Undead Ultra (Book 3): Lost Coast

by Picott, Camille

  The reaction is instantaneous. Every zombie in site snaps around, pivoting toward the SUV.

  Ben fires two more times, hitting the tires. Then he fires at the second SUV three car lengths down, just as we planned.

  A nearby zombie raises its nose to the sky. It lets up a long keen. The sound dies away, but it continues to work its jaws. In my mind, I hear clicks rolling off its tongue. Based on the way other zombies gravitate toward it, I suspect it to be an alpha. Hopefully, the noise of the car alarms will be enough to distract them from us.

  More zombies take up the keen, the sound traveling up and down the highway. They move, arms outstretched as they fumble their blind way forward. They crash into cars, trip over bodies and debris, but inexorably streamline toward the two wailing cars. I lose sight of the alpha in the churning horde.

  Ben and I hustle back to the Dodge Gap. With the noise of the car alarms, we don’t have to worry about the little bit of noise we make. The splash of the water is lost in the rest of the racket.

  I squint into the late afternoon sun, relieved to see my kids hurrying toward the gap. The zombies have scattered, leaving a wide corridor for them to slip through.

  Their opening won’t last long, though. Another group of zombies from farther north lumbers in the direction of the car alarms; they’ll reach the Dodge Gap in a matter of minutes. Carter and the others will have to move fast to get safely to the other side.

  Reed and Carter carry the stretcher with Gary. The rest of the group fans around them, weapons raised as they inch onto the blacktop.

  Then something happens. Everything is too far away for me to see, but a new sound erupts.

  It’s a third car alarm.

  And it’s sounding right where all my kids are.

  “Fuck me,” Ben growls. “A goddamn zom caught on the hood of that white Avenger.”

  My gaze shifts as we pick up speed. A zombie bangs on the front hood of the Avenger, its pant leg caught in the crumpled metal. The Avenger is no more than twenty yards from the Dodge Gap.

  My heart rises into my throat as dozens of undead whip toward this new sound, drawn like flies to shit.

  “Fuck-fuck-fuck!”

  I break into a sprint, not caring that I make a shit ton of noise and splash water all the way up to my face. Ben races beside me.

  My kids, realizing the sudden danger they’re in, race into the gap between the Caravan and the Charger.

  Carter is the first one through. The rest of the kids pour in after him. I lose sight of them as they charge into the narrow gauntlet.

  Ben and I are 150 yards from the Dodge Gap. My breath burns, but I embrace it.

  One-hundred yards. I run as hard as I ever have, desperate to reach my family and keep them safe.

  Fifty yards and closing. We’re almost there, almost there—

  Over a dozen zombies find their way into the gap, clogging it with their rotting bodies and surging after my kids.

  “No!” The cry rips from my throat, drowned out by the three wailing car alarms.

  Ben doesn’t hesitate. He brings his rifle up and starts firing into the mass, dropping them with headshots.

  I’ve seen him shoot often enough during the last few months, but until this moment I didn’t realize he’s a great shot.

  The mass of zombies is churning. He’s fifty yards away and moving, yet hitting them like they’re sitting still and he’s five feet away. The sight of his cold precision sends a chill through me.

  The zombies go down, their bodies piling up in the gap. I keep running as Ben shoots. Heads bob on the other side. I see Jenna’s light hair, the gleam of Jesus’s leather jacket, the dark flash of Ash’s hair, and then a familiar, beloved face with shaggy hair. Carter.

  He waves to me over the cars, gesturing for me to hurry. I watch in horror as he, too, draws a gun, clearly preparing to try and shoot an opening for me and Ben.

  I shake my head and wave my arms, mouthing NO over and over even as I keep running. He needs to get the hell out of there, not waste precious seconds on me. Not risk himself by firing a weapon and drawing the attention of zombies.

  To my relief, Carter seems to understand my message. He holsters the gun. Jenna latches onto him and they disappear from sight.

  “Kate.” Ben grabs my wrist, dragging me back. “Kate, we can’t go that way.”

  He’s right. More zombies have swarmed into the Dodge Gap, sealing off any hope we had of following the others.

  Fucking would-be silencers that aren’t really silent. On top of not being able to follow the Creekside crew, a small group of zoms is drawn by Ben’s gunshots. They peel away from the road and head straight for us.

  14

  Five Leaf

  KATE

  “We gotta go.” Ben grabs my forearm. “Move.”

  I home in on the ten zombies stumbling toward us. With nothing but open marshland between us, there isn’t a lot to slow them down.

  And one of them is keening and clicking, drawing the attention of its brethren. It’s a plump woman in sweatpants and a visor.

  The rest of the zombies cluster tight around the visor zom, heads turned toward it as they await instruction. More zombies peel away from the freeway, drawn by the call.

  My first thought is to tell Ben to shoot the alpha, but there isn’t a clear shot. There are too many zombies around the alpha with more coming. There isn’t time—or bullets—to gun down the growing pack.

  CarterReedJennaJesusCalebAsh. Their names flash through my brain.

  “Kate.” Ben’s breath is warm against my ear, his voice urgent.

  An ache in my throat, I turn and run. I can’t care about the noise I make. Right now, it’s more important to be fast than it is to be silent.

  Ben races beside me. “We should head—”

  He never finishes. His foot catches in the mud. Ben does a somersault, spinning in mid-air before landing hard on his back with a splash.

  I spin around, weapons raised as the zombies surge toward us. The alpha keeps up a constant stream of clicks and keens, spreading out the pack in a wide line. It’s a fucking zombie dragnet.

  The group has swelled to at least twenty. I see two trip and fall but they get up just as quickly, hardly breaking stride in their desperation to reach us.

  Ben, on the other hand, isn’t getting up so quickly. He groans, levering himself up out of the water.

  “Can you run?” I ask, not taking my eyes from the fast-approaching zombies. Fifty feet and closing. “What happened?”

  “Cut myself on something,” he grunts. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  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.