Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (21 page)

*

I crouch on the right side of the railroad berm, weapons clutched in each hand. Frederico stands on the opposite side with his hammer and his lug nut wrench. The wind blows, carrying with it the chill scent of rot.

I nod, the beam from my headlamp bobbing up and down. At my signal, Frederico starts clacking his weapons together.

The three zombies instantly straighten, heads swiveling in our direction. They moan, arms outstretched as they walk toward us. I scan our surroundings, watching for other zombies. The grassland and oak trees around us are quiet, rippled by the nighttime breeze.

The first of the zombies—Dreadlocks—trips on a rock and goes down. He’s back on his feet in seconds, a determined moan rising from his throat.

Guitar bumps into a tree, then quickly reorients and continues forward.

Forked Beard is in the lead. He’s the most nimble-footed of the bunch, his booted feet practically gliding over the earth. He’s the first to stumble into our barricade.

It’s nothing more than a pile of sticks and branches we salvaged from the surrounding landscape. Three feet wide and one foot tall, it’s just big enough to trip Forked Beard and send him sprawling.

That’s my cue. I dart over the berm, weapons raised. Forked Beard rolls on his side as he hears me coming. My headlamp illuminates his yawning maw. His blind eyes shine like white marbles.

As I dart in, one hand closes around my ankle. I yelp in fear and ram the spike down as hard as I can. The hand goes slack as my rusted steel punctures his skull.

Breathing hard, I lean back on my heels and yank out the spike.

“Kate, look out!” Frederico’s shout splits the air like an axe.

I look up just as Guitar trips on the barricade and goes down—right on top of me. I squeal, twisting around to get the screwdriver between me and the monster. The wooden guitar slams into my hip and grinds painfully against bone as the zombie lands on top of it.

Snarling, he lunges for me. I slam my hands against his throat, straining to keep his snapping teeth from my flesh. The screwdriver tumbles from my grasp.

Frederico darts forward, swinging the lug nut wrench like a baseball bat. It connects with the zombie’s skull, making a dull thud. The force, coupled with the slick surface of the guitar, throws the monster off balance. He slips sideways. Frederico swings a second time, delivering a solid thwack to the creature’s skull.

I wriggle free and jump to my feet, turning to face the last of the zombies. Dreadlocks bumps against the barricade. Instead of tripping, he pauses and lets out a long, low moan.

He shuffles forward, straining against the barricade. Branches and sticks snap and tumble as he struggles to push through, but he doesn’t trip.

Fuck this
, I think.

I sprint straight at Dreadlocks, slamming both hands into his chest. He snarls at the impact and falls, landing hard on his backside.

Frederico barrels past me, vaulting over the pile of debris like an Olympic hurdler. He swings the wrench once, twice. Blood droplets sparkle like rubies in the light of his headlamp.

Dreadlocks drops, dead.

I lean over my knees, breathing hard. Adrenaline roars in my ears. A giddy, mad laugh rises in my throat.

Frederico gives me a crooked grin. My headlamp illuminates the blood flecks on his face. He steps toward me, raising one hand for a high five. I laugh again, slapping my palm against his.

“Zombie Rollers unite,” I say.

“Zombie Rollers unite,” he agrees, grin widening.

This is a single lighthearted moment in the middle of a day that’s been fraught with fear and uncertainty. I decide to let myself enjoy it, even if it only lasts a few seconds.

Chapter 28

Purple Passion

The first order of business is getting the packs off the dead zombies.

“Grab his arm.” Frederico motions to Guitar. “We need to roll him over.”

“Hold on. I have an idea.” I bend down and pat the pockets of Dreadlocks, searching. I come into contact with something long and smooth. I reach into the pocket, grimacing when I touch something sticky. It feels like dried gum or a half-eaten piece of candy. I reach farther in, smiling triumphantly when I find the prize.

“Check it out.” I pull out a pocketknife, holding it up for Frederico to see. It’s about six inches long with a rose mother-of-pearl inlay.

“Nice.” He takes the knife and flips it open.

It only takes a few minutes to saw the packs off the bodies. We drag them a short distance away, then sit down to rifle through them.

A general aroma that has nothing to do with death hangs over the bags. It’s the scent of unwashed clothing and flesh.

“Beef jerky.” Frederico flashes me a grin as he rips open a package and passes me a few strips.

I greedily devour the jerky, relieved to have something in my stomach again.

I dig through the backpack of Forked Beard, pulling out several pairs of dirty underwear and stinky socks. Yick. I toss them away. Next comes a shirt. Then my hand touches crinkly plastic.

“Trail mix. Nice.” I pull out the bag and rip it open, dumping some into my hand before passing it to Frederico.

