Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (7 page)

I have five different running packs in my car—not to mention a few waist packs—each for different types of runs. For what’s in front of us, we both need packs with the maximum water and gear storage.

“Shit. I’m low on fuel.” I scoop out three energy bars and one gel, passing them to Frederico. I follow this with a baggie of electrolyte tablets. These are all staples of the ultrarunner, except that I don’t have nearly enough for what’s ahead of us. “I was planning to go to the running store to restock.”

I regret the fact that we didn’t get to eat all the breakfast we ordered at Bread Box. A big meal would have been a good start to this insane junket.

“These won’t get us two hundred miles,” Frederico agrees, surveying our food supply.

“Maybe we can stock up in Cloverdale,” I suggest. Cloverdale is a town ten miles north of us. “Maybe try to get a car there, too.”

“Maybe,” he replies.

Neither of us mentions the physical discomfort we’ll endure if we can’t adequately fuel our bodies. I try to eat two hundred to three hundred calories per hour when I run an ultra. I’ve distilled this down to a science over the years. My body can’t digest more than this, and as long as I keep up a steady stream of fuel, I’m in good shape. Based on our meager supply of snacks, we have enough for three, maybe four hours.

“Fuck it,” I say, breaking the silence and dropping the food into my pile of gear. “We’ll have to figure out ways to refuel along the way.” I won’t let one little obstacle keep me from getting to my son.

“That’s the jackalope we all know and love.” Frederico grins at me. “If we let little obstacles keep us from racing, we’d never make it to the starting line.”

“At least we have a blister kit.” I pull out a little Ziploc filled with needles, Band-Aids, nail scissors, sterile wipes, and a tube of Neosporin.

“Don’t forget to lube up.” Frederico produces a stick of Body Glide and passes it to me.

To the normal person, this would look like a stick of deodorant. To an ultrarunner, it’s the difference between finishing a race or DNFing. Body Glide is a lubricant for runners designed to protect the body from chafing on a long run.

I pull off my shoes and rub my feet with the stick, taking care to work it between my toes. I rub more along the base of my sports bra. These are the worst chafing areas for me. Then I pull on a clean pair of socks to replace the ones Frederico used to wipe his ass.

“Can I borrow these?” Frederico pulls out a pair of compression calf sleeves. They’re fluorescent pink with orange polka dots.

“Be my guest.”

I pass him the Body Glide. He goes around the side of the car to lubricate those parts of the male anatomy that need protection from chafing.

I set about filling our hydration packs from the water jugs I always keep in the trunk. Running out of water during a run is almost as bad as forgetting Body Glide.

Once the packs are filled, I consider my pants. I’m dressed in ankle-length, black compression pants. They’re my preference for morning runs. They’re warm and provide protection from various plants on the trail, but they can get downright uncomfortable on hot runs. They would not be my first choice for any race taking place in the heat of the day.

But compression gear improves oxygen flow and blood circulation, two things which will definitely be important on this run. And if there is indeed any “bushwhacking,” as suggested by Frederico, I’ll want to be in long pants. With a last glimpse at my extra pair of shorts, I decide not to change.

With the pants selection complete, I move on to my shoe collection.

Trail shoes. Road shoes. Trail-road combo shoes. Trail shoes with beefy soles for post-race recovery. Road shoes with a negative heel-toe drop. Old shoes encrusted with mud, which I use when running in storms; no reason to ruin more than one pair. Shoes I bought just because they were on sale and I liked the color scheme. Plus a few others that weren’t on sale. Running shoes for every scenario, and then some.

After a few moments of thought, I pull out a trail-road combo pair with a thick, beefy sole. I won’t be able to carry multiple ones with me, so I need to be prepared for as much variation as possible. The medium tread will work well enough on multi-surfaces, and the beefy sole will give my foot extra cushion on the long run.

After lacing them on, I load my pack, shoving as much as I can into the pockets. I scavenge a few maps out of the glovebox and stuff them into the compartment with the water bladder. There’s a small pocket knife in my gear box, something I always carry when running trails that take me far from civilization.

