Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (39 page)

“That’s right, Kate,” he jeers. “Keep running! Doesn’t matter how fast you go. I’ll always be here.” He lets loose a creepy laugh that would do justice to any horror movie.

Mile one hundred fifty-five.

Even now, with all the pain and physical discomfort I’m shouldering, I can honestly say I still love running.

To be honest, pain is part of what I love. Why is that? It’s a complicated facet of my obsession for this strange sport.

When I first started to run, it was to escape the maze of my relationship with Kyle. The maze was our own making, and the physical stress of running was a distraction to the larger pain I faced at home. To be honest, I had never truly forgiven myself for running way from Kyle all those years ago.

Mile one hundred fifty-eight.

I shovel uncooked pasta shells into my mouth, crunching them as I jog. Vaguely, I wonder what they’ll feel like if I throw them up later. I’ve thrown up lots of things on ultra runs, but never uncooked pasta. Will they cook in my stomach? Soften in the stomach acid?

In front of me is a sign that reads
Avenue of the Giants
. The Avenue of the Giants is a 31-mile stretch of highway that winds through towering, ancient redwood trees. I veer right, unconsciously heading for the exit.

It’s not until I’m a mile down the road that I realize I’ve left Highway 101.

I pause, glancing at the redwoods looming up on either side of me. It’s hard to grasp the enormity of the giant trees without seeing them in person. They’re living high rises, remnants of a world that no longer exists. It’s hard not to feel insignificant and full of awe, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.

Carter and I drove this road together. Is this why I came this way?

In the quiet solitude of the ancient trees, I can almost imagine zombies don’t exist. That Frederico and Kyle are still alive. That the world is still right side up.

“Keep dreaming, sister.” The jackalope hops up and sits at my feet. “The world is fucked up, and so are you.”

“Shut up.” Upending the half-full box of pasta shells, I dump them on his head. “No one asked you.”

The jackalope scowls at me, swatting irritably at the pasta. “Face it, Kate. Running is the only thing you’re good at.”

Mile one hundred sixty-one.

I haven’t always run away from things. As Kyle and I worked through our issues, I found myself running toward him. Toward us.

Every time I finished a tough race and crossed a finish line, I found proof of inner grit and strength. I found a woman worthy of Kyle’s love—a person who didn’t quit when things got hard and painful.

I like that woman.

Mile one hundred sixty-three.

I’m down to the bottom of my grocery bag. All that’s left is a six-pack of Sprite. Seeing it makes me think of Frederico. I’ve never been a fan of soda, but he always took some to ultra races, often downing a can at every aid station.

Slowing to a stop, I drop the grocery bag and pull out a can. I glance at the jackalope.

“For Frederico,” I say softly, then crack open the can and take a long drink.

“For Frederico,” the jackalope echoes. I’m grateful when he doesn’t make a caustic remark.

The carbonation fills my throat with an uncomfortable pressure. I ignore it and continue to drink.

“Too bad you killed him.”

Something in me snaps. The soda falls from my hand and splats on the ground.

I spin around and seize the jackalope by the horns. He lets loose with a very human-like yell. Face twisting in a violent rictus, I tear off his antlers and fling them into the woods. Blood oozes from the sockets.

His yell turns into a scream. I pick up his furry body and hurl him into the forest, a crazed hiss passing between my teeth. He collides with a tree and falls out of sight, rattling through the bushes as he thumps to the ground.

My chest heaves. I clench my fists and stare into the trees, waiting for him to return.

One minute ticks by. Two. Three. Five. Ten.

No sign of him. No movement from the trees. I’m alone on this desolate road. At least for now. I know the jackalope will be back. He always comes back.

I sag, an anguished sob wracking me.

Frederico!
I scream his name silently in my mind.

It’s my fault he’s dead. He died because he cared about me more than he cared about himself. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t ask for the sacrifice. It doesn’t matter that I don’t feel worthy of the sacrifice. The simple fact is that he died so I could live.

This knowledge settles around my shoulders with an unwelcome weight.

