Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (6 page)

I slammed on the brakes, following Carter’s sprint across our front yard. That’s when I saw my husband.

Kyle lay face up on the cement walkway in front of our house. He wasn’t moving. The hose was on, water spurting across his ankles.

“Kyle?” I yanked on the emergency brake and jumped out of the car, fumbling for the phone in my purse.

“He’s not breathing!” Carter screamed. “Dad!”

He lifted Kyle’s head, revealing the small pool of blood under my husband’s skull. The certain knowledge of loss—of an awful, soul-crushing loss—made my feet and legs numb. I froze, mouth going dry as I stared in horror at the scene before me.

“Call nine-one-one!” Carter yelled.

The phone slipped from my fingers, cracking loudly against the cement walkway. I fell to my knees, snatching clumsily at it.

“My husband fell,” I said breathlessly to the operator. “Please, send an ambulance. Please, please . . .”

Even as I said the words, I knew it was too late. Kyle was gone. His face was pale and flaccid, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His beautiful blue eyes stared sightlessly at the sky above him.

Carter placed both hands on Kyle’s chest, pumping up and down. “One, two, three,” he counted, choking on a sob. He bent over, tipping Kyle’s head back and blowing air into his father’s mouth.

I folded over into a ball, sobbing. I felt my world shatter delicately around me. Carter continued to administer CPR.

It didn’t do any good. Kyle was gone.

*

A fluke. A stupid accident. Kyle slipped on wet pavement and cracked his head open. Just like that, he was gone. Stolen from me and Carter.

Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I imagine I hear the crack as the back of Kyle’s skull connected with the cement. It’s a dull sound. Distinct, but not very loud. Soft, but deadly and permanent.

In all my nightmares and morbid mental movies of his death, I am haunted by the sound of his skull connecting with the pavement. It’s a deep, faint thud I’ve only imagined, and it’s identical to what I just heard when I split this zombie’s skull.

The sound often drives me into my running shoes and out onto the road, but it doesn’t matter how far or how fast I run. I can’t escape the fact that my husband, the love of my life and my best friend, is gone.

Did Kyle hear that dull, horrible noise before he died? Had he died instantly, like this zombie, or had he dwelled in unconsciousness while his life bled out of his head? Could Carter and I have saved him if we’d gotten home five minutes earlier? Ten minutes?

As I stare at the zombie’s ruined head, all I can think of is Kyle. My dead husband’s brown goatee and strong nose are superimposed on the face of the zombie with the bleeding skull. My hands shake. My chest is constricted, making it hard to breathe.

“Kate!” Frederico shouts in my ear, giving me a rough shake. “It’s not Kyle. It’s not Kyle!”

And just like that, the moment is over. Kyle’s features melt away, replaced with the grotesque one of the zombie. Panic drains out of my chest, letting breath flood normally into my lungs. I sag, letting tears dry on my cheeks.

“I miss him,” I whisper. “Every moment of every day. I miss him so goddamn much.”

“I know.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I know, Jackalope.”

I press fingers to my temples, burying thoughts of Kyle. Grief and sorrow will not help me now.

Focus on something else. That’s what I need to do.

I push off the car, frantically rooting around in the passenger seat until I find my phone. I nearly sag with relief when I see a missed text message from Carter.

I’m OK. Had 2 move furniture in front of door. Text when u can. Don’t call. Can’t talk. Need 2 stay quiet.

I press the phone against my chest, momentarily closing my eyes.

Carter is okay. My son is still alive. Taking a steadying breath, I text back.

We’ve seen the zombies. Are you safe?

I purposely do not look at the mangled body lying a few feet away. Even if it was a monster, I don’t like thinking about what I did to him.

I’m glad you’ve seen them
,
comes his reply.
Wasn’t sure how 2 explain things.

A strangled laugh escapes me.

Zombies aren’t supposed to be real
, I text back.

No kidding. Everyone said they were meth-heads. Then I saw 3 girls eating a guy at a party last night.

