Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (14 page)

I roll this plan over in my head. “We may run into some between here and the registers.”

He nods. “You gotta be ready to fight, Jackalope. Fight and get bloody.”

He’s right, of course.

Running shoes, railroad spikes, and flowerpots. Not much in the way of a zombie defense arsenal.

Stout sandwiches herself between us as we carefully open one of the swinging doors. Two-thirds of the way open, the hinges let out a loud whine. En masse, the zombies around the fountain freeze. A dozen heads turn in our direction.

Frederico and I exchange panicked looks, then charge forward. We hook our hands into the terracotta pots and bring them crashing down. They shatter on the linoleum floor, reddish pottery shards flying in every direction.

I pull down one more stack of pots for good measure, then turn and flee. The zombies descend on the aisle in a chorus of growls and moans.

Frederico is by my side as I double back to the end of the aisle and turn right. Stout, who was too smart to follow us down the aisle, rejoins us as we skirt the perimeter of the store.

We haul ass, sprinting out of the garden section and into hardware. I scan the racks of crowbars, hammers, drills, socket wrenches—and there, just to my right, is a stack of screwdrivers.

Shoving the railroad spikes back into my pouch, I snatch up two screwdrivers, wielding one in each hand. Frederico grabs a hammer. The stop takes no more than thirty seconds, then we’re off and running again.

A pudgy zombie in an argyle sweater shuffles into the aisleway, heading toward us. Though we aren’t making much noise—especially not in comparison to the frenzy behind us in the garden department—the zombie is close enough to hear us coming. He bares his teeth and snarls, bloody hands grasping at the empty air in front of him.

Shit. I grit my teeth, raise my screwdriver, and break into a full sprint. Using that momentum, I drive my newly acquired weapon toward his eye. His chill, sticky hands close around my upper arms as I run into him, but I force myself to push in closer as I aim for his face. The squish of his eyeball and brains travels up the length of the screwdriver.

The hands immediately go limp, the argyle zombie dropping to the ground. I don’t give myself time to think. Wrenching myself free, I yank out the screwdriver and keep going.

We hit the paint section and plunge down an aisle, heading toward the front of the store. Between us and the other end are a twenty-something man and woman in fashionable clothes. If not for the blood staining their clothing and a big bite wound in the woman’s cheek, they’d have looked like catalogue models.

I hesitate, wondering if we should backtrack, but Frederico doesn’t break his stride.

“You get the woman,” he murmurs, sprinting past me.

I nod and pick up speed, using the same technique I used on the argyle sweater zombie. Raising the screwdriver, I aim it right at the woman’s eyes. She snarls, sensing my approach, teeth snapping as she reaches out with her hands.

Those grasping fingers make my chest tighten with fear, but I ignore it. If I can run miles and miles at Leadville in muddy shoes held together by duct tape, I can deal with nasty zombie fingers.

I ram the screwdriver into her eye socket, brace my feet against the floor, then yank it back out. I shove the zombie away. She thumps to the ground—right next to her boyfriend, who Frederico has just dispatched with his hammer.

Stout zips past us, forging ahead. She skids to a halt at the end of the paint section, ears pricked forward. Seconds later, she tucks her tail between her legs and rushes back to us.

That is not a good sign.

We creep to the end of the paint aisle, pausing behind the paint-mixing booth. Ten feet beyond the booth are the cash registers.

“Fucking storewide clearance,” Frederico whispers. “Dammit.”

Beside the registers are six zombies, all of them facing away from us. On the floor are smears of blood and discarded merchandise: a broken cement rabbit statue; a box of nails; a brushed nickel faucet. The zombies are pressed up against the glass windows, staring at the road. From here, I can hear the nearby hum of a car engine. Apparently the car is more of a draw than the flowerpot commotion.

Between the zombies and the cash registers is a rack filled with food: granola bars, candy bars, trail mix, potato chips—every sort of junk food imaginable.

I feel like a treasure hunter standing before a chest of gold. My stomach practically leaps out of my body. If ever there was a time to cue heavenly music, now would be it. My mouth waters, and a wave a fatigue washes through me.

I
need
that food.

All we have to do is outsmart a pack of zombies to get it.

