Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel)

by Camille Picott

  I ignore it.

  I’m somewhere in the forest, a canopy of redwoods towering above me. Damp earth and pine needles stick to my cheek, torso, and arms.

  Frederico.

  It doesn’t matter how far or how hard I run. I’ll never escape the grief and emptiness.

  Kyle.

  Gritting my teeth, I push myself into a standing position. My swollen ankle throbs. I consider pulling off the shoe and sock to inspect it, but quickly dismiss the idea. If I take the shoe off, I’ll never get it back on. I make up my mind right then that the damn shoe isn’t coming off until I get to Arcata.

  It’s seven in the morning. I’ve been on the move for forty-five hours. My watch shows me at mile one hundred forty-seven. How long did I sleep? I don’t even remember how I got here.

  My eyes are swollen from crying. My nose is clogged with snot. Hunger scrapes at my insides. My tongue is parched. My body feels like it’s been pounded with a hammer—which in fact, it has.

  Pain is irrelevant.

  Hunger, too, is manageable. At least for now.

  Hydration, however, is neither irrelevant or manageable. I need to get some liquid into my body. Soon. I won’t make it far if I’m too badly dehydrated. Lack of water can lead to kidney malfunction, which has forced many a runner into a DNF.

  That is not going to be me. Not today, at least.

  My mind flashes briefly to a documentary I saw on Genghis Khan. His warriors drank blood from their horses to stave off dehydration in the desert.

  Any horses around? I wonder.

  I have a brief vision of me catching a horse, slicing its flank open with a knife I don’t have, then draining some of its blood into my hydration pack. I bark a mad, desperate laugh.

  Something crinkles under my hand.

  I look down and see a small pile of stuff on the forest floor. There’s half a candy bar and a small Ziploc with needles, sterile wipes, Super Glue—a blister kit, I realize. Like the one Frederico and I put together after we raided that abandoned RV.

  Thoughts of last night flood back. I have a vague recollection of Frederico shoving things into my hands before he led the zombies away from me.

  My eyes swell with tears. Did he give me these things? Did I carry them all this way?

  Frederico lost everything yesterday. His daughter, his sobriety, and his life. He sacrificed his sobriety for Aleisha and his life for me.

  Tears spill down my face. I blink them away; now is not the time to cry, not when I’m already dehydrated.

  I tuck the blister kit and half-eaten candy bar into my pack. Logic tells me I should tend to my feet—or at least, my good foot—but I’m too tired and honestly, I just don’t give a fuck about blisters right now. Even so, having the little kit makes me feel like I have a tiny piece of my friend still with me.

  “He’s dead, you idiot,” says a nasally voice. “There ain’t no piece of Frederico left anywhere.”

  My head whips round. Standing beneath a tree, only five feet away, is a dun-colored rabbit with tall ears. Rising above his ears are a pair of antlers.

  My stomach drops at the sight of the jackalope. I quickly turn away, pretending not to have seen or heard him. Now is not the time for a hallucination. Especially an antagonistic one.

  “I know you saw me, you weakling,” the jackalope sneers. “What, don’t have the stomach for the truth? You had the stomach to run away from your friend when he needed you.”

  I climb to my feet, gritting my teeth at the pain. I glance around—meticulously avoiding the jackalope—looking for the road. There. It’s off to my left, about twenty paces.

  “So that’s how you’re going to play it? Pretend you can’t see or hear me? This is your fault, you know. You voted for those fucking Democratic pansy-ass do-gooders. If the elephants were in charge, they’d have dropped a few bombs and nipped this zombie bullshit in the bud. None of this apocalypse mumbo-jumbo would have happened. Then you wouldn’t be here, and Frederico would still be alive.”

  My hands tremble. From fatigue, from stress, from grief, from the appearance of the jackalope—who can say?

  I pick my way through the forest, paying close attention to the placement of my bad, swollen foot. My leg brushes a bush and comes away wet, soaked with dew. I pause, staring down at the bush.

