Reality hits Niles full in the face. He grasped the concept of a zombie outbreak before, but that was in a panicked, peripheral sense. Now, as he stares at the unmoving body, he feels the needles of this new world sink its teeth into him.
If Steve is right, and this really is widespread, the world as they know it could be over. No Western States. No happy life with Celeste.
Celeste. He has to get to her.
A telltale rustling reaches his ears, along with guttural moans. He turns and sees half a dozen more zombies logrolling down the steep hillside.
The switchbacks, Niles realizes. In their blind state, the zombies follow sound, not the trail. They’re stepping off the path and tumbling over the hillside—straight toward Niles, Steve, and Rayford.
“Run!” he cries, urging father and son forward. He crowds in behind them, purposely eating up the space.
The act has the desired effect. Steve and Rayford leap forward. The zombies crash across the trail behind them, continuing their downward descent toward the lake. Several of them keen, setting off those farther up the hillside. More crash down in their direction. With Niles on their heels, Steve and Rayford push hard.
“We’re not horses.” Rayford wheezes. “We’re not meant to move like them for hours on end.”
Despite everything, Niles snorts in amusement.
“What’s so funny?” Steve demands.
What the hell? Maybe a story will distract them from their physical discomfort. It works for him on long runs. He decides to tell them the story of Western States.
“There’s a one-hundred-mile race from Squaw Valley to Auburn,” he begins. “It’s called Western States. It started as a horse race. One year, a man by the name of Gordy Ainsleigh found himself with a lame horse at the start of the race. Since he didn’t have a horse, he decided to run the race in his horse’s place. Not only did he finish the race on foot, but he beat a lot of the horses. Every year after that, people started showing up to run the race with the horses. There were more and more people every year. Finally, it became so popular that they created two races, one for people and one for horses. It’s been going ever since.”
“Is that what you’re training for?” Steve asks. “Western States?”
“Yeah.” Niles can’t help the swell of pride in his voice.
“You would have made one hell of a marine,” Steve comments.
“Sounds ultrastupid,” Rayford says.
Niles doesn’t have anything to say to that.
6
Uphill
A FEW YEARS AGO, NILES helped a friend at the Tahoe Rim Trail Endurance Run. A grueling, one-hundred-mile, high-altitude race with over 17,000 feet of vertical climbing, it was one of the tougher hundreds out there.
He paced his friend for fifty of the one hundred miles. Pacing is accompanying another runner on a portion of their ultra. It entails helping the runner stick to his race plan, keeping him on course, and making sure he eats and drinks. Basically, doing whatever is necessary to help him get to the finish line.
When he paced Patrick at Tahoe, it was a grisly year. Thunderstorms tormented the runners all day, drenching them with frigid water. The trails were a muddy wreck. Everyone was cold, miserable, and filthy.
Patrick wanted to quit at mile eighty. Niles, as his pacer, cajoled him into continuing. He used every trick in the book to convince Patrick to keep going, right up until the moment his friend crossed the finish line. It had taken them twenty hours to slog those fifty wet, mud-encrusted miles.
Now, as Niles trails along behind Steve and Rayford, he realizes this is just another pacing gig. He can do this. He can get these two people to the finish line. That’s not so bad, right? They might be out here, what, maybe another four hours? Five? This is a cakewalk in comparison to Tahoe.
All they have to contend with are dead people who want to eat them.
Niles shifts his brain into the mindset of a pacer, bent on the task of taking care of his runners. As they snake along the Rancheria Trail, the path becomes one of constant rolling hills.
“Power hike uphill,” Niles coaches. “Run the downhills and flats.”
“Is that what you do?” Rayford pants.
“Standard ultrarunning playbook,” Niles replies. “Conserve your strength on the uphills, push hard on the rest.”
On they go, moving deeper and deeper into the uninhabited land on the western side of Lake Sonoma. There’s no road or home for miles and miles. They are well and truly isolated. The high-pitched keening of the pursuing zombies is ever present behind them.
