Bonging in the brambles? “No,” I whisper back. “I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that. Shit, get ready for another belly crawl.” I drop into the dirt. My elbows and hips are starting to get sore.
“It was something I did as a kid. My dad rented a little two-room cabin in Guerneville. It was right on the river. There was a big blackberry briar between our house and the neighbor’s. I used to sneak into the briar with the neighbor’s kids to get high. We called it bonging in the brambles. We thought we were so fucking clever, burrowing into that patch. We never considered the big pot plume we sent up with every bong hit. It was like a smoke signal. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for Dad to figure out what we were up to.”
“What did he do?” I ask.
Frederico snorts. “He confiscated all our weed but let us keep the bong. That night, he invited me to get high with him.”
“What?” Having spent my adult life married to a recovering alcoholic, I’m unable to censor my horror.
“Dad spent most of his days high. When he found out I liked to smoke, he saw it as an opportunity to bond. It was one of the few things we had in common.”
“You smoked weed with your dad?” I have to repeat this back to him out of incredulity, not because I have a hearing issue.
“Yeah. Of course, our bond went out the window when I went sober. By the time he died, we hadn’t spoken in almost ten years. He thought sobriety was only two steps short of suicide. We never could relate to each other once we lost weed.”
“God, Frederico. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve come to peace with it.”
I don’t know what to say to any of this. In my own mind, I compare my straight-laced family to the image of a dad smoking pot with his son. Frederico’s experience is so beyond my own childhood, I can hardly grasp it.
We’ve been crawling around for nearly an hour when we hear the telltale sound of an engine firing to life. Cheers go up.
“They got their truck fixed,” Frederico says grimly.
Minutes later, we hear the truck moving. As deep as we are in the blackberry briar, it’s hard to discern a direction at first. After a good thirty seconds, it’s clear they’re driving in our direction.
“Come out, little kitties,” one of the men calls out. “Come out and play!”
I flatten myself to the ground. As if that’s going to protect me. We’re so deep in this fucking blackberry patch, there’s no way they can see us. Even so, the animal part of my brain requires stillness and silence.
The truck rumbles by, skirting the briar, then continues on. The heckler continues to shout taunts, daring us to show ourselves. From the sound of things, they’re driving around the vineyard, trying to find our trail.
Frederico and I remain unmoving until the hum of the truck fades into the distance, then we continue our miserable crawl. Twenty minutes later, the truck returns. It roars past the briar patch, driving in the direction of the house. There’s no more taunting, and they’re moving fast enough to make me think they’re not looking for us anymore.
“Hopefully this means they’ve turned their attention to other things,” I murmur.
“Let’s hope. Kate, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That.”
I strain my ears. At first, my attention is on the fading rumble of the truck. It takes a few seconds for me to focus on a softer, closer sound. It’s a low rustling of the briar patch.
“Animals?” I whisper.
“Yeah. Quite a few of them, from the sound of things.”
We remain where we are. After another hard listen, I determine Frederico is right. There are animals nearby. It sounds like they’re moving through the brambles and digging in the dirt. Then I hear a soft, distinct snort.
Frederico hears it, too. “Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Pigs.”
25
Pigs
DAMMIT. PIGS. DID WE escape from the baseball bat maniacs only to face off against wild pigs?
I should have guessed from the size of the burrows we’re following. They’re much too large to have been made by rabbits and too small to have been made by deer. They are, however, just the right size for pigs.
Feral swine make their home all over this area. Farmers consider them pests and regularly hunt them. Frederico and I occasionally encounter them on our trail runs around Lake Sonoma.
They’re notoriously bad-tempered, especially in the spring when they have babies. The general rule of thumb is to hide behind a tree and wait for them to pass. Frederico will occasionally clap his hands and make loud noises to startle them, but I prefer to lie low and give them space. Occasionally, feral pigs will attack and kill a hunter or unwary hiker. It happens often enough to give me a healthy dose of respect for the animals.
And now we’re in their den. They’re getting closer, snorting and rooting around in the brambles.
“We gotta move,” I hiss to Frederico.
I wriggle forward as fast as I can, moving away from the pigs. As luck would have it, the path narrows to a tunnel too small for us to pass through.
“Back up,” I hiss frantically. “Dead end.”
He moves, body scraping against the dirt. I lever my elbows against the ground, pushing myself backward. Trying to see behind me is difficult; I constantly crane my neck, attempting to see even as I try to avoid the blackberry thorns.
“Over here.” Frederico tugs on my ankle.
I follow the touch of his hand, backing into a small, round burrow. Frederico is backed up all the way into the brambles. I’m forced to spoon with him. He smells like a man who’s run over thirty miles. Not that I smell any better.
“They’re getting closer,” I hiss.
“Just make yourself look nonthreatening,” he replies.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Just—I don’t know—don’t make eye contact.”
I curl into a tight ball, hiding my face behind my arms. As if that will save me if the pigs find us and decide they don’t like us. With one eye, I peek out between my forearms.