I silently lament the loss of the things I don’t have room for, like the extra batteries and shirt. The sunglasses, handheld knuckle lights, and the portable drinking straw that purifies water with UV light. There just isn’t enough room for everything.

Headphones are a no-go, too. They could be suicide on a course infested with zombies. I sigh, tossing them back into my car. Running two hundred miles would be nicer with music or a podcast.

God, and what about my waterproof jacket? I just don’t have enough room. Well, shit. I’ve done my fair share of training runs and races in storms. This may be another one if a spring rain decides to open up.

Frederico comes around the car, decked out in my fluorescent-pink shorts and matching compression sleeves with orange polka dots. If our situation wasn’t so dire, I’d be doubled over in hysterics. As it is, all I feel is a sense of overwhelming relief that zombies are blind. Frederico is impossible to miss in those clothes.

He digs around in trunk, tossing handfuls of my gear into the backseat of the car.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Seeing what else you have in here. We could use a weapon or two.” He pulls up the bottom of the trunk, revealing a spare tire, jack, and lug nut wrench.

“What do you think about this?” He hefts the lug nut wrench in one hand. “For crushing zombie skulls?”

“How are we going to carry it?”

He taps the wrench in his palm, considering. “Could we lash it to the back of a pack?”

“Maybe.”

There’s a zip cord meant for securing a jacket on the back of Frederico’s pack. I take an extra shirt and wrap it around the wrench like a sling. After some fiddling, I get the wrench semi-secured to the zip cord.

“Not very stable,” I say, rocking it back and forth. “But at least it won’t swing free and hit you.”

“Probably worth the nuisance if we get in a jam.”

“We won’t be able to get it out very fast if we need it.”

“We could figure out a way to hang it from my waist, but I’d get bloody and bruised from it.”

Another good point. I sigh. “I guess this is as good as it’s going to get.”

We stand there in contemplative silence. Nearby is the occasional hum of a car as it whizzes down the freeway. And in the far, far distance is a smaller, distinct sound: screaming.

“Do you hear that?” I ask softly.

He nods. “It’s spreading.”

I set my GPS watch to zero. For the next seventy-two hours, our lives will revolve around this watch as it tracks our time and miles.

My eyes meet Frederico’s.

Our packs are full of water and supplies. We’re laced into our shoes.

Time to run.

Chapter 8

Don’t Be an Idiot

There’s a famous saying in the ultra world, penned by runner-writer Scott Douglas:
In the first half of the race, don’t be an idiot. In the second half of the race, don’t be a wimp.

This bit of wisdom has been hammered into me over my years of ultrarunning. It’s guided me through dozens of races.

Even so, I find myself scowling when Frederico says, “We’re doing nine-minute miles. Let’s slow it to nine thirty.” He catches my look and raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.

I swallow my frustration. He’s right. We can’t help Carter and Aleisha if we push too hard now and collapse at mile fifty.

I force my legs to slow and my breathing to ease. The act makes me feel like a wild horse in a cage. I want to bust free and run hard and fast. I want the world to blur by on either side, to pass in a rush and transport me to Arcata, to my son.

“Perfect,” Frederico says. “If we can hold this pace for the next fifty miles, we’ll be in good shape.”

He’s right, of course. We settle into a familiar rhythm, running side by side down the frontage road. We pass wineries, houses—some so old they look like they’ll tip over in a stiff breeze—vineyards, and even a lonely church. I try not to think about how little food we have and how shitty we’re going to feel when it runs out. Thank goodness the next town isn’t far away.

Despite my worry about food, tension leaches out as we move down the road. It always does when I run. There’s an odd normalcy to me and Frederico running together. As I cruise along—my shoes landing lightly on the pavement and my breath feathering in and out of my lungs—I can almost imagine the world is still normal. That zombies aren’t real, that my husband is still alive, and my son is safe in his dorm.

The road meanders northward, sometimes drifting closer to the freeway than I’d like. There’s a chain-link fence separating us from the main highway. Will that be enough to protect us if we run into zombies?

“Do you think the news reports are right?” I ask. “Do you think this is a bioterrorism attack?”

“Don’t know,” Frederico replies. “It’s not outrageous to think whatever it is—a virus, bacteria, whatever—came in on a cargo ship. It wouldn’t be the first disease to get past customs.”

