Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel)

by Camille Picott

  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.

  A small, black-and-white cat zips out of the closet, tearing past us and out into the hall.

  Straight into Stout.

  Yowls of alarm fill the air, followed by frenetic barking.

  Chapter 22

  Portland Malady

  “Fuck!” Frederico darts into the hallway with me on his heels.

  We arrive in time to see Stout and the cat streak downstairs. Barking rings like a cannon in my ears.

  “Stout!” I hiss, barreling past Frederico and racing after the dog.

  There’s a humongous racket from the kitchen, followed by more barking and yowling. It takes me a second to register the sound.

  The cans and bottles in the plastic garbage bags. They’re spilling all over the kitchen. And from the sound of things, Stout and the cat are right in the middle of the mess.

  “Stout!” I race into the kitchen, fisting my hand in the scruff of the crazed dog. She strains against me, woofing madly at the cat.

  The terrified feline stumbles over several beer bottles in its haste to get away. It streaks out of the kitchen under a barrage of barking. I brace both feet against the linoleum, struggling to hang onto Stout.

  Frederico strides into the kitchen, face dark. Without hesitation, he cuffs the dog on the side of the head.

  I suck in a surprised breath. Stout whines and stumbles from the impact. She looks up at Frederico, ears going flat.

  “Bad dog,” Frederico tells her, his face a mask of fear and fury. “Bad.”

  Stout presses her belly against the floor, tucking her tail between her legs. She stares up at Frederico with pleading eyes.

  He ignores her, stalking out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I hear a door close.

  “Locked the fucking cat in the bathroom,” he says, returning to the kitchen. “You can let her up.”

  Slowly, gingerly, I peel my fingers from Stout’s scruff. She slinks toward Frederico. He glares at her, then sighs, shoulders sagging.

  “So much for keeping a low profile,” he murmurs, gently petting the dog.

  A dull bump sounds from the side of the house. A heartbeat later, there are moans, followed by more bumping.

  I feel sick. Creeping forward, I lean across the Formica countertop. Peeking through the once-white drapes that cover the window over the sink, I have a clear view of the south side of the property.

  The father and son zombies kick the house with their feet and claw at the siding. The mother and other son draw near, reaching out with their hands.

 
As I watch, the father zombie inches to the side, following the contour of the house and heading toward the back. I jerk away from the kitchen curtain, as though the creature might sense my presence.

  “It’s coming around the back,” I hiss. “We have to block the other door.”

  We hurry toward to the back of the house, entering a room with a slanted floor that looks like it was once an outdoor porch. Somewhere along the line, it was converted into a laundry room.

  I scan the narrow room, looking for something to block the door. If I wasn’t worried about making a racket, we could just tip over the washing machine.

  “Over here,” Frederico hisses.

  In a corner of the room is a six-foot cabinet made of cheap particleboard. He braces himself against one side. Understanding his intent, I position myself on the opposite.

  “One,” Frederico whispers. “Two. Three.”

  I heave. Thankfully, the cabinet isn’t too heavy. Things rattle inside as we lift it a few inches off the floor and shift it away from the wall. We set it down, rest, then move it again.

  We shift it two more times before a broom falls out and clatters to the floor. An answering moan sounds from outside. I wince.

  “Fuck it,” Frederico mutters. With a loud screech of particleboard against chipped linoleum, he slides the cabinet across the floor. The noise sends chills up my back.

  “They already know we’re here,” he grumbles, wedging the cabinet in front of the door. “No use dicking around. Come on, let’s eat and get the hell out of here before they figure out how to get inside.”

  Back in the kitchen, he dives into the refrigerator, pulling out everything edible. He piles up bread, cheese, apples, leftover pizza, and a six-pack of Coke. I rummage through the drawers, producing silverware and a can opener.

  “Protein.” Frederico plops down two packages of lunch meat.

  Without another word, we gorge ourselves. I throw open the greasy lid of the pizza box and inhale three slices of what looks like meat lover’s delight. Frederico piles lunch meat and cheese atop slices of bread, building a sandwich at least four inches high before shoving it into his mouth. With his free hand, he pops open a can of Coke, sucking down long draughts of the sugary liquid between bites of food.

  I polish off the pizza and start in on an apple, simultaneously heading for the pantry.

  “Carbs.” I place several cans of black beans on the counter. More rummaging produces several cans of SpaghettiOs, chili, and corn. I make my way down the counter, methodically opening each can of food as I go. Frederico seizes a can of beans and starts shoveling it into his mouth. I inhale two cans of SpaghettiOs.

  Stout wuffles softly. Still on her belly, she looks up at us with woeful eyes.

  Without saying a word, Frederico upends a can of beef chili onto the floor in front of her. She pops up, tail springing to life, and eagerly laps up the chili. I dump another two cans onto the floor for her, figuring she must be at least as hungry as we are. Frederico finds a mixing bowl and fills it with water for her.

  I spot a radio—a boom box that looks like it was transported from the eighties—sitting on the kitchen counter. It’s covered in dust but otherwise looks intact.

  I make sure the volume isn’t too high, then flick on the radio and am rewarded with a classic rock tune. I tune into the AM bandwidth, turning the knob and scanning the stations until I find a news station.

  “. . . unknown malady has entered the United States through the port of Portland,” says the radio host. “The CDC has erected a containment unit around ground zero. They are working ‘round the clock to diagnose this unknown disease. All citizens with signs of infection are instructed to check in at CDC stations for immediate care.

