Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (30 page)

The running feels good. Life feels good. Some people call it the runner’s high. Some call it trail surfing.

It happens to me there on the road in the shade of the pine trees. Even with all the death and mayhem behind me—and likely in front of me—I find joy in running. It’s fucked up, but it’s the truth.

Mile one hundred thirteen.

We pass a rest area on a downhill climb. Other than a semi-truck, the parking lot is deserted.

“Do you see the drinking fountain down there?” I ask, pointing.

“Yeah.” Frederico peers down into the rest area. “My water bladder is still half full. Yours?”

“Yeah, mine is fine.”

“God, it’d be nice to take a shit in one of those toilets,” he says. “Wipe my ass with real toilet paper. I’m sick of leaves.”

“Yeah. It’d be nice to break into that vending machine, too. Get some snacks for the road.”

Despite this conversation, neither of us suggests stopping. For my part, I’m loathe to go where I might have to fight zombies. I’d rather scrounge by with our meager supplies for as long as possible before facing the undead again.

I don’t know what Frederico’s excuse is.

Mile one hundred seventeen.

The green-and-white road sign informs us that Laytonville is ten miles away.

I glance at Frederico, gauging his reaction. His expression is tense, his eyes locked on the sign. He says nothing, so I stay silent.

We encounter a vehicular pileup. We skirt around it, scrambling up a steep embankment and picking our way through ferns and underbrush. By the time we make our way back to the road, the wreck is far behind us and out of sight.

God, please let Aleisha be alive
, I think. I have no idea how we’re going to get her out of Laytonville if and when we find her, but we’ll figure something out.

Mile one hundred twenty.

My runner’s high is gone. In its place is a growing queasiness in my belly, a feeling I am all too familiar with. I know I should slow down, let my body restore some of its equilibrium, but fuck that. The road is clear and I don’t want to waste daylight catering to my pansy-ass stomach. I don’t want to give into the nausea and barf up all the food we fought so hard to get.

I’m going to power through this. A small part of my brain tells me not to be an idiot, but I ignore it. I boarded the idiot train a hundred miles ago.

“Remember what Carter used to say at aid stations?” I ask in an attempt to distract myself from the physical discomfort in my belly.

Frederico doesn’t bother to look up, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’ve never been any closer to the finish line.”

I laugh at the memory. It didn’t matter if Carter met us at mile eleven or mile ninety-six; he always said the same thing. Thinking of my son brings a mix of achy despair and desperate love.

“Sometimes it really pissed me off when he said that,” Frederico says.

“Yeah, me, too. Especially when I was really hurting.” I tilt my head, taking a moment to soak in the view of the trees towering above me. “But sometimes it gave me a much-needed dose of optimism.”

“Me, too. Carter got his optimism from Kyle.”

“Yeah. He did.”

The temporary mirth fades from Frederico’s face, replaced by the same tension I saw earlier by the Laytonville sign. He’s thinking about Aleisha.

“When we find her, we’re going to have to figure out another way to travel,” Frederico says. “She can’t run.”

“Maybe we can find bicycles,” I offer.

“Yeah, maybe.” He falls silent, and I know he’s doubting his ability to convince her to come with us.

I mentally calculate our odds of avoiding detection by zombies and military personnel while on bikes. I like our odds better on foot, but we can’t expect Aleisha to run. For that matter, I haven’t even considered how I’m going to get Carter out of Arcata when I find him. He can’t run, either. At least, not like Frederico and me.

You don’t finish a race by obsessing about the finish line; you finish a race by taking one step at a time. You focus on every turn in the trail, every climb, every decline, always putting one foot in front of the other.

First, we find our kids
, I think.
Then, we figure out how to get them to safety.

Mile one hundred twenty-four.

Fucking shitballs. Why was I such an idiot?

I stand on the side of the road, sides heaving. The SpaghettiOs I ingested twenty miles ago lay in a nasty pile by my feet.

“You need to walk it off,” Frederico says. “Come on.”

“No,” I snap. “We need to keep moving.”

Frederico gives me a firm look. “We’re not stopping. Just moving at a slower pace. Come on.”

I open my mouth to argue. As I do, my stomach gives another heave. This time canned chili comes up.

