Undead Ultra Box Set | Books 1-4

by Picott, Camille

  He’s definitely not fine. Red seeps across his back, mixing with the mud and water. But his jaw is tense and eyes sharp with focus.

  I know that look. I’d seen it in Frederico’s eyes at ultras. Ben isn’t going to quit. He might hurt, but he’s not going down without a fight.

  I match my pace to his, which has leveled off as a fast lope. It’s not the sprint I want, but we’re moving fast enough to pull ahead of the zombies.

  The frontage road looms before us. The recycling center stares at us with its dead windows and chain-link fence. Ben and I exit the marshland, returning to the asphalt road. No longer hindered by uneven terrain and muddy water, we’re able to pick up the pace.

  Ben drips blood and water. It leaves a murky red line behind us on the blacktop. His movements are stiff, telling me he’s in pain. We need a place to hide.

  Two blocks up, I spot a familiar building. Five Leaf Brewery. Carter and I came here many times for dinner and live music.

  “The brewery.” I hold up a finger and point to the red sign with a white maple leaf in the middle. Over the leaf in black letters are the words Five Leaf Brewery. “We’re going there.”

  Ben grunts, which I take as a sign of agreement. We hustle toward it.

  Behind us, the zombies sniff the air. The mud and wet on our clothing likely masks much of our scent, including that of Ben’s blood. The commotion of the 101 drowns out most of our footsteps, making it difficult for them to track us now that we’re not splashing through water. We pull farther away from them.

  As we reach the brewery, Ben puts a hand on the side of the building to steady himself.

  I try the door. Locked. Fuck.

  I drop my pack and snatch off my shirt, leaving my torso exposed except for my sports bra. I wrap the shirt around a decorative river rock taken from a flower pot beside the door. Winding up my arm, I smash the shirt-covered rock through the glass.

  Seconds later, we’re inside the dark recess of the brewery. The familiar smell of hops washes through my nostrils, making it impossible for me not to think of Carter and Jenna.

  They’re safe, I tell myself. They have each other. They’re going to be all right.

  I can’t let myself think anything else. Not if I want to keep the panic in my chest from taking over. Not if I want to keep myself alive and take care of Ben.

  He and I fall shoulder to shoulder, stopping just inside Five Leaf. I close and lock the door behind us.

  The inside of the brewery wasn’t immune to the zombie apocalypse. Between the red vinyl booths are several decomposing bodies. Blood from the headshots that killed them has dried to a dull, uneven black.

  Somewhere nearby comes a soft moan.

  We freeze, listening.

  It comes a second time.

  Ben raises one finger. I nod in agreement. One zombie.

  Just to be certain, I tap my foot on the floor.

  The zombie responds with a growl.

  It’s coming from the back, near the bathroom. We advance through the dining room, bypassing the unmoving bodies near the center of the room. I avoid a small puddle of bullet casings on the floor. Several chairs and a table have been overturned, which we skirt.

  We find the zombie clawing at the bathroom door, unable to get out. It’s pushing at a door that will only open when pulled from the inside.

  “We could just leave it there,” Ben says. It’s a sign of how bad he feels that he would even make this suggestion. The skin of his face has drained of color. Blood drips off the hem of his fatigues. “It can’t get out.”

  I shake my head. “What if it calls others?” I tighten my grip on my knife and club. “You get the door. I’ll get the zombie.”

  Face tight, he nods. “You’re the boss, Mama Bear. I’ll fall in line like all the others.”

  I give him a hollow grin, stepping up to the bathroom door. Ben places both hands on the wood and shoves. A thunk sounds, followed by a crash as the zombie knocks into something.

  I charge through the door as Ben holds it open for me.

  It’s dark inside the bathroom, but a narrow window over the sink lets in enough filtered light for me to see. The zombie is sprawled on the floor next to a downed trash can.

  It’s a young woman in a Five Leaf polo and jeans. A black apron around her waist tells me she was a waitress in this place before she turned. Across both arms are long gashes and teeth marks, much of the skin torn free.