  “Though the CDC refuses to comment, there are rumors the illness is spread by bodily fluid. Initial symptoms are similar to the flu: fever, chills, and aches. If not treated within several hours, those infected begin to show signs of dementia. If left untreated, they will turn violent. In some cases, the infected have attacked and killed. There have been reports of over three hundred attacks and eighty-six fatalities linked to this unknown disease.”

  Frederico and I spend the next thirty minutes listening to the news while we eat and drink everything in sight. I’m so hungry I barely taste the food as it goes down. My body burns up the much-needed fuel; life and energy return to me, filling me from my toes to my head. We chew and swallow in silence, making minimal noise so as not to miss a word of the news report.

  “Military checkpoints have increased. Every major road out of Oregon has a checkpoint. New checkpoints have been erected in neighboring states in the cities of Boise, Redding, Eureka, and Tacoma. No one is allowed past the checkpoints unless they submit to a mandatory blood test.”

  My mind boggles at the scope of the outbreak. Authorities are obviously trying to contain it, but it’s not working.

  “Portland is under martial law. Citizens are required to submit to mandatory blood tests. Mobile blood banks have been dispatched to draw the blood while police round up citizens. Anyone found dodging the mandatory testing is imprisoned immediately.”

  Frederico ventures into the freezer. He emerges with two gallons of ice cream. He passes the vanilla chocolate chip to me, prying the lid off a strawberry one in his hands. We sit together in silence, spooning huge mouthfuls of ice cream into our mouths.

  “Flights in and out of Portland have been grounded. Military personal have been deployed to all ports in the United States. No signs of the Portland Malady have been detected at any of the other ports.”

  Portland Malady. Is that what they’re calling it now? My mouth twists into a bitter grimace at the political sugarcoating.

  Stout joins us, cocking her head and staring at us. With a shrug, Frederico spoons out some strawberry ice cream and plops it onto the floor. The dog chases it around the floor, tail wagging as she laps at the cold lump with her tongue.

  “Joining us now is Charles Fitzpatrick, a member of the Portland longshoremen. He was a witness to the outbreak. Charles, tell us what you saw.”

  The longshoreman launches into a gory retelling of attacks he witnessed from a small bathroom window.

  Frederico and I sit slumped onto the dirty kitchen floor, leaning against the cupboards. We’re surrounded by the remains of our feast: empty cans, wrappers, and bags; dirty forks, knives, and spoons; crumbs, bread crust, and apple cores.

  I pull out my cell phone. There’s a single text from Carter, sent about an hour ago.

  Fire somewhere in dorm. Going 2 make a run for it. Be in touch later. Love u.

  Holy shit. My smile fades, mouth going dry as I read his words.

  “What is it?” Frederico, seeing my expression, takes the phone from me. “Fuck,” he breathes.

  I take the phone back.

  Are u ok? I type. We r a few miles north of Hopland.

  I stare at the phone, waiting for a response.

  The longshoreman drones on in the background. “There was so much blood . . .”

  A minute ticks by. Two. Three.

  Staring bleakly at my phone, I resolutely wall away my rising anguish. Panic and fear will not help Carter. Neither will staring at my phone.

  There have been moments in my life where grief has crippled me. This isn’t going to be one of them. Carter needs me. I’m not going to let him down.

  Mouth tightening in determination, I slide the phone back into my pack. Then I lever myself to my feet and switch off the radio.

  “Come on,” I say to Frederico. “Let’s take care of our feet and get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter 23

  Visitors

  Grimacing, I pull off my shoes and socks. My blisters are ridiculous. The outside of my left foot is filled with clear fluid, the blister about the size of a quarter. There’s one on top of my foot, filled with blood, that looks like a kidney bean on steroids. Not to mention all the small blisters on, around, and between my toes.

  “I’m
going to lose this toenail.” I prod the big toe on my right foot, wrinkling my nose at the large blister that’s formed under the nail.

  “Yeah, I got a few of those, too. Here.” Frederico passes me the blister kit, a Ziploc bag filled with sterile wipes, a few needles, a mini pair of scissors, liquid Band-Aid, and moleskin.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning, lancing, and bandaging blisters. We work in silence, sparing little comment for the blood, pus, nails, and dead skin we remove. My feet have been through worse; hell, I expect them to be fully trashed by the time we get to Arcata.

  I’d love to take the time to de-sticker my shoes and pants, but there doesn’t seem much point since we’ll be heading right back out onto the railroad tracks.

  After I tend to my feet, I pull out the stick of Body Glide and reapply the lubricant to my hot zones. I rub it all over my feet, along the inside of my waistband, and across my skin just under the elastic of my sports bra.

  Frederico holds up his wet shoes. “These could use a good thirty minutes in the dryer.”

  “Yeah, if we want to draw the attention of every zombie within five miles.” Even now, I can hear the zombie family scratching and groaning outside the back door. “What about a hair dryer?” I pull on my second and last pair of dry socks. “Maybe we could use it in the upstairs closet to blow-dry our shoes. It would muffle the noise.”

  “Good idea. Let’s try to find some Ibuprofen while we’re at it. My back is complaining.”

  “I could use some for my knee, too,” I reply. It still aches, though the worst of the pain has receded. “What about weapons? This looks like the sort of house that would have a few guns around.”

  “Good point,” Frederico says. “We’ll look around before we leave.”

  We leave Stout sprawled on the kitchen floor, bleary-eyed as she enters a junk food coma.

  After a few minutes of searching the upstairs bathroom, we find a bottle of Aleve and a hair dryer. We both throw back three Aleve. I then grab the comforter from the master bed and drag it into the closet, using it as additional insulation against sound.