Undead Ultra (Book 3): Lost Coast

by Picott, Camille

  5

  Hair

  KATE

  A week later, I stare at myself in the mirror.

  I hardly recognize the face that stares back at me. Lean bordering on gaunt. Brown ponytail with a solid five inches of gray roots. The skin around my eyes shows the beginnings of crow’s feet.

  “God,” I say. “You’d never know I’m turning forty next month. I look fifty.”

  “Your birthday is next month?” Jenna, who stands beside me in the bathroom, frowns at me in the mirror. “Carter didn’t say anything about your birthday.”

  “You may have noticed my son is short on details.”

  Jenna’s mouth twists in an affectionate grimace. “Yes, I’ve picked up on that once or twice.”

  “His father was the same way.”

  “For the record, you don’t look fifty. You look like someone who does CrossFit at the beach.”

  Jenna is being nice. I appreciate her kindness. My son snagged himself a great girlfriend.

  “So, what will it be? Cut or color?” Jenna picks up a pair of scissors with one hand. With the other hand, she hefts a bottle of brown hair dye.

  It turns out brown hair dye isn’t the easiest thing to find on a college campus. Green, yes. Blue, yes. We even found pink and red and purple in one room, but no brown. If the apocalypse had stranded us in an old-folks home, I’m sure there would have been brown hair dye in every other bathroom.

  When I happened across this bottle yesterday while scavenging in a nearby dorm building, I’d been ecstatic. Now that I have the dye, it seems stupid. What’s the point of dying my roots if they’re just going to grow out again? I don’t have time to spend messing with my hair.

  “What do you think Ben would like?” Jenna asks.

  “Why does that matter?”

  Jenna shrugs, giving me a look of wide-eyed innocence. “I don’t know.”

  Without a doubt, I’d look better with dyed hair. I’d look younger. Not haggard. Borderline okay-looking. Not attractive by any sense of the word, but not a she-got-run-over-by-a-truck look, either.

  “I think he likes you,” Jenna says.

  “No.” I shake my head. “He barely talks to me.” Which is technically true. Ben doesn’t talk much to anyone.

  “He spends more time with you on the firing range than anyone else.”

  Target practice. I wish she hadn’t brought that up. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to get worse at something with practice, but over the past week my already nonexistent shooting skills have declined.

  Ben is so different when he’s patrolling the balcony and critiquing us. Yeah, he’s still gruff and curt. I don’t think anything will ever change that. But he’s a good teacher. No, scratch that. He’s a great teacher. Give the man a gun and he’s completely in his element.

  I like seeing that side of him, but it’s distracting. It’s even worse when he starts prodding me to stand correctly. I pretend not to be hyper aware of his small touches as he corrects my stance. He has no idea how hard it is to get everything right when he’s standing two feet away scrutinizing me. I hate looking like an inept idiot in front of him.

  “The only reason he spends extra time with me on the shooting range is because I’m a terrible shot,” I tell Jenna.

  Jenna just looks at me and says, “Uh-huh.”

  I decide not to tell her about the thermos of coffee left just outside my bedroom door every morning for the past week. Ben has never said anything to me, but I have no doubt he’s my coffee fairy. Seeing the Yeti thermos there every morning warms me more than the coffee.

  But my hairstyle is not about Ben. His theoretical opinion doesn’t have any bearing on my decision.

  “Cut it all off,” I say. That’s the practical thing to do.

  Jenna’s bottom lip sags open. She snaps it back shut. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “I can’t be worried about my hair.” Or about Ben’s opinion. “There are too many other things to worry about.”

  Such as the evolution of zombies. Johnny spent the last week on the ham talking to every person he could find. Three reported seeing organization among the zombies. It’s a small percentage, but it’s enough to make me think our post-apocalyptic world might be on the brink of a major shake up. Practical hair is the only way to go.

  “Are you sure, Kate? You want to cut it all off?” Jenna’s discomfort is not making this any easier.

  “Yes.” To emphasize my decision, I plop down on the lid of the toilet seat. “Chop it all off.”

