Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4
Page 1
Undead Ultra Box Set
Undead Ultra
Camille Picott
Published by Camille Picott, 2020.
Undead Ultra
Box Set
Books 1 - 4
By
Camille Picott
www.camillepicott.com
Undead Ultra Copyright 2016
Dorm Life Copyright 2019
Lost Coast Copyright 2019
Fort Dead Copyright 2020
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Undead Ultra
1 | Dropping A Deuce
2 | Dead Drunk
3 | Red Hats
4 | Disconnected
5 | Car Trouble
6 | Broken Skull
7 | Prep
8 | Don’t Be An Idiot
9 | Boy Scouts
10 | The Tracks
11 | One Tough Man
12 | Spikes
13 | Ultra Dog
14 | Hopland
15 | Ace Hardware
16 | Storewide Clearance
17 | Fuel
18 | When The Wheels Falls Off
19 | Bonk
20 | If I Get Eaten
21 | Breaking and Entering
22 | Portland Malady
23 | Visitors
24 | Bonging in the Brambles
25 | Pigs
26 | Regrets
27 | Zombie Rollers
28 | Purple Passion
29 | Tunnel
30 | Granola Bitch
31 | Fun Run
32 | Jingle Bells
33 | Dead End
34 | The Next Right Thing
35 | River Crossing
36 | Happy Campers
37 | Silver Buckle
38 | Attack and Stack
39 | Paperclip
40 | Strong Enough
41 | Nausea
42 | Nothing But The Dead
43 | Aleisha
44 | Separate Ways
45 | Out Of Gas
46 | Suffer Better
47 | Tourist Trap
48 | Run, Jackalope
49 | BFF
50 | Fatigue Factor
51 | Batshit Crazy
52 | Death Run
53 | Avenue of the Giants
54 | Arcata
55 | Finisher
Acknowledgements
Dorm Life
Prologue | Outbreak
1 | One Week Later
2 | Clearance
3 | Disposal
4 | Awake
5 | First Kill
6 | Ultra Brew
7 | Darkness
8 | Stairwell
9 | Water Run
10 | First Fight
11 | Stripping Paint
12 | Stairs
13 | Scavenging
14 | Paint Job
15 | Ham
16 | The Depot
17 | Neighbors
18 | Goodnight
19 | Reunion
20 | Map
21 | Surrounded
22 | On Foot
23 | Distraction
24 | Beat It
25 | At Gunpoint
26 | Trading Post
27 | Trapped
28 | Ignite
29 | Chair
30 | Fire
31 | Run
32 | Meeting
33 | Course
34 | Sleep Deprivation
35 | Library
36 | Late Night Chat
37 | College Creek
38 | Death
39 | Gift
40 | Tithe
41 | Hazing
42 | Assignments
43 | Errand
44 | Pancakes
45 | Eavesdropping
46 | Premeditated
47 | Zombie Catchers
48 | Pasture
49 | Clean Up
Epilogue | Mama Bear
Acknowledgments
Lost Coast
Prologue | Massacre
1 | Shift Change
2 | Caffeine
3 | Pack
4 | Practice
5 | Hair
6 | Spam
7 | Mayday
8 | Horde
9 | Road Crossing
10 | Marshland
11 | Fairhaven
12 | Highway 101
13 | The Dodge Gap
14 | Five Leaf
15 | Wounds
16 | Survivor’s Remorse
17 | Horde
18 | Yellow Light
19 | Arm
20 | Stand
21 | No Way Out
22 | Improvise
23 | Rubble
24 | Double Feature
25 | Wake
26 | Sixteen
27 | Hang Over
28 | Fortifications
29 | Shark Bait
30 | Foot Soldier
31 | Idea
32 | Carnival Game
33 | Language Department
34 | Company
35 | Newcomers
36 | Check In
37 | Infrasound
38 | Security System
39 | Recipes
40 | Surprise
41 | Rooftop
42 | Missed Call
43 | Siege
44 | Apocalyptic Bounce House
45 | Out of Gas
46 | Manila
47 | Speedboats
48 | Dead Waters
49 | Open Water
50 | Dead in the Water
51 | Swim
52 | Tide
53 | Sprint
54 | Impassable Zone
55 | Inventory
56 | Pacer
57 | Chafing
58 | Pain Cave
59 | Confession
60 | Old Friend
61 | Hot Water
62 | Deal with It
63 | Candelabras
Acknowledgements
Fort Dead
Prologue | Salesman
1 | Vilomah
2 | New Currency
3 | Trade
4 | Barbed Wire
5 | Beachview
6 | Balance Beam of Death
7 | Recording
8 | Sand
9 | Shelter
10 | Pink House
11 | New Regime
12 | Assholes Live Forever
13 | Broken Glass
14 | Smoke
15 | Precipice
16 | Tennis Racket
17 | Truck
18 | Why
19 | Rest
20 | Sprint
21 | Nails
22 | Raining Zombies
23 | Wet Run
24 | Phone Home
25 | Zombie Train
26 | Duct Tape
27 | Recon
28 | Red Flower
29 | Reunion
30 | Closer
31 | Prisoners
32 | Wild Thing
33 | Endure
34 | Hallucinations
35 | Serve
36 | Assault
37 | RV
38 | End
39 | Angel
40 | Hope
41 | The Real Dead
42 | Strong
43 | Goodbye, Hello
44 | Neighbors
Epilogue | Right Here, Right Now
Acknowledgments
Ultra Couch Potato to Ultra Badass: | Your Ultimate Guide to Ultramarathon Training in the Zombie Apocalypse
What’s an Ultramarathon?
