Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (34 page)

“Your favorites.” I hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah, my favorites. They’re covered with mud and burrs.” And a little bit of blood from the bullet wound in my shoulder, but I don’t say the last part out loud.

“What are you using for fuel?” he says.

“Whatever we can scavenge,” I reply. God, it’s so good to hear his voice. I’m so lucky he’s alive and safe, at least for the moment. Why couldn’t Aleisha have been safe, too? “We raided an RV twenty miles back and ate everything we could get our hands on.”

“An RV, huh? No zombies inside, huh?”

“No, there were zombies inside. Seven of them. A whole family.”

Pause. “You guys killed seven zombies?”

“Yeah. Remember the Attack and Stack racing theory?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we applied that to zombie killing. Created a narrow opening and made them come out at us one at a time. Sort of.”

“Wow. My mom the zombie killer. That’s . . . pretty cool.”

I’m tongue-tied by the compliment. Unsure how to respond, I say, “Are you getting enough to eat?”

“We’ve been eating out of the vending machines.” He pauses. “We had to break into it.”

Poor Carter. Vandalism isn’t in his nature.

“How long will the food there last you?” I ask.

“A while, I guess . . . Mom?”

“I’m here, sweetie.”

“Do you remember that time we went spelunking for Dad’s birthday?”

How could I forget? That trip took place less than a year before Kyle’s accident. It was our last family trip together.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Remember how he made you crawl first through the tunnels so he could, you know, frisk you?”

Now it’s my turn to smile. More tears come to my eyes, but they’re happy tears. Kyle had tweaked my ass in those narrow tunnels, finding my squawks of protest hilarious. Carter had been thoroughly disgusted, as only a teenager can be in purview of his parents’ physical affections. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t actually see what was going on, but he’d been smart enough to figure it out.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I’m glad you guys were happy together. When Dad was alive, I mean. I’m glad.”

This feels too much like a good-bye. “Carter, you stay strong. You hold out. I have less than seventy-five miles to go. With any luck I’ll be there in less than twenty-four hours. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“What are we going to do when you get here?”

His question stuns me. To be honest, I haven’t thought beyond getting to Arcata and finding him.

“We’ll find a way to survive,” I say. “Somehow. Together. You, me, Frederico, and whoever else you’re with. Okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

“I love you, Carter.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

Hanging up is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I gently place the red phone back in its cradle, wiping at my eyes. I look up to see Alvarez watching me.

“I’m glad your son is alive.”

I hear the unspoken
for now
in his words. Some dim part of my mind tells me I might be in Frederico’s shoes in less than twenty-four hours. What will I do if I find Carter dead and zombified?

The thought is too horrible to contemplate. No, I can’t think that way. I need to believe my son is alive. It’s the only thing that will keep me going.

“Carter is strong. And smart. He’ll be okay,” I say. “Frederico and I are going north. Will you come with us? We’re safer in a group. We can look out for each other.”

He hesitates, then shakes him head. “No.”

I study him. He avoids meeting my eyes.

“You’re going on to Ukiah, aren’t you? To join the soldiers there?”

He flinches, like I’ve caught him in a lie. “I could never keep up with you guys anyway. I ran a half marathon once, but that’s as far as I’ve ever gone.”

“What if they’ve already been overrun?” I say quietly. “What if—”

“I ran,” he blurts out. “When shit got thick in the bar, I ran.”

He stares at his shoes, shameful red creeping up his neck. I am very careful not to stare around at the slaughter that surrounds us.

“I should have died here with the rest of my platoon,” he says quietly.

“So you’re going to Ukiah to make up for not dying here?” I can’t keep the sadness from my voice.

Alvarez meets my eyes. He doesn’t say anything.

I resist the urge to sag. God, I’m so damn tired. I like Alvarez. I hate to see him rushing off to a hopeless case.

“We’re not so different,” Alvarez says, a touch defensive. “Neither of us has much chance of surviving.”

He’s got a point there. I sigh, resigned. “How will you travel?” I ask.

“On foot, like you guys. Walking, though, not running.”

“Will you help me bury Aleisha? Before we go our separate ways?” It needs to be done and Frederico is in no shape to help me.