Though he pushes Steve and Rayford as hard as he can, and the two are in decent shape, they aren’t accustomed to long-distance running. They’ve only been on the move for three, maybe four miles, but already he can see fatigue setting in. Despite their lighter loads and loosened gear, they’re slowing.
They’re slowing, and the zombies are gaining. The distant keening grows ever louder.
“They’re probably following the scent of our fear,” Steve says. “That’s what animals do.”
“Save your breath for running,” Niles replies. “We’re on a downhill. That means pick it up and run.”
“Yes, drill sergeant,” Steve mutters, but he picks up his pace.
Rayford is limping, favoring his right leg. He falls farther behind, unable to keep up with his father.
This is not good.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” Niles asks.
“My boot,” the boy replies. “It’s chafing my ankle.”
Shit. Niles had feared this. Loosening the laces hadn’t prevented it.
He calculates the distance they have ahead of them. They have over fifteen miles to go. It doesn’t take a math genius to know Rayford’s chafing could be the death of them all.
“What size do you wear?” he asks Rayford.
“Eleven.”
Perfect. Niles wears a size twelve in running shoes, a size eleven in all his other shoes. Feet swell during long runs, which is why most runners size up in their running shoes.
“Stop and take off your boots,” Niles says.
“What? Why—”
“I’m giving you my shoes. We’re the same size. You’re not going to make it in those boots.”
“What are you going to wear?” Rayford asks.
“I’m going barefoot.”
Both men stare at him.
Niles did a stint as a barefoot runner. He’d read several books on the topic, buying into the theory that barefoot running reduces injury and fatigue, as well as increasing proprioception. Proprioception is lauded as a sixth sense among runners, an unconscious awareness of one’s location and movement within an environment.
All the magic of barefoot running seemed real—right up until the day he ended up with a stress fracture. That put him on the couch for eight weeks, during which time he practically climbed the walls. After that, he’d gone back to shoes.
But during his year or so of barefoot running, his feet had acquired toughened soles. Rocks, roots, and sticks didn’t bother his bare feet.
He drops his shoes in front of Rayford as a burst of keening grows louder behind them.
“Put ’em on,” he says. “We have to move.”
Rayford obeys without further argument.
When they’re once again moving, Niles hands them each an energy gel. “Eat,” he orders. After they both suck down the gels, Niles jogs up beside Rayford and extends the drinking straw of his hydration pack. “Drink, but don’t stop moving.”
Rayford doesn’t have to be asked twice. He bites the straw between his teeth and sucks greedily. Niles repeats the same procedure with Steve.
“It’s like refueling a jet in midair,” Steve says.
Niles grins. “I guess so.” If the man thinks of himself as a jet, all the better. He needs to be a jet. They all do.
On they go. Rayford is moving better now that he has proper footwear, but shoes can only do so much to combat fatigue.
R
unning the flats and downhills turns into fast shuffling. This is not going well. They’re encountering more and more uphills as the trail climbs away from the lake.
A plan takes shape in Niles’s mind as it becomes apparent they won’t outrun the zombies. If he can just keep father and son alive for another two miles, there’s a chance to get rid of the zombies once and for all. It’s a crazy plan, even for an ultrarunner, but it just might work.
“Pick it up,” he says quietly, calmly. “I know you’re tired, but you can do this.”
“Easy for you to say,” Rayford snaps. “You’re used to this stupid running stuff.”
“Rayford,” Steve says, panting, “show Niles respect. He’s trying to save our lives.”
“Sorry,” the boy mutters. Despite his petulant tone, he actually sounds sorry.
“We’re coming to a river crossing,” Niles tells them. “The current isn’t very strong, but if we’re lucky, the slippery rocks will slow down the zombies. After that is a long section of uphill.”
Rayford groans.
“At the top of the climb is a sheer drop off,” Niles continues. “The views are gorgeous, but the fall over the edge is deadly.”
