Undead Ultra

by Camille Picott

I close my fist around the Ziploc. “You’re not thinking of getting high, are you?”

  He raises his head to look at me. The bright light of the headlamp sinks his face into shadow.

  “After the concert, I drove out to the beach with my friends. We took turns taking hits. Each time we took a puff, we held our breath and ran as far as we could across the sand before letting the smoke out. No one could run as I far as I could.”

  A fond smile pulls at his lips, showing a brief flash of white teeth. “At some point, everyone went home. I stayed at the beach alone, talking philosophy with a sand crab for hours. I lay on the shore, watching clouds turn into the Shanghai acrobats as the sun rose.”

  He raises his chin, eyes meeting mine. “I’ve told that Purple Passion story at least a hundred times. The part I’ve never told anyone is what happened when I finally sobered up and returned to the real world. I worked at a 98 Cents Store. Turns out I’d missed two days of work on my high. The manager fired me, of course.

  “I loved that job; I could go into work stoned and no one ever complained or gave me shit. I pretended I didn’t care when I got fired, but inside I was pissed at myself for fucking up a good gig.” He looks down, headlamp shining on his shoes. “I was a fuck-up from a young age, Kate. If I took a hit of that stuff now” —he gestures to the Purple Passion concealed in my fist— “it would be the end of my world. If I’m going to die on this run, I’m going to die as the best person I can be, not the worst.”

  My grip on the Purple Passion relaxes. A moment later, I fling the Ziploc and its contents into the night. It soars through the air, momentarily captured in the beam of my headlamp, then disappears into the darkness.

  “Thank you,” Frederico says.

  “I’ve got your back.”

  I reach over and give his hand a brief squeeze before returning to my feet. I apply liquid Band-Aid to the blisters and tug on the dry pair of socks. Then I pull out my phone, holding my breath as I swipe the phone and check for a message from Carter.

  Nothing.

  I swallow and shove the phone back into my pack, refusing to let myself dwell on possible reasons for my son’s silence.

  “You ready to get out of here?” I ask.

  Frederico, who watched my silent exchange with my nonresponsive cell phone, nods. “Yeah.” He rises, shaking out his arms and legs. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “We need to figure out our next move,” I say.

  I gesture to the tiny town about a mile away in front of us, illuminated by a scattering of streetlights. The tracks run straight into the center of town. No way do I want to go close to a town, not with zombies, soldiers, and CDC quarantines.

  Frederico pulls out the map and spreads it out on the ground, weighting the corners with rocks. The two of us angle our heads, illuminating the map.

  “It’s going to be slow, going around in the dark,” I say, studying the map and remembering the tedious trek around Ukiah.

  Frederico shrugs. “We’ve both done our share of night running. We’ll just have to move a bit slower and be cautious.”

  He pauses, peering at the map. “Look here.” He points to a section on the map where the tracks veer away from Highway 101 and head in an easterly direction. “The tracks won’t take us more than ten or fifteen miles past Willits. Once they head east, we’re going to have to follow the highway.”

  I study the map, following the tracks with my finger. They split away from the 101 and run northeast for miles and miles, never circling back.

  “Shit,” I mutter. “You’re right. We’re going to have to use the highway.”

  “Come on.” Frederico folds up the map and stashes it in his pack. “Let’s get mov—”

  There’s a flicker of movement over Frederico’s shoulder. I move instinctually, snatching the railroad spike out of my pack harness.

  When the zombie steps out of the shrubbery, I fly into him, ramming the spike through his eye with brutal precision. His body crashes backward. I fall on top of him, grunting from the impact.

  I stand up, brushing myself off and extracting the spike from the dead zombie’s eye. When I turn around, I find Frederico staring at me.

  “Damn,” he says. “You’ve come a long way in less than twenty-four hours.”

  I look back at the dead zombie. The gashed eye socket yawns blackly. Frederico’s right. Compared to my first few kills, this one was practically professional.

  “I’m a mom on a mission.” I clean the spike on the zombie’s pant leg, then slide it back into my pack harness. “Don’t fuck with me, and don’t fuck with my friend.”