How will ultramarathon training prepare me for the zombie apocalypse?
The Only Rule
Transforming from a Couch Potato to an Ultra Zompoc Badass with 3 runs a week
Phase 1: Prepper
Phase 2: Survivor
Phase 3: Zompoc Badass
Zompoc Badass Maintenance
Bonus Round: Zompoc Ultra Badass
Author’s Note
Free Gift: the untold story of Alvarez
Join the Zombie Recon Team
Also By Camille Picott
Undead Ultra
Book 1
By
Camille Picott
www.camillepicott.com
With deepest gratitude to my Zombie Recon Team, who helped me explore the trails and rails traversed by the characters in this book.
Lura Albee
Lori Barekman
Jordan Costello
Chris & Kylah Picott
Chris Urasaki
1
Dropping A Deuce
THERE’S SOMETHING LIBERATING about a long run. I love everything about it: the salty dribble of sweat in my eyes; the smell of wet dirt on the trail in the morning; the burning in my calves as I plow uphill; the exhilaration of a stunning view after that uphill climb; the thrashing of my quads on the inevitable downhill; and the screaming ache in my biceps from pumping up and down for hours on end.
My soul finds peace in the mindless labor of the run and the untamed nature of the trail. Some call it the runner’s high, some call it trail surfing. I call it joy. Bliss. Oblivion.
Unfortunately, all these fancy adjectives evade me this morning. I’m stalled only three miles into today’s run. Standing on the singletrack trail that circumnavigates Lake Sonoma in Northern California, I wait for my running buddy to drop a deuce in the woods.
“Hey, Kate.” Frederico pokes his head out from behind a tree. His shoulder-length, curly gray hair is pulled back in its customary ponytail. In his early sixties, he’s been running and racing for over thirty years. “Can I borrow your socks?”
I make a face at him. “What’s wrong with your socks?”
“I used them.”
“Both of them?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I ate chili last night.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Mrs. Crowell’s habanero chili?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed for holding out on me. The little old lady who lives next door to Frederico is legendary for her chili.
Grumbling, I plop onto the ground and unlace my shoes. I hate running without socks. Knowing one won’t be enough to mop up Mrs. Crowell’s chili, I pull off both of them.
“You’re washing these,” I say, tossing them in Frederico’s direction.
He gives me a wicked smile as he catches the socks. “Did I mention my washing machine is broken?”
“Fuck you.” I half scowl, half grin at him. “Those are brand-new socks. The least you could have done was get some chili for me.”
“I knew there wouldn’t be enough socks for both of us, so I ate it all myself.”
I chuck a rock at his head. He ducks back behind the tree. The rock bounces harmlessly into the brush.
I’d like to say this is the first time something like this has happened. I’d like to say I’ve never asked to borrow his socks. When you run for hours and hours out in the middle of nowhere, shit happens. Literally. And if you’re lucky, you’ll have a friend to help you out.
“All done.” Frederico jogs back out to the trail. The front pouches on his hydration pack bulge with the soiled socks.
“Yick.” I plug my nose. “You smell like shit.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “I’ll have you know, little jackalope, that my shit doesn’t stink. It smells like roses.”
Jackalope is Frederico’s nickname for me. It’s a jackrabbit with antlers, an urban myth in North America.
“You wish,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “I’m running in front so I don’t have to be downwind of you.”
I break into an easy lope, skimming up the narrow, uneven trail. The thick tread of my trail shoes grip the damp earth and provide sure footing.
The morning is glorious, crisp with the smell of last night’s heavy spring rain. Bars of sunlight break through the trees, ephemeral strands that dance with life. To my right, I glimpse the serene blue of Lake Sonoma. A hawk glides on invisible currents of air.
Frederico and I have twenty miles planned for today. I feel myself slipping into the joy of the run. My brain moves into a state of pleasant numbness, a special place where the ache in my heart subsides. Out here, running through the woods, I can almost pretend Kyle is home, waiting for me.
“Kate, I gotta go again.”
Frederico’s voice draws me up short, reality snapping back in around me. I turn around in time to see him dash behind another tree.
“All my other socks are in the car,” I call, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. We haven’t even done four miles yet. “I saw some poison oak a little ways back. Want me to get you some?”
“Fuck you, Jackalope,” he calls back cheerfully.