He lets father and son absorb this. The silence of the forest is punctuated by the keening of the zombies.
“You think we can lure them over the cliff and get them off our tail?” Steve bends at the waist, breathing hard. It’s another sign of his fatigue.
“Yes. But in order for that to work, it’s critical we stay ahead of them.” Niles switches to his severe tone, the one he used to browbeat Patrick to the finish line at Tahoe. “That means you’re both going to have to push. It’s going to hurt. You’re asking your body to do something it’s never done before. You may want to curl up in the fetal position and die, but you can’t. If you lose the will to suffer, you’ll die. If you don’t hurt from head to toe, you aren’t moving fast enough.”
“Are you sure you aren’t a marine drill sergeant?” Steve asks.
“Nope. Just an ultrarunner with a lot of experience in self-inflicted pain and suffering. I can get you both out of here, but you have to push with everything you’ve got. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” they both answer in unison.
“Good. Then move!”
The pep talk works. Steve and Rayford labor down the trail, huffing and puffing but obediently picking up the pace. Niles looks behind them, stomach clenching as he catches sight of a loping form in the distance. It’s a good half mile behind them, but that isn’t much of a lead with all the uphill running in front of them.
“Faster,” Niles calls softly.
“Fuck it.” Steve chucks his crossbow into the forest. Next goes the quiver and arrows. After that, he moves even faster.
As the trail drops, angling them toward the creek, ground irises sprout along the forest floor. The dark purple petals with a white stripe in the center are gorgeous this time of year.
What the fuck. He might die out here, and he might not. Niles falls behind Steve and Rayford, crouching alongside the trail. He snaps a picture of the ground iris for Celeste. If he lives, she’s going to get her virtual bouquet.
The foremost of the zombies gains on them. The trail is mostly straight, and the creature is tireless. Not good.
The creek, fifteen feet wide, bursts into view. Spanning the water is a fallen log. The top has been leveled with a chainsaw, making it somewhat flat. Luckily, it’s springtime; in the winter, the log is covered with ice and often unusable.
“Over the log,” Niles huffs. “On the other side is a mile and a half of uphill. Prepare to push. Remember: if you’re not hurting from head to toe, you’re not pushing hard enough.”
Rayford lets out of soft groan. Steve, mouth set in a firm line, nods.
Once they reach the other side of the log, it begins, the relentless grind. Up and up they go, alternating between jogging and power walking. The trail is wide and strewn with leaves, making the surface slippery. Niles moves easily in his bare feet, toes springing off the soft earth.
“How do you do that?” Rayford asks, wheezing.
“Save your breath for running,” Steve huffs.
Niles runs alongside each of them, once again giving both of them his straw for water. They both suck greedily on the fluid.
Once they’re both watered, Niles takes the lead, pushing hard. He stays ten feet in front of his companions, reeling them forward. He sets a hard pace for them, but there’s no choice.
Then he sees it. At the bottom of the trail comes the first zombie, splashing across the stream. It pauses in the water, lifting its nose to scent the air. Then, apparently detecting them, lets out a high-pitched keen. The cry is echoed behind it as more zombies take up the call.
This is it. They push hard, or die.
Rayford is crying. His sobs are mixed with his labored breathing. How far has the kid gone this morning? At least five miles. He’s just a kid. On top of everything, he’s lost his mother.
“You can cry later,” Steve tells him. “Move.” His voice is not without compassion, but still firm.
Niles snatches up a long sturdy stick. He scans the ground, searching. A few minutes later, he finds a second stick. He passes them both to Rayford. “Use these like trekking poles,” he says. “They’ll help you.”
Steve nods to Niles in silent thanks. Rayford just takes the sticks, puts his head down, and keeps grinding. Good.
The keening becomes louder, picked up by more and more zombies. It’s like having a pack of hunting hounds on their trail. This is what raccoons must have felt like in Where the Red Fern Grows. Niles never liked that old classic.