  Chapter 29

  Tunnel

  It takes us a good hour to pick our way around Willits in the dark, even though we only travel about four miles. We’re too far away from the main artery of town to see if there’s any military presence, but I suspect we’d find a checkpoint at the very least. All the more reason to keep ourselves to the shadows of the open land.

  Other than tripping on a rock and disturbing a dog chained to a doghouse, we make it without any major mishap. We reconnect with the railroad tracks at mile sixty-five.

  “We’ve run over one hundred kilometers,” I say. One hundred kilometers is a popular distance for ultra races, which is equivalent to sixty-two miles.

  “Only one hundred thirty-five to go,” Frederico replies.

  I’m about to respond when I feel my phone vibrate. A shot of elation goes through me. I nearly drop the phone in my haste to fumble it out of my pack.

  “It’s Carter,” I say, naked delight and relief in my voice.

  Had 2 move 2 another room, his text says. Everything OK. Where r u?

  What happened? I type back. I recognize my son’s reticence to give me the whole truth. He’s trying to protect me, like he did when Kyle died.

  You don’t have to protect me anymore, baby, I think.

  A few seconds later, his answer comes.

  Fire in room next door. Burned through wall. Everything OK now.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter, ire rising in my voice. Fire? A hole burned in the wall of his dorm room?

  “What’s going on?” Frederico asks, tense as he watches my face.

  “What the fuck are the soldiers doing on campus if they’re not helping the students?” I snap.

  Where r u now? I type.

  Another dorm room. I’m safe. Where r u?

  I grind my teeth, knowing I’m not going to get any more information from him.

  Just passed Willits. Only 135 miles to go.

  LOL. Only u and F can say that about 135 miles on foot.

  A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, dispelling some of my earlier anger. He must be relatively safe if he can joke.

  Keep safe baby, I type. See u soon.

  See you soon.

  I pass the phone to Frederico, letting him read the exchange. I study my old friend as he scrolls through the conversation, seeing the telltale signs of weariness. His shoulders slump, eyes blinking a little too rapidly as he struggles to focus on the text. We need to stop and rest before he falls and breaks something.

  “Our boy is smart and strong.” Frederico passes the phone back to me.

  “Takes after his dad.” I glance at the phone. Shit. Battery is three-quarters of the way gone.

  “Takes after his mom, too,” Frederico replies.

  I shrug. I might be able to run a long way, but I didn’t have the strength when it really counted.

  “It’s three in the morning,” I say. “We’ve been on our feet for seventeen hours. “Let’s find a place for a catnap. Thirty minutes or so will give us some extra energy.”

  He nods. “We’ll have to sleep in shifts. Let’s find a place that offers some shelter.”

  We move at an easy lope down the tracks. Two miles later, we find it: an abandoned tunnel running through a mountain. The tracks lead inside, disappearing into complete blackness.

  “Here,” I say, drawing to a stop. “We rest here.”


  Either side of the tunnel opening has been spray-painted. On the left side is a purple-and-green, one-eyed dragon bursting from a blue egg. On the right side is a blue head of an old man with a giant nose and mustache.

  We pick our way inside. I’ve done my fair share of running in the dark, but nothing has prepared me for the inside of a tunnel. Even on nighttime trail runs, there’s ambient light from the moon and stars.

  There’s nothing inside the tunnel except unrelenting blackness. The light from our headlamps is swallowed, our circle of illumination shrinking inside the stone walls.

  I crane my neck, trying to get a look at the walls and ceiling, but there isn’t enough light. My headlamp illuminates nothing more than flecks of dust and more darkness.

  I turn my attention back to the ground, focusing on the small patch of ground illuminated at my feet. We move at a walk. Forget running. I can barely see six inches in front of me.

  The tunnel smells like wet dirt and stone. Somewhere around us, water drips. I keep my ears peeled for any telltale moans or groans. Inside this place, we’re as blind as the zombies.

  In front of me, Frederico thumps into something.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  “What?” I inch up behind him.