I sigh, scuffing the tread of my running shoe irritably in the dirt. Through the dappled morning light, something red flashes in the corner of my eye.
I turn, peering through the trees. After a moment, I realize what it is I’m seeing: a dead pig.
Wild pigs are pretty common at Lake Sonoma. They wreak havoc in the parks with their rooting. What’s not common is to find a dead one with its blood and entrails pooling on the forest floor.
“There’s a dead pig over here,” I call to Frederico. “It’s stomach has been ripped out.” Flies and maggots have already congregated on the animal’s body. Poor thing.
“It’s hunting season,” Frederico calls back.
That’s true. We’ve run into hunters out here on our runs, some with guns and some with bows. It can be creepy to come across armed men in camouflage in the middle of the woods, but so far all our encounters have been friendly.
“Poor bastard probably got shot but managed to get away,” I agree.
“Mountain lion or coyote could have taken it down once it was wounded.” Frederico trots out of the trees and takes a look at the dead pig. “Yeah, I’d say something with claws and teeth definitely got into that guy.”
“God.” I take a step back from him and plug my nose. “You starting to smell like portapotty.”
He makes an apologetic face. “Oak leaves make shitty ass wipes.” His expression morphs into one of earnest wheedling. “Can we go back to the car?”
I scowl in response.
“Pretty please?” he says.
“I really needed this run today,” I mutter. When I run, I don’t have to think about anything other than my next step, my next breath. Everything is better when I run and shut off my brain.
“Remember when I ran thirty-eight miles smelling my own shit at Western States?” Frederico asks.
I snort. Western States is a 100-mile footrace from Squaw Valley to Auburn. Kyle and I crewed for Frederico at that race, meeting him at the various aid stations with food and other running supplies. Some bad fish had given Frederico a serious case of runs. We ran out of extra shorts and socks by mile sixty-two. He was too tired by that point to care much about wiping. After that experience, he vowed never to run with a smelly ass again.
“I’ll buy you breakfast,” Frederico says, eyes plaintive. “Bread Box?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I want breakfast at Bread Box, plus coffee and an apple fritter. And I want you to wash my socks.”
“Deal.” He holds out his hand, like we’re supposed to shake on it. I give him a look. He chuckles. After a beat, I laugh, too. It feels good to laugh. Maybe this morning isn’t a complete waste.
I take one last look at the dead pig. As I do, a vulture rustles through the trees and lands on the carcass, casting its beady gaze briefly on us before turning its full attention back to its feast. The bird pecks at a ropy length of intestine, its leathery, red head almost the same hue as the pig’s
blood.
I shiver and turn away, leading the way back up the trail.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, we trot back into the gravel parking lot. My white hatchback waits for us. It’s covered with a permanent layer of dust because I’m always leaving it at trailheads.
“Do you have any extra shorts in the car?” Frederico asks.
“Yeah.” I pop the trunk and rummage in my running gear box. “Here you go.” I hand him a pair of fluorescent-pink running shorts. “These will complement your complexion.”
He chuckles, amiably moving to the passenger side of the car to change.
I pull off my hydration pack, take a last sip from the water tube, then toss it into the trunk. As I close the hatch, I catch site of my reflection in the glass.
God, I look like shit. My pink, moisture-wicking tee sits on thin shoulders. Short brown hair is pulled back in a tight French braid, revealing a lean face that borders on gaunt. My neck looks long and rubbery, like a turkey’s. Lots of running and not enough eating. Food doesn’t hold much interest these days, not without Kyle.
My gray roots are showing, making me look older than my thirty-nine years. I should get them dyed, but there just doesn’t seem any point to it most days.
I make a mental note to eat two apple fritters at breakfast. Taking care of my hair might be a pain in the ass, but Frederico is paying for breakfast. Besides, eating isn’t such a chore when I have company.
“There’s another dead pig over there.” Frederico gestures over the hood of my car.
I look across the gravel parking lot and catch sight of the pig carcass. Three vultures are having a field day with it.
“Some hunter out here is a bad shot,” I mutter, plopping into the driver’s seat.
“No kidding.” Frederico, decked out in my pink running shorts, slides into the passenger seat. “We should let the park ranger know on the way out.”
“Yeah.” A creepy feeling crawls up my spine. I shake it off, turning my attention away from the dead animal and focusing on my friend instead. “Pink is totally your color, by the way.”
He flips me the bird and gives me a mock scowl.
Grinning, I fire up the engine of the car. NPR blares out of the speakers as I pull onto the road.
“Rioting at the port of Portland, Oregon continues to escalate,” the voice of the news reporter says. “Riots started just forty-eight hours ago when dock workers attacked peaceful protestors. Protestors are from Stop Hunger Now, an organization dedicated to ending world hunger. Members are protesting the port’s union-mandated slowdown, which has caused hundreds of food containers to spoil. Thousands of tons of food have been left to rot in the containers during the slowdown—”