Dawn Patrol

by Camille Picott

  Grief flashes in Steve’s eyes. He squeezes Rayford’s shoulder in an oddly affectionate gesture of shared sorrow. Father and son stand in sad silence.

  Niles knows he should be sympathetic. Somewhere inside, he is. But panic consumes him. If what Steve says is true, monsters are converging on them from two sides of the trail—from both Liberty Glen and Bummer campgrounds. And Rayford just used the word zombie. His father, the solid Steve, didn’t correct him.

  We have to get out of here.

  Niles pulls up a mental image Lake Sonoma, flipping through the trails in his mind.

  “We can cut down this embankment,” he whispers to the two men. “So long as we bear north, we can hit the Rancheria Trail behind the horde from Liberty Glen.”

  Steve evaluates him, cool and calm. “It’s a solid plan. We’re going to want to avoid the main road and the boat ramp. We can try exiting on the other side of Lake Sonoma where there aren’t any campgrounds.”

  Niles nods his head vigorously. “My car is on the other side of the lake.” He doesn’t mention it’s twenty miles away. Better if the two aren’t burdened with the knowledge of miles. It will be a hard push for them, but Niles can help them. And they really don’t have any other choice.

  “You can lead us?” Steve asks. “I’ve never been that far around the lake.”

  “I know the trails like the back of my hand.” Niles doesn’t wait for a response as another keen goes up. He leaps off the trail, adrenaline and fear driving him.

  He’s never been a huge fan of bushwhacking. His friends call it exploring. He calls it floundering around in unmarked wilderness. Niles especially doesn’t like bushwhacking at Lake Sonoma during tick season. Besides that, bushwhacking is a good way to roll an ankle or get injured. He knew a guy who decided to explore, wound up on someone’s private property, and got chased and bitten by a dog.

  Still, when presented with the option of bushwhacking or facing the hordes closing in on them from both directions, bushwhacking sounds pretty fucking good.

  Niles plunges down the hillside. Father and son are right beside him. Steve pulls up the ski mask, revealing a face that’s an older, weathered version of Rayford’s.

  “You’re bloody,” Niles remarks, noticing dark stains on Steve’s pants and shirt now that they’re in the sunlight. “What happened?”

  “Boar’s blood,” Steve replies. “I brought one down this morning. I was heading back to camp to pick up Rayford when all hell broke loose.”

  Before them looms a thick clump of thistles. Niles glances back at the trail, wondering if they have time to skirt around them.

  They don’t. Now that he has some vantage, he can see both clumps of crazed people converging on the spot where he, Steve, and Rayford had just stood. Niles grits his teeth and plunges into the thistles.

  They tear at his bare legs and pluck at the loose shirt he wears. Driven by panic, Niles plunges resolutely forward. He trips on a divot in the earth and goes down. Thorns tear into his arms, hands, and legs. Only a half twist of his torso protects his face.

  He scrambles to his feet, ripping himself free of the thistles. They punch through the thin fabric of his shirt, cutting and scratching him. He barely notices in his elevated state of panic.

  Steve and Rayford aren’t far behind, the two of them struggling through the plants. For the first time since meeting them, Niles envies them their rugged hiking boots, long pants, and long-sleeve shirts. They might be obscenely overdressed for running, but they’re outfitted perfectly for a plunge through a thistle patch.

  Niles bursts through to the other side, picking up his pace to put more distance between himself and the feeders. He keeps his steps short, quick, and light, a balancing trick for fast downhill running.

  In front of him is an ancient oak tree, a majestic beast that stretches its limbs far and wide in every direction. Niles ducks beneath its boughs and barrels straight for the trunk, using the rough bark to catch his descent. He spins around, scanning for father and son.

  They’re still struggling through the thistle patch, the two of them moving with the heavy, lumbering gait of people not used to running on trails. Niles uses the moment to catch his breath.

  The trail they left is fifty yards uphill. The two hordes of monsters race toward one another, the front runners nearly upon each other.

