Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (16 page)

That gets a chuckle out of Frederico. Winter had come early to that September race, and I ran for over ten hours in a snowstorm. In a pink running skirt. That had been hell. Complete hell. A cold, freezing, wet, miserable hell. I’d even gotten frostbite on my legs.

But I’d finished. I’d come in dead last. Despite that—hell, maybe
because
of that—the Bear 100 is the single race I’m most proud of finishing.

“That was the only time I’ve seen Carter fret about you,” Frederico says. “That boy is as calm as they come, but the snow had him on edge.”

“Here’s to being tough sons of bitches.” I hold up one hand and we slap high fives.

“After all we’ve been through, what’s two hundred miles to Arcata?” he says.

“Exactly.” I grin.

The heaviness of the bonk is dissipating. Even the worst of the hunger has receded. Things really aren’t all that bad.

This is how things go in ultras. They’re an ebb and flow—a series of lows and highs strung together by gritty determination. A joke or kind remark can be as nourishing as food.

“If Stout gets eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, she’ll die with friends.” I reach down to scratch the dog between the ears.

“That dog’s too smart to get eaten,” Frederico replies. “She’ll survive both of us.”

I laugh. “True. If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I can go to heaven saying I was a dog owner.”

Frederico raises an eyebrow. “We’ve
owned
—and I use that term loosely—Stout for about two hours.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “She’s part of our pack now. That denotes ownership.”

“I think we’re part of her pack. That means
she
owns
us
.”

We both look at the dog. As though aware she’s the topic of conversation, Stout pricks her ears in our direction and wags her tail.

I feel more energy returning to me. Not wanting to lose the little momentum we’ve scraped together, I plow forward with our impromptu game.

“If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I’ll die knowing what true love is,” I say. Kyle’s blue eyes flash in my mind. “I’m grateful to have had Kyle in my life.”

“If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I’ll die having experienced the many textures of sobriety,” Frederico says. “I’m grateful I had the opportunity to give up drinking. Best and hardest thing that ever happened to me.”

“Sounds like marriage,” I reply.

“Yeah. It is, in a way.” His voice softens. “If I get eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, I’ll regret not being able to make amends with Aleisha.”

This makes me reflect on my life. “If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes by a zombie, I’ll regret never going back to college. I always said I would, someday. Now I guess someday has come and gone.”

“Why didn’t you ever go back?”

“Kyle always encouraged me to, but I was making good money waiting tables. I couldn’t imagine juggling Carter, a job, and college. So I never went. Seems stupid now.”

“It’s not too late,” Frederico says. “If our country pulls out of this zombie apocalypse, you could go back to school.”

I stop, planting my feet between two railroad ties. I turn to face my friend.

“Let’s make a deal,” I say. “If we survive the zombie apocalypse, I’ll go back to college and get my degree, and you’ll start calling Aleisha once a week, just to say hi. Even if she doesn’t answer.”

“What if . . .” He pauses, licking his lips. “What if Aleisha is . . . gone?”

I don’t have to ask what he means. What if Carter is
gone
when we get to Arcata?

I shake my head. “We can’t think like that. Our kids are going to be okay.” I give my friend a
look
. “You
will
call your daughter once a week, and I
will
go back to college. When all this shit” —I make a vague gesture to the world at large— “is cleaned up and the world is right side up again. Deal?”

Frederico hesitates, then extends his hand. “Deal.”

We shake. A shiver runs through me. There are no more excuses for me. If the world survives—if I survive—I’m going back to school. That’s a pretty big if, but even so, I can’t help feeling a little intimidated.

Stout lets out a small yip. As a unit, Frederico and I turn in her direction. She sniffs the air, nose pointed north.

Without thinking, I draw my screwdriver. Frederico pulls out his hammer. Both tools are covered in dry blood and bits of sticky matter I don’t let myself think too hard about.

“Is it zombies, girl?” he asks.

Stout cocks her head at us, then trots away. We hesitate for a few seconds, then follow.