“Half a mile,” Niles huffs, his own breathing ragged both from the exertion and fear. Glancing at his watch, he sees that he’s at mile thirty-two. He’s been on the move for nearly eight hours.
If he survives this—if the world survives—this will be the most epic training run in history.
“I can see them,” Rayford whisper-shouts.
“Don’t look back,” Niles tells him. “Nose to the grindstone. Your mission is to move.”
The zombies steadily gain ground. Two hundred fifty yards and closing.
The cliff is a good three-quarters of a mile away. Rayford is slowing. The boy is trying; his face is ruddy with effort, but this just might be the farthest he’s ever run. If he can’t make it, they’ll all die.
“Rayford,” Niles asks, “can you climb?”
The boy looks up at him through bleary eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good. Hurry up.” Niles runs ahead, stopping at a tree that fell this past winter.
It’s a redwood two feet across at its base. The topmost boughs are lodged between two other trees. It doesn’t look entirely stable, but Niles judges it strong enough to hold Rayford and Steve. If they can get high enough and not do anything to draw the attention of the zombies, they should be safe so long as Niles can lead the horde away.
“Get up,” he says to them. “Hide. Stay quiet. I’ll call the zombies after me and lead them to the cliff.”
Rayford drops his walking sticks. Sniffling, he scrambles up the side of the fallen tree, edging into the higher boughs. If he stays quiet, the zombies won’t even notice him.
The monsters continue to gain, the foremost of them only two hundred yards away.
“Go,” Niles hisses, gesturing for Steve to follow Rayford.
“No way,” Steve says. “A man shouldn’t have to face those things alone. Rayford, sit tight. Don’t make any noise and you’ll be safe. Be strong, son.”
Niles wishes the older man would stay, but they don’t have time to argue the point.
“You ready to sprint?” Niles asks.
Steve looks him square in the eye. “Like the life of my son depends on it.”
7
The Plunge
NILES TAKES OFF. HE doesn’t hold back this time. Letting up a wild shout, he pours on the speed.
“Come and get us motherfuckers!�
�� he screams, tearing up the trail.
Steve is hard on his heels, adding his own cry to the mix. “Come on, you undead fucks! That all you got?”
Their cries incite the zombies, bringing them streaming after them in a frenetic pack.
“You were holding back on us,” the older man grunts.
“I was trying not to run you both into the ground,” Niles replies, pouring on another burst of speed, counting on the hunter to keep up with him.
“Half a mile,” he pants. “That’s as far as we have to go. A person can endure anything for half a mile.”
The zombies continue to gain on them. Niles tucks his chin into his chest and digs deep, sweat running into his eyes and dripping off the tip of his nose.
Burning lungs. Aching quads, screaming calves. Cramped shoulders, dry mouth. Fatigue. Fear.
Another quarter mile uphill and they’ll reach the cliff.
Push, Niles tells himself. His bare feet fly over the trail, barely making a sound except for the rattling of leaves. His breath labors in and out of his lungs.
Celeste.
He’s transported back to that day in college when they together crossed the finish line of his first half marathon. Niles remembers it with fierce clarity. He wasn’t sure what was more astonishing: the fact that he lost ten pounds during training, the fact that he ran thirteen point one miles without dying, or the fact that he had a beautiful, sweaty, smiling girl beside him.
Niles knew he wanted more: more running, and more Celeste. He was going to sign up for a marathon. He was going to marry Celeste. She might not know it yet, but she was the one for him.
He’s sucked back to the present as the keening of the zombies lashes at him, driving him onward. He has to survive, if only to get back to Celeste.
He bursts to the top of a rise, and there it is, the yawning cliff, a sheer, two-hundred-foot drop to the shore of Lake Sonoma.
This is the part of the plan Niles hasn’t allowed himself to think on too hard. He might be a runner, but that’s the extent of his athletic ability. What he has in mind now is borderline insane. More insane than racing one hundred miles or getting up at two in the morning for a fifty-mile training run.
Dawn Patrol Page 4