  Her white eyes lock on me. Even though she can’t see, her precision tracking has found me. Her lips pull back from teeth crusted with black blood.

  I pounce, not giving her a chance to rise. My screwdriver punctures her eye socket.

  The sudden silence is a welcome balm. It calms my nerves. Wiping my screwdriver clean on the waitress’s apron, I turn back to Ben.

  “Let’s take a look at that wound.”

  15

  Wounds

  KATE

  “I think you fell on glass,” I pronounce a short time later. I hold up the muddy, bloody lump of his fatigue shirt, displaying the large jagged hole in the back for him to see. “Maybe a broken bottle.”

  Ben straddles a wooden chair. He twists around as I hold up the shirt, grimacing as he takes in the gash in the fabric.

  “Does my back look as bad as the shirt?”

  There’s no way to sugar coat it. “Yeah.” I drop the shirt onto the floor in a wad before reaching for my running pack. I always carry a small first aid kit with essentials. I make everyone carry it when we venture outside the safety of campus.

  “Infection is our biggest worry.” I dump out the contents of my small Ziploc with sterile wipes, bandages, and sewing kit. “There’s no telling what was in that water.”

  “Better than a zom bite.” Ben peers down at the assortment of supplies on the table. “Is that a sewing kit from the Marriott?”

  “Yeah. We found a lot of hotel sewing kits when we cleared and inventoried Creekside.”

  Ben grunts and turns away. “Just get it done.”

  The sterile wipes come first. I clean the wound, taking in the hard muscles of his back. For an older guy, he’s fit. Not I-bench-press-three-hundred-pounds fit, but fit from a lifetime of using his body.

  Movement flashes in the corner of my eye. I look out the window and spot the zombie herd that followed us here from the freeway. The squat alpha in the visor stands in the middle of the road, nose lifted to the air. The car alarms have stopped, once again drenching the world in silence.

  “The pack followed us here,” I whisper. There’s no way I can sew up Ben while looking over my shoulder at the zombies. I point to the far side of the dining room to a wooden staircase set against the back wall. “Over there. Come on.”

  I gather up my pack and the first aid supplies. Ben and I tiptoe up the stairs. He drips blood the whole way. I step around it as I follow him.

  Upstairs, we are greeted by four closed doors.

  “Dammit,” I mutter. “I hate closed doors.”

  His face crinkles in amusement. “That makes two of us.”

  We stand still, listening. All is silent. That doesn’t mean these doors don’t have an undead surprise behind them.

  The idea of checking each door and possibly battling multiple zombies while my companion bleeds out leaves me feeling tired. The puddle on the floor beneath his feet has grown six inches wide in the short time we’ve stood here. We need to take care of it, fast.

  I cross to the first door and tap. No sound. I try a second time. Again, silence.

  “Here goes nothing,” I murmur, drawing my zom bat.

  Ben takes the doorknob. He yanks it open and I leap inside.

  A cluttered office greets us. A cluttered, blissfully empty office. Other than a bit of smeared blood across the far wall, it’s practically pristine.

  “Thank God,” Ben mutters, grabbing the ladder back desk chair and slumping down. “I wasn’t in the mood to deal with more of those fuckers.”

  “Me, either.�
� I cross to the window that overlooks the cluster on the street below. “They’re still out there.”

  “They’ll clear out soon,” Ben replies.

  I raise my gaze, looking to the expanse of 101 in the distance. Other than swarms of movement, I can’t make out details. There’s no way to know if Carter and the others made it to safety. Even if I used Ben’s binoculars, there would be nothing to see.

  “No sign of them, is there?” Ben asks.

  I shake my head. “They made it. They must have. They’re strong.”

  To my surprise, Ben says, “They are.”

  “You really think so?” I swallow against the anxiety forcing its way up my throat, turning my attention back to Ben.

  “Most of the time I want to staple their mouths shut. But they’re good kids. They function well as a unit.”

  I spread out the first aid supplies on the messy desk, shoving aside a computer and a large stack of papers to make room.