  Jenna picks up the scissors. “You should know I’ve never cut hair before. I’m an experienced dyer, not a cutter.”

  “How much talent does it take to hack off someone’s hair?” I position myself so that my back is to the mirror. So I won’t have to watch my transformation. I yank out the rubber band holding my hair in place. “Go for it.”

  Licking her lips, Jenna picks up a strand of my hair. It hangs well past my shoulders.

  I force myself to stare at the shower curtain. The cheery cloth with pink, yellow, and orange flowers is now tarnished with gray splotches of mold.

  I feel like that shower curtain.

  Snip.

  The first chunk of hair falls to the floor. I see it out of my periphery and make it a point not to look at it directly.

  Snip. Snip.

  My vision blurs. The shower curtain flowers swirl before my eyes.

  Twenty minutes later, Jenna steps back. “That’s it. It’s all gone.”

  The smile she gives me eases the tension gripping my chest. I hate the fact that cutting hair produces anxiety. In a world where stepping outside can result in death, I shouldn’t give a shit about my hair.

  “I like it,” Jenna says. “You have nice cheekbones.”

  More like gaunt cheekbones, but I don’t say that. Jenna was nice to help me. I shouldn’t ruin it by complaining.

  “Turn around,” she urges.

  I turn.

  I hardly recognize the women in the mirror. If not for the sports bra, I could almost imagine myself as a no-nonsense businesswoman. The pixie cut lends youthfulness to my face and eases the weight of my impending fortieth birthday.

  “I was worried.” Jenna grins at me in the mirror. “But love it.”

  I can’t help but grin back at her. “Me, too.”

  “Maybe I should cut mine.” She pulls back her long tresses, studying her face in the mirror. “One less thing for zombies to grab.”

  “If you, me, and Carter all cut our hair, people are going to think it’s a conspiracy,” I say, referring to the time a few months ago when my son abandoned his lumberjack look by shaving off his beard and hacking his hair short.

  Jenna cocks her head. “Maybe it’s an indoctrination thing. Like, you can’t be an official Stevenson family member unless you shave off your hair.”

  I rest a hand on her shoulder. “You’re already an official family member as far as I’m concerned.”

  We share a moment in the mirror, the two of us looking at one another. It’s hard to remember a time when I resented Jenna’s very existence. Now I think of her as a daughter.

  Jenna looks away first. “Come on. Let’s go show everyone your new look.”

  We exit the dorm bathroom and enter the sitting room. The whole Creekside crew is gathered there, except for Reed, who’s on watch.

  This is the original dorm where I lived when I first arrived in Arcata. We’ve since branched out into other rooms. I now share a four-room dorm suite with Carter, Jenna, Ash, Caleb, and Ben. The rest of the kids live here.

  Eric is currently commanding everyone’s attention. He stands on a chair, one hand grasping the front of his pants.

  “Watch this, everyone!” He flashes me a grin as Jenna and I enter the room. “Wait for it.” He pauses dramatically, making sure all eyes are on him.

  Then he releases his waistband. His pants fall, puddling around his ankles and revealing blue-striped boxer shorts.

  Eric holds
up his hands in triumph. “No more beer belly!” he exclaims.

  Carter stands up and applauds. Everyone else groans, myself included.

  “Mi amigo,” Jesus says, “there’s no one here besides Lila who wants to see that.”

  Lila colors, then rallies. Straightening her spine, she levels a glare at Jesus.

  “You’ve been buttering me up for the last week,” she says. “I don’t know what your deal is, but right now you’re doing a good job of unbuttering me.”

  “Told you she’d see through the bullshit,” Ben says.

  “There’s no buttering going on in this corner,” Caleb says. “Pull up your pants before we go blind.”

  Eric remains nonplussed, propping his hands on his hips. “Guys, this is a miracle. Before the zombie apocalypse, I thought I was destined to be a fat guy forever.”

  “It’s not the apocalypse that made you skinny,” Ben says. “It’s Kate’s hard ass workouts.”

