From the angle of the sun, he judges it to be around four in the afternoon. It doesn’t get dark until nearly eight o’clock this time of year. They still have ample time to make it back to Creekside in the daylight. If things don’t get fucked up between now and then. That’s one really big if, in his opinion.
He glances back at the unconscious Gary once or twice as he huffs along with the stretcher. Poor bastard. Fucking great white. That was just as bad as getting bitten by a zombie.
His wet shirt and pants stick to his skin. The breeze from the bay chills the fabric. He supposes it’s better than being too hot, but all it does is reinforce how much he hates marching through marshland.
Susan hovers beside her husband’s unconscious body, her hand reaching out at regular intervals to touch his hand, his arm, or his face. Ben wonders what it would be like to have someone to care about like that. He’s never had a relationship longer than a few months. Even his son’s mother had only been a fling between tours.
“Is it me, or is the water getting deeper?” Ash asks.
“We’re in the Brackish Pond,” Carter replies.
“I can see that,” Ash says, sarcasm thick in her voice.
“No, he means it’s called the Brackish Pond,” Jenna replies. “It’s part of the protected marshland.”
“There’s high ground over there.” Kate points to a levee. “Let’s get out of the water.”
Ben seconds this notion by picking up the pace. Caleb and Ash push past him, rifles up as they scan the area for threats. They signal the all-clear.
Ben climbs the embankment, walking backward to handle the stretcher. Water streams off his fatigues in heavy rivulets. Once up on the levee, he and Carter relinquish Gary and the stretcher to Reed and Jesus.
“I want to go ahead of the group and scout the freeway,” Ben says to Kate.
“Good idea,” she replies. “I’ll go with you.”
He opens his mouth, ready to insist she stay with the group. Except that Kate is a fan is the buddy system. If he pushes her off, she’ll just saddle him with someone else. Just his luck, it would be Caleb. He’d take Kate’s company over the pretty boy anytime. Besides, hasn’t he spent the last few weeks trying to work out a way to talk to her without any of the little shitheads around? This is his chance.
“Let’s move out,” he says to Kate.
“Make your way to the recycling center on G Street,” Kate tells the rest of the group. “Ben and I will circle back and meet you there after we check out 101.”
A small thrill goes through him as he sets out on foot with her. He lets Kate set the brisk jog, falling into step beside her. They move faster on their own without the stretcher and soon leave the others behind. He keeps his rifle at hand, ready to bring it up at a second’s notice.
“Am I going to have to start making us work out on the track with rifles on our backs?” Kate asks softly. Her feet barely make a sound on the hard-packed dirt of the levee.
“In boot camp, we trained in full gear. You have us running with packs. Adding rifles isn’t a bad idea.”
“I just worry we could end up shooting one another on accident.”
“The rifles don’t have to be loaded.”
“I mean when we’re not training. If we’re actually running with loaded weapons.”
“You prefer your knife and screwdriver. Or Jesus’s zom bat.” His eyes flick to the silver club in her hand that’s currently stained with zombie gore.
“Yeah, I do.”
He wracks his brain, trying to think of something to say to keep the conversation going. He doesn’t want to squander this rare opportunity to talk to her.
His mind flashes to her strange bedroom, a single dorm once occupied by a Grateful Dead fan. Posters still cover the wall and ceiling. Concert tickets are tacked over the headboard. Ben once even glimpsed clothing that belonged to the previous owner still hanging in the closet.
There was very little about the room that spoke of Kate, but Ben had noticed a rusty railroad spike sitting on the windowsill. It was the only thing in the small space that didn’t reek of stoner college kid.
Maybe it was the bits of dried blood stuck to it, along with the dirt and grime. Maybe it was the way it seemed to have a place of honor in the room, perched all alone in the middle of the windowsill. Whatever the reason, when he first laid eyes on the spike, he’d known it was Kate’s.
“What about that railroad spike?” he asks.
Kate looks at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“The railroad spike on your windowsill. Why don’t you carry that? It’s as good as the screwdriver. Better. You don’t have to worry about it snapping in half.”
Her face closes down in a way he’s never seen before. She grunts and picks up the pace.
Ben has never been great with people, but he’s smart enough to know he just said the wrong thing. Dammit. He resolves not to speak until she does.
So it is that they continue to run in silence.
The longer the silence stretches, the more he agonizes over his words. Why did he ask about the railroad spike? Couldn’t he have led with something more benign?
He’s terrible at this stuff. All the normal small talk he’d used before the apocalypse doesn’t apply to the current situation.
Where do you live?
What do you do for a living?
Come here often?
Can I buy you a drink?
This is the extent of his skills at making conversation.
Is it any wonder he’s a bachelor?
“We’re almost there,” Kate says, breaking the silence.
“Sorry if I upset you.” The words come out all by themselves. “Asking about the railroad spike, I mean.”
She shakes her head, blowing out a long breath. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just don’t like talking about it.”
Now that is something he can understand. There are plenty of things he’s seen and done that he has no desire to think about, let alone speak about.
“I won’t bring it up again.”
She gives him a small smile, making him think that maybe he’s just said the right thing.