“What a waste,” I grumble.

“Power walk,” Frederico says. “Just keep moving.”

I nod, knowing he’s right. Slowing down will help my body right itself.

Taking a drink, I rinse out my mouth. Beside me, Frederico tenses. I freeze in response, eyes flicking back and forth.

A long moan reaches my ears. My head snaps around. A single zombie ambles around a curve in the road ahead.

Frederico clamps down on my wrist, pressing one finger against his lips. I nod in understanding. Maybe, just maybe, if we remain silent, the zombie won’t notice us.

It’s a teenage girl in a long yellow sundress. Even from a distance, I can see the blood matted in her short blond hair. More blood smears her face, giving the illusion of a lipstick application gone bad.

My stomach gives a violent roil. Bile rises in my throat.

No, no, no.

I hunch over, pressing both hands against my abdomen, and swallow.
Not now.
I shut my eyes, willing my stomach to settle.

The zombie lets out another long, low moan. In response to her call, two more teenage zombies appear around the bend, a girl and a boy.

Frederico’s grip on my wrist tightens. I latch onto him with my free hand, digging my nails into his shoulder. More bile rises in my throat.

Stay down
, I tell my food.
Stay—

Round two of chili surges up my throat. My stomach heaves as another pile of vomit hits the pavement at my feet.

Chapter 41

Nausea

The zombies immediately break into a run, coming straight for us. And it’s not just three. Five more teenage undead round the corner—making it eight in total. I have only an instant to wonder what eight teenage kids are doing out in the middle of the woods before Frederico hauls me away.

“Too many,” he whispers.

I nod in agreement. Even if my legs weren’t shaky and my stomach was in better shape, going up against eight zombies on the open road would be suicide.

Frederico picks up a stick and flings it across the road. It thumps into the underbrush. The zombies veer toward the sound. Frederico throws two more in the same direction, herding the zombies away from us.

He gestures for me to move. I follow him, tiptoeing up the road. Frederico keeps bending down to scoop up rocks and sticks, keeping up a constant barrage of sound to keep the zombies occupied on the other side of the road.

We can only hope it will be enough.

We draw abreast of the zombies; they’re a mere fifteen feet away, grunting and growling as they rifle through the underbrush. They were probably out here smoking pot before all hell broke loose and they turned.

The scent of rot wafts in the breeze. My stomach clenches in response. I swallow back rising bile and keep moving.

Frederico throws another rock. A zombie boy shifts, and the stone that should have flown into the trees hits the undead in the shoulder instead. The creature grunts and spins in our direction. A long, low growl issues from his throat.

We freeze. The other zombies turn, heads cocked as they listen. The girl in the yellow dress flares her nostrils, sniffing. She takes one step toward us, then another.

Wild fear rises within me. I imagine this is how deer feel when being stalked by a mountain lion.

I look at Frederico, running one finger along the rusted spike that rests in my pack strap. A silent question: do we fight? I lick my lips nervously, eyes moving between my friend and the zombies.

He hesitates, my fear reflected in his eyes. He gives the barest shake of his head: no.

No, we don’t fight. I nod in agreement. Eight against two are impossible odds. We’d be overrun in minutes, if not seconds. Frederico and I are many things, but we are not ninjas.

The sundress zombie takes another step in our direction. Her lips pull back from her teeth in a snarl.

My mouth goes dry. My palms grow sweaty. My stomach clenches painfully, violently.

This time it’s the Cheetos that choose this instant to develop an exit strategy. They surge up my throat and eject out of my mouth in a gooey, orange stream.

The zombies rush us en masse.

Even as I wipe a ribbon of vomit from my chin, I break into a sprint. Frederico follows suit, the two of us plowing up the road. Now that we’re running, the zombies lock onto the soft tap of our feet.

I pump my arms and legs, propelling myself forward as fast as I can. I don’t consider myself a sprinter, but I can haul ass for short distances. So can Frederico. He streams along beside me, curly gray ponytail bouncing between his shoulder blades.

“Think we can outrun them on the road?” I huff.

“We have to. I’m too tired for another forest run.”