I look down at my hands. Blood is spattered all the way up to my elbows and across my shirt. Behind me lay several dead zombies.

Frederico has blood spattered on his face, a few drops freckling the end of his nose. Our eyes meet in silent agreement.

Time to get some fuel.

Chapter 17

Fuel

Frederico and Stout guard my back as I slip into the paint booth.

In front of me sits the big automatic paint-mixing machine. There’s already a can of paint inside it, probably put there before the zombies swept through the store.

I hit the red button that says
Mix
.

The machine immediately vibrates to life, filling the area with a low, stead rumble. The zombies pawing at the windows turn in half circles and rush the paint station with a collective howl.

The three of us dart out of the booth, ducking behind a rack of wallpaper.

As the zombies converge on the paint station, we skirt around them and dart toward the junk food, Stout at our heels.

My first instinct is to rip open a Clif Bar. Even though my mouth is watering and my body is screaming for it, I force myself to wait. Making noise with a wrapper is too risky. Instead, I pick up the entire box. Then I grab a box of M&Ms and stack it on top. I’m just reaching for a carton of mixed nuts when I hear a squeal of tires.

The zombies around the paint machine turn, drawn to this new sound. The car engine rumbles loudly, though there’s no sign of a vehicle. Two of the zombies break away from the paint machine, reaching out with their hands as they move back toward the glass windows.

“We gotta go,” I say to Frederico, grabbing the carton of mixed nuts and throwing it on top of my stack. I hug the food to my chest with both arms. “Now.”

Frederico nods, also balancing several cartons of food. We race toward the doors. I turn sideways, throwing my shoulder into the swinging glass door. I pause long enough to let Frederico and Stout barrel by me, then release it.

Other than a few cars in the parking lot, the area is deserted. A stroke of luck, thank god. We cut around the building, heading back to the railroad. As we draw near the back of the store, Stout barks.

It’s a high-pitched squeaky bark, strangely feminine. It’s the first sound she’s made since joining us. Startled, I automatically draw to a halt, looking around in alarm.

Frederico also skids to a halt—but not fast enough. A zombie comes around the back corner. It’s one of the old men in Hawaiian shirts we saw a few blocks back. What the hell drew him this way?

He and Frederico smash into each other. There’s an explosion of candy bars. Snickers, Milky Way, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups fly into the air. Frederico and the zombie go down in a tangle of arms and snapping teeth.

I drop my stash of food and raise my screwdriver. Frederico is on his back, arms locked around the zombie’s neck as he struggles to keep the jaws from his throat. I pounce and puncture the zombie’s skull with the tool.

Blood pours out in a viscous rush, splatting Frederico in the face. He shoves the zombie away and jumps to his feet. I scramble on my hands and knees, trying to scoop up Clif Bars and shove them back into the cardboard tray.

“Forget the food!” Frederico grabs my arm, hauling me to my feet.

I squawk, momentarily forgetting the importance of being silent. “We need to eat—”

“They’re coming!” Frederico hisses. His hand tightens on my arm and he again tugs me upright.

In the same instant, several zombies come around the corner of the hardware store—three more men in Hawaiian print shirts. Blood and wine stains mix on their clothing. Shit!

My free hand closes on two Clif Bars. Then I give in to Frederico’s pull and follow him in a dead run toward the railroad tracks. Stout streaks along beside us.

One Hawaiian-print zombie briefly turns in our direction. At that moment, the car we’ve been hearing rumbles into view.

It’s the military jeep we saw at the gas station, and it’s in bad shape. The paint along the passenger’s side is scratched and dented. The door is missing. One tire is flat. The front hood is horribly crumpled. Smoke rises from the engine.

I recall the crash I heard earlier. Could it have been this jeep? Is that why it’s in such bad shape?

I catch a glimpse of a bleeding, wild-haired soldier leaning into the steering wheel, as though the angle of his body can make the wounded car go faster. There’s no sign of the other soldiers we saw with him earlier.

Behind the jeep is a good two dozen zombies. They move down the road at a shuffling run-walk. Every once in a while, one trips and falls. Immune to pain, he or she gets right back up and keeps going.

