Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel)

by Camille Picott

  “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts at me when I catch up. “Now is not the time for NPR!”

  Sure enough, the honeyed voice of NPR’s Weekend Edition host belts out of the car.

  “Creating a diversion,” I huff, sprinting along beside him, pumping my arms and legs as hard as I can.

  I glance over my shoulder just long enough to confirm my suspicions: the zombie Scouts swarm the car like ants on a piece of cat food.

  “Look,” I say, slowing my stride. “They’re not following us anymore.”

  Every zombie is in frantic mode, clawing and pushing one another in an attempt to get to the car. None of them so much as turns in our direction. Their focus is solely on the Nissan’s blaring radio.

  We hit the frontage road again and turn north, running side by side. To our left is a sharp slope angling down to the freeway; to our right is open grassland and vineyards.

  “Everything will depend on how good their hearing is,” Frederico says.

  A shiver courses down my back, even though I’m drenched in sweat. “Guess we’ll just have to see.”

  I take a long drink out of my pack. Adrenaline hammers at me. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see at least one Scout coming after us.

  None of them do. Only when we’ve put three-quarters of a mile between us and them do I begin to relax.

  “You realize we are zero-for-two with cars?” Frederico says.

  “Yeah. We only got a few granola bars for all our trouble. Though we got off better than some of the others.”

  I think of the two women we saw get attacked—the Scout mother with her McDonald’s breakfast bags, and the chubby woman who saw the attack inside the fast-food restaurant.

  “It wasn’t a complete waste,” Frederico says, giving me a clap on the shoulder.

  His levity is forced. I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood, which I appreciate. “How do you figure?” I ask.

  “You learned the easiest way to steal a car,” he replies. “I bet they don’t teach that to those Boy Scouts. You never know when that piece of information might come in handy. Screwdrivers are pretty easy to find.”

  I have to admit he has a point. If this is the end of the world, there’s no telling how many cars we might have to steal between now and the grave.

  “You sure know how to make lemonade out of lemons,” I say.

  “I’m a recovering alcoholic, kid. I’m a living lemon. I spend every day doing my best to make lemonade out of myself.” He shrugs. “Somedays I do better than others. You know that better than anyone.”

  *

  It was a Saturday night in late November. Carter, only four, curled in bed beside me as I read him a story.

  When the doorbell rang, I didn’t think much of it. I heard Kyle get up from the sofa in the living room and answer it.

  I finished the book, kissed Carter good-night, and closed his bedroom door. Exiting the hallway, I was surprised to find Frederico on our living room couch. He and Kyle, having met in Alcoholics Anonymous, had been friends for several years. The two men had taken an instant liking to one another, a synchronicity that bloomed into a lifelong friendship.

  Frederico’s eyes, in a younger, less careworn face, were wild that night.

  “She moved out,” he said, voice tight. “She’s been planning this for months. She waited until I went to my AA meeting, then called that jackass boyfriend of hers and moved out.”

  Neither Kyle nor I had to ask who she was. Aleisha, his daughter, had just turned eighteen. She was the only female of any importance in Frederico’s life.

  “What’s the point of all this?” Frederico raged. He snatched a copy of an Alcoholics Anonymous book off our coffee table and waved it in the air. “What is the point of this if I can’t earn her forgiveness?” He hurled the book across the room, chest heaving.

  It smacked loudly against the wall before thunking to the floor. I suppressed a wince, knowing the sound would wake Carter.

  “She said I would never be anything more than a stupid addict.” His words were thin and strained. “I haven’t touched alcohol in seven years, and it’s still not enough. What do I have to do to prove myself to her?”

  He crumpled over, crimping fists in hair that was more black than gray. “I want a drink,” he whispered. “I need a drink.” He lifted haunted, desperate eyes to Kyle.

  “One drink will be too many. A hundred drinks will never be enough,” Kyle replied, voice gentle yet firm. “The pain will still be there when you sober up.”

  “Mommy?” Carter, drawn by the commotion, appeared in the hallway.

  I intercepted him. “Come on, baby.” I pulled him back into his room. “Uncle Rico is here to visit Daddy. Let’s go read another story.”

  Fifteen minutes later, when I reemerged from Carter’s bedroom, Kyle and Frederico were gone. Kyle didn’t come back home until four in the morning.

  “Uncle Rico is sleeping on the sofa,” he said, sliding into bed beside me. “Hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” I replied sleepily. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Kyle replied, leaning over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  He didn’t offer any details. I didn’t ask for any, understanding the sacred privacy existing between AA members.

  When I padded into the living room the next morning, I found Frederico fast asleep, curled around his Alcoholics Anonymous book. That was the first and last time I ever heard him say he wanted a drink.

  *

  I never did find out what they did that night, or what was said between them. What I do know is that Frederico made it through the crisis without drinking, and that’s what mattered.

  Over the years, he’s learned to manage his daughter’s rejection, though it’s a pain he’ll always carry. Like his sobriety, it’s a razor’s edge he’s forever balancing on.

  Chapter 10

  The Tracks

  Only two southbound cars pass us as we run down the frontage road. Both whiz by us without slowing. I look for signs of distress and worry on the faces of the drivers, but they go by us so quickly it’s impossible for me to tell.

