Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (11 page)

We don’t look back. It’s only a matter of time before the vineyard zombies break down the pasture fence, but we hope to be long gone by the time they do.

Mile nineteen.

The baying fades into the distance. No sign of the zombies behind us.

I check my phone. Still no message from Carter.

“Quit looking at that thing,” Frederico says. “Focus on our task.”

He’s right. I put the phone away and keep moving.

We hit an incline, the tracks snaking up a steep hill. We drop into a power hike. We know better than to run the hills with so many miles before us. Running hills in an ultra can kill a runner’s race. Better to power hike and conserve energy for the long haul.

“I was scared,” I say, huffing alongside Frederico. “When that zombie grabbed you. Really, really scared.”

“Me, too, Jackalope.”

“I—I don’t think I’m cut out for zombie killing. I got lucky.” I shake my head. “Luck isn’t going to get us to Carter.”

“I know.”

My voice goes up an octave. “We almost died back there!”

Silence. Our rhythmic breathing fills the space between us.

I expect Frederico to call me Jackalope and tell me everything is going to be okay. I expect him to tell me we’re going to get the hang of this zombie killing thing, even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

He doesn’t do any of those things.

“Do you remember the day Carter told you and Kyle he wanted to be a craft brewer?”

The question takes me aback. “What does that have to do with—”

“Do you remember that day?”

“Of course. He was fifteen. His friends rode their bikes downtown to get ice cream during the craft beer festival. He came back dazzled by the brewers with their big beards and long hair.” Despite my current mood, I warm at the memory.

My son has always been on the granola side. The first girl he ever took on a date was a wannabe hippie girl who went braless and wore patchouli. He grew a lumberjack beard at age sixteen. He chose Humboldt State University, probably the most granola campus in the continental US.

“Do you remember Kyle’s reaction to the I-wanna-be-a-craft-brewer proclamation?” Frederico asks.

That sobers me. A recovering alcoholic with a son who wants to make beer for a living?

“He had a hard time with it.” Actually, he had called Frederico and gone to an AA meeting that night, though Carter never knew about it.

“After that meeting, he bought the Homebrewing for Dummies book. And helped Carter make his very first keg of beer.”

“Then wouldn’t let him drink any of it.” I remember my angry adolescent son trying to take on his stubborn father. “Made him donate the entire keg to the Kiwanis Club for their annual fundraiser.”

“They made quite a few kegs together, if I remember correctly.”

“Three. And he never let Carter drink any of it. ‘Not until you’re twenty-one,’ he’d say. There’s one keg left in our garage. After Kyle died, Carter couldn’t part with it.”

Frederico halts. He stoops, bending down to stick his hand into a patch of weeds. When he straightens, there’s a railroad spike in his hand.

He holds it out to me. “Take it.”

I obey, hefting the chunk of rusted metal in my hand.

“I was with Kyle the night he had to come to grips with the fact that his son wanted to make alcohol. I’m going to tell you what I told him that night: you go the extra mile for your kids. You dig deep, get over yourself, and do whatever you have to do to support them. For Kyle, that meant helping Carter make beer. For you, that means sucking it up and learning how to bash the brains out of undead fuckers.

“Remember when you ran the Western States One Hundred and your shoe came off at the Rucky Chucky river crossing? It got swept downstream and we discovered you had accidentally left your spare shoes at home.”

I nod. Forgetting my second pair of shoes had been a complete rookie move.

“You ran fifteen miles to the Highway Forty-Nine aid station with only one shoe,” Frederico says. “Kyle spent that time bartering with the other crews to get you a replacement. Your foot looked like hell when you arrived. When I asked you how you ran all that way without a shoe, you told me that you just put your head down and focused on your goal. Remember that?”

“Yes,” I whisper. Kyle had cracked jokes about me losing pieces of my mind on all the training runs I had done. Meanwhile, he had lovingly cleaned my foot and doused the cuts and abrasions with peroxide.

I recall the extreme focus and determination I’d summoned on that race. I’d wanted so badly to finish under twenty-four hours. The shoe fiasco had set me back, and the one-hundred-mile course ended up taking me twenty-seven hours to complete. But I had finished. I hadn’t quit. I hadn’t let the setback or the pain stop me.