Now if only he could do that more than one time in a row.
“There’s the recycling center,” Kate says, pointing. “101 is just on the other side.”
Technically, 101 isn’t “just on the other side” of the recycling center. Ben refrains from pointing out that another quarter-mile of open marshland lays between the recycling center and the road. The only good thing is that they have a clear view of the freeway from the front of the building.
101 is a cluster fuck. No way to sugarcoat the mess of cars and undead tangled on the freeway.
“At least we don’t have to worry about scrambling down a twenty-foot embankment to get to the freeway,” Kate says. This part of the 101 is level with the land around it.
“That’s a shitload of undead down there,” Ben says. “We’re going to have to set off at least two car alarms if we want to get across that mess without getting killed.”
She nods in agreement. “Let’s go in closer for a better look.”
They cross the two-lane road that services the recycling center, stepping into the open marshland on the other side. The land starts as hard-packed mud before sloping down into cold water once again.
“Loving the hike through the marsh?” Kate murmurs, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
He’s pretty sure that’s sarcasm. He proceeds cautiously just in case. “I used to get athlete’s foot in the Sandbox. I don’t like having wet feet.”
She turns, looking him full in the face with a frown. “The sandbox?”
“Iraq. Kuwait. The Middle East. You know, hot places with lots of sand?” He feels like an idiot for using military slang.
“Oh.” Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Where else have you served?”
“Afghanistan. Somalia. Pakistan. A short stint in Equador.” He looks away, not sure
how to meet her direct gaze. “I enlisted when I was eighteen. Served right up until the night they ordered me to kill college kids.”
Silence drops between them like a wet blanket.
Fuck. Why did he have to bring that up?
“I went AWOL that night,” he tries to explain. “I saw a group of scared kids. I got them out of the hot zone. Took them to College Creek dorm. Tried to protect them and keep them alive . . .” His mouth goes dry as he remembers the massacre spearheaded by Johnson and Ryan. He’d saved Ryan, that little fucker.
Kate gives him a sad look. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he keeps his mouth shut.
One hundred yards away from the freeway, they stop. Ben pulls out the binos and sweeps them up and down the scene.
Fuck. It looks even worse up close.
“I see two fancy SUVs,” he says. “They’re close to each other and should both have car alarms. That’s the good news.”
“And the bad news?” Kate asks. He senses her tense beside him, bracing herself for the other shoe.
Unfortunately, he has more than one shoe to drop. “There are hundreds of undead out there. And the cars are a mess. There’s no obvious egress.”
They continue forward. The water forces them to move slowly lest they make any noise to alert the undead. At least they don’t have to crawl on all fours through the cold sludge currently sloshing around their ankles. There are occasional perks to dealing with blind zombies.
Kate has a light step, the water making the barest ripple around her feet. He realizes he’s looking at her legs again and returns his attention to the mess of cars. Getting distracted by a nice pair of legs is a good way to end up dead. He won’t think about how good the whole GI Jane look is on her.
“There’s a thing in ultrarunning known as a road crossing,” Kate says. “Most ultras are run on dirt trails, but sometimes we have to cross roads to get from one part of a trail to another. Those are road crossings.” She doesn’t look at him when she speaks, her gaze focused on the freeway.
Even so, Ben gets the sense that she’s sharing something with him. He stays quiet, willing her to continue.
“I ran a fifty-miler in Oakland in a park called Lake Chabot,” Kate continues. “There’s a gun range in the park. A bunch of gunfire went off and startled us as we crossed one of the roads. I tripped in a pothole and scraped the hell out of my knees, elbows, and palms on the pavement. I was so pissed.” Her lips pull back in a thin smile, though she still has yet to look at him. “I groused about road crossings for years after that. It feels stupid now when compared to this. Who ever thought I’d make a road crossing with zombies?” Her gesture takes in the long ribbon of asphalt cluttered with the dead and undead.
He knows he should respond. She’s sharing something with him. He’s supposed to say something, but damned if he knows what.
The seconds drag, becoming awkward. He’s blowing it. Completely fucking blowing it.
“I went into a pothole once,” he says, grabbing at the first thing that comes to mind. “In a jeep in Iraq. We broke an axel. Had to hoof it all the way back to camp through a hot zone. Had a shootout with some hostiles halfway home.”
The memory washes over him with hot poignancy. He feels the bitch-hot breath of the sun burning the back of his neck and sucking moisture from his body. He remembers the fear that rode his shoulders even as he tried to ignore it and focus on the mission of surviving. It hits him so hard he stops mid-step, eyes going hazy at the memory. He’d lost two friends on that shitty day under that shitty sun.
“What happened?”
Kate’s voice snaps him back into the present. He recalls he’s having a conversation with her. Or at least, attempting a conversation.
He forces himself to meet her eye. “We lost two of our own in the shootout.” He swallows, his spine hardening. “But we got those motherfuckers. And we got the bodies of our friends back to camp so they could go back to their families.”
She stares at him, eyes wide. “I thought my running stories were messed up.”
He barks a laugh. It flushes away some of the turmoil.
“I like your running stories. I’d rather hear about you eating it on a road crossing than talk about my shit.”