Several minutes pass before I realize we’re jogging. I sense the moment when Frederico has the same realization. We look at each other and grin.

“Another bonk for the books,” he says.

“Another bonk for the books,” I agree.

We run for another five minutes, Stout leading the way. I glance down at my watch.

“Mile thirty-five,” I say. “Only one hundred sixty-five miles to go.”

We round a bend of oak trees—and there, in front of us, out here in the middle of nowhere, is a house.

Chapter 21

Breaking and Entering

The house sits in the middle of a large pasture, partially concealed by ancient, gorgeous oak trees. Stout stops and wags her tail at us, as if to say,
See guys? I knew where I was going.

Frederico and I crouch behind a large patch of thistles, taking careful surveillance of the scene.

The old farm house has a deep front porch, peeling yellow paint, and second story dormer windows. To the right of the house are a half dozen cars in various states of disrepair, all of them classics— two Mustangs, a Cadillac, and several cars with tail fins I can’t name.

A few hours ago, my first instinct would have been to see if any of the cars was in working order. Now, between the military blockades and the zombie swarms, I want to avoid all cars like the plague.

There are two cows in the field to the left of the house—both of them dead. Four zombies—two teenage boys and two adults—feed on the animals. A family, before the outbreak got them. And if a family in the middle of bum-fucked Egypt got infected, is there any place that’s safe?

“Do you think we can get inside?” I whisper. The property is surrounded by a pasture fence and topped with barbed wire.

Frederico gives me a
look
. “Do we
want
to get inside?”

“If we’re quiet, we can avoid the zombies,” I reply. “We really need food.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“Let’s try the fence. We can dig under it.”

There are natural dips and rises along the property. We find a small stream that has burrowed its way under the fence. We claw at the moist earth, slowly widening the opening.

As soon as Stout realizes what we’re doing, she jumps between us. She paws at the earth, sending up great gouts of dirt. Frederico and I fall back, grinning at each other and letting her work. Within minutes, the opening is wide enough for us to crawl through.

Frederico goes first, dropping into the muddy hole and wriggling through. I peer through the fence, watching the zombies eat the poor cows. They give no sign of having heard us.

I follow Frederico, grimacing as I slide through the mud. Yuck. Cold and wet. It slicks the side of my face and the front of my shirt and pants.

Stout is the last one through. The three of us stay near the fence line, edging around the perimeter of the property.

One of the zombies is a little boy, no more than seven or eight. His profile is outlined against the brilliant green of the surrounding grass as he dines on a cow’s large intestine. The scene makes my stomach roil.

A long, low moan rolls across the pasture. I freeze, thinking we’ve been spotted. Frederico and Stout also halt, all three of us staring in fear at the zombies.

The sound rolls out a second time, and this time I recognize it for what it is: a moo.

One of the poor cows is still alive.

I look at Frederico. He shakes his head and continues on. There’s nothing we can do for the poor animal without risking ourselves. Stout tucks her tail between her legs and slinks away.

We reach the porch of the farmhouse. There are signs of violence: blood pools by the front door and smears down the steps; an overturned chair; a half-eaten finger on the floorboards. The gore makes my skin crawl, but now isn’t the time to let my nerves get the better of me. With Frederico on my left and Stout on my right, we mount the stairs.

The old wood creaks underfoot. We freeze, automatically glancing at the zombies. One of them—the father—turns his head in our direction, chewing on a bright-red cow organ as he does. None of the others look up. The father chomps away, white-eyed gaze rolling in our direction.

The ten steps between us and the front door suddenly seem like ten miles. Eyeing the stairs and the battered wooden porch beyond, I see a field of land mines. One wrong step could alert the zombies to our presence.

“We go fast and keep our steps light,” Frederico says. “Get inside and barricade the door.”

“What if the door is locked?” I whisper back. Logic says it’ll be open, since it appears the entire family is out in the pasture with the cows . . . but what if there’s someone else? A survivor? An uncle, or a grandma? Someone—or something—inside?