  A minute passes. I unbuckle my hydration pack and drop it to the forest floor. Next, I pull off my stinky, sweat-stained, grimy T-shirt. I drag the shirt across the bush, trying to soak up the dew. Twigs and leaves snag on the material. Three days ago, that would have annoyed me. Today, I barely notice it.

  I repeat this process with the shirt on three more bushes, by which time the fabric is nice and wet in my hands. I shove the material into my mouth and suck, pulling the dew onto my tongue and down my throat. The nasty, salty tang of my sweat accompanies the dew, but I’m too exhausted and too thirsty to care.

  “Way to go, survivor,” says the jackalope. He applauds my efforts with his front paws, which somehow sound like human hands as they clap. “Guess you’ve got some grit in you after all. Who would’ve thought?”

  Once I suck my shirt dry, I move farther into the forest in search of more shrubs. I spend the next forty-five minutes soaking my shirt with dew and drinking. The jackalope keeps up a running commentary, alternating between insults and political tirades.

  “Seriously, Kate, I want you to take a good look at our country. Ask yourself this: wouldn’t things be better if automatic assault rifles were legal? Wouldn’t you like to have one of those suckers slung across your back right now? I’d bet my left nut you’d trade that stupid water pack for an automatic.”

  Does my imaginary jackalope have nuts? I blink rapidly against the grit in my eyes, willing myself not to look at him. His reproductive organs are none of my business.

  Being able to function with little to no sleep is an art. It’s a skill I’ve practiced and honed over the years. Every six weeks or so, I make it a point to stay awake for a twenty-four-hour period. This keeps me primed for races that require me to be on my feet for twenty-four hours or more. It’s a practice I put into place after the Badwater race through Death Valley, when I first encountered this fuzzy little asshole.

  I’ve never hallucinated since then.

  Until now.

  Maybe I should have been staying up for forty-eight-hour increments. Maybe that would have helped stave off this hallucination.

  “What’s your big plan now, champ?” the jackalope asks. “No way you’ll make it to Arcata with nothing but dew in your stomach.”

  Something in me snaps. My careful wall of self-control crumbles around me.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I growl, turning my back on him. “Shut up and leave.”

  I stalk away—or at least, I try to stalk. I manage a huffy limp with my gimpy ankle.

  “Hey, is that any way to treat an old friend?” The jackalope hops after me. “We’re BFFs. Badwater Friends Forever.”

  “We are not friends.” I pause, scanning my surroundings. I spot a solid branch and limp over to it. “You are a figment of my batshit crazy mind. I’d like you to go away now.”

  “You gotta stop with this patchouli hippie bullshit,” the jackalope replies. “The human mind is not nearly as powerful as your kind thinks it is, with your yoga mats and organic food. You think you can just will me away with a Jedi mind trick? Think again, sister.”

  I yank the branch out of the undergrowth, then set about stripping off the smaller twigs. I rip with more vigor than necessary, struggling against the urge to tell the jackalope that I’ve never set foot in a yoga studio.

  When I’m done stripping the branch, I’m left with a decent walking stick. Not quite as nice as a trekking pole, which I use on steeper races, but it’ll do.

  I pick my way to the road, brushing off the last of the dirt and pine needles. I emerge onto the asphalt. Above me is a big sign that says, 1 Mile: World-Famous One-Log House!

  To my dismay, the jackalope hops out of th
e forest and lands beside me. “God, you’re rank,” he tells me. “I may need to find a new BFF if you don’t do something about that smell.”

  I pause, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

  The next fifty miles are going to be long.

  Chapter 50

  Fatigue Factor

  There’s an ultra race phenomenon called Fatigue Factor. As I stand there on the deserted mountain road, feeling pain in every part of my body, I know I’m coming face to face with it.

  Fatigue Factor can easily double a standard mile time. On fresh legs, I can knock out fifty miles in ten to twelve hours, depending on the weather and the terrain, putting me in a range of twelve-to-fourteen-minute miles. A decent pace for a middle-of-the-pack runner.

