Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (2 page)

“Deal.” He holds out his hand, like we’re supposed to shake on it. I give him a
look
. He chuckles. After a beat, I laugh, too. It feels good to laugh. Maybe this morning isn’t a complete waste.

I take one last look at the dead pig. As I do, a vulture rustles through the trees and lands on the carcass, casting its beady gaze briefly on us before turning its full attention back to its feast. The bird pecks at a ropy length of intestine, its leathery, red head almost the same hue as the pig’s blood.

I shiver and turn away, leading the way back up the trail.

*

Forty minutes later, we trot back into the gravel parking lot. My white hatchback waits for us. It’s covered with a permanent layer of dust because I’m always leaving it at trailheads.

“Do you have any extra shorts in the car?” Frederico asks.

“Yeah.” I pop the trunk and rummage in my running gear box. “Here you go.” I hand him a pair of fluorescent-pink running shorts. “These will complement your complexion.”

He chuckles, amiably moving to the passenger side of the car to change.

I pull off my hydration pack, take a last sip from the water tube, then toss it into the trunk. As I close the hatch, I catch site of my reflection in the glass.

God, I look like shit. My pink, moisture-wicking tee sits on thin shoulders. Short brown hair is pulled back in a tight French braid, revealing a lean face that borders on gaunt. My neck looks long and rubbery, like a turkey’s. Lots of running and not enough eating. Food doesn’t hold much interest these days, not without Kyle.

My gray roots are showing, making me look older than my thirty-nine years. I should get them dyed, but there just doesn’t seem any point to it most days.

I make a mental note to eat two apple fritters at breakfast. Taking care of my hair might be a pain in the ass, but Frederico is paying for breakfast. Besides, eating isn’t such a chore when I have company.

“There’s another dead pig over there.” Frederico gestures over the hood of my car.

I look across the gravel parking lot and catch sight of the pig carcass. Three vultures are having a field day with it.

“Some hunter out here is a bad shot,” I mutter, plopping into the driver’s seat.

“No kidding.” Frederico, decked out in my pink running shorts, slides into the passenger seat. “We should let the park ranger know on the way out.”

“Yeah.” A creepy feeling crawls up my spine. I shake it off, turning my attention away from the dead animal and focusing on my friend instead. “Pink is totally your color, by the way.”

He flips me the bird and gives me a mock scowl.

Grinning, I fire up the engine of the car. NPR blares out of the speakers as I pull onto the road.

“Rioting at the port of Portland, Oregon continues to escalate,” the voice of the news reporter says. “Riots started just forty-eight hours ago when dock workers attacked peaceful protestors. Protestors are from Stop Hunger Now, an organization dedicated to ending world hunger. Members are protesting the port’s union-mandated slowdown, which has caused hundreds of food containers to spoil. Thousands of tons of food have been left to rot in the containers during the slowdown—”

“Depressing.” Frederico flips the channel, turning it to a classic rock station.

We stop at the ranger station. The light is on and the door is ajar, but no one’s inside.

“Maybe the ranger went to grab a coffee or something,” I offer.

Frederico shrugs. “Guess they’ll hear about the dead pigs eventually. Can’t say we didn’t try.”

“Guess so.” I shake off the image of the gutted pigs, pressing the accelerator and exiting the park.

We drive back toward the town of Healdsburg with the windows rolled down, letting the morning spring air infuse the car. The rolling, tree-covered hills of Lake Sonoma disappear behind us. Vineyards take their place, the tips of green buds pushing out of the bare brown vines.

The thought of going home to an empty house makes my insides feel like a crushed can. I feel some relief as I detour toward the Plaza in downtown Healdsburg, where Bread Box diner is located.

The once-quaint farming town, nestled in the heart of Northern California wine country, has transformed over the years. The town I grew up in has morphed into a tourist destination with overpriced clothing stores, winery tasting rooms, and restaurants with menus that require a French-English dictionary. Even at this early hour on a Saturday morning, the sidewalks are already thronging with tourists.

