Undead Ultra (Book 3): Lost Coast

by Picott, Camille

  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 across 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.

  “You’ll feel like Frederico’s sacrifice will be for nothing.”

  She nods, resting her chin on her knees. “Yeah.”

  He thinks back to the brothers he lost over the years, both in the Sandbox and Somalia. So many. He can still list out names and ranks in his head.

  “I still try to find reasons for the deaths of my brothers in the service.” He lets out a long sigh. “I don’t think you ever stop looking, Kate.”

  More fresh tears roll down her cheeks. “I just want to know that Carter and the others made it back to Creekside. Whatever else happens, I just want to know they’re safe.”

  He has an urge to take her in his arms. Except he’s not sure how that would go over. He’s not exactly the strong cuddly type. Strong, sometimes. But not cuddly. A cactus has him beat on the cuddly scale.

  He settles for sitting cross-legged in the moonlight next to her in what he hopes is easy companionship. At least she doesn’t radiate anger anymore. That’s an improvement. Now if only he can keep his mouth from saying something stupid.

  She doesn’t pull away, keeping her chin propped on her knees. He likes looking at her. Her profile is lean and strong. Her eyes focus on the small window in the room. A curtain of stars fills the rectangle of glass.

  “I didn’t realize you had so many tattoos.” Kate is looking at his bare arms.

  Part of the reason he keeps himself religiously encased in his fatigues are the tattoos. He has sleeves on both arms. He doesn’t want to answer questions about the thirty years of art that cover him from wrist to shoulder.

  Tonight, he’s been stripped to the waist since Kat
e sewed up his back. He doesn’t mind her seeing the tattoos. Maybe it’s the darkness. It feels less exposed, less awkward.

  “I enlisted when I was eighteen,” he tells her. “I get a tattoo every year on the anniversary of my enlistment.”

  “That’s neat.” She squints, studying his arms. “What’s that?” She points to Ben’s right bicep.

  Of course she would notice that one. It wouldn’t be so bad if the fucking thing didn’t have purple wings.

  There was also the matter of the pink dress.

  There’s nothing to do but own it. “It’s a fairy.”

  “Like, a tooth fairy? A small person with wings?”

  “Yes.”

  Kate giggles. It’s a nice sound. “What’s the story behind the fairy?”

  He starts talking, encouraged by her expression. “I got roaring drunk the night we graduated from boot camp. One of the guys was an amateur tattoo artist. Four of us got matching fairy tattoos that night in a public bathroom at a club.” He chuckles at the memory. “The other guys all got cover-up art eventually.”

  “But not you?”

  “Nah. I figure it’s good to remember those times when you’re a complete dumb shit. It helps you remember not to be a dumb shit again. Sometimes.” He meets her eyes, willing for her to see how sorry he is for his earlier blunder. “Anyway, after that it became a tradition.”

  Her hand comes up, tracing the flames along his upper deltoid. He sits still, afraid the slightest movement will dislodge her.

  “Flames of the oil fields of Iraq,” he says. “From Operation Desert Storm. One flame for each of the friends I lost in battle.”

  “Nine,” she says, counting them with her fingertips.

  “Nine,” he agrees. Encouraged by the feel of her fingers against his skin, he keeps talking.

  He tells her the story of the art on his arms. The words Got Him on his left forearm represent the death of Osama bin Laden. The drone on his right wrist represents his tour in the War on Terror in Pakistan. The sunrise on his inner forearm is the sky the morning after he lost four men in Somalia during the Ethiopian invasion.

  As he winds down, once again out of words, Kate lowers her hand and smiles at him. “That’s beautiful, Ben.”

  Someday, if he ever finds a tattoo artist, he has another design in mind, this one for his left shoulder. The number sixteen in a puddle of blood. For the College Creek kids. They deserve to be remembered, even if only by him.

  He doesn’t say any of this to Kate. The shame is too heavy.

  “Your skin is cold.” Kate rises, crossing to the shelf of linens. She unfolds a starched chef’s coat and shakes it out. “Here. You should wear something.”

  He takes the blazing white stiff shirt, unable to look away from her. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen a woman look so damn good.

  “I meant it as a compliment,” he blurts out. “What I said about G.I. Jane, I mean. I know it didn’t come out like that.”

  She raises one eyebrow at him, not bothering to pretend. That’s another thing he admires about her. She’s real.

  “And I didn’t mean to say you looked old. Tonight, I mean. I just meant you look like a woman.”

  “Ben, do you even know what a compliment is?”

  It’s a fair question.

  “In theory, yes. I’m just not very good in practice.” He heaves an exasperated sigh. “G.I. Jane was played by Demi Moore, Kate. She’s as hot as they come. How could that not be a compliment?”

  Alarm bells go off in his head as the mood in the room shifts. Kate stiffens beside him, turning wide eyes at him. She doesn’t look offended, thank God, but she does look off-balance.

  Did he just call her hot? Yes, he did. Like a stupid teenager.

  He doesn’t know how to tell her she’s so much more than that. She’s smart. Strong. Decisive. Determined. Caring. Patient. So much more than a stupid actress in a movie he wishes he’d never mentioned.