“That’s all you need to do here,” Frederico says. “Put your head down and focus on your goal. Bashing in some zombie skulls should be a walk in the park for a woman who can trail run with only one shoe.”

Again, I nod. I’ve done a lot of crazy things on races, but running fifteen miles without a shoe was definitely at the front of the nut job train.

“You’ve got the mettle for a post-apocalyptic world,” Frederico says. “Stop thinking you’re a helpless first-world woman who can’t survive more than twelve seconds without her smartphone. Be the tough runner who endures utter hell to get a job done. That’s who you need to be.”

Frederico’s words are like a slap of water in my face. They snap me out of my self-pity, reminding me that I’m capable and tough. My grip tightens on the railroad spike.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am cut out for this world.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I slide the spike into the front strap on my running pack. It fits snugly and is easy to pull out in a pinch. “Carter needs me. I have to put on my big-girl pants and get this done. No matter what.”

I can feel my mental space shifting. I find the place that exists deep inside me—that place of impenetrable toughness that helps me endure long runs and prolonged physical pain.

Frederico, who’s watching my face, sees the shift. “That’s my girl.” He pats my shoulder. “Kyle would be proud.”

“He’d tell us we’re batshit crazy,” I reply, lips quirking. “Do you remember when he showed up at the American River Fifty dressed in that gorilla suit?”

Frederico laughs. “The Cal Trans orange gorilla suit? Yeah, that was grand. He thought a good laugh would get you to the end of that race.”

“I got a PR in that race. Never ran a fifty miler in under ten hours again.” PR stands for Personal Record. The pride of that day come back to me, along with memories of Kyle’s beaming smile. “He kissed me with his gorilla mask and told me I was his batshit crazy woman and he loved me.”

“He was proud of you, you know,” Frederico says.

Yeah. Proud of his insane, ultrarunning wife. God, I miss Kyle so much. I could use a husband in a fluorescent-orange gorilla suit right now.

“Come on, Frederico,” I say. “Let’s find some more spikes.”

There are some perks to running on an abandoned railroad. Within ten minutes, we are both armed with two spikes. They fit perfectly into the front straps on our running packs.

Without another word, we set out.

Chapter 13

Ultra Dog

Mile twenty.

The hills keep coming, one after another, undulating before us. We run down the declines and power hike up the inclines. Yellow, white, and purple wildflowers dot the countryside.

A hot spot has formed on the bottom of my big right toe and another on the inside of my left foot.

Blisters. Here they come.

Under normal circumstance, it would be time to stop and swap out for a dry pair of socks.

Today, there is nothing to do except run. The wet weeds continue to whack at my legs. My ankles and the tops of my shoes are covered with cattails and burrs.

Mile twenty-one.

I’m light-headed with hunger. I start to fantasize about food. Biscuits and gravy, turkey sandwich with avocado and bacon. Bacon. Bacon with tomatoes and lettuce on rye bread.

“What I wouldn’t give for a Double-Double Animal Style from In-N-Out,” Frederico says.

“I’ll take a strawberry milk shake,” I reply. “With a double order of fries.”

Chili fries. Hell yeah. That would be good right now. Chili fries with pizza. And chicken wings with a double serving of buffalo bleu sauce on the side.

“Do you think we’ll ever have a chance to eat at In-N-Out again?” I ask.

“Hard to say, Jackalope.”

Mile twenty-two.

Something moves in the bushes. I don’t hear any sound, just see a slight shivering of the undergrowth contrasting with the quiet, unmoving world around us. I fling out a hand, snagging the hem of Frederico’s shirt. He gives me a questioning look, and I gesture toward the bushes.

We each pull out a railroad spike. Standing side by side, we scan the tall weeds. Again, I see that oh-so-delicate shiver of the undergrowth.

I tighten my grip on the weapon. Frederico drops into a crouch, raising his spike.

How many hobo zombies are out there?
I wonder wildly.
Are we destined to have a run-in with every one of them between here and Arcata?

Something whines, then barks.

I let out an audible breath.

A dog. It’s just a dog.