Frederico pulls off his pack, removes his shirt, and wraps it around his fist.

“If the door is locked, I smash through the glass panel.” He gestures to the small glass squares that fill the top half of the door, then winks and holds up his cloth-wrapped fist.

Holding up three fingers, I count down: three, two, one.

Tensing all my leg muscles, I bolt up the stairs and across the porch. I stay on my toes, keeping my steps as light as I can. Frederico does the same.

Despite that, the porch groans and creaks like an old man. Only Stout manages to whisper over the worn wood like a ghost.

We make enough noise to draw the attention of the zombies. The mother and teenagers lift bloody faces and turn in the direction of the house, but they don’t leave their cow buffet. The father, however, rises to his feet, moans, and takes a few steps in our direction.

Fuck.

I grab the door handle, giving it a desperate wrench.

Double fuck. It’s locked.

Frederico doubles back with his fist and rams it into the glass. In a decent display of prowess, he punches through a small pane on his first try.

As he extracts his cloth-covered fist, I dart forward and shove my hand through the opening. Some of the shards dig into my wrist as I fumble with the doorknob and turn the small lock embedded there. I try the knob—and the door swings open.

Stout, zipping past my legs, is the first one through the doorway. Frederico and I barrel after her. It takes every ounce of self-preservation not to slam the door. I force myself to gingerly close it.

There’s a dead bolt and a chain. I slide both of them into place, thankful neither had been in place before; they would have seriously complicated our breaking and entering. With only the doorknob being locked, it makes me suspect—hope—the house is deserted. During whatever violence had ensued when the family was turned, it would have been easy for the door to have swung shut on its own with only the bottom lock in place.

Still, it’s never safe to assume.

“Sofa,” Frederico whispers to me, moving across ancient, nasty shag carpet to a stained couch in the living room.

We each grab a side and move it in front of the door, then turn and scan our surroundings in silence. Nothing stirs.

With the living room cleared, we move on. Inch by inch, we make our way through the house. I’m armed with a screwdriver and railroad spike. Frederico has his lug nut wrench and hammer out.

We enter the family room. It’s crammed with furniture and a large array of video game equipment. It smells like cat urine, a stench that makes my nose itch. A quick sweep of the room shows it to be empty.

Next comes the office and kitchen. Both empty. In the kitchen are three black trash bags filled with empty soda cans and beer bottles. My mouth waters at the sight of a can of kidney beans sitting on the Formica countertop, but I force myself to look away. We can eat when we’re sure the house is empty.

We move up the stairs, Frederico in the lead. Blood spatters every stair. At first I try to step around it. After a few steps, I give up. I need to keep my eyes up and not worry about soiling the bottom of my shoes.

We find Stout in the upstairs hall, ears flat. She stares into what looks like the master bedroom.

Fuck. If Stout senses someone, it can’t be good.

I mentally steel myself to the reality that I might have to kill another zombie. God, I hope it’s not a kid zombie. Or a baby zombie. God, please no. Could I stab a zombie baby through the head to put it out of its misery? I don’t know.

Nodding to one another, Frederico and I advance into the master bedroom, weapons raised.

The room is dark, the metal burgundy blinds lowered and closed. The bed is unmade, the comforter and sheets in a lumpy mess near the footboard. Goopy red stains mar the carpet.

The bathroom door is open. We pad forward, pausing every few steps to listen. I glimpse the edge of a toilet and yellowed, chipped linoleum.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

The noise sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body. Heart pounding, I turn toward the sound.

There’s something inside the walk-in closet. The door is shut, trapping whatever it is on the other side.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

Frederico moves to one side of the door, knuckles white on his weapons. He gestures to the door with his chin. I nod, sliding the railroad spike back into my pack and only keeping the screwdriver out. With my free hand, I grip the doorknob. My breath comes out in ragged, frightened gasps.

Steeling myself, I yank open the door. Frederico takes half a step forward, wrench raised over his head.