I understand how he feels. At almost one hundred thirty miles, our senses are dulled and exhausted. Neither of us has the focus or the strength for a good forest bushwhack right now. Not to mention my upset stomach.

The zombies move at a decent pace, though it soon becomes apparent that Frederico and I are outstripping them. Even exhausted, we’re stronger runners than the undead.

A mile in front of us, Laytonville comes into view. The tiny town bisects Highway 101. Even from afar, I can see why Frederico wasn’t thrilled to have his daughter living here. There’s a scattering of homes, a biodiesel gas station, a beat-up motel, and a quilt shop. It’s the sort of town that offers little to no opportunity to its residents.

“Do you see what I see?” Frederico asks.

“The jeeps.”

“Yeah.”

At the edge of town are three abandoned military-issue jeeps. One of them is crumpled against a light pole. Another sits in the middle of the road, doors flung wide open. A third one lies upside down in a pile of broken glass. Bright-orange road cones are scattered on the pavement.

There are only two zombies in the road with the cars. Or at least, only two zombies we can see. They’re civilian zombies though, not military. Where are the soldiers?

Glancing over my shoulder, I see the sundress zombie and her posse two hundred yards behind us. We’re ahead of them for now, but how long will that last?

“Let’s take the car.” I can’t believe I make the suggestion, but I don’t see a better option at the moment.

“Agreed,” Frederico huffs.

“I’ll take the zombie on the left,” I say. “You take the other one.”

In silent response, my friend draws his railroad spike. The zombies at the car wreck hear our approach. They straighten, heads turning in our direction, and growl.

If I weren’t on the verge of puking up more Cheetos, I’d probably have paused to admire the swift efficiency with which Frederico and I dispatch the two undead. As it stands, we don’t even pause to wipe the blood off our faces before jumping into the jeep.

I land in the passenger’s seat, slamming the door as Frederico dives into the driver’s seat. He lets out of bark of satisfaction.

“Keys!” he crows, jingling the ring that still hangs in the ignition. He fires up the vehicle and throws it into reverse. Sundress zombie and company are a hundred yards away as Frederico completes a three-point-turn.

“Do you know how to get to Aleisha’s house?”

Frederico grunts, then floors it. “No, but I googled the bar where she works. We’ll start there.”

A half-full bottle of water bumps against my foot. I take a long drink, then pass it to Frederico. He downs the rest before tossing the bottle into the backseat.

Ahead of us, several zombies stagger down a long gravel driveway. Behind them is a faded, beat-up mobile home. Their heads turn in our direction, teeth pulled back in a snarl.

“The jeep is drawing attention,” I say.

“I noticed,” he replies tersely. “We’ve got company on this side, too.”

Looking past him, I see several zombies stalk out from a gas station. A chill creeps down my spine.

“Holy fuck, what’s happened to this place?” I whisper. “We haven’t seen a living person anywhere.”

He gives me a tight look. “I know.” Uncertainty and worry flicker across his face, and I know he’s thinking about Aleisha.

Why isn’t there a heavier military and CDC presence in Northern California? How far south has the zombie outbreak spread? Why are the authorities concentrating their efforts on Portland, when it’s so clear other parts of the country are in deep shit?

Another cluster of zombies, all emerging from a gas station, race out into the road in front of us.

“Seat belt,” Frederico barks, pulling on his own.

My stomach roils. I snap on the belt, bracing myself. The car whips hard to the left, then to the right as Frederico tries to avoid the zombies. We clip one with our right bumper; the undead rolls onto our hood and smashes into the windshield. The glass spiders into dozens of cracks under his weight.

Instead of flying off like a decent piece of roadkill, the zombie latches onto the top of the hood.

“What is it with these fuckers?” I snarl. Did they come embedded with How-To-Cling-To-A-Moving-Vehicle handbook?

The zombie is a middle-aged, skinny man in black jeans. Wet blood is smeared over his mouth, chin, and neck. He keens and claws at the broken glass. The windshield begins to cave beneath his weight.

Frederico jerks the steering wheel left and right, trying to toss the zombie. The monster refuses to be dislodged. It’s like he has superhero suction cups on his body. The glass begins the crumple, the first few shards raining down beneath his fist.