The animal creeps forward, ears flat and tail tucked between its legs. It’s a mixed mutt with long legs and short, brown-black fur.

“Come here, buddy.” Frederico holds out a hand.

The dog whines again and slinks forward. It bypasses Frederico and comes to me, pressing a wet nose against my arm. I rub its head and neck. It leans against me, nearly knocking me over. I shift into a better position. Frederico joins me, both of us petting the animal.

My hand connects with a collar. It’s a dirty, grimy orange.

“Her name is Stout,” I say, reading the tags. “She’s from Willits.”

“Stout? As in, Guinness?” Frederico asks.

“I guess so. She’s the color of a stout.”

“She’s a long way from home.”

“Not a good sign.” I pause, looking up at my friend. “The last beer Kyle and Carter made together was a stout.”

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Maybe.” I shrug, rising. “Come on, we have to keep moving.” I give the dog one last pat.

When we break into a jog, Stout follows us. Frederico and I glance at each other without stopping.

“I wonder how long she can keep up with us?” I say. Dogs are fast runners, but they aren’t cut out for long distance.

“Six, maybe ten miles at most,” Frederico replies.

“She did come all the way from Willits. That’s gotta be at least—what?—maybe forty miles or so from here?”

“Sounds about right. But who knows how long that journey took her?”

“Maybe we have an ultra dog on our hands.”

“Ultra dog? I like that sound of that. What do you think, girl?” Frederico asks.

Stout wags her tail, ears pricking up as she paces along beside us. We have officially transitioned from a running duo to a running trio.

Mile twenty-three.

An old metal bridge comes into view, straddling the land that rises up on either side of the railroad tracks. The bridge is a hulking mass of trussed steel that’s been painted a dark green. I recognize it. That bridge means we’re about a mile away from the tiny hamlet of Hopland.

Frederico and I slow beneath the shade of the bridge, pausing to suck water from our near-empty hydration packs. Graffiti tags adorn the bottom of the bridge with garish color.

“We need to find water,” Frederico says. “My pack is almost empty.”

“Mine, too.” I hesitate, then add, “We need fuel, too.” As if either of us could forget how hungry we are. I’ve been dreading this time, even though I knew it would come.

“Water has to be the priority,” Frederico says. “If we see an opportunity to get food, we can take it, but let’s focus on water.”

I shake my head. “We can’t run two hundred miles on water.”

He sighs and makes a face. “I know. I’m deluding myself because the idea of foraging for food scares the shit out of me.”

The sound of a police car siren fills the air. We freeze, both of us automatically looking up at the bridge above us. The sirens draw closer, the wails growing louder.

Moments later, the sirens shut off. This is followed by the sound multiple car doors slamming.

“Police,” I whisper. “They’re just above us.”

Frederico nods.

We remain where we are, crouched beneath the bridge. I hear the muffled voices of the police officers talking, but it’s impossible to make out their words.

“Let’s get closer,” I whisper.

Frederico nods. With Stout by our side, we creep out from under the bridge. We manage to work ourselves to high ground. Luckily, a thick screen of oak trees growing beside the highway provides cover. The underbrush is thick and rough. There’s poison oak, too. Nothing to be done about it. I lift my hands and elbows, doing my best to keep them above the poison oak. At least my legs are protected by long pants, but poor Frederico is bare from knee to thigh. Dozens of little cuts cover him.

Peering through the thick foliage, we see four Mendocino County police cars and eight cops. They’ve created a barricade with their squad cars at either end of the bridge.

“How long are we supposed to blockade the road?” one officer asks.

A dark-haired woman with the shoulders of a linebacker shrugs. “CDC said they’d have military reinforcements here in the next twelve hours.”

“Shouldn’t we be wearing, I don’t know, biohazard suits or something?” another officer asks.

The woman shakes her head. “It’s not airborne. They said it’s transferred through bodily fluids. If someone contracts the disease, symptoms manifest at different rates. Some people show symptoms within hours, others not for a few days. Those are the only details they gave me. Here, we have these.” She tosses a box of latex gloves onto the trunk of the nearest squad car. “We should all wear these when talking to civilians.”