I shiver. Nothing to do but put our heads down and keep running.

At mile three, we encounter our first car wreck. It’s a single car crashed into a pine tree on the side of the road. Both driver and passenger side doors are open. A thin stream of steam hisses up from the engine.

At first I think the car has been abandoned, but then I see the pair of legs sticking out from behind the car. The legs are attached to a woman, who lies prone on the dirt while a man dips a hand into her stomach cavity and feast on her entrails. I gag and look away as we run by.

The frontage road drifts away from the freeway. All is eerily silent and deserted. A lone cyclist passes us, bent low over his bike. He swings wide around us, looking at us with wide, panicked eyes before disappearing over a hill.

Two pit bulls bark as we run by their chain-link fence. Their shrill voices echo, crashing in my ears like cymbals.

“Is there a way to shush pit bulls, short of shooting them?” I ask.

“Maybe they’ll pipe down when zombies show up to eat them,” Frederico replies.

The dogs throw themselves at the fence as we pass, their snarls following us.

At mile six, we come upon a second car wreck. There are four cars in all. One engine still hums, the front wheels dangling into the drainage ditch on the side of the road.

There are five zombies, all of them clustered around the car with the purring engine. Glimpses of eerie, lifeless white eyes make my skin crawl.

I slow, worried my footsteps will draw their attention. Will that chain-link fence be enough to protect us? Can they climb?

“Keep moving,” Frederico says. “Run on your toes.”

I follow his instructions, rising up onto my toes. With less surface area to make contact with the road, my footsteps become softer, lighter.

The zombies don’t turn toward us. They are fixated on the car. They claw and scratch at it, snarling and growling.

In the distance, a siren wails. The zombies hear it the same instant I do. All five of their heads turn, looking north toward the new sound.

Seconds later, an ambulance and two cop cars zip by, tearing southward. As a unit, the five zombies peel away from the car. They turn, breaking into a run, and follow the sirens.

One of them, a forty-something woman in blue jeans, smacks right into one of the other cars. She drops. An instant later, she’s back on her feet. Snarling, she reaches out with her hands and feels her way around the car, then resumes her run down the freeway.

“Carter was right,” Frederico says softly. “They are blind.”

“And attracted to noise,” I add, watching the zombie in blue jeans disappear down the road with the others. “I hope they don’t have enhanced hearing.”

Frederico’s lips set in a grim line. “We’ll be fine so long as there’s something louder and more obnoxious to draw their attention.”

“But if we’re the only ones around, we’re screwed,” I reply.

The small town of Cloverdale comes into view at mile eight. It’s a cute hamlet nestled on the northwestern side of Lake Sonoma. Frederico and I slow, stopping to survey the town from a distance. From where we stand, it looks peaceful.

“Maybe Cloverdale is safe enough for us to get a car,” he says. “How much money do you have in your bank account?”

I hesitate. “I have Kyle’s life insurance money.” The idea of spending it opens an ache inside me. As if one more piece of Kyle is being taken away.

You’re being stupid
, I tell myself.
Kyle’s gone.

“There’s a used car dealer on the south side end of Cloverdale,” Frederico says.

“You sure we should go into the town?”

“No. But I do know this journey will be faster if we can knock out some miles with a car. I’m willing to run it, but faster is better.”

I draw in a breath. “Okay. Let’s get closer and have a look.” I pause. “Maybe we should unhook your lug nut wrench?”

“Good idea.”

Two minutes later, we’re on our way again. Frederico, wielding the lug nut wrench in pink running shorts and polka-dot calf compression sleeves, looks like a vagabond nut job.

The frontage road, which has been running parallel to 101, climbs a small hill and meets up with the freeway off-ramp. We jog up the rise and cross onto the overpass. We drop into crouches at the top, staring out at the scene.

What stretches out before us is nothing short of suburban perfection. A Safeway shopping center dominates the scene, the parking lot flanked on either end by a gas station and McDonald’s. There’s a Boy Scout troop outside the McDonald’s gathered around the outside of a big white van. A few cars roll in and out of the parking lot, most people going into the grocery store.