Thankfully there are still a few places, like Bread Box, that cater to locals. Maybe I’ll ditch the apple fritters and get scones instead with my breakfast. Bread Box makes
the
best cheddar cheese scones. They were Kyle’s favorite. There was a time when he ate them every day for breakfast. That fad lasted until he started having trouble buttoning his pants. After that, the scones became a rare treat, though they were no less loved. Eating one will make me feel close to him. And I want to feel close to him.

“What the hell?” I slam on my brakes as a twenty-something in six-inch heels staggers off the sidewalk and nearly falls into my car.

Chapter 2

Dead Drunk

“Watch where you’re going!” Frederico shouts at the drunk girl.

She laughs uproariously, as if nearly walking into a moving car is worthy of a Comedy Central skit. Her pack of girlfriends laughs with her, hauling her back onto the sidewalk as they grin and wave at me. Every last one has on skin-tight clothing and ten pounds of makeup. They carry wine glasses and sport matching fluorescent-green wristbands, the sort you’d get at rock concert.

It’s only nine in the morning and it’s clear this pack of Barbies is already shit-faced. Did they start the day off with Bloody Marys and mimosas? Seriously, who greets the day and says, “Please pass the six-inch stilettos, I’m gonna get shit-faced today!” You’d think they’d at least wear sensible shoes for a long day of drinking calisthenics. But hey, if you’re going to make an ass out of yourself, might as well look good, I suppose. That way
everyone
will notice you.

The drunk Barbie band roves off in search of the next tasting room. Hopefully they packed a few barf bags in those designer purses.

My car rolls farther into downtown. There are people everywhere, all of them carrying wine glasses and wearing fluorescent-green wristbands.

“Barrel Tasting weekend,” I groan. I’d forgotten about that.

“Two weekends of drunken festivities.” Frederico purses his lips.

People come from all over the world to sample wine out of the barrels of Healdsburg wineries. Our population of ten thousand will literally double with the influx of tourists.

I thought it was cool when I first moved to town when I was younger. Now, as I nose my car through the streets, hoping to avoid hitting another drunk idiot, I just find it annoying.

I manage to snag a parking spot only a block away from Bread Box. Dressed in spandex compression pants, with sweat stains on my face and in my armpits, I look absolutely fabulous amidst the decked out stiletto tourists. I tug my visor down, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Frederico practically struts into their midst, my pink shorts ablaze.

Despite myself, I have to smile at the odd looks he gets. At least he doesn’t smell like shit anymore.
That
would get attention.

We shoulder our way through the tourists and their wine glasses before finally arriving at Bread Box. The inside of the restaurant is like stepping through a time machine. Formica tables. Vinyl chairs. Chipped linoleum floor.

I love this place. While the rest of the Healdsburg Plaza has transformed over the years, Bread Box has remained unchanged. It’s too dive-like to attract the fancy tourists that roll into town, which means it’s mostly empty this morning. No French-English dictionary to eat here, thank you very much.

We order and take a seat next to a window that looks out on the Plaza. This was Kyle’s favorite table, even if watching stupid drunk people wasn’t his favorite pastime.

“I just signed up for an ultra,” Frederico says, sipping his coffee.

Ultra is short for ultramarathon. An ultramarathon is any race longer than a marathon, or twenty-six point two miles.

“I hope you don’t plan to eat Mrs. Crowell’s chili the night before,” I reply drily. He chuckles, a warm rich sound that eases the tension in my muscles. “Which one are you running?” I ask.

“Mount Tamalpais Fifty Miler.” He cocks his head. “You should come. You haven’t raced since you lost Kyle.”

Part of me shrivels inside. I ran ultras all the time when Kyle was alive. He came to every race as my support crew. When I ran into an aid station, he’d be waiting with snacks, fresh socks, electrolyte tablets, a blister kit—whatever I needed to help me refuel and finish my race. His presence always kept me going, especially on the hard runs.

“I’ve raced since then,” I say, trying to maintain a chipper exterior.

Frederico gives me a serious look. “You’ve signed up for races. You haven’t actually run any of them since the accident.”

“I don’t like to start things I can’t finish.” I shrug. “My plantar fasciitis has been bothering me. You know that.” It’s true. Kind of. I’ve struggled with plantar fasciitis—an inflammation of the foot tissue—on and off for years.