  “You know, even when you say something nice, you always manage to say something rude at the same time.” I pick up a restaurant towel from the desk and press against his back to staunch the bleeding.

  “Ash did warn you that I was a grumpy fucker.”

  “Yeah, she did. Hold still, I have to improvise for a second.” I press my knee against the towel, holding it in place against his back while I fumble with the Marriott first aid kit.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever stitched anyone up,” I warn as I thread the needle. “It probably won’t be pretty.”

  “Good thing I’m not pretty.”

  For some reason, this statement makes me again take in the broad muscles of his back. My eyes trace the lines of tension that travel down his shoulders to arms covered in the sleeve tattoos. Some are faded and bleed along the edges, clearly older pieces of art. Others are new and vibrant.

  Everything about him looks good. If I look like G.I. Jane—a statement that still stings, if I let it—he looks like G.I. Joe. Albeit a weathered, seasoned G.I. Joe.

  The only thing that doesn’t look good is the chafing around his waist. The pants have slipped down an inch, revealing a ring of red scabs marring his skin. Some are bright red, fresh and still raw. Others are covered with darker scabs, attempting to heal despite his insistence on wearing the fatigue pants.

  I check a sigh, refraining from pointing out the chafe marks. There’s no point in beating that dead horse.

  I pull the towel away from the wound in his back. Though some of the bleeding has slowed, blood bubbles instantly to the surface as soon as I take the pressure away. This is going to be messy.

  I use another wipe to sterilize my hands before getting to work. His chest heaves with an inhalation when my needle makes the first stab.

  “I don’t suppose you took Home Ec in school?” he asks.

  “They didn’t have Home Ec when I went to school. It wasn’t cool for girls to learn how to sew and cook when I was a kid. Feminism and all that.”

  “You must be younger than you look.”

  His words are like a slap. “If you don’t want this patchwork on your back to look like a Jack-O-Lantern, you’d better stop talking.”

  Tense silence follows this. I stab through his skin, not caring if the drag of the needle hurts.

  I know there’s a mere two millimeters between Ben’s brain and his mouth. He doesn’t have a filter. Most of the time I ignore his comments. But this is the second time he’s made a negative remark about my looks. First about my haircut, now about my age.

  Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I don’t know if Carter and the rest of my kids are safe. Hell, maybe it’s because I’m trapped in a brewery surrounded by zombies and I’m scared. Whatever the case, his words upset me.

  Why do I even care what he thinks? It’s not like he said anything I don’t already know. I look like a washed-up room mom.

  I stab harder than necessary through his skin, rewarded with a grunt of discomfort.

  Attempting to mop up the blood as I work makes the entire procedure even more awkward. In retrospect, I should have made him lie down on the desk. There’s a reason surgeons have tables. Not that I’m a surgeon.

  Thirty minutes later, Ben indeed has something resembling a crooked Jack-O-Lantern smile on the lower right side of his back. Serves him right. Not that I could have done a much better job even if I wasn’t angry.

  I tape a clean bandage over the whole thing, grab my pack, and leave the room. I head to the next door over and knock.

  No answer from this one, either. I fling it open, letting out a long breath as my gaze sweeps across shelving full of supplies. One entire wall is lined with clean-pressed aprons, napkins, and dishtowels. The other side has a myriad of dining room supplies: salt and pepper refills, bottles and bottles of ketchup, mustard, and relish. Sugar packets for days.

  I step into the room, turning in a slow circle. Not a bad haul. I’ll have to bring my people back here on a supply run.

  Thinking of my kids draws me to the window. It’s dusk outside. If we were complete idiots, we could strike out and try to make our way back to campus. But with the flurry on 101 and the swarm we encountered in town, I know the safest thing to do is wait out the night. And Ben needs rest.

  A soft step creaks a floorboard behind me. The exhaustion of the day hits me like a derailed train.

  “Kate.”

  “What?” I don’t turn around, staring out at Highway 101.