Ten minutes later, we have a decent pile of water and food before us. We decant the water into our packs. Surprisingly, there’s enough to just about top off both water bladders.

Most of the food is prepackaged stuff that goes well with traveling; nuts, dried fruit, granola bars, beef jerky, and crackers. We also unearth hard candies, Twizzlers, and a few candy bars. There’s a half-eaten roast beef Subway sandwich with a suspicious aroma that comes out of Forked Beard’s bag.

Frederico pulls off the stinky meat and tosses it aside, then slices the sandwich in half. Beggars can’t be choosers. We eat in silence, polishing the sandwich off and moving into the packaged food. Within ten minutes, we’ve consumed almost everything. All that remains are hard candies and a few granola bars. Those we stash in our packs.

“What do you think?” I retrieve the stinky pair of socks that, at any other time in my life, I’d have discarded.

“What do I think about a stranger’s dirty socks?” Frederico raises an eyebrow at me.

“They’re dry.” I tug off my shoes. “Which is more than I can say for mine.”

“You didn’t get a chance to blow-dry your shoes back at the house?”

“No. Ran out of time when those sick assholes showed up.” A pang goes through me as I think of Stout. If we’d left the house sooner, she’d still be alive.

If the world wasn’t filled with assholes, she’d still be alive.

With a sad sigh, I strip off my wet socks and inspect my feet. Frederico wordlessly passes me the blister kit. I angle the headlamp, studying the new blisters that have popped up between my toes. There’s one under the middle toe on my right foot that has swollen to the size of a large blueberry. The toenail has started to pop off. The blister under my big right toe has nearly doubled in size, blood and clear pus oozing around the loose nail.

With a grimace, I grab the flagging edge of the loose nail and give it a firm tug. It comes free with a brief sting. I repeat the process on the middle toe.

“Two toe nails down,” I say, tossing them to the ground. “Eight more to go.” I wrap the injured toes with Band-Aids.

“With luck, you’ll have a few left by the time we get to Arcata.”

I laugh, using an alcohol pad to wipe down my skin. Then I pull out a needle and get to work lancing the blisters.

“This was the only part of ultrarunning Kyle couldn’t stomach.” I squeeze clear fluid out of the first blister. “We used to joke that it was a good thing he didn’t have a foot fetish.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Frederico chuckles. “I think he actually turned green the first time he saw me rip off a toenail.”

“I was on my own when it came to my blisters.” I smile at the memory. “He didn’t care if I puked or shit my pants, but he wouldn’t come near me when I broke out the blister kit.”

“You shit your pants?”

I pause, glancing up at my friend. “Only once. I never told you about it because it was disgusting. It was at the San Diego One Hundred. I thought it was a really good idea to eat spicy Indian food the night before the race.” I look away, aiming my headlamp back at my feet. “I paid for that decision the entire one hundred miles. I went through three pairs of running shorts. Kyle and Carter thought it was hilarious. They made poop jokes all the way home.”

Frederico bursts out laughing. I smile despite myself, keeping my attention on my feet.

Frederico, still chortling to himself, leaves me to my work. He goes about conducting a second search through the backpacks. He finds Skittles, M&Ms, and another pocketknife.

“Aren’t you going to check your feet?” I apply some Neosporin to the lanced blisters.

“Nah. They feel okay,” he replies. “I’ll check them at our next stop. Whoa, look at this.”

He holds up a small Ziploc. At first all I can see is a black lump inside. Frederico moves his headlamp, aiming the light and illuminating the contents. It’s a small glass pipe and a dark green plug of marijuana.

“No wonder our friends couldn’t escape the outbreak,” I say.

Frederico sits down next to me, turning the Ziploc over in his hands. He’s quiet, intent on the weed and pipe. The intensity in his gaze makes me nervous.

“Frederico?”

“Mmm?”

“What’s up?”

“I was just thinking.” He sighs. “When I first went sober, I used to fantasize about a time like this.”

“A time like what?”

“The end of the world. An excuse to break my sobriety and go nuts.”

My brow wrinkles with sympathy. “I understand.”

“Of all the drugs I used, pot is the one I miss the most. This,” Frederico holds up the baggie, “was my favorite. It’s called Purple Passion. See the little purple flowers?” He holds the bag out to me.

I take it, not wanting to leave temptation in his hands. Under the light of my lamp, I see the little purple flowers.

“I’d have the most fantastic hallucinations on that stuff.” His voice goes soft around the edges, like he’s recalling a long-lost friend. “I went to a Pearl Jam concert high on it once. Everyone around me sprouted angel wings. The ground fell away. The audience floated with the stars. Pearl Jam’s music turned into ribbons of silk and flowed around us as we danced in the sky.” Another nostalgic sigh. “That was a good high.”

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—”