  “I know, but I wouldn’t have to run every day if the apocalypse hadn’t happened. I call this my apocalypse bod.” Eric rotates on the chair with his arms up. Somehow, he manages to do this without tripping on his pants and falling. He also flashes a bit of his stomach. It’s covered in light brown hair.

  “Dude,” Caleb says, “I wasn’t joking about going blind. Put that shit away.”

  “Mom, you cut your hair!”

  Every head in the room turns in my direction. Eyes widen.

  Eric falls off the chair. “Ow,” he complains.

  Everyone ignores him, except for Lila. She helps him get his pants from around his ankles back up to his waist.

  “You look like a hot biker chick,” Ash says.

  “You’ve always been kind of scary,” Caleb adds, “but I think you just managed to make yourself scarier.”

  Ash slaps him. “Caleb!”

  “I meant that as a compliment,” he grumbles. “She looks badass.”

  “Our Mama Bear would be beautiful with green skin and purple hair,” Jesus declares.

  “You look like a wannabe G.I. Jane.” This comment comes from Ben. A dent mars his brow as he studies me.

  His comment makes my stomach sink. I cover the disappointment by wordlessly flipping him the bird, which gets hoots of approval from everyone else. Ben reddens and looks away.

  Jesus turns to Ash. “Por favor, no te cortes el cabello bella dama.”

  Ash rolls her eyes.

  “Hey, we’ve talked about this,” Caleb says. “No speaking Spanish when the rest of us are around.”

  Jesus smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Everybody up,” I say, attempting to turn the tide of the conversation. “Time to go for our run.”

  Everyone shifts into action, not a single argument among them.

  “You.” Ben flicks a hand at Johnny. “It’s your turn to keep watch.”

  Johnny grumbles, but plods toward the door. He detours by the kitchen table, grabbing a notebook and a pencil. “At least I can work on my Thrive book if I’m going to be stuck on the roof for the next few hours.”

  “I thought you were writing something called Dorm Life,” Lila says.

  “I am,” Johnny replies, “but that’s the blue notebook. The red notebook is How to Thrive in the Apocalypse.”

  “Here are your snacks.” Lila hands me a Ziploc filled with granola bars. “I’ll have lunch ready when you guys get back. I’m making vegan mac ‘n cheese today.”

  “It’s not vegan if you use powdered cheese,” Caleb says.

  “It’s vegan,” Lila insists. “We don’t have any milk or butter, which makes it vegan in my book.”

  I give Lila props for her enthusiasm. Unfortunately, enthusiasm doesn’t always equal flavor. I’d never tell her that, though.

  Twenty minutes later, we march down the stairwell in a group. Lila holds open the door, security bar in hand as she prepares to lock it after us.

  “Come with us,” I urge. “Some fresh air and sunshine will do you good.”

  She shakes her head. “I have to check on my plants.” She gestures to the indoor garden beds. “The zucchini and tomatoes are almost ready to harvest. Besides, someone has to stay behind and cook lunch for all you losers.”

  I stare at her until she looks away. We both know she’s full of shit.

  I wait until everyone else files out. I lower my voice so only Lila can hear. “This isn’t living. You weren’t meant to spend your life in a cage.”

  “It’s good enough for tigers in the zoo,” she replies with a forced laugh. “If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me.”

  I give her shoulder a squeeze. “Think on it. Just come with us to the track and sit in the sun one of these days.”

  Lila shrugs and falls back. “I’ll see you guys after your run.” As she closes the door, I hear the bar and several bolts sliding into place.

  6

  Spam

  KATE

  As we return to Creekside after our track workout, I run through the list of things we need to get done today. We’re in the process of mounting several more solar panels on our roof. With any luck, we’ll have grow lights for additional garden beds soon.

  And, most importantly, a solar-powered water heater.

  Eric spotted one on a recent trip into town. It took us three trips and a few run-ins with zombies, but we managed to get it dismantled and transported back to Creekside.

  Now we just have to figure out how re-assemble it. And get water into it. We may be able to divert some of the garden’s water supply. Whatever the case, I’m confident we’ll figure it out. We have the university library at our disposal. And Eric. He’s our secret weapon. He might be a pot head, but he’s an engineering genius.