  “That was a shitty thing I said back there.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Look, I know you don’t mean half the shit you say. You’re not a bad guy even though you seem hell bent on making everyone else believe that.” I turn, closing the distance between us. “It’s been a long day. It’s too late for us to go back to Creekside now. I’m going to sleep.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I close the supply closet door in his face.

  16

  Survivor’s Remorse

  BEN

  He could not have made a bigger cluster fuck with Kate if he’d tried. God, why did he even try talking? He didn’t mean to imply she looked old. But her hands had been all over his back. Between that and the pain, he hadn’t been thinking straight.

  He stretches out on the floor of the office, using an apron and a few dishtowels for pillows. His back hurts like a motherfucker. Especially since he’s lying on the hard wooden floor.

  He should be sleeping. God knows he’ll need his strength to get back to Creekside tomorrow.

  He hardly sleeps when he has a bed and pillow. Attempting to fall asleep on the wood floor feels like an exercise in futility, but he tries anyway. If only to escape the disaster reel with Kate playing in his head on repeat.

  He closes his eyes and huffs out a long breath, willing himself to sleep. When he does finally doze off, the nightmare starts.

  This time, it’s a mash-up of the College Creek massacre and Desert Storm. Ben finds himself in the desert under a black, smoky sky, shooting at Iraqi soldiers while yelling at college kids to take cover.

  He wakes with a shout. Cold sweat bathes his skin. He gets to his feet and paces back and forth in the small room, trying to shake off the nightmare. It’s an invisible presence sitting beside him in the dark.

  His pacing takes him down the hallway to Kate’s room. He can’t stand things being off between them. He wants to make it right again.

  Except it’s the middle of the night. He has no business waking her up. Even if it is to apologize. Somehow he doubts a two a.m. apology will go over well.

  As he turns away, he hears a sound through the closed door. It’s a soft sound, ragged at the edges.

  She’s crying.

  Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s standing in the open doorway. Kate lies on a wad of towels and chef coats, curled tightly on her side. A faint shaft of moonlight illuminates a shiny track of tears across her cheek.

  “Frederico, no,” she murmurs. One leg thrashes.

  The muscles a
cross his back and shoulders go rigid. He knows what it’s like to be caught in a bad dream. More precisely, he knows what it’s like to be caught in a fucked-up memory masquerading as a dream.

  “Frederico.” The name comes out like a crippled cat.

  He can’t take it.

  Ben crouches on the floor beside her and gives her arm a squeeze.

  Kate flies into an upright position, the top of her head connecting with his chin. The soft crack of bone-on-bone reverberates in the tight confines of the room.

  “Ben?” She blinks at him in confusion, the sleep haze leaving her eyes. “Has something happened?” The tendons in her neck stiffen.

  He eases back from her, rubbing at his chin. “Sorry. You were having a bad dream.”

  “You woke me up because I was having a bad dream?”

  He nods. As she stares at him, he feels like he needs a better explanation.

  “I still have bad dreams. They’re like, I don’t know, movie reels you can’t get out of. Hamster wheels where the bad stuff just keeps rolling out in front of you.”

  She continues to stare at him. He resists the urge to slink away in embarrassment.

  If reincarnation is a real thing, he wants to come back as one of those fancy guys in suits who does public speaking for a living. Then, just maybe, he could talk to a woman. Maybe.

  “You were calling for Frederico.” It’s his final attempt to get her to respond to him. He really will slink away if she just keeps staring at him.

  Kate slumps, rubbing at her wet cheeks. “I miss him.” Her words are soft and sad.

  She’s always so strong. It’s one of the many things he admires about her. Seeing her hunched over and grieving makes something inside him crumple.

  “You’re right about the hamster wheel.” Kate draws her knees up to her chest. “I just keep seeing that night when Frederico ran from me. He yelled and drew the zombies after him so I could get away.” A fresh gush of tears rolls out of her eyes. She looks away from him. “He sacrificed everything so I could find Carter. If I can’t keep him alive—if I can’t protect him—” Her voice breaks off.