A lone pig snuffles into view. He’s russet brown with white stripes down his side. He noses the ground, scratching at it with his hoof and chewing on something; probably worms or insects. Pigs eat everything.
I barely dare to breathe as I watch the animal through my forearms. He’s joined by another pig. They scratch at the ground and munch at low-hanging berries.
Over the next few minutes, another dozen or so appear, snorting and grunting as they forage for food. My tongue, dry with fear, welds itself to the roof of my mouth.
One gets close to me and sniffs. I clench both hands into fists, ready to attack. Frederico squeezes my shoulder in warning. I forcibly relax my hands, biting my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
The pig gets so close I feel his exhalations against my skin.
This is it. It’s the zombie apocalypse and I’m going to meet my end by a sounder of pigs. They’re going to trample us to death in this fucking blackberry briar.
The pig leans in close, closer—then snorts, lays his ears back, and abruptly retreats. He trots away, disappearing around a corner.
The rest of the animals cruise by without sparing us a second glance. Then, as quickly as they had come, they’re gone. All the pigs, every last one of them. Snorting and rooting at the ground, they disappear in a snuffle of sound.
Frederico nudges me in the back with his elbow. “Good job,” he says. “It was your BO that scared him off.”
I let out ragged, hoarse whisper of a laugh. “Fuck you. It was your BO. I smell like a fucking daisy patch.”
He chuckles lightly. I crawl out of our small burrow, peering down the way the pigs went. In their wake is a swath of churned soil.
“Frederico.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “Our four-legged friends left a trail of breadcrumbs.”
Thirty minutes later, after following the messy foraging of the sounder, we emerge into the sunlight.
I flop onto my back, staring up at the blue sky and sucking in deep breaths.
“I am now officially claustrophobic,” I say.
“I don’t think I’ll ever eat another blackberry again.” Frederico sits back on his heels, surveying the land around us. “We’re on the northern edge of the briar. I can barely see the roof of the house, which means those sickos won’t be able to see us.” He gives me a relieved grin.
“Good.” I roll over and climb to my feet. I hold out my arms, surveying the dozens of cuts covering the skin. Frederico looks at his own arms.
“How long before the poison oak kicks in?” I’m not looking forward to itchy sores coupling with the cuts.
Frederico shrugs. “With all the time spent in the dirt, we may have gotten rid of most of the oil. Only time will tell.”
I decide not to launch into a speech about my intense dislike of poison oak. It would serve no purpose right now.
“Daylight is burning, old man,” I say. “Let’s get going.”
“Slave driver.” He companionably gets to his feet.
We set off at a trot, heading north and skirting the old vineyard. To our left is open pasture land, a large swath cut by the truck when it drove through earlier. Luckily there is no sign of it now.
“That way.” Frederico points. “I can see the pasture fence. We need to get off this property and back onto the tracks.”
I nod, wordlessly veering toward the fence. We arch around the old vineyard.
A few vultures make lazy circles above the grapevines. I draw to a halt, my stomach knotting at the sight of them.
Stout.
Frederico stops beside me, following my gaze.
“Come on, Jackalope,” he says gently. “We can’t do anything for her now.”
“We should bury her. Or at least, check and make sure she’s really gone. What if they shot her and she’s still alive? And in pain?” My throat tightens.
“She’s gone, Kate. Make her death mean something.”
I hesitate, then nod. I wipe at my eyes, determined not to break down again.
I feel like a complete shit. An ungrateful shit who turns her back on a friend.
But I do turn. Yielding to Frederico’s gentle advice, I look away from the circling vultures.
“You know the worst thing about all this?” I gesture back in Stout’s general direction.
“What?”
“Human beings were shitty even before the apocalypse.”
26
Regrets
IT DOESN’T TAKE US long to find a breach in the pasture fence. A bit of eroded earth creates a gap just large enough for us to shimmy under.
It’s nearly seven o’clock. The sun sinks in the sky, sending long fingers of shadows across the land. We’ve been on the move for nine hours, and we haven’t even hit mile forty yet.
We lost at least two hours in the house and blackberry briar. Not to mention the time we wasted in Cloverdale trying to get a car, and the time in Hopland at Ace Hardware.
“It’s going to be dark soon,” I say, seeing the shadows thicken around us.
“Headlamps,” Frederico says.
I nod. We rummage in our packs, pulling out the headlamps. They’re stretchy bands of elastic designed to be worn around the head with a bright light mounted on the front. I slide mine on, snugging it down so that the lamp rests on my forehead. Frederico does the same. We click them on, sending out bright beams of light.
Then we’re back on the tracks, the two of us running north. As the day darkens, we’re forced to trade speed for caution, and our pace slows.
The tracks cross over a small, one-lane country road. Nailed to a tree is a wooden sign painted with the word Strawberries. Too bad it’s too early in the season for there to be any fruit in the field.
“If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to regret never asking Marguerite out for coffee,” Frederico says.
“Who’s Marguerite?” I keep my eyes on the tracks as we jog along.
“A pretty redhead I see every Thursday night at my AA meeting.”
“Have you ever talked to her?”