Frederico leans against the car beside me, glancing over my shoulder at the phone. In the aftershocks of my panic attack, I realized I’d forgotten all about my friend’s catapult into the vineyard.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, looking up from the phone. “I’m a complete shit. Are you okay? You flew at least fifty feet.”

“I’m a tough bastard,” he replies. “Don’t worry about me. Carter okay?”

I study my friend, giving him a head-to-toe once-over.

“I’m fine, really,” Frederico says. Other than a scrape on his elbow and dirt smudges on his face and legs, he appears unscathed. “I felt worse when I fell off that ledge in the Santa Barbara hundred.”

I snort. Frederico had forgotten to change the batteries on his headlamp on that race. Instead of trying to tag along with another runner, he tried to forge ahead alone—and ended up plowing right off a ledge and twisting his ankle. The stunt had forced him into a DNF—a
Did Not Finish.

The phone in my hand pings with another incoming text. Assured my friend is okay, I turn my attention back to the phone. I tilt the screen so Frederico can read it, too.

Zombies r attracted 2 noise
, Carter writes.
That’s why I can’t talk. Think they’re blind too. Hunt by sound. Cars aren’t safe. They swarm cars.

“That explains the white eyes,” Frederico murmurs.

Are you safe?
I text.

No response.

“He isn’t answering my question,” I say tersely.

“Let me talk to him.” Frederico takes the phone from me.

Carter
, he texts.
Uncle Rico here. R u safe?

There’s a long pause. I can just imagine Carter trying to figure out if Frederico is really the one sending the text, or if it’s me pretending to be Frederico. Carter might try to protect me, but there’s a good chance he’ll be straight with Frederico. The two have always been close, even more so since Kyle died.

At last, his answer comes.

Safe for now. Can’t leave my dorm room. Zombies in hallway. On campus 2. I can see them from the window.

A tremble goes through my chest, tears again springing to my eyes. Frederico rubs my back in wordless comfort.

Pull your shit together
, I scold myself. Carter needs a strong mom, not an emotional basket case. He’s already had to deal with that scenario one too many times in his life.

My phone pings with another text.

There are soldiers and CDC workers. Arrived this morning. Ordered everyone to stay inside. They arrest anyone they find outside. CDC people are in hazmat suits.

If the military and CDC are involved, things are worse than I imagined. I snatch the phone from Frederico, pulling up the Internet browser. A quick search of the news networks brings up disturbing headlines.

UNNAMED BIO THREAT DISCOVERED AT PORTLAND PORT

CDC QUARANTINE 500-MILE RADIUS AROUND PORTLAND

OREGON-CALIFORNIA BORDER CLOSED, CDC CHECKPOINTS AS FAR SOUTH AS EUREKA & REDDING

ALL US PORTS CLOSED PENDING CDC INSPECTION

ALL FLIGHTS GROUNDED IN PORTLAND AIRPORT

PORTLAND BIOTERRORISM ATTACK CAUSING OUTBREAKS OF INSANITY AND CANNIBALISM

The phone falls numbly from my fingers.

Despite my inner attempt to rally, all hope crumples up inside me. I slump over, wrapping my arms around my stomach.

This shit is real. CDC quarantines and checkpoints. Bio threats. Port closures.

Zombies.

My son is out there, trapped. And I have no way to get to him.

Frederico picks up my phone, silently thumbing through the headlines. He lets me cry, administering more pats to my back. I sense him looking up and down the frontage road.

“This isn’t over, Kate,” he says. “Not by a long shot.”

“What are you talking about?” I raise bitter eyes. “In case you didn’t notice, my car is completely fucked. Even if I did have a car, there’s the CDC quarantine and the fact that zombies swarm cars. Carter is barricaded in his dorm room with no one to help him. We’re stuck here.”

Frederico gives my back a final pat and pulls me upright. Looking me in the eye, he says, “Lace up, Kate. We’re hoofing it.”

I blink stupidly at him. “What?”

“Your car is totaled,” he says. “With all the shit that’s going down, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. You want to find your son? Then we run.”