Her eyes widen even more. “Really?”
He blinks. Now he’s supposed to respond. Again. He’s never liked talking about himself. But if he wants to get to know Kate, he can’t do it by just staring at her and grunting. Even if that’s his preference to meaningful conversation.
“Yeah. I like your running stuff.” It’s the best he can come up with. At least it’s true.
Something catches in his peripheral vision. He turns, their conversation sidelined.
“Right there.” He lifts a finger to point at two blue sedans that collided head-on in the margin between north and southbound lanes. “That’s our best way through.”
A dent creases her brow. “I don’t see how ... oh. You mean just to the left of that Dodge Caravan?”
“Exactly.” He lifts the binos and inspects the scene. “There’s a good six-foot gap between the Caravan and the back bumper of the blue Charger. Our people will fit through there. All we have to do is clear it out.”
Kate flashes him a big smile. The first since they set out together. He blinks, taken aback.
“What?” he asks.
“You said ‘our people’.”
“Well, yeah,” he answers. “Isn’t that what they are?”
“That’s what they are to me.” Her smile deepens. “It’s nice to hear you feel the same way. Come on, let’s go get the others.”
13
The Dodge Gap
KATE
I’d rather hear about you eating it on a road crossing than talk about my shit.
Ben’s words repeat in my mind. I think, in his own weird way, that may have been his way of saying something nice. Hearing him talk about his experience in Iraq had been both chilling and heartwarming. Chilling, because the experience sounded awful. But also heartwarming, because it was clear the memory caused him pain and he shared it with me anyway.
Knowing how hard it is for me to talk about Frederico—let alone even think about him most days—Ben’s loss makes me appreciate his openness on a deeper level.
As I stand ankle-deep in chilly water, surrounded by my kids, Susan, and Gary on the stretcher, I push my thoughts away from Ben. I think about him too much as it is. I need my head in the game if I’m going to get everyone across the 101 to safety.
“It’s the Dodge Gap,” Reed says as he surveys the six feet of space we’ve chosen for our group to maneuver through.
“Tell that to Johnny,” Jesus replies. “He can use it in his book.”
“Quiet.” I cut off Reed as he opens his mouth to reply. “Your job is to get the stretcher as close as you can to the gap between the blue Caravan and the blue Charger. Ben and I are going to set off the car alarms on two SUVs a quarter mile down the road. That should be enough to draw them out of the gap. When it clears, make a run for it. Ben and I will catch up. Everyone understand?”
Carter raises his hand. “I understand everything except the part about you and Ben risking your lives a quarter mile away from our opening.”
“Nothing to be done about it,” Ben cuts in. “This is the best way to draw them away from the opening.”
“Your job is to get Gary and Susan back to Creekside,” I tell Carter. “Understand?”
Susan wrings her hands, eyes flicking between Gary’s prone form and the SUVs Ben and I targeted for the distraction. “You guys are helping us. I should be the one to set off the car alarm.”
We can’t stand here all day arguing the finer points of this plan. I decide it’s time to pull out my trump card: my mom voice.
“This is not up for discussion.” I sweep a firm gaze across the group and give them my best no-nonsense mom look. “You all know what you’re supposed to do. Stick together. Watch one another’s back. Get our new friends back
to Creekside. Ben and I will be right behind you.”
As if to back me up, Ben brings up his rifle. Without waiting for any more argument, we break away from the group
“I like how you do that,” he murmurs as we make our way to the SUVs.
“Do what?” I eye a clump of undead that cluster near the side of the road. There are so many of them.
“That mom whoop-ass thing you do.” Ben chuckles without sound, his chest and shoulders shaking with silent humor. “You’re like a drill sergeant, only with kindergarten kids instead of adolescent recruits.”
I wrinkle my nose in good humor. “I hope you’re the only one who’s onto me.”
“No, they’re all onto you,” he replies. “They’re all just so damn loyal they put up with it. They know when you mean business and when they can wheedle you.”
“They do not wheedle me.”
“Sometimes they do. Like when we had sleep deprivation training two weeks ago and you let Johnny talk you into giving out caffeine pills to everyone.”
“Caffeine pills are bona fide ultrarunning fare,” I argue. “They’ve gotten me through more than one hundred-miler. It’s good for them to know how their bodies feel with the extra kick.”
Ben raises an eyebrow at me. I huff again in annoyance. I was not wheedled. I am immune to wheedling.
“This is a good spot.” Ben draws to a halt.
Separating us from the two SUVs is fifty yards of open marshland. It’s a straight shot for Ben. We discussed the option of blowing out the car’s windows from a farther distance—preferably closer to the Dodge Gap, as Reed aptly named it—but in the end, decided it was better to shoot closer to the SUVs. That will narrow the focus area for the zombies, which will be especially important if there are any alphas out here.
“Try shooting out a tire or two after you hit the windows,” I say. “The deflation will make extra noise as the car shifts.”
“Good plan.”
The rifle cracks. A glass window explodes on the first SUV. The car alarm lets up a pulsating wail that rushes up and down the length of 101.
Undead Ultra (Book 3): Lost Coast Page 8