I want Frederico’s death to mean something. I want to make him proud. I want to make Kyle proud.

Hell, I want to make
myself
proud. Will I ever be able to do that?

Swallowing back my tears, I pull out another can of soda. I silently say good-bye to my friend with each gulp.

Chapter 53

Avenue of the Giants

I leave the empty grocery bag and the rest of the sodas on the side of the road and start to run. It’s impossible to suppress the mega burps that result after the pounding of the Sprite. Worried I might alert every zombie in a ten-mile radius, I muffle them against my arm.

The enormous redwood trees line the two-lane country road. On encountering a few abandoned cars, I head into the woods and creep past them.

Mile one hundred sixty-four.

My legs are numb. When did that happen?

This is another sign that I’ve been running for a really, really,
really
long time. The body, pushed past the brink of exhaustion, diverts energy to the core. Nonessential extremities, like arms and legs, go numb as a result.

Corporal therapy. That’s what running is to me.

Some days, I may as well be flogging myself.

Mile one hundred sixty-five.

Miranda.

It’s a hamlet with a population of 520. If you blink, you might just miss it.

There’s a post office, a few restaurants, a motel, and a smattering of mobile homes. Carter and I stopped in a cute cafe here and had burgers.

I decide to avoid Miranda. I cut into the forest, slowing to a walk so I won’t make too much noise. It takes a solid hour to make my way back to the road on the north side of town, but I get there without any confrontations. I spot a few zombies, but manage to creep past them without drawing attention.

Mile one hundred seventy-one.

It’s not fair to boil running down into a form of corporal therapy. Yes, there’s a twisted embracing of pain, but there have been countless times I ran for the simple love of the sport.

Escape, therapy, joy—running is all these things. How can one simple act have so many facets and such deep meaning in my life? The person I am is inextricably enmeshed with a verb.

Mile one hundred seventy-four.

Did Kyle die so I could save Carter?
The question crashes into my head, reverberating with the force of a gong.

I come to a dead stop on the highway, rocked to my core by this thought.

Ever since Kyle died, I’ve run to manage my anguish. Before that, I logged fifty to seventy-five miles a week. After he died, my mileage crept up. Eighty-five miles a week. Ninety-five. One hundred five. Up and up, until I found myself logging a minimum of one hundred twenty miles every week. Never have I been in such incredible shape.

If Kyle hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be in a position to make this two hundred mile run to Arcata.

My husband believed things happened for a reason. Even shitty things. Sometimes it took years to understand the lesson behind shitty events, but he maintained there
was
a reason.

He was always more spiritual than I was. Have the last two years of hell on earth been in preparation for—for this?

The revelation breaks over me like a golden wave. It brings me a tiny bit of peace.

Mile one hundred seventy-six.

I run to myself. That’s the simplest distillation of my obsession with long distance running. Somewhere, in all the countless miles, I find myself. Every time I lace up my shoes and roll out the front door, I connect with myself. Through pain and joy, I find me.

Mile one hundred seventy-nine.

The road is silent and beautiful, the redwood giants the only witnesses to my solitary passage.

I jog into Pioneer Grove, a stand of the beautiful giant trees on the northern end of the Avenue. Some of the trees are as much as eight to ten feet in diameter.

The Grove is deserted. No zombies. No death. Just beauty and life.

A tree stump about twenty feet wide stands before me. It was cut down in the heyday of the logging industry. Every inch of the stump is covered with carvings.

I run my fingers over the carvings, searching, searching, searching.

There. Facing away from the road, about five feet up: a carving.

Our
carving.

*

“What are you doing, sweetie?” I held a long twig in my hand, snapping off little pieces as I wandered through the redwood grove toward Carter.

My son was dressed in loose jeans and a plain blue T-shirt. A ball cap sat atop his shaggy hair, the ends of which curled around his cheeks. He’d trimmed his beard recently, though it was still full and bushy.

In Carter’s hand was a pocketknife, a high school graduation gift from Frederico.