“You want to
run
? All the way to Arcata?”

He shrugs. “We scope out the situation as we go. If the roads look safe, we find a car to rent or buy. Or steal one, whatever. We can ditch it before we hit the CDC quarantine or if there are too many zombies. In the end, we’ll need to be on foot to get into Arcata.”

“But . . .” I work a quick calculation in my head. “That’s at least two hundred miles.”

Frederico takes my phone and pulls up a GPS app. After a moment, he says, “It’s exactly two hundred and one point three miles from this very spot to Humboldt University.”

“Two hundred and one
miles
?” I say, incredulous. “Neither of us has ever run that far before.”

“How many miles did you log last week?”

“One hundred thirty-six,” I reply instantly. I keep a running log and track my mileage and elevation work.

“I did one hundred and nine.”

I think about this. For the average, non-crazy person, running two hundred or more miles would be impossible. At an ambitious walk, they may cover fifteen miles a day. Maybe twenty, if they’re in great shape. But Frederico and I have both made a hobby of running ultra races. Insane long distances are our specialty.

My eyes dry. Something akin to hope blooms in my chest. If we only stop once or twice for catnaps—ultramarathons are run with little to no sleep—we can make good time. If we can find a car to use for a while, we can make really good time.

“Do you think we can make it in two days?”

Frederico, sensing my budding optimism, considers this. “Maybe, if we can knock out some distance in a car,” he says at last. “If we make the majority of the trip on foot, three days is a safer estimate.”

“But we’ll be on the road,” I say. “Road running is always faster than trail running, and we’ve both done one-hundred-mile trail runs in under twenty-four hours.”

“I haven’t done a sub-twenty-four in over five years, trail or road,” he replies. “The farther we go, the harder it will be to hold a decent pace. There’s no guarantee we’ll even be able to stay on the road. If things get hairy, we may be bushwhacking.”

“Seventy-two hours.” I nod, letting this new reality sink in. I might not be cut out for zombie killing, but I
am
a long-distance runner. “Okay.”

I pick up the phone and send one last message.

Sit tight, sweetie. Frederico and I are coming to get you. Be there as soon as we can.

Five seconds later, my phone rings. Carter’s smiling face pops up on the screen, an odd juxtaposition to everything that’s going on.

“Put that thing on silent,” Frederico says.

I obey, then hit the speaker button. “I thought you said you couldn’t talk on the phone,” I say anxiously.

“You can’t come here,” Carter hisses. His words are barely above a whisper. “Cars are zombie magnets. I don’t know how far south the outbreak has spread, but I’ve seen at least three cars get swarmed today.”

“No problem,” Frederico replies. “Your mom’s car is totaled, and we’re out in the middle of the vineyards without a taxi in sight. We’re running to you.”

Silence.

“You guys are crazy,” Carter hisses. “You can’t
run
here!”

“Your mom and I are indeed crazy, and we’re coming to get you, kiddo. Deal with it.” With that, Frederico hangs up.

It’s my turn to snatch the phone.

Do u have enough snacks to hold u over until we get there?
I text.

Don’t come
, he types back.
Not safe.

We r coming. Do u have enough food?

Long pause. Then,
Yes, we have snacks.

What about water?

Sink still works.

Good. See u soon baby. Love u.

Be careful Mom. Stay away from cars. Love you 2.

Chapter 7

Prep

What follows is a routine Frederico and I have danced for nearly two decades: prep for an ultra run. Even though this will be a very different type of run, the essentials are the same.

We pull my gear box out of the trunk. It’s overflowing with running supplies. I never go anywhere without it. Especially these days, when I’m running almost every day. The amount of money I spend on running paraphernalia is barely short of embarrassing.

In silent symbiosis, we dive into the box. I pull out a headlamp and an extra set of batteries. Next come gloves, beanie, visor, and extra socks.

“You should swap out your hydration pack for this one.” I pass Frederico my biggest spare pack, which has a two-liter water bladder. He nods in agreement, wordlessly dropping his pack into my trunk.