  “It’s just an old crate.” He leans forward, headlamp shining on a battered wooden crate. It’s intact, the lid held in place with great metal clips.

  “There’re more.” I move past Frederico, hands feeling along the sides of three more crates. A rose is branded on top of the crates. The image tickles something in my memory, but I’m too tired to dwell on it. “What do you think is inside?”

  He shrugs. “Who knows? Who cares?” He thumps the crates with his hand. “This is a good spot to sleep. If zombies do wander in here, it will be good to have something between us and them.”

  He unhooks his pack, tossing it to the ground to use as a pillow. “Give me thirty minutes,” he says, lying down on the rocky ground. “Just thirty minutes, then you can sleep for thirty.”

  I nod, hopping onto one of the crates. Frederico is asleep within seconds, snoring softly. After a few minutes of consideration, I switch off my headlamp. No reason to waste the battery, especially when I can barely see anyway.

  Complete blackness now surrounds me. I feel swallowed by unending nothingness.

  Carter would like this. He wasn’t into running, but he loved a good adventure. Skydiving, hang-gliding, zip-lining, hiking, rafting—he loved it all. I’m sure exploration of an abandoned tunnel would be at the top of his list. He’d love the graffiti art and the sheer unknown of it all.

  Carter.

  I pull out my phone again. To my surprise, there are two bars of reception.

  Can u talk? I type.

  I wait. No response comes.

  I add, We stopped 2 nap. I have first watch while F sleeps.

  Again, I wait.

  Again, no response comes.

  There aren’t even little ellipses to indicate an incoming reply.

  The battery icon turns red, indicating I only have ten percent battery life remaining.

  Battery almost dead, I text. When phone dies, will try 2 find another. Luv u. Stay safe. See u soon.

  “Where are you, baby?” I say softly. What had happened during the short time between our last conversation and now?

  I close my eyes, willing myself not to give in to anxiety. I summon an image of my son’s face. His tall, lanky body, so much like his father’s at that age. His lumberjack beard, the cotton T-shirts with quirky slogans that he always wears.

  I was a shitty mom those first few weeks after Kyle died. Here, in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse, I’m being given a second chance to be the mother I want to be. A mother who doesn’t quit when things get hard. A mother who takes care of her son.

  A mother who saves her son from monsters.

  Please be safe, baby, I say silently. Please be safe.

  Chapter 30

  Granola Bitch

  I let Frederico sleep for an extra fifteen minutes. When I wake him, he glances at his watch and gives me a look that’s half grateful, half reproachful. I just shrug and toss my pack onto the gravel.

  The rocks poke me as I settle down, but they don’t really bother me. In my years of ultrarunning, I’ve napped on roots, rocks, gravel, and boulders. I consider myself a master of the power nap and am asleep as soon as my head nestles onto the pack.

  My eyes fly open when a hand presses over my mouth. I jerk, bolting upright and slapping the hand away. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, or why everything is so fucking black.

  “Kate.” Frederico’s soft whisper brings reality crashing back into place.

  I remember the zombies, the running, the railroad, and the tunnel. I relax, reaching out for his hand and grabbing it.

  “What—”

  His hand flies up, covering my mouth again. “Someone’s here,” he whispers. “Listen.”

  Rhythmic squeaking sounds in the distance. I strain my ears, trying to discern which direction it’s coming from. The sound, coupled with the surrounding blackness, sparks panic in my belly. As the sound draws closer, the murmuring of voices materializes. People.

  “We have to get out of here,” I hiss. After our last run-in with the maniacs who killed Stout, I’m not eager to meet up with more strangers. “Can you tell which direction they’re coming from?”

  “South, I think. Does that look like a light to you?”

  The sleep and the darkness have disoriented my sense of direction. For all I know, I could be facing the tunnel wall right now.

  I turn my head left and right, looking for—for something. Anything. A wrinkle in this perfect darkness.

  After several seconds, I see it: a single bobbing light off to my right. I have no idea if that’s north or south. Whatever the case, we should be moving away from the light.