  As we reach Creekside, Ash puts two fingers to her lips and whistles. Johnny’s dark-haired head appears on the edge of the roof.

  “Be right down,” he calls.

  A few minutes later, the metal bar protecting Creekside slides aside. Lila and Johnny throw open the door. They jostle each other, Lila glaring

  “We need to take a poll,” Johnny announces.

  “Fuck you and your polls,” Lila says. “I get to say what it is. I’m the chef.”

  “That’s a generous appropriation of the word,” Johnny replies.

  “I’d like to see you do better,” Ben snaps.

  But Lila doesn’t need Ben’s defense. She’s more than capable of sticking up for herself. “If you don’t like it, you can go to bed without supper. Your loss. I found a tub of vegan protein under a bathroom sink upstairs. Everyone is getting an extra dose of good health tonight.”

  She spins on her heel, marching toward the stairwell as the rest of us file into Creekside.

  “It’s not vegan just because it has vegan protein powder in it,” Johnny calls after her.

  “I used soy milk, dick wad.” Lila punctuates this sentence by flipping him off.

  “Yeah, with Spam,” Johnny hollers. He turns to us, palms up. “She insists the mac n’ cheese casserole she made is vegan because she used soy milk and vegan protein powder. Even though she threw in a can of Spam and used the powdered cheese.”

  I drop the security bar into place and slide the three bolts into the locked position. “Does it really matter?” Whatever the case, it sounds awful, though my criticism of Lila’s cooking never leaves my mouth.

  The others don’t have the same standards.

  “I’m less worried about the description and more worried about the fact that Lila put protein powder into a mac n’ cheese casserole,” Carter says. “Hopefully it’s not something weird like chocolate protein powder.”

  A collective groans goes up.

  “You’re all a bunch of ingrates.” Ben scowls. “That young lady works hard to make sure we get nutrition. She has shit to work with and look at the things she makes for your ungrateful asses.”

  “Vegetable soup with canned tuna is not earning anyone a Michel
in star,” Johnny says. “Especially when you consider the fact that she put spam in that, too.”

  “What about that three-bean salad she tossed with the blue cheese dressing?” Reed chuckles. “That was nasty.”

  “Beans are a great source of protein. You guys should try eating beef stroganoff MREs for thirty-two meals in a row.” Ben’s face is flushed with irritation, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “None of you guys would complain about anything after that.”

  He shoulders to the front of the pack, stomping ahead and slamming open the door to the stairwell before disappearing.

  “Beef stroganoff MREs for thirty-two meals in a row? That must violate some sort of regulation,” Ash says.

  Caleb shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe someone fucked up on a requisition and shipped too many of the same thing.”

  The debate continues as we file upstairs. Since the university-issued table was only built for six people—and moving in an extra table would mean getting rid of the couch—we don’t have a formal eating arrangement. With eleven of us, we sit wherever we find a spot. Despite this, I take pride in the fact we eat three meals a day with each other.

  I get comfortable on the floor, holding a bowl of Lila’s afternoon concoction in my hands. I scrutinize the lumpy mess in my bowl. The base is mac ‘n cheese from a box. The cheese sauce, according to Lila, is made of powdered cheese, soy milk, and protein powder. The smart thing would be to spoon the food straight into my mouth with my eyes closed.

  “What’s with the Spam?” Caleb asks. “You put this shit in everything.”

  Lila plants her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with Spam? I’ll have you know that a hundred million pounds of spam were consumed by the Allied troops during World War One.”

  “What she means,” Ben says, already shoveling food into his mouth, “is that Spam was partially responsible for the defeat of Hitler. All you little shits would do well to remember that.” He jabs his fork at our collective group for emphasis.

  “Thank you, Ben.” Lila draws herself up, beaming at the older man. “At least someone appreciates Spam. My mom always put Spam in our spaghetti when I was a kid.”

  “Dude, I’m pretty sure the nukes were responsible for the defeat of Hitler,” Reed says.