Undead Ultra

by Camille Picott

  We order and take a seat next to a window that looks out on the Plaza. This was Kyle’s favorite table, even if watching stupid drunk people wasn’t his favorite pastime.

  “I just signed up for an ultra,” Frederico says, sipping his coffee.

  Ultra is short for ultramarathon. An ultramarathon is any race longer than a marathon, or twenty-six point two miles.

  “I hope you don’t plan to eat Mrs. Crowell’s chili the night before,” I reply drily. He chuckles, a warm rich sound that eases the tension in my muscles. “Which one are you running?” I ask.

  “Mount Tamalpais Fifty Miler.” He cocks his head. “You should come. You haven’t raced since you lost Kyle.”

  Part of me shrivels inside. I ran ultras all the time when Kyle was alive. He came to every race as my support crew. When I ran into an aid station, he’d be waiting with snacks, fresh socks, electrolyte tablets, a blister kit—whatever I needed to help me refuel and finish my race. His presence always kept me going, especially on the hard runs.

  “I’ve raced since then,” I say, trying to maintain a chipper exterior.

  Frederico gives me a serious look. “You’ve signed up for races. You haven’t actually run any of them since the accident.”

  “I don’t like to start things I can’t finish.” I shrug. “My plantar fasciitis has been bothering me. You know that.” It’s true. Kind of. I’ve struggled with plantar fasciitis—an inflammation of the foot tissue—on and off for years.

  “Kate, don’t give me that. You’re in the best shape of your life and we both know it.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair, studying my coffee. Without Kyle, I just don’t have the desire to race. I have no one to run to.

  “Race entry fees are too expensive,” I say at last. “I need to save money to help Carter with school.”

  I’m full of shit and Frederico knows it, but he doesn’t push me. I deal with the awkward silence by fishing my phone out of my purse and absently checking for texts or missed calls.

  I’m not really expecting to find any messages, but to my surprise there are three missed calls, two voicemails, and two text messages from my son. He’s twenty and attends college in a hippie town four hours north of Healdsburg. Frowning in surprise, I thumb through the texts.

  Mom, where r u? the first message reads. The second one says, Call me asap.

  “Huh,” I murmur to myself.

  “What?” Frederico asks.

  “Carter texted me twice and tried to call three times.”

  Frederico raises an eyebrow. “It’s barely nine o’clock in the morning. He must need money.”

  I chuckle at the joke. We both know Carter isn’t the type of kid to ask for money. Rather, he’s the sort of kid who would call to ask the best way to cook brown rice or how to make chicken stock from scratch. There’s no telling what he’s up to.

  As Frederico smiles at my laughter, I know I’m off the hook for bullshitting him. I put the phone to my ear, expecting to hear my son’s cheerful voice. Instead, his words come out in a harsh whisper.

  “Mom? Mom, where are you?” There’s an edge to his words that borders on fear. “Look, call me as soon as you get this message, okay? Wherever you are, I need you to find Frederico and get back to the house. God, I hope you’re not on the trail today.”

  I blink in surprise, a lump of anxiety forming in my stomach. I’m always out on the trail on Saturday mornings. What’s going on with my laid-back, quasi-hippie son? If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was playing some sort of fraternity hazing joke on me, but Carter would just as soon shave his legs as join a college fraternity.

  “What’s up?” Frederico asks, studying my face.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  I thumb to the next voice message. Carter’s voice fills my ear. The edge is still there. If possible, it’s been amplified.

  “Me again, Mom. You’re probably out on the trail. Hopefully with Frederico. Look, I need to you to drive home, lock everything, and barricade all the windows and doors. Fill up the bathtubs with water. I know this sounds weird, but please, trust me. Call me as soon as you can.”

  The lump in my stomach grows. I immediately call him back, chewing on my lower lip as the phone rings.

  And rings. And rings some more, finally switching over to voicemail.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I say. “It’s me. I’m with Frederico. Call me, please. You’re scaring me.”

  “What’s up?” Frederico asks.

  I wordlessly hand the phone to him. Frederico listens to the messages, a crease forming between his brows.

  “Think he’s playing a joke on you?” He sets the phone down after listening to the messages.

  “Maybe,” I reply. “That’s not really Carter’s style, though.”

  “No, it’s not.” Frederico scratches his head. “Well, you can try him again after breakfast.”

  I nod, unable to dispel the unease lodged in my gut. I set the phone on the table so that I won’t miss another call or text from Carter.

  Our breakfast arrives. We dive into the meal. As I stuff a fork of hash browns into my mouth, I idly stare through the window out at the Plaza. It’s a large grassy area with soaring, manicured trees, a gazebo, and a water fountain that doubles as a toddler swimming pool in the summer. This morning, it’s thronging with tourists. I polish off my omelet and start in on the first of the apple fritters, watching the droves of wine lovers walk by outside.

  A pack of metrosexual males staggers by in loafers, slacks, and pastel shirts. God, they are even more fucked up than the Barbie brigade we saw earlier. One of them has red wine smeared all over his button-down shirt. Another has red wine splashed over his face. All of them move with a shuffling gait. Maybe they started Barrel Tasting weekend with mimosas, Bloody Marys, and tequila shots. Maybe they’re just hungover from