  The sun is up, a full orb cresting the horizon. Niles gets his first, fully lit view of the people chasing them.

  It’s even worse than the close-up view he had in the half-light of dawn. Under the full morning light, the blood and gore is bright and unmistakable. Every last person is covered with blood, many of them with wounds that should have killed them. A ripped-out throat. A broken leg. A disemboweled stomach. He even spots a few with Rayford’s arrows in their backs.

  None of these people should be loping along, moaning and reaching out with their hands. The clothes they wear are as ripped and bloodied as their bodies.

  The worst sight is that of the kids. Niles sees at least a dozen of them lumbering along with the adults. Their bloody little bodies are enough to make him want to bury his head in the dirt.

  He hates clichés, but he can’t deny it any longer. The people on the trail are zombies. Real-life, honest-to-god zombies.

  They fit every movie stereotype in existence. They should stay safely behind the movie screens and locked in horror novels, but here they are, somehow made flesh. He, Steve, and Rayford have somehow stumbled into their own real-life horror movie.

  The two clusters collide on the trail, snarling and moaning as they run into each other. Niles sees the moment when they realize their prey has slipped away. Several in the forefront halt, turning their heads and sniffing the air. A few others let up a long keen.

  Steve and Rayford finally burst out of the thistle patch. The shrubs rattle and shake with their passage.

  The heads of the zombies whip around, pointing right at them. Several more keens go up. And then, en masse, they plunge over the hillside—coming straight for them.

  5

  Ultrarunner

  STEVE AND RAYFORD BURST into the shelter of the oak tree, both breathing hard.

  “We have to move,” Niles says, adrenaline kicking in as the horde pours down the hillside after them.

  Without giving Steve and Rayford time to agree or argue, he pushes off the tree trunk and keeps running. He dodges around bushes and through a few more thistle patches, at last hitting the Rancheria Trail after another two hundred yards. He pauses, turning to look behind him.

  Father and son struggle side by side down the hill. They’re keeping ahead of the zombies, but just barely.

  Niles hesitates. Should he wait for them? It would be easy to take off down the trail and leave them. Alone, he’s fast enough to get away. With them, he risks death.

  Celeste’s face flashes before him. More than anything, he wants to get back to her. He wants to propose to her. Marry her. He already has the ring.

  Western States is only two months away. He plans to propose to her at the finish line. If he leaves now, if he ditches the father and son—and if the world isn’t over—he still has a chance to make that dream come true.

  But Celeste saw something in the fat, insecure college kid in the math study group. Her love helped him become a better person. Now, because of her, he’s in the best shape of his life. He no longer jiggles when he walks. For the first time, he likes the person he sees in the mirror every day.

  Celeste didn’t fall in love with a guy who would abandon two helpless hunters to die at the hands of monsters. Celeste saw a good man.

  He’s going to be that good man she helped him find.

  Even if it kills him.

  “You’re like an antelope,” Steve wheezes as he stumbles onto the trail with Rayford.

  “Drop your packs,” Niles orders.

  When they just stare at him, he snaps, “Don’t argue. I’m the runner. I’m the one who knows every back trail of Lake Sonoma. If you want
to survive, do as I say.”

  Their packs fall to the ground. Niles shifts into a fast walk, gesturing for them to keep moving.

  “But the packs,” Steve begins.

  “You’re leaving them,” Niles replies without slowing. “Now lose the shirts. You have too many clothes on.”

  Niles keeps moving, pulling the father and son along as they tear off the heavy camouflage shirts and strip down to their white undershirts. The pig’s blood on Steve makes a Rorschach blotch that wraps around the lower right side of his torso.

  Niles looks back up the hill. A dozen zombies are stuck in the thistles, but the rest barrel after them. The foremost are only two hundred yards away. He needs to make more adjustments to Steve’s and Rayford’s clothing, but first they need to get some distance between them and the undead.

  “That will do for now,” he says. “Come on.”