Alvarez stares at Aleisha’s body. I see reluctance in his face, but all he says is, “Yeah, I’ll help you. Come on.”

*

It takes us a solid hour to dig the hole for Aleisha.

In the movies, characters always dig perfect rectangles in the earth. Alvarez and I managed a crooked oval using a shovel with a broken handle we found by the dumpster. It isn’t very deep, but it’ll have to do.

“Bye, Aleisha,” I whisper. I jam the shovel into the earth, wiping away the sweat beading my forehead. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here in time.” Sorrow makes my throat tight. Even though she caused Frederico nothing but heartache, I’d have given anything to save her.

Frederico never comes out. I consider going in to get him, but the truth is that I’m a big chicken. I’ve never seen him drunk before. I’m in new territory with my oldest friend, and I have no idea what to do.

“How’s your shoulder?” Alvarez asks.

“It’s okay, thanks. You did a good job stitching me up.”

In truth, the wound hurts like a motherfucker and the stitches look like they were put in by a dyslexic kindergartener, but I’m not going to complain.

“You should take the vodka with you,” he says. “Use it to keep the wound clean.”

I shake my head. “Even if I can carry the bottle, I can’t have alcohol around my friend.”

Alvarez gazes at me, saying nothing for a long minute. “You know why he drank, don’t you?”

I look away. I do know. Deep down, I know. I’m too upset about his lost sobriety to put it into words.

“She had to be put down,” Alvarez says. “He loves her and wanted to be the one to do it. It had to be him. That’s why he turned to the bottle.”

I focus on my dirty, bloody shoes. Alvarez is right. It was Frederico’s last act of love for Aleisha, but he may have paid for it with his soul.

“I wish he’d let me do it,” I whisper. “I would have done it for him.”

Alvarez, though young, wears an expression of understanding that makes me think he’s older than his years.

“My dad fell off the wagon when I was ten,” he says.

“What happened?” I swallow, mouth dry, not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Lost his job. Couldn’t afford our rent. We had to downsize into a two-bedroom apartment in a shitty part of town. Beat himself up over it every night, until he couldn’t take it anymore. That’s when he turned to the bottle.”

“What happened then? I mean, after he lost his sobriety?”

“Got caught pissing in public in a grocery store parking lot. Had to register as a sex offender for it.” Alvarez sighs. It’s a sad sound. “He got sober again after that, but he’s carried around that label ever since.”

Our eyes meet. I want to say something wise, something comforting, but I’ve got nothing.

After that, Alvarez and I return inside. On the way in, we step over the bodies of three zombies we had to kill before digging Aleisha’s grave. They’d been drawn by with the racket made during Frederico’s breakdown.

We find my friend in the far corner by the walk-in freezer, knees pulled up to his chest. A bottle of cooking sherry is in his hand. He is in the process of sucking it down like it’s the elixir of life.

Something in me snaps. I stride over to him and yank the bottle out of his hand. “This stops now!” I overturn the bottle, letting the sherry sluice onto the floor.

I expect him to rage. Or maybe cry. Maybe both.

What I don’t expect is for him to turn glassy eyes up at me. Those eyes, cradling infinite pain, roll up into his head. He collapses at my feet.

“Frederico?” I drop to my knees and give him a rough shake. “Frederico!”

Alvarez, surprisingly calm, checks his pulse. “Unconscious,” he pronounces.

“Fuuuuck.” I draw the word out in frustration.

Stalking to the sink, I turn the cold handle. To my surprise, water sputters out. I grab a frying pan out of the sink—probably one of those Frederico threw in his fit—and fill it with water. I dump it unceremoniously on his head.

Nothing happens.

“Shit-shit-
shit
.” I stare down at his unconscious form. What am I supposed to do? Just sit here until he wakes up? While Carter is stuck in the dorm cafeteria, waiting for me?

“You could put him in the jeep outside,” Alvarez says. “There’s a long stretch of open road through the forest. You can probably drive a little way without worry of attracting a horde of zombies.”

I consider this. “Where’s the next military checkpoint?”

“The town of Scotia. Or at least, that’s where it was.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s there anymore.” That haunted look comes back into his eyes.