He glanced up at me from a heart he’d carved on the tree trunk. His eyes were unfocused, distant. I could tell he heard me speak, but he hadn’t heard my question.

“Hey, Mom,” he said vaguely, returning his attention to his carving.

Coming to stand beside him, I gave his shoulder a squeeze as I watched him work in silence.

With infinite care, Carter carved the letters K, K, and C inside the heart. Kyle, Kate, and Carter. My chest tightened.

He leaned forward, blowing away the loose shavings, then spent a few more minutes smoothing out the letters. When he finished, he looked at me. His eyes were wet, but his cheeks were dry.

“We’re together, Mom,” Carter said. “Doesn’t matter where we are. You, me, and Dad—we’re always together.”

It took all my willpower not to burst into tears. I dragged the trip out, doing everything I could to delay Carter’s inevitable drop off at college. He knew it, but he never complained.

I sniffed and nodded, running my fingers over the letters my son had carved with such love.

This was my fate: to drop off my son and drive home to an empty house. I couldn’t let him see how much it terrified me. He shouldn’t have to take care of his mother.

“Thanks, sweetie.” I gave him a hug, trying not to clutch him. “Dad loved the redwoods, you know.”

“I know.” Carter flashed me a quick smile. “He would like it, the three of us here together.” His fingers caressed the carving.

“Yeah. He would.” I turned away, willing away my tears. I forced my voice into a cheerful tone. “Come on. We should get going if we want to make it to campus before dark.”

*

Now, two years later, I find Carter’s carving in Pioneer Grove. I run my hand over the heart and letters. The carving has faded and blended in with the dozens of other initials in the wood beside it.

I pick up a small rock and press it against the stump. I chip away at the bark, carving a rough F next to my family heart. I take my time, wanting it to look nice.

When I finish, I stand back to admire my crude handiwork. Then I close my eyes and imagine they are all here with me: Kyle, Carter, and Frederico.

I can almost smell Kyle’s soap and see Carter’s bushy beard in the corner of my eye. I hear Frederico say,
Get moving, Jackalope.

I let myself pretend, if only for ten seconds, that we’re together. That I am with the three people who matter most to me.

It feels good to pretend. Here, in the avenue of ancient giants, a sense of peace washes over me.

Something rustles in the grove. I open my eyes and see the jackalope. He hops resolutely toward me, ears wilted.

The blood on his head has dried to dark lumps. A new set of antlers has already begun to sprout. They are two pale nubs on his forehead.

Five feet away from me, he draws to a halt. We stand there, staring at each other in silence.

The weight of my life hangs between us. Everything I am, everything I’m not—it’s all there. It’s so heavy it could crack open the earth.

But it doesn’t. The earth remains solid beneath my feet.

I know what I have to do.

I swallow and take a step forward. The jackalope tenses, ears swiveling toward me in alarm. I pause, keeping my arms at my side so he can see I mean him no harm.

The jackalope’s ears relax. His nose twitches. I take two more steps, closing the distance between us. Slowly, gingerly, I stoop down and lift him into my arms.

He tenses. I cuddle him, pressing my nose into his dirty, bloody fur. After a moment, he relaxes and nuzzles my chest.

We don’t speak. We don’t move. We just stand there, wrapped in the silence of the redwoods.

And then the jackalope disappears, vanishing from my arms and dissolving into a puff of mist.

Chapter 54

Arcata

The jackalope does not return. I am a lone runner on the road, slowly and steadily making my way north. The highway climbs, steadily rising with the mountains.

I fall into a pattern. I stick to the asphalt as much as possible, only veering into the woods when I see zombies or wrecked cars on the road.

Mile two hundred one.

Where the fuck is Arcata? Where the hell is that fucking town?

Two hundred and one point three miles. That’s how far Frederico said it was from Geyserville to Humboldt University.

Here I am, at mile two hundred one, and there is no fucking college campus anywhere in sight. For that matter, there isn’t
anything
in sight. Just trees and mountains and the goddamn Eel River.