“Remember when you ran the Western States One Hundred and your shoe came off at the Rucky Chucky river crossing? It got swept downstream and we discovered you had accidentally left your spare shoes at home.”
I nod. Forgetting my second pair of shoes had been a complete rookie move.
“You ran fifteen miles to the Highway Forty-Nine aid station with only one shoe,” Frederico says. “Kyle spent that time bartering with the other crews to get you a replacement. Your foot looked like hell when you arrived. When I asked you how you ran all that way without a shoe, you told me that you just put your head down and focused on your goal. Remember that?”
“Yes,” I whisper. Kyle had cracked jokes about me losing pieces of my mind on all the training runs I had done. Meanwhile, he had lovingly cleaned my foot and doused the cuts and abrasions with peroxide.
I recall the extreme focus and determination I’d summoned on that race. I’d wanted so badly to finish under twenty-four hours. The shoe fiasco had set me back, and the one-hundred-mile course ended up taking me twenty-seven hours to complete. But I had finished. I hadn’t quit. I hadn’t let the setback or the pain stop me.
“That’s all you need to do here,” Frederico says. “Put your head down and focus on your goal. Bashing in some zombie skulls should be a walk in the park for a woman who can trail run with only one shoe.”
Again, I nod. I’ve done a lot of crazy things on races, but running fifteen miles without a shoe was definitely at the front of the nut job train.
“You’ve got the mettle for a post-apocalyptic world,” Frederico says. “Stop thinking you’re a helpless first-world woman who can’t survive more than twelve seconds without her smartphone. Be the tough runner who endures utter hell to get a job done. That’s who you need to be.”
Frederico’s words are like a slap of water in my face. They snap me out of my self-pity, reminding me that I’m capable and tough. My grip tightens on the railroad spike.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am cut out for this world.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I slide the spike into the front strap on my running pack. It fits snugly and is easy to pull out in a pinch. “Carter needs me. I have to put on my big-girl pants and get this done. No matter what.”
I can feel my mental space shifting. I find the place that exists deep inside me—that place of impenetrable toughness that helps me endure long runs and prolonged physical pain.
Frederico, who’s watching my face, sees the shift. “That’s my girl.” He pats my shoulder. “Kyle would be proud.”
“He’d tell us we’re batshit crazy,” I reply, lips quirking. “Do you remember when he showed up at the American River Fifty dressed in that gorilla suit?”
Frederico laughs. “The Cal Trans orange gorilla suit? Yeah, that was grand. He thought a good laugh would get you to the end of that race.”
“I got a PR in that race. Never ran a fifty miler in under ten hours again.” PR stands for Personal Record. The pride of that day come back to me, along with memories of Kyle’s beaming smile. “He kissed me with his gorilla mask and told me I was his bat-shit crazy woman and he loved me.”
“He was proud of you, you know,” Frederico says.
Yeah. Proud of his insane, ultrarunning wife. God, I miss Kyle so much. I could use a husband in a fluorescent-orange gorilla suit right now.
“Come on, Frederico,” I say. “Let’s find some more spikes.”
There are some perks to running on an abandoned railroad. Within ten minutes, we are both armed with two spikes. They fit perfectly into the front straps on our running packs.
Without another word, we set out.
13
Ultra Dog
MILE TWENTY.
The hills keep coming, one after another, undulating before us. We run down the declines and power hike up the inclines. Yellow, white, and purple wildflowers dot the countryside.
A hot spot has formed on the bottom of my big right toe and another on the inside of my left foot.
Blisters. Here they come.
Under normal circumstance, it would be time to stop and swap out for a dry pair of socks.
Today, there is nothing to do except run. The wet weeds continue to whack at my legs. My ankles and the tops of my shoes are covered with cattails and burrs.
Mile twenty-one.
I’m light-headed with hunger. I start to fantasize about food. Biscuits and gravy, turkey sandwich with avocado and bacon. Bacon. Bacon with tomatoes and lettuce on rye bread.
“What I wouldn’t give for a Double-Double Animal Style from In-N-Out,” Frederico says.
“I’ll take a strawberry milk shake,” I reply. “With a double order of fries.”
Chili fries. Hell yeah. That would be good right now. Chili fries with pizza. And chicken wings with a double serving of buffalo bleu sauce on the side.
“Do you think we’ll ever have a chance to eat at In-N-Out again?” I ask.
“Hard to say, Jackalope.”
Mile twenty-two.
Something moves in the bushes. I don’t hear any sound, just see a slight shivering of the undergrowth contrasting with the quiet, unmoving world around us. I fling out a hand, snagging the hem of Frederico’s shirt. He gives me a questioning look, and I gesture toward the bushes.
We each pull out a railroad spike. Standing side by side, we scan the tall weeds. Again, I see that oh-so-delicate shiver of the undergrowth.
I tighten my grip on the weapon. Frederico drops into a crouch, raising his spike.
How many hobo zombies are out there? I wonder wildly. Are we destined to have a run-in with every one of them between here and Arcata?
Something whines, then barks.
I let out an audible breath.
A dog. It’s just a dog.