“All the time. Every week, actually. She always brings some sort of sweet to the meetings. The strawberry patch made me think of her. She made chocolate-covered strawberries last week.”
“Did you eat any?”
“Three. Best goddamn things I’ve ever had.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Of course. I always tell her I like her food. It’s an excuse to talk to her . . . I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for two years.”
I laugh sympathetically. “Why don’t you just ask?”
“She’s barely fifty. Too pretty for me. I know how I look. I’m a grizzled old man. I abused this body for more than half my life, and it shows.”
“That’s a stupid excuse. If she’s too shallow to see past your exterior, she’s not worth your time.”
He grunts. “My idea of a great first date is a twenty-five-mile run around Lake Sonoma. I don’t do dinners and movies. Too awkward. She deserves a man who will take her out. I’m just not that guy.”
“You could have taken her to Lake Sonoma without asking her to run twenty-five miles, Frederico. Why didn’t you ask her to go for a hike? Or a picnic? Better yet, how about a hike and a picnic?”
He’s silent for a few minutes. “I never thought of that.”
“You should have consulted me before the zombie apocalypse.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You’re an idiot, Frederico.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
On we run, the land around us succumbing to darkness. Insects whir to life, filling the air with soft background noise—sounds that bring the illusion of a normal, pre-apocalyptic world.
At mile thirty-six, Frederico asks, “What will you regret, if we get eaten in the next thirty minutes?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, though my mind immediately flashes to my son. We run a few more minutes in silence, my mind churning. Finally, I find my voice.
“If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes . . . I’m going to regret being the person I became when Kyle died.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I was a really shitty mom to Carter.”
“Bullshit,” Frederico replies, his vehemence catching me by surprise.
“I went into a dark place when Kyle died. I should have been strong for Carter. Instead, he had to be strong for me.” The shame sits heavy on my shoulders. Even though Carter and I have a good relationship, I’ve never been able to shake free of the guilt. “I couldn’t function after I lost Kyle. All I did was sleep and cry. You remember what a mess I was.”
“You were grieving.”
“I was so fucked up. I couldn’t even drive Carter to school. He had to get up early and walk. He made a sandwich for me every morning and left it in the fridge so I’d have something to eat. I usually hid the sandwiches in the trash can. At night, he’d make microwave dinners for me and fret over me until I ate them.”
“Your son is a good kid.”
“Carter is good. He’s always been good. I should have been there for him. I should have been the one making him sandwiches and microwave dinners. I almost missed his high school graduation.”
Frederico nods. He’s too kind to rehash that dismal day.
I STILL REMEMBER THE low anger that simmered in me when my son pulled open the bedroom curtains, nearly blinding me after days and days in self-imposed darkness.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, eyes alight with the same genuine kindness I’d always seen in his father’s. “Graduation starts in an hour. I picked out your clothes. Just jump in the shower and we’ll go, okay? Uncle Rico is here to drive us.”
There in front of me stood my handsome son, dressed in the suit we purchased the day his father died. His face, framed by a neatly trimmed beard, was so earnest. Shaggy brown hair framed eyes as blue as his father’s.
The suit looked perfe
ct on him, the blue button-down shirt a perfect accent to his eyes. The sight of it made me want to vomit. That suit was the reason we weren’t home when Kyle slipped and hit his head. It was the reason we hadn’t been here to save him.
Sorrow felt like an anvil in my chest. I wanted to throw it at someone. I wanted to crush myself with it. I wanted the pain to stop.
“Just jump in the shower and we’ll go, okay? Mom?” Carter hovered in the doorway, not trusting me to get my ass in gear. “Mom?”
It was his uncertainty that gave me the kick in the ass I needed. The anger and grief disappeared in an avalanche of shame.
I was a fucking wreck. I hadn’t showered in days. I’d barely eaten in the past few weeks. I looked and smelled like hell. And my son didn’t trust me to get my act together. He didn’t trust me to be there for him, to witness this important rite of passage.
He’d already lost a father. He didn’t need to lose his mother, too.
I got up. I showered. I put on makeup to conceal the dark circles under my eyes. I even managed a fancy twist with my hair. In an effort to get my light-headedness under control, I scarfed half a bag of Ghirardelli chocolate chips while applying mascara and eyeliner.
Carter beamed at me when I exited the bedroom in the red dress he’d picked out. I don’t think he’d noticed I’d forgotten to brush my teeth.
Frederico had been too circumspect to tell me I looked like hell. Instead, he’d said, “You need to get back on the trail, Jackalope. The sunshine will do you some good.”
“CARTER HAD TO TAKE care of me,” I say to Frederico. “It should have been the other way around. I was weak when I should have been strong.” I shake my head. “Carter deserves better.”
We run on, our feet light whispers against the rotting wood of the railroad. Our legs swish through the plants. That, coupled with our breathing, are the only sounds of our passage.
Mile thirty-seven.
“Maybe, if I can make it to Arcata—if I can get there in one piece without getting eaten—maybe Carter will know I’m strong,” I say. “Maybe he’ll know I can be there for him when the chips are down.”
Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 15