  He breaks into a run, trusting the other two to follow. He doesn’t run as hard as he can. Rather, he runs just hard enough to pull ahead of the zombies, but not so hard that he’ll lose the father and son. A few glances over his shoulders shows them hurrying after him. They’re moving faster now that they aren’t so encumbered.

  Several zombies have tripped and fallen, rolling down the hillside like logs. The rest continue at their unnerving lope, keening to one another.

  This is what the wild boar must feel like when the hunters are after them, Niles thinks.

  The zombie forerunners exit the hillside and hit the Rancheria Trail. They turn in the direction of Niles and his companions, rushing after them. They’re tracking by scent or sound. Perhaps both. Either way, the blindness isn’t much of a hindrance.

  The trail narrows to a single track, undulating up and down. They have two miles of this terrain before them. If Niles can keep them ahead of the zombies, there will be a long downhill section where they’ll have a chance to lose their pursuers.

  He just has to keep them alive until then.

  Niles sets a grueling pace. True to long-distance trail-running technique, he grinds the hardest on the downhills and flats. He slows on the uphills, switching to a power walk.

  “Lean into the uphills,” he coaches them in a soft voice. “Swing your arms.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Rayford huffs.

  “Swallow some spit,” Niles replies. They can’t afford to stop right now, not with the zombies only several hundred yards behind them. “I’ll give you some of my water when it’s safe to stop.”

  “You missed your calling as a drill sergeant,” Steve mutters, but Niles sees the approval in his eyes.

  Never has this section of trail seemed so long or so laborious. Every instinct is screaming for him to take off, to ditch father and son, and to run as fast as he can. Niles ignores the urge, keeping Celeste in his thoughts. When he makes it back to her, he won’t have the blood of these two on his conscience.

  “I can’t,” Rayford wheezes. “I can’t keep going.”

  “You think this is hard?” Niles counters, keeping his tone light. “Try being the fattest kid in high school gym class. Now that was hard. But you know what? Even this fat kid kept running his laps, even though Mr. Peterson called me a chunk-tard every time I passed him.”

  The words have the desired effect. Rayford grits his teeth, determination spurring him onward.

  Steve again nods in approval, sweat pouring down his face. He doesn’t have enough breath to speak.

  One mile passes. They stay ahead of the zombies, but they’re not gaining any ground.

  This time, it’s Steve who falters. His face is red from exertion, sweat covering his skin with a sheen.

  “Pain is temporary,” Niles says, pulling out a famous running quote. He changes the end. Instead of saying A finish is forever, he says, “Death is forever.”

  Steve’s nostrils flare. He picks up his pace.

  Niles smiles to himself.

  Two miles. They enter a tunnel of madrones, the reddish bark of the majestic trees stretching to the blue sky. The terrain becomes more uneven, the natural water runoffs cutting trenches in the earth.

  “We’re moving into a long section of downhill,” Niles whispers. “This is our best chance to put distance between ourselves and the zombies. Maybe even lose them. Make your steps short and quick. Keep your eyes on the terrain at all times. Focus on moving as fast as you can. Don’t fight the steep sections. Let gravity work for you. If you feel in control of your descent, you aren’t going fast enough.”

  Steve and Rayford pant too hard to respond, but he sees the acknowledgment in their eyes. He nods at them, then takes off.

  Following his own advice, he lets gravity carry him downhill, zigzagging along the switchbacks that lead down to a narrow finger of Lake Sonoma. The growling and moaning fade away behind him. The keening grows distant. When he glances back up the trail, he can’t even see the zombies.

  He slows, waiting for father and son to catch up.

  When they jog into sight, they visibly wilt at the sight of him.

  “How do you move so fast?” Steve asks.

  “I’m an ultrarunner,” Niles explains without stopping. “I spend a lot of time out here.”

  “What’s an ultrarunner?” Rayford asks. “Is that like cross country?”

  Niles grins. “Sort of. Ultramarathons are races longer than marathons.”

  “How long is a marathon?” Rayford asks. “Twenty miles?”

  “Twenty-six point two,” Niles replies.

  Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. Rayford’s mouth sags open.