Had they been pursuing an undamaged car, they wouldn’t have any hope of catching it. Pursuing a jeep with one flat tire is a different story. They gain ground on the car and the poor soldier inside. An eerie cacophony of sound rises from their ranks, a mix of moans, cries, and wordless growls.

The Hawaiian print zombies forget all about us and amble in the direction of the jeep.

Time slows. I see the jeep swerve as several zombies gain the open passenger side door. The monsters are knocked over. The vehicle bounces violently as it rolls over the bodies. The driver momentarily loses control, swerves, and hits the curb. There’s a loud
bang
as one front tire explodes. The jeep leaps forward, skidding into the hardware parking lot.

The zombies immediately surround it. Two scramble onto the hood, clawing at the glass. Another clings to the open window on the driver’s side.

The soldier inside screams in panic, but it’s too late. One of the other zombies—a teenage girl that looks close in age to the driver—finds her way through the missing door on the passenger’s side and sinks her teeth into the young man’s shoulder.

The car skids, the metal of the tire rim making an awful screech against the pavement. The jeep shoots forward, moving with an unbalanced gait, coming straight for the side of the hardware store—and us.

“Run!” Frederico shouts.

I turn, breaking into an all-out sprint. Behind us is a tremendous crash. The jeep plows into the corner of the Ace Hardware, not twenty feet from where we’d been standing. Zombies close in, completely blotting the car from view. The soldier’s screams gain in pitch. Our precious food supply is lost under building debris and zombie feet. The poor soldier inside is lost, swarmed by the undead.

“Don’t look,” Frederico says, grabbing at my hand. “Keep running.”

I didn’t even realize I’d drawn to a halt, mesmerized by the unfolding horror. I break back into a run. We hit the tracks and push north at a dead sprint.

Chapter 18

When the Wheels Fall Off

Mile thirty.

Hopland fades into the distance behind us, the tension of our narrow escape falling away. What remains of the experience is despair.

All that work, all that risk—and we don’t have a single fucking scratch of food to show for it.

“Fuck, fuck,
fuck
!” The words come out in a half sob, half moan. I am so goddamn fucking
hungry
. Am I going to have to resort to eating my shoes? I’m ready for it.

“Water,” Frederico says. “We got water, Jackalope. One out of two isn’t bad.”

I say nothing.

“You’re bonking,” Frederico says. “You can get through this.”

I suck on my water straw, trying to satiate my desperate hunger with liquid.

I have nothing to be upset about. Nothing. I’m still alive, unlike that poor soldier. All the soldiers. Everyone in the hardware store. They’re all dead. Bonking isn’t anything to complain about.

This knowledge doesn’t stop me from being pissed. My head throbs. My stomach cramps. My legs feel like blocks of lead. I’m considering the wisdom of eating the weeds cluttering the railroad tracks. I’ve heard dandelions are edible.

The hunger is wearing on Frederico, too. His shoulders hunch as he runs, chin nearly resting on his chest. His pace is sluggish, yet dogged.

It’s not just the bonking that’s wearing me down. My knee aches from the fall I took earlier on the tracks. Blisters are building up on my feet. A pressure on the side of my right foot is starting to throb. I need to lance the blister, but I’m afraid if I sit down, I’ll never get up again.

Of the three of us, only Stout is in decent shape. She trots beside us, tongue hanging out and ears swiveling.

My foot catches on a railroad tie. I stumble and curse, managing to right myself before taking a face plant. I brace both hands against my knees, breathing hard.

I feel like complete shit. Worse than complete shit.

Frederico slows, turning to watch me. I stare at the weeds pushing through the soft earth at my feet.

Almost every part of me wants to collapse on the tracks and disappear into oblivion, to fade away from the physical pain and discomfort.

Almost every part.

This isn’t the first time I’ve bonked. I wish I could say I’d been smart enough to avoid similar situations in the past, but the truth is that every runner makes stupid mistakes.

*

The first time I bonked had been at my first 100-kilometer—62-mile—race, the Miwok 100K. I miscalculated my nutrition needs, skipping snacks at two previous aid stations due to an upset stomach. The steep, single-track trails, combined with the heat, depleted all my reserves.