  Mouth dry, he refuses to make eye contact. He busies himself buttoning on the chef’s coat, resolving not to speak until she does. It’s safer that way.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” she says at last, a strange hitch in her voice.

  Some of the tension leaks out of him.

  They sit side by side on the floor, watching the sun come up in easy silence. It’s the best night he’s had in as long as he can remember.

  17

  Horde

  KATE

  I don’t know what to make of Ben’s behavior. The only thing I know for sure is that underneath that gruff exterior is a man with substance. The more I talk to him, the more I like him.

  Oddly enough, I remind him of Demi Moore. That seems a bit like comparing a three-legged mongrel from Puerto Vallarta to a New York show dog, but the sentiment isn’t lost on me. He meant it as a compliment.

  I decide not to overthink it. It makes me feel good inside. These days, there aren’t a lot of things to make me feel good. Seems stupid to downplay the good moments when they come along.

  “I never thanked you. I mean, for the coffee you’ve been leaving outside my bedroom.”

  “Do you like it?” He looks at her from the corner of his eye.

  “Hell yes, I like it. Who doesn’t like coffee for midnight watch?”

  “I thought it would keep you warm.”

  The act of kindness keeps me warmer than any amount of steaming beverage could. Like the way he pulled me out of the nightmare tonight. I think of all the times Johnny has asked me to tell him the story of my journey to Arcata. Johnny doesn’t understand how raw it all is.

  Ben gets it. It feels good to be understood, even if my single loss pales in comparison to all he must have lost through the years. If the tattoos covering his arm are any indication, he’s lost many.

  It’s hard to wrap my mind around his life spent in service to the military. Of losing so many friends. Of fighting in every major offensive our government has taken part in over the last thirty years. Including the current shit storm.

  The window of the supply room is a pale square of orange. I rise, crossing to it. Ben joins me. Our shoulders almost touch.

  “I’ve been thinking about our route home,” I say.

  “We need to go through town.”

  “My thoughts exactly. It’s safer than trying to get across the freeway.”

  We watch in silence out the window. Highway 101 is relatively still, at least compared to what we’d seen yesterday. The swarming has died back to the regular milling we’re used to.

  I look for the alpha and the zombies who followed us last night from the freeway. They’ve moved down the street. Their heads loll as they stagger in small circles, blind eyes almost seeming to glow in the washed-out light of dawn. They stay in a loose cluster around the alpha as though waiting for a command.

  “Do you hear that?” Ben frowns, pursing his lips as he leans closer to the glass.

  “Yeah.” It’s a soft buzzing, like a fly, only louder. “What is it?”

  Ben shakes his head. He retrieves his binoculars from the other room. He looks through them for several minutes, scanning the area.

  “Fucking shit balls.” Ben shoves the binos at me. “Do you see what I see?”

  My heart rate spikes at the panic in his voice. I grab the binoculars. “Where do I look?”

  “South. Toward Eureka.”

  I spin the binos south along 101, eyes flying over the wrecked cars, dead bodies, and zombies. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Nothing different from what I saw yesterday. If anything, it’s a good deal calmer than yesterday.

  I continue to scan in a southward direction.

  A dark spec comes into view. Then several more specs join the first. The distant buzzing grows louder.

  My heart stops beating.

  “Holy fuck.”

  “You see it, too, right?” Ben demands.

  I can’t peel my eyes away from the binoculars. I want to deny what I’m seeing.

  Moving up the f
reeway is a cluster of people. People on motorcycles and in cars. That’s the buzzing.

  But that’s not the worst of it. The people aren’t alone.

  Chasing them is a horde of zombies. An enormous, gigantic, big-as-fuck zombie herd. It’s so huge I can’t see where it ends.

  There are hundreds of them. And they’re being led by three alphas.

  I can’t see the alphas individually, but I do see three distinct whorls near the front of the horde. Each one is like an eye of the storm. The zoms nearest the alphas boil outward, carrying out the orders like worker bees.

  Half a dozen questions pepper my mind. How are the alpha’s orders dispersed through the herd? Are the three alphas working together or do they just happen to share a common goal at the moment? Do they share pack members, or is each zombie tied to a specific alpha?

  Too many questions. Too much to work out and no time to spare.

  The horde’s pursuit of the small party of humans is relentless.

  The mess is big enough to swallow a town whole. Or a college.

  And it’s coming straight for us.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper.

  Ben stomps out of the room. He returns moments later, rifle in hand.

  “Open the window,” he orders.

  I stare at him stupidly. “What?”

  “Open the window.” Eyes hard, he brings the rifle up to his shoulder and racks a bullet into the chamber.

  “We have to go,” I argue. “That horde is heading straight toward campus—”

  “Just open the damn window!”

  I swallow my arguments and tackle the window. This might be my first apocalypse, but it’s not Ben’s.

  The latch is stiff and encrusted with grime from months of disuse. The window squeals as I force it open.

  The zombies that followed us here spin in our direction. The alpha keens and clicks.

  Until I opened the window, their attention had been on the commotion of the road. Now, we’re their focus.