“I’ll take the car.” It’s my best option, considering the circumstances, even though cars have been nothing but trouble. I glare sadly at Frederico’s still form. “Will you help me move him?”

*

Alvarez and I spend twenty minutes scavenging supplies before setting ourselves to the task of moving Frederico. It takes us another fifteen minutes to haul him outside and get him strapped into the jeep. It’s been humming away quietly all this time. Two zombies have wandered into the parking lot, which I dispatch with the shovel we used to bury Aleisha. Alvarez watches me in silence.

“You’re going to make it,” he says after I’ve bludgeoned the second zombie to death. “You’re insane and tough.”

I hold the shovel out to him. It’s soiled with sticky blood and bits of hair and dirt. “Take it,” I say. “It’s quieter than a gun.”

He takes it solemnly. “Bye, Kate. Good luck.”

“Good luck, Alvarez.” I take a moment to memorize his face, knowing it’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again. “Nice knowing you.” I give him a quick hug.

With that, we go our separate ways. Alvarez disappears back into the forest, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He holds the shovel in the opposite hand, using it as a walking stick.

I get into the driver’s seat of the jeep and pull out onto the deserted road, heading north with my drunk, unconscious friend.

Chapter 45

Out of Gas

As Alvarez predicted, the road north of Laytonville is a lonely one. It narrows to two lanes. Oak trees have completely disappeared, replaced by tall pine trees. I drive with the windows down, using the cold air to keep me awake.

We’re barely a mile gone from Rod’s Roadhouse when the jeep gives a wicked cough. Alarmed, I look down at the dashboard—and find the gas light on.

“Fuck!” I slam one hand against the steering wheel. “Fuck it all, can’t we catch a break?” I’d been so busy fretting over my unconscious friend that I hadn’t thought to check the fuel gage.

The car makes it another half mile, coughs two more times, lurches, and then dies. I sit there in silence, listening to the soft click and hiss of the dead engine. What am I going to do?

I will not cry
, I tell myself resolutely. I’ve cried enough already. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to help anything.

I mull over my options, realizing there isn’t much I can do. I can’t carry Frederico, and I can’t leave him here. The only thing I can do is wait for him to wake up.

Afraid to stay inside the car and be exposed, I retreat a short distance into the woods and deposit a trash bag of food I’d scavenged from Rod’s Roadhouse. Then I get Frederico’s limp form out of the car. Looping my hands under his armpits and around his chest, I drag him into the woods. It’s slowgoing, but I manage. I drop him onto the ground and roll him onto his side. He emits a soft snore.

Exhaustion swells within me. Every ache in my body makes itself known. My tired, blistered feet. The bullet wound in my shoulder. The achy knee from my early fall. Exhausted, sore arms. Stiff back. Even just the short ride in the car was enough to make my leg muscles tighten up. Patches of rash from the poison oak have started to pop up on my arms.

It’s 6:30. We’ve been on the move and awake for almost thirty-three hours. And we still have a long way to go.

I decide to sleep for thirty minutes. It will give me a much-needed boost and hopefully be long enough for Frederico to wake up from his stupor.

I set the alarm on my watch. Then I curl up on my side, pressing my back against Frederico’s, and close my eyes.

I’m yanked from the depths of a dreamless slumber by the sound of someone throwing up. I bolt upright, breathing hard, unaware of where I am or what’s going on. Drool and pine needles stick to my cheek.

It all comes crashing back: Aleisha, Alvarez, the stupid out-of-gas jeep, Frederico . . .

Frederico.

I turn to find my friend sitting up on his knees. His back is hunched as bits of vomit stream from his mouth. He heaves two more times, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You should have left me behind,” he says, not looking at me. “I’m not worth your effort.”

“Bullshit,” I reply. “You’re my best friend. I’d never leave you behind.”

“What happened to the soldier?”

“Went south. To Ukiah.”

Silence. I don’t want to fill it with useless epithets. Instead I stay quiet, waiting for to him to speak.

He sips on his hydration straw, rinses his mouth out with water, then takes several long drinks. Finally, he lifts his head and turns haunted eyes on me. “What did you do with her body?”