“Kate, don’t give me that. You’re in the best shape of your life and we both know it.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, studying my coffee. Without Kyle, I just don’t have the desire to race. I have no one to run
to
.

“Race entry fees are too expensive,” I say at last. “I need to save money to help Carter with school.”

I’m full of shit and Frederico knows it, but he doesn’t push me. I deal with the awkward silence by fishing my phone out of my purse and absently checking for texts or missed calls.

I’m not really expecting to find any messages, but to my surprise there are three missed calls, two voicemails, and two text messages from my son. He’s twenty and attends college in a hippie town four hours north of Healdsburg. Frowning in surprise, I thumb through the texts.

Mom, where r u?
the first message reads. The second one says,
Call me asap.

“Huh,” I murmur to myself.

“What?” Frederico asks.

“Carter texted me twice and tried to call three times.”

Frederico raises an eyebrow. “It’s barely nine o’clock in the morning. He must need money.”

I chuckle at the joke. We both know Carter isn’t the type of kid to ask for money. Rather, he’s
the sort of kid who would call to ask the best way to cook brown rice or how to make chicken stock from scratch. There’s no telling what he’s up to.

As Frederico smiles at my laughter, I know I’m off the hook for bullshitting him. I put the phone to my ear, expecting to hear my son’s cheerful voice. Instead, his words come out in a harsh whisper.

“Mom? Mom, where are you?” There’s an edge to his words that borders on fear. “Look, call me as soon as you get this message, okay? Wherever you are, I need you to find Frederico and get back to the house. God, I hope you’re not on the trail today.”

I blink in surprise, a lump of anxiety forming in my stomach. I’m always out on the trail on Saturday mornings. What’s going on with my laid-back, quasi-hippie son? If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was playing some sort of fraternity hazing joke on me, but Carter would just as soon shave his legs as join a college fraternity.

“What’s up?” Frederico asks, studying my face.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

I thumb to the next voice message. Carter’s voice fills my ear. The edge is still there. If possible, it’s been amplified.

“Me again, Mom. You’re probably out on the trail. Hopefully with Frederico. Look, I need to you to drive home, lock everything, and barricade all the windows and doors. Fill up the bathtubs with water. I know this sounds weird, but please, trust me. Call me as soon as you can.”

The lump in my stomach grows. I immediately call him back, chewing on my lower lip as the phone rings.

And rings. And rings some more, finally switching over to voicemail.

“Hey, sweetie,” I say. “It’s me. I’m with Frederico. Call me, please. You’re scaring me.”

“What’s up?” Frederico asks.

I wordlessly hand the phone to him. Frederico listens to the messages, a crease forming between his brows.

“Think he’s playing a joke on you?” He sets the phone down after listening to the messages.

“Maybe,” I reply. “That’s not really Carter’s style, though.”

“No, it’s not.” Frederico scratches his head. “Well, you can try him again after breakfast.”

I nod, unable to dispel the unease lodged in my gut. I set the phone on the table so that I won’t miss another call or text from Carter.

Our breakfast arrives. We dive into the meal. As I stuff a fork of hash browns into my mouth, I idly stare through the window out at the Plaza. It’s a large grassy area with soaring, manicured trees, a gazebo, and a water fountain that doubles as a toddler swimming pool in the summer. This morning, it’s thronging with tourists. I polish off my omelet and start in on the first of the apple fritters, watching the droves of wine lovers walk by outside.

A pack of metrosexual males staggers by in loafers, slacks, and pastel shirts. God, they are even more fucked up than the Barbie brigade we saw earlier. One of them has red wine smeared all over his button-down shirt. Another has red wine splashed over his face. All of them move with a shuffling gait. Maybe they started Barrel Tasting weekend with mimosas, Bloody Marys,
and
tequila shots. Maybe they’re just hungover from a full night of partying. Whatever the case, they look like hell.

“This is better than reality TV,” Frederico says around a mouthful of biscuit.

I nod, shoving a chunk of apple fritter into my mouth.

The metro with red wine all over his lavender shirt lunges at a pretty girl in tight pants. The neckline of her shirt practically plunges to her navel. The metro paws at her breasts, a loud moan passing between his lips.