  But I don’t have fresh legs. I’m exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and injured. Feeling as shitty as I do, I estimate I’ll be lucky to log three miles an hour. I’m also going to have to stop to forage for water and food, which will take even more time. If I get to Arcata in the next twenty-four hours, it’ll be a miracle. More likely, it’ll take longer.

  The idea of being on my feet another day or more almost brings me to tears. I dig deep, hunting within myself for every last scrap of resolve.

  “What are you waiting for?” the jackalope asks. “Frederico didn’t sacrifice himself so you could loaf around feeling sorry for yourself. Get your ass moving, chica.”

  I set out at a brisk walk, pushing forward with my injured ankle. Honestly, the ankle is just one of many aches and pains. The walking stick helps a little, but not much.

  “Suffer better,” I mutter to myself. “Suck it up and suffer better.”

  “Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity,” says the jackalope.

  The two-lane road is bordered by towering pine trees and redwoods. The air smells good—fresh and laden with the scent of pine. For this moment in time, surrounded by nothing except trees and empty road, I can pretend the world hasn’t gone to complete shit.

  I continue on at a fast walk, trying to work through my achy soreness. A mile later, I round a corner and find myself in Garberville, population 913.

  To my right is the One-Log House. It’s an ancient redwood tree that’s been turned on its side, hollowed out, and made into a tiny house. It was one of the silly stops Carter and I made on our trip to Arcata. We’d taken a few goofy pictures in front of the One-Log House.

  Clogging the highway is a jumble of deserted cars. Just past the House are a few gift shops catering to tourists. On the opposite side of the road is a gas station and a campground.

  On the ground near the gas pumps is a pile of bodies. My heart stops at the sight of them. I scurry off the road and take cover in the trees.

  Nothing happens.

  I peer out cautiously from between the cover of two redwoods. The bodies, upon closer inspection, are zombies, each with its head smashed in.

  Besides the pile of zombies, there are no other signs of the undead. There are none milling around the cars and stumbling out of the campground. There are none clawing at the windows of the tourist shops or bumping into the gas station pumps.

  Someone has rounded up the zombies and made this neat stack of bodies. Someone has cleaned up this tiny little town in the mountains. Who?

  “I bet whoever did this voted for the elephants,” the jackalope says. “No way they cleaned up this many zombies without some heat. You should try to get your hands on a gun.”

  I consider my options, chewing my lip in thought. I really need food and water. It’s a good bet I can get both in one of the shops. Then again, it’s a good bet I will run into whoever made that pile of zombie bodies.

  After a moment’s thought, I decide food can wait. It’s just not worth the risk. Water, on the other hand, is essential. My dew drops repast won’t hold me much longer.

  I’ll avoid the shops and find a hose or faucet instead. The back of the stores seems like a good place to start. With any luck, I’ll find a hose and get out before anyone notices me.

  “You’re not exactly at the top of your game,” the jackalope says. “You sure you wanna risk this?”

  Fuuuuuck. I close my eyes, wrestling with my temper. Screaming at my imaginary friend is a sure way to draw attention.

  “Forget the water. Your ass needs a gun.”

  The furry asshole has a point, although if I did have a weapon I’d probably blow my own foot off.

  I pick my way through the trees, circling behind the back of the One-Log House and gift shops. Finding a tree with some low-hanging branches for concealment, I spend fifteen minutes monitoring them. There are several cars parked behind the buildings, but no sign of people or zombies.

  The cars conceal most of the building, but I figure I have a good chance of finding a hose or water spigot there. Find water, fill my pack, and get back on the road. That’s my plan.

  I will not, as my jackalope keeps insisting, go in search of a gun.

  He’s on his hind legs, shoving paws into my chest to emphasize each word as he speaks.

  “Will you shut up?” I hiss at him. “I’m trying to concentrate. Besides, my railroad spikes and screwdrivers have gotten me this far.”

  The jackalope tsks. “The gun,” he sneers, “is for you.”

  It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in.

  My hallucination just told me to kill myself. I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m losing it.

  “Seriously, why do you want to go on?” he asks. “What do you have to live for? You lost Kyle and Frederico. Carter is probably dead, too. Why put yourself through more hell just to have your heart broken one more time?”