The animal creeps forward, ears flat and tail tucked between its legs. It’s a mixed mutt with long legs and short, brown-black fur.
“Come here, buddy.” Frederico holds out a hand.
The dog whines again and slinks forward. It bypasses Frederico and comes to me, pressing a wet nose against my arm. I rub its head and neck. It leans against me, nearly knocking me over. I shift into a better position. Frederico joins me, both of us petting the animal.
My hand connects with a collar. It’s a dirty, grimy orange.
“Her name is Stout,” I say, reading the tags. “She’s from Willits.”
“Stout? As in, Guinness?” Frederico asks.
“I guess so. She’s the color of a stout.”
“She’s a long way from home.”
“Not a good sign.” I pause, looking up at my friend. “The last beer Kyle and Carter made together was a stout.”
“Maybe it’s a sign.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, rising. “Come on, we have to keep moving.” I give the dog one last pat.
When we break into a jog, Stout follows us. Frederico and I glance at each other without stopping.
“I wonder how long she can keep up with us?” I say. Dogs are fast runners, but they aren’t cut out for long distance.
“Six, maybe ten miles at most,” Frederico replies.
“She did come all the way from Willits. That’s gotta be at least—what?—maybe forty miles or so from here?”
“Sounds about right. But who knows how long that journey took her?”
“Maybe we have an ultra dog on our hands.”
“Ultra dog? I like that sound of that. What do you think, girl?” Frederico asks.
Stout wags her tail, ears pricking up as she paces along beside us. We have officially transitioned from a running duo to a running trio.
Mile twenty-three.
An old metal bridge comes into view, straddling the land that rises up on either side of the railroad tracks. The bridge is a hulking mass of trussed steel that’s been painted a dark green. I recognize it. That bridge means we’re about a mile away from the tiny hamlet of Hopland.
Frederi
co and I slow beneath the shade of the bridge, pausing to suck water from our near-empty hydration packs. Graffiti tags adorn the bottom of the bridge with garish color.
“We need to find water,” Frederico says. “My pack is almost empty.”
“Mine, too.” I hesitate, then add, “We need fuel, too.” As if either of us could forget how hungry we are. I’ve been dreading this time, even though I knew it would come.
“Water has to be the priority,” Frederico says. “If we see an opportunity to get food, we can take it, but let’s focus on water.”
I shake my head. “We can’t run two hundred miles on water.”
He sighs and makes a face. “I know. I’m deluding myself because the idea of foraging for food scares the shit out of me.”
The sound of a police car siren fills the air. We freeze, both of us automatically looking up at the bridge above us. The sirens draw closer, the wails growing louder.
Moments later, the sirens shut off. This is followed by the sound multiple car doors slamming.
“Police,” I whisper. “They’re just above us.”
Frederico nods.
We remain where we are, crouched beneath the bridge. I hear the muffled voices of the police officers talking, but it’s impossible to make out their words.
“Let’s get closer,” I whisper.
Frederico nods. With Stout by our side, we creep out from under the bridge. We manage to work ourselves to high ground. Luckily, a thick screen of oak trees growing beside the highway provides cover. The underbrush is thick and rough. There’s poison oak, too. Nothing to be done about it. I lift my hands and elbows, doing my best to keep them above the poison oak. At least my legs are protected by long pants, but poor Frederico is bare from knee to thigh. Dozens of little cuts cover him.
Peering through the thick foliage, we see four Mendocino County police cars and eight cops. They’ve created a barricade with their squad cars at either end of the bridge.
“How long are we supposed to blockade the road?” one officer asks.
A dark-haired woman with the shoulders of a linebacker shrugs. “CDC said they’d have military reinforcements here in the next twelve hours.”
“Shouldn’t we be wearing, I don’t know, biohazard suits or something?” another officer asks.
The woman shakes her head. “It’s not airborne. They said it’s transferred through bodily fluids. If someone contracts the disease, symptoms manifest at different rates. Some people show symptoms within hours, others not for a few days. Those are the only details they gave me. Here, we have these.” She tosses a box of latex gloves onto the trunk of the nearest squad car. “We should all wear these when talking to civilians.”
I tuck away these few pieces of information, mentally flipping through all the zombies we’ve encountered so far. Every single one of them bore some trace of a wound or bite mark. This makes sense, giving what the woman cop said about the disease being transferred through bodily fluids. This also means we don’t have to worry about getting zombie blood on our skin.
“This disease must be pretty bad if they’re shutting down roads and setting up CDC checkpoints,” says the first officer. “Seems unlikely we have to worry about it this far south of Portland. We’re going to have some pissed off people on our hands when we try to explain this.”
“Here comes one now,” the woman says, shading her eyes as a gray SUV hurtles down the road.
Frederico tugs on my arm. I nod, pulling back from the road. We retreat to the railroad tracks, which are conveniently tucked behind the oaks and shrubs.
“CDC is pushing their checkpoints farther south,” I say quietly. “This isn’t good.”
“Being on foot is going to be an advantage,” Frederico replies. “It’ll be easier to evade the authorities.”