  Which is easier said than done in the current situation. We don’t dare switch on our headlamps and draw attention. Then again, without our headlamps, we can’t see anything.

  I reach out, turning in a half circle until my hands come in contact with the cool, damp wall of the cave.

  “Do you see the light?” Frederico asks.

  “Yeah.” I grope blindly and find his arm. I grab it and press his hand against the tunnel. “We can guide ourselves along the wall.”

  “And hope we don’t roll an ankle in the process,” he replies grimly.

  I nod in agreement, which is dumb since he can’t see me. I shift onto my toes, walking carefully and trying to make as little noise as possible. Rocks and gravel shift beneath my feet. Every little noise sounds huge in my ears.

  I sense, rather than see, Frederico behind me. The voices grow closer, more distinct.

  Shit.

  I pick up my pace, moving as fast as I dare. My foot connects with what feels like a large rock, causing a soft scuffing sound that may as well be a dynamite blast in my ears. Behind me, Frederico runs into something that sends a shower of pebbles pattering down.

  The voices abruptly cease talking. They stop moving, and whatever squeaky thing they’re moving goes silent. A flashlight beams cuts through the darkness.

  I drop to the ground, trying to avoid the beam. Gravel bores into my knees and palms. I ignore the pain, scuttling along as quickly and quietly as possible. My palms and knees—especially my knees—are soon screaming with pain.

  Thinking of Frederico in my running shorts, I inwardly wince; I have some protection from my compression pants, but Frederico’s knees must be getting torn to bits.

  Behind us, the flashlight continues to probe the darkness. After a few moments, I realize the beam is too small to catch us this far away. Maybe we can get out of here in one piece. Maybe—

  “I know somebody’s in here!” A new voice—a woman’s voice—echoes down the tunnel. “You fuckers better not have touched Mr. Rosario’s stuff.”

  Fuck. So much for a harmless nap in a tunnel. Fuck, fuck,
fuck. Who are these people, anyway? What are they doing here and what do they want?

  I keep moving. The sooner we get out, the better our chances of getting away.

  Someone fires a gun, the shot echoing in my ears like a cannon. I bite down on a squeal and haul ass, crawling as fast as I can. Behind me, I hear Frederico scuttling along.

  “All right, you fuckers,” the woman shouts. “I was trying to be nice.”

  Shooting a gun is her version of nice? Holy fuck.

  “Stop where you are and let us come to you. Otherwise—”

  To emphasize her point, two more shots are fired, both of them flying over our heads and into the darkness.

  Isn’t this crazy bitch worried about zombies? If there are any nearby, that gunshot will draw them.

  I frantically weigh my options. I can move faster on foot, but I’ll be easier to shoot if I’m upright. If I keep crawling, there’s a good chance she’ll catch up with us.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see the flashlight beam growing brighter. She’ll be able to see us soon.

  I reach out a hand, fumbling for Frederico. My hand connects with his shoulder. I dig my nails into his shirt, asking a silent, desperate question. What do we do?

  “Stop right there, assholes.”

  The flashlight beam glances off the top of Frederico’s gray curls. I freeze, one hand still on his shoulder.

  “Who are you?” the woman snaps. “Who do you work for?”

  I turn my head, trying to see the owner of the voice. She’s concealed behind the bright beam of the flashlight. Based on the sounds of multiple feet crunching on gravel, I assume she’s not alone.

  “I asked you a question!” She fires the gun again.

  “My name is Kate,” I squeak, ears ringing from the gunshot. “I—I’m a waitress. This is my friend, Frederico. He’s retired.”

  “Bullshit.” The woman comes to a stop before us. “What would a waitress and a retired man be doing in Mr. Rosario’s cave?”

  “We’re from Sonoma County,” I reply, craning my neck around.

  Now that she’s closer, I can see the woman. She has long dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. She wears ripped jeans and a faded T-shirt that says, What are you looking at, Dicknose? Bits of light-brown armpit hair stick out from her cut-off sleeves. She looks like a bona fide Northern California granola hippie, except that hippies don’t have a predilection for waving guns around and scaring the piss out of people.