on.” I draw my knife and lead the way around the hotel, hustling toward the bridge.

  It looks even more rickety up close. There are large gaps in the structure where the dark blue of the river is visible. The entire thing seems to sway in the breeze.

  The entrance is blocked by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Several friendly signs sit front and center.

  NO TRESPASSING.

  DANGER. UNSAFE CONDITIONS.

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  I turn to my people. “Anyone know how to climb over a barbed-wire fence?”

  Reed thrusts his arm into the air. “I do! We need something thick, like a leather jacket.”

  “You want to climb over barbed wire so we can cross a bridge that’s made from toothpicks?” Ben lets out an exasperated huff. “This isn’t your best idea, Kate.”

  His words rankle. The worst part is that he isn’t wrong.

  “There are no good choices,” I reply. “This is the best option we have.”

  “Let’s get a comforter from one of those hotel rooms,” Reed says. “We can throw it over the barbed wire.”

  I nod in agreement. “Let’s check out the hotel.”

  5

  Beachview

  ERIC

  I wish Tom could see me.

  The thought flashes through my mind. My brother would never believe that, just a short while ago, his loser of a little bother had just completed his first ultramarathon. Hell, wherever he is, he’s probably already written me off as zombie food.

  That’s exactly what I would be if it weren’t for Kate.

  From my rumbling stomach to my aching legs and blistered toes, I feel like I’m living life to its fullest. It’s nothing like the first twenty-one years of my life, where I made it my mission to follow the path of least resistance. I realize now that I’d been living with only my toes in the water. I finally understand why Kate loves ultramarathons. Because when you run ultras, you know you can hack whatever shit life throws at you.

  Like right now. I know that if I can run an ultramarathon, I can follow Kate over a barbed-wire fence and across a rickety bridge without dying.

  Even if said bridge doesn’t look fit for humans.

  Even if looking at it makes me want to curl up in a tight ball and cry like a girl.

  I follow the others across the parking lot, turning my attention away from the scrotum-shriveling bridge and instead focus on the shitty hotel.

  The sign above the two-story hotel reads Beachview. It was probably fancy back in the day when it first opened. Years of exposure to the salt air have left the paint peeling and faded. But I shouldn’t blame the elements. The owners of this place had probably been tightwads who hadn’t bothered to take care of their building.

  There are no cars in the lot. Maybe everyone was at the Whale Festival when the outbreak hit. Or maybe they took off when shit got real. Maybe a bunch of those people we saw in Medieval John’s town were refugees from the Whale Festival. Maybe—

  Stop it, I tell myself. Focus. We need blankets. How else are we going to get over the barbed wire and cross a bridge that looks like it belongs in a pile at the bottom of the river?

  Dumb fucks. I hear Lila’s caustic skepticism in my head. I imagine her projecting it to me all the way from her grave back in Arcata. God, I miss her.

  As we move through the parking lot, I draw my knife. No one knows it, but I named the knife Mr. Pokey. I love this knife. Kate got it for me out of a sporting goods store in Arcata and almost burned down half the town in the process. It’s taken out plenty of zombies. Plus it was a gift from my surrogate mom. That means more than anything.

  “I think we should try the rooms on the bottom floor first,” Ben says. The tendons stand out on his neck, hinting at the enormous effort behind his civil tone. He tries so hard to be pleasant when his default is grumpy fucker. He loves Kate, so he tries. I like that about Ben.

  “Good idea.” Kate flashes him a quick smile. “Let’s start with the room on the far left. Caleb and Ben, you go in first. Reed and I will be right behind you. Eric and Ash, you keep watch at the door.”

  I don’t know how things are done in the military, but I like to think we’re an efficient unit. Ash and I take up our post without argument, flanking either side of the door.

  Ben kicks open the swinging door and Caleb dashes inside, weapons raised. Ben hurtles after him. Kate and Reed are hard on their heels, weapons also raised.
r />   I wait, tense, Mr. Pokey raised to strike.

  “Dude.” Reed’s voice drifts out of the hotel room. “You gotta see this.”

  Ash and I exchange glances before hurrying into the room.

  The smell is the first thing I register. The world, in general, is rank these days, what with dead people walking around while they rot and the rest of us not having regular access to showers.

  The room of the Beachview most definitely smells like zombie. The acrid stench of rot is unmistakable.

  “Dude,” Reed says again.

  My mouth goes dry. No matter how much death I see, it seems like there’s always more gore lurking around the corner to top my latest living nightmare.

  I mean, just two weeks ago I saw a zombie impaled on the broken glass of a window. He’d tripped and landed on two enormous shards. They pierced his body, spilling out intestines and other various organs. Can it really get worse than that?

  Yep. Yep, it can always get worse. What I see now tops even that gory mess.

  In the middle of the bed, on display like someone had left a birthday gift for a loved one, is a zombie head. Just the head.

  And the thing is still undead. White eyes roll as it tracks our sounds. The teeth gnash. Other than the grinding of teeth, it makes no sound. Probably because the vocal cords didn’t make the cut. Literally.

  “Found the other half.” Ben emerges from the bathroom. “It’s in the bathtub.”

  I stay where I am. I don’t need to see the other half of the body. I’m sure it’s like every other zombie body I’ve seen, except in a bathtub.

  Reed, of course, has to check it out. He pokes his head around Ben and wrinkles his nose. “Dude, that is fucked up. Who would do something like that?”

  Kate gives us all a tight look. “Get the blankets,” she orders. “Both of them.”

  “Even the bloody one?” Reed asks.

  “We’re not going to waste time going through hotel rooms to find clean blankets,” Kate replies.

  The last thing I want to do is touch a blanket covered in zombie sludge, but I make it a point not to argue with Kate. I credit her with the fact that I’m alive. I was a stoned fuck-up when she found me. I’m still a fuck-up, but at least I’m not stoned as much anymore.