  We run another half mile before we’re forced to slow. Two hundred yards in front of us, the road dead-ends at a two-way intersection.

  At the intersection are two wrecked cars and a bunch of zombies. I count seven altogether. Five of them wander in small circles in the road; two others are stuck in cars, beating and scratching at the glass.

  As soon as we spot the zombies, Frederico and I duck into a vineyard and hide between a row of vines. We dig the map out of my pack and spread it on the ground. While Frederico pores over the map, I pull out my phone and check for messages from Carter. Nothing. I tuck it back away, doing my best to ignore the fear chipping away at me.

  Frederico runs his hand along the crinkled map. “We’re right here.” He taps the map.

  “What’s the best way north?” I lean over beside him. “I think we should stay off the freeway as much as possible.”

  “Agreed.” Frederico frowns, studying the map. “We could try to maneuver these country black lines.” He trails his fingers over the roads. “Risky, though. There’s no straight shot. Worst-case scenario, we get lost. Best, we waste a lot of time constantly stopping to check the map so we don’t get lost.”

  “What about the railroad?” I can see the tracks from here, running between the freeway and the frontage road. They run right through the two-way intersection and disappear into a tangle of trees and weeds beyond the zombies, heading in a northbound direction.

  “The tracks parallel one-oh-one for . . . looks like almost seventy-five miles. We can get all the way to Willits. A little farther, even. We’ll have to get back onto one-oh-one after that, but there won’t be as many people to worry about.” The population of northern California gets pretty sparse. Some towns have populations of less than one hundred people.

  “That’s a good plan.” Frederico traces the railroad with hi
s finger. “It’s a straight shot. We avoid civilization and the freeway for seventy-five miles. There’s only one problem.” He meets my eye. “We have to get through them to get to the railroad.”

  I don’t have to ask who them is. Raising my chin, I peek through the vibrant grape leaves at the milling zombies.

  “There’re only seven of them,” Frederico says. “Let’s bust out a can of whoop ass and take care of them.”

  I’m not in the mood for his humor. “How about we just give them a wide berth?” I reply curtly.

  Without giving him time to respond, I lead the way deeper into the vineyard. We cut through the vines, popping out three-quarters of a mile up the road from the zombies.

  We crouch on the asphalt, watching the milling undead from afar. They continue to walk in mindless circles, periodically moaning or growling.

  “We stay low and move fast,” Frederico whispers to me. “Once we hit the vineyards on the other side of the road, head west until we hit the tracks.”

  I nod in agreement. In the movies, this would be the part where something goes terribly wrong and we end up with a horde of zombies on our heels.

  In reality, when we zip across the two-lane road to the vineyard on the opposite side, nothing happens. The zombies remain near the wrecked cars, none of them so much as twitching at our passage.

  “May the rest of our journey be so easy,” Frederico says as we duck between the vines.

  We cut through the vineyard. In a few minutes, we intercept the railroad tracks. I glance down at my watch and see that we’ve covered ten miles. Since we first ditched my ruined car.

  Only one hundred ninety-one to go.

  *

  The rails sit on a manmade berm. The tracks have been abandoned and unused for who knows how long, a relic from a bygone era of logging and clear-cutting in northern California. They’re rotting and choked with weeds.

  In running, there are different types of terrain. Paved roads and wide fire trails are considered easy. Then there are hiking trails, single-track paths often littered with rocks, boulders, roots, plants, inclines, and declines. The more obstacles, the more technical a race path becomes—and the more mental and physical acuity required to navigate them.

  As I canter along behind Frederico—the tracks being too narrow for us to run side by side—I quickly assess that these tracks are on par with technical trail runs. The wooden rail ties are rotted and uneven, making precarious footing. The spacing doesn’t fit a natural gait.

  At first I try to alter my stride so that I strike a tie each time I land. This forces me to shorten my stride to the point that my balance is off. I take myself back to my natural stride length. This forces my landings to alternate between the gravel of the berm and the rotting platforms of the ties. The gravel gives beneath my feet, requiring me to compensate and dig in a little harder on the push off. The ties are firmer but more uneven, often making me shift left or right to land on the smoothest piece of wood.

  “Harder than it looks,” Frederico grunts.

  “Yeah.”

  I keep my eyes on the ground, avoiding the worst of the rotting planks and some of the sink holes in the berm. The importance of keeping your eyes on the path is a well-known fact among trail runners. Frederico once told me it’s not if you fall as a trail runner, but when you fall. Let the eyes stray from the trail for even a second and a runner can end up eating dirt. I’ve done that very thing myself more times than I can count.

  I start to notice the plants around mile twelve. Low, scraggly plants fill the abandoned tracks. Even though it’s nearly noon, they are still saturated with rainwater from last night. With each stride, our legs and feet swoosh through the wet plants.

  The legs of my compression pants are soaked. Water collects inside my shoes, saturating the outside and squishing on the inside with every step I take.

  “Um, Frederico? Are your shoes filled with water?”

  “Yeah.”