  I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block out the jackalope. My pulse ramps up. My heart pounds in my chest.

  I feel the world unraveling around me. God, how I wish Frederico was here. How I wish Kyle was here.

  “Seriously, just get it over with,” the jackalope says. “Let us both get some much-deserved rest.”

  I dig nails into my scalp, knotting fingers in my hair. I can’t quit. I can’t. Carter is still out there, alive. Kyle and Frederico would want me to keep going.

  “No,” I whisper. I can’t give up. I won’t give up.

  “Did you say something?” the jackalope asks. “Or were you just sniveling in self-pity?”

  Fuck this little asshole.

  I lash out with my good foot. The tiny, furred body flies through the trees and disappears.

  I stand there, panting and tense, waiting for the jackalope to return. My heart continues to hammer in my chest.

  Two minutes goes by. Five. Ten.

  My heart rate slowly returns to normal. The forest around me is quiet. Nothing moves. The jackalope doesn’t come back.

  If I’d known it was that easy to get rid of him, I’d have dropkicked him sooner.

  “Good riddance,” I mutter.

  I turn my attention back to the shops. Nothing has changed. Everything is quiet and still.

  I creep forward, making my way toward the buildings. I pull out a screwdriver I pilfered from a toolbox behind the bar in Rod’s Roadhouse. It helps fortify my nerves.

  I reach the first of the cars—a beat-up Dodge Caravan—and crouch behind it. Lowering my head, I scan the ground under the car and beyond. Specifically, I’m looking for feet—for any sign of another human or zombie. At the sight of either, I’m out of here.

  What’s more terrifying—the living or the dead? The dead may have wanted to eat me alive, but they haven’t thought of raping me. They didn’t murder an innocent animal for shits and giggles, or put a bell collar on me and set a horde of zombies loose.

  There’s no sign of anyone, only the rough gravel road and bits of litter: a crumpled beer can, a black trash bag overrun with ants, and discarded cigarette butts.

  I ease around the car, moving closer to the building. There—a spigot. Right next to a battered screen door.

  I pull off my pack and open the water bladder inside. I quickly scan the area one m
ore time, then dash forward.

  I turn the spigot. Water hisses loudly in the pipes, then gushes forth in a cool stream. I’m so busy watching the door and scanning the parked cars that I end up drenching half my pack before getting the bladder in place.

  Inside the building, something creaks. I stumble back from the water valve just as the screen door opens.

  There’s an instant when my eyes meet those of a thirty-something man with blond hair and a goatee. He’s mostly clean, with only a little bit of blood splattered on his plain green T-shirt.

  At the sight of him, I scramble away.

  “Hey,” he calls, stretching a hand out in my direction. He looks like a high school basketball coach.

  He also looks twice my size and strength.

  Panic rises in me. I turn and bolt.

  Chapter 51

  Batshit Crazy

  I crash through the trees, sloshing water all over me.

  “Wait!” the man calls. “I won’t hurt you!”

  Fuck that.

  Pausing only to seal my water bag, I sling my pack around my shoulders and haul ass. I make a ton of racket, but I’m more concerned with speed than stealth, betting on my ability to outrun the stranger. I use the walking stick to knock branches out of my path.

  I may be beat to shit, and I may be dodging through the woods like a feral Ewok, but I’ve logged more time running through trees than most normal people. I can lose this bastard, even with my fucked up ankle.

  “Come back!” The man’s shout echoes through the trees, sending another spike of panic through me. “We won’t hurt you! We can help.”

  We.

  Fuck. He’s got friends.

  A waking nightmare blazes through my brain, and I briefly imagine the basketball coach and his buddies gang-raping me in the One-Log House.

  Panic grips my throat, making it hard to breathe. Breath hisses in and out of my mouth.

  “Lady! Please! We won’t hurt you!”

  The stranger’s shouts are like the whip at my ankles; all it does is drive me harder. I trip on a root and catch myself on a tree. The impact jars my arm, but I push off and keep going. My ankle screams as I half slide, half run down a small hill. I mentally tell it to shut the hell up.