I pause, staring north. I can just make out the outline of Hopland. The idea of going into another town isn’t appealing after the clusterfuck we encountered in Cloverdale.
“I don’t suppose you’re ready to take a chance with the river water?” I gesture to our right, where the Russian River babbles along. The water is clear and crystalline, but cluttered along the edges are discarded soda bottles and chip wrappers. “What do you think?”
Frederico grunts. “Too much irrigation nearby. I’d hate to screw up our digestive track with bad water this early. Especially when there are alternatives.”
He’s right, of course. The river flows by dozens of vineyards and other farmland. Not to mention all the people who use the river for recreation. There’s no telling what’s in this water.
“Then we have to take our chances in Hopland?” I ask reluctantly.
“All we need to get to Arcata is food, water, and our feet,” Frederico replies. “We’re out of the first two. We have to stop in Hopland if we want to make it to the finish line.”
The fear I experienced in Cloverdale resurfaces, making my chest tight. Stout, perhaps sensing my anxiety, leans against my leg. I reach down, scratching her between the ears.
“Okay,” I say quietly, all my dread filling that single word. “Let’s go.”
14
Hopland
FREDERICO, STOUT, AND I lie on our stomachs in the weeds, surveying Hopland. The tiny town is home to less than one thousand people. It’s known for a solar living center and ostrich burgers (the two not being related). From our current position on the abandoned railroad track, we have a clear view of the back of the solar center.
My parched tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, an uncomfortable feeling. I suck futilely on my straw, getting a few measly drips of stale liquid. Hunger makes me light-headed.
“It looks quiet,” Frederico says. “No signs of zombies. At least, not from here. We’ll need to be careful.”
I glance south, back in the direction of the police. Already, I can see the bright spots of cars stalled by the barricade.
“There’s a gas station on the north end of town,” I whisper. “That would probably be a good place to get water and food.”
“The tracks run along the back of town. Let’s just follow them in.”
I scratch Stout between the ears. “What do you think, girl? Gas station?”
Stout flicks her floppy ears in my direction, tail thumping on the ground.
I pull out my phone. There’s a message from Carter.
Still barricaded in room. Making spears out of chair legs.
My boy always was industrious. He got that from his father. Despite the situation, I can’t help but feel parental pride.
In Hopland with Frederico, I reply. Police barricade at Hopland bridge. CDC blocking all transit in and out. R soldiers coming 2 help u?
Military placed everyone under house arrest, Carter replies. Can’t see what’s going on.
I recall that Carter’s dorm window looks out at the back of another dorm building. He’s stuck in his room with no way to see anything. Shit. I hate being so far away and unable to help.
Sit tight, sweetie, I reply. Have to put phone away now. Text later. F and I are going to try and find food and water. Stay safe. Luv u.
Luv u 2.
My chest tightens and tears momentarily sting my eyes. Carter might be twenty years old, but he’s still my baby boy.
“What the fuck are all those soldiers doing in Arcata if they’re not rescuing the kids?” I mutter, sliding the phone back into my pack.
“What?” Frederico turns to me, not quite catching my words.
“Nothing,” I reply. No reason to dwell on something I can’t change. “Carter is still barricaded in his dorm room.”
“He’s a smart kid. He’ll be okay until we get there.”
We skim down the tracks. Stout falls into step with us, tail wagging.
I spot a military jeep zipping by on the outskirts of town, speeding toward the barricade. Inside are four men in camouflage uniforms.
My attention strays as I follow their passage with my eyes. That’s when my foot catches on a railroad tie.
/>
I fly forward, knees striking another tie with an audible thunk. My wrists land in soft dirt and weeds. I lie there for a moment, stunned from the impact.
Stout pushes her nose against my cheek, whining. Frederico’s shadow falls across us.
“Will it make you feel better if I tell you that was one of your more graceful falls?” he asks, holding out a hand to help me up.
“Not really.” I grimace, taking his proffered hand and pulling myself up. Both knees throb. “Did you see that military jeep?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry about that now.” Frederico points to the wooden tie. “Look. You dented the wood.”
Sure enough, two gashes mar the wood. The fact that it’s rotted does not make me feel better. I lean over, picking splinters out of my knees.
“At least you’re wearing long pants,” he says.
I grunt, straightening and flexing my knees back and forth. Ouch.
“Why couldn’t I have tripped at mile one hundred ninety-nine?” I ask.
“Because this wouldn’t be the run of your life if it was easy.” Frederico gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Come on. We need to keep moving before more soldiers show up.”
I force myself to move, even though the pain in my left knee feels like a knife. Hopefully it will shake itself out in a few miles. If it doesn’t, it’s going to be a major bitch in another fifty miles. Not to mention one hundred miles.
I don’t even want to think about what it’s going to feel like in another fifty miles, let alone another one hundred. Maybe I can snag a bottle of Ibuprofen at the gas station. At least some of the discomfort in my right knee is dissipating. One bad knee is better than two.
As we enter Hopland, Stout whines. She flattens her ears and tucks her tail between her legs. I half expect her to ditch us, but she doesn’t.
Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 9