  “You run farther than twenty-six miles?” the teen asks. “On purpose?”

  “I’m training for a one-hundred-miler,” Niles says. “That’s why I’m out here today. I had a fifty-mile training run planned.” He looks down at his watch. “I’m close to thirty miles now.”

  Father and son stare at him, at a loss for words. Niles is used to this reaction. Most people have a hard time swallowing the concept of ultrarunning.

  “You should get rid of the crossbow,” he tells Steve. “It’s slowing you down.”

  The other man stiffens. “No way. It might be our last line of defense.”

  “You’ll move faster if both your arms are free.”

  “I’m not ditching the crossbow.”

  Niles opens his mouth to argue, then decides against it. They have a long way to go. There’s no telling how many miles of it they’ll have to run. If it comes to that, Steve will have to choose between speed and his weapon.

  Niles once had to do the same. Only, instead of a crossbow, he had to decide whether or not to keep his running pack. At the Rio Del Lago 100, there was a ten-mile stretch between aid stations. Niles knew he’d need a lot of water in that stretch, but his running pack was chafing both sides of his neck. Another ten miles with the pack and he knew his skin would be raw. In the end, he ditched the pack and swapped out for a handheld water bottle.

  As predicted, he’d run out of water on the ten-mile stretch. But the discomfort of temporary thirst was minor in comparison to what would have been raw, exposed skin. Sometimes, out on the trail, a person has to make choices.

  By now, they have a big enough lead on the zombies that Niles feels they can spare a minute to make a few more clothing adjustments.

  “Hold up,” he tells them. “You need to loosen the laces on your boots. They’re not made for running. All that bulk around your ankles will cause chafing. Get rid of your belts too. They restrict movement. They’ll leave you with wicked chafe burns.”

  “What are we going to do when we get back to your car?” Rayford asks, tossing his belt to the ground and bending over to loosen his boots. His face is red from the effort of the run, his grief over the death of his mother momentarily pounded down from physical exertion. For now, that’s a good thing. It will help him stay alive.

  “My car is at Skaggs Springs,” Niles replies. “The parking lot is remote and usually deserted. We can get my car and try to get back into town.”

>   “If it’s bad out here, it’s probably worse back in town,” Steve says.

  “What else can we do?” Niles demands.

  Steve shakes his head. “Just pointing out the obvious. I—”

  “How far is the parking lot?” Rayford asks.

  Niles struggles to come up with an answer that won’t freak out the kid. Better to keep him moving, not overwhelm him with the knowledge of miles.

  “It’s just on the other side of the lake. Not very far.”

  “But Lake Sonoma is big—” Rayford begins.

  A sudden noise cuts him off. Niles whirls around to see a zombie logrolling down the hill—straight toward them.

  It knocks into Steve, who has his fingers tangled in his boot laces. Rayford screams as his father goes down. They crash into a tree, a tangle of limbs.

  Panicked, Niles snatches up a sturdy madrone branch and swings it like a baseball bat.

  If any of the jocks from high school were here, they would have laughed. Niles was always the last picked for team sports in P.E. class. His swing was as pathetic as his throwing and catching skills.

  Now, he swings with all his might. The branch connects with the zombie’s head, delivering a solid thwack. The creature hisses. It springs to its feet, wheeling around to face him. Niles shoves the branch against its chest, pushing it backward and away from Steve. He drives the beast back, pinning it against another tree.

  Then Steve is there. The big man brings up his knife and buries it in the temple of the creature.

  Niles lets out an involuntary shout of alarm and stumbles back, dropping the branch. Knowing the zombie needed killing isn’t the same as seeing it done.

  “Only a head shot will take ’em down,” Steve says, wiping his knife clean before returning it to his sheath. “I stabbed one of these things six times, and it just kept coming. It wasn’t until I put my knife in its eye that it stopped.”

  Niles’s mouth is dry, and it isn’t from running. He stares at the slumped, unmoving body. It’s a doughy mom in comfy sweats with a handkerchief holding back her hair. Viscous, black blood oozes from her temple.