  Saturated feet are a runner’s worst nightmare. Wet feet combined with the friction of running is a recipe for epic blisters.

  “This is bad,” I say. “It’s too early for us to trash our feet.”

  “It’s too early to get eaten alive,” he replies. “We can always figure out a way to dry out our socks.”

  Can’t argue with that. “I don’t suppose you learned how to start a fire with old newspaper and a Corona bottle during your less respectable days?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, no. But we’ll figure something out. You didn’t think this was going to be easy, did you? Ultras aren’t fun because they’re easy.”

  He’s right. The thrill of an ultra comes from doing something impossibly, excruciatingly hard. Of course, my son’s life has never depended on the results of a race before.

  “Remember, Jackalope, one mile at a time. We can do this.”

  By mile fourteen, I’m soaked from the bottom of my knees to the bottom of my feet. On top of the wet clothing are the cattails and burrs from the weeds. They catch in my pants, shoes, and socks. Some have wormed their way past the fabric. They rub at the skin of my legs and ankles.

  “We should have put on some gators,” Frederico calls back to me.

  Gators are cloth coverings that fit over shoes and ankles. They keep debris out of shoes and socks. Now is not the time to dwell on the three pairs left behind in my hatchback.

  “Better burrs than zombie teeth, I suppose,” I grumble.

  “Good point, Jackalope.”

  The railroad heads into a hilly area covered with oak trees. With the spring rains, the hillsides are bright green. There are still vineyards, but they are few and farther between. The strip of land called home by the railroad is lined on either side by pasture fence.

  “I think I like being inside the fence,” I say, gesturing to the parallel lines of barbed wire.

  “Yeah, so long as the zombies are on the other side and not in here with us,” Frederico replies.

  When I look down at my watch and see that we’re at mile fifteen, I reluctantly admit it’s time to eat. If we don’t keep up a steady source of fuel, we’ll bonk. Bonking is what happens when the body runs out of fuel during a run; it includes, but is not limited to, puking, extreme fatigue, cramping, and depression. Every runner strives to avoid bonking. I think longingly of the half-eaten breakfast left behind at the diner this morning.

  Without slowing, I dig an energy bar out of my pack. Ripping it open, I hold out half to Frederico. He shakes his head.

  “You eat it. I’m fine.”

  “Uh-uh,” I say. “It’s time to refuel.”

  “You go ahead,” he says. “I can go a bit longer.”

  “Didn’t we agree not to be idiots?” I push the bar back in his direction. “I can’t make this run by myself. You need to eat. I need you to eat.”

  He grunts and takes the bar from me, shoving the whole thing inelegantly into his mouth.

  Over the next mile, I parcel out the last two energy bars. Then I move onto the electrolyte tablets. Frederico takes the rations wordlessly, obediently consuming whatever I pass his way.

  Chapter 11

  One Tough Man

  Mile seventeen.

  “Do you remember when we first started running together?” I ask. “Kyle was ecstatic when he found out you were a runner.”

  “I remember.” Frederico snorts. “He hated the fact that you ran alone. He had visions of you breaking your leg and rotting away on the trails.”

  “And getting eaten by a rabid mountain lion in the process.” I laugh fondly at the memory, even though it had been a bone of contention in the early years of our marriage. I loved my time out on the trails, but Kyle always worried about me. We’d had our share of fights about my running, or at least we did until I started running with Frederico.

  “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you since our first run together,” I say.

  He glances over at me with an amused expression. “And you decided now is the time to satisfy a l
ifelong curiosity?”

  “Well . . . it’s the apocalypse.”

  “True. Let’s hear it.”

  “On that first day we ran together, you told me that you started running to stay sober.”

  “I did.”

  “Why running?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you pick running to help you stay sober?”

  Frederico doesn’t immediately reply. As we cover another half a mile in silence, I know he’s mulling over his answer.

  “If you’d asked me that question ten years ago, I’d have told you I was running away from myself,” he says a last. “That’s what I told my sponsor for years. It’s partially true, but it’s not the whole story. Alcoholics are notorious for lying, you know.”

  I stay quiet, waiting for him to continue.

  “When I was ten, my dad took me for a hike in Yosemite. We got up at six in the morning to hike Half Dome, which is fourteen miles round trip. Part way up the trail, we paused to catch our breaths and drink some water.

  “While we stood there, a runner passed us. ‘What’s your hurry?’ my dad called after him. Without looking back, the runner said, ‘Training for an ultramarathon. Doing two loops to Glacier Point and back today.’

  “Dad and I stared after the man, dumbstruck. It’s a good twenty miles round trip to Glacier Point and back. And that guy was going to do it twice. It sounded impossible. Insane, even.

  “‘Now that’s one tough man,’ Dad said.

  “After that, we capped our water bottles and continued our hike. We never spoke about the ultrarunner again. But that moment stayed with me.

  “When I decided to quit drinking, I knew I had to be tough. The only thing that sounded tougher than going sober was running to Glacier Point and back two times.

  “When I finally admitted to myself that I needed to stop drinking, I took every bottle of alcohol I had in the house and threw them in the trash. Then I got in my car and drove all the way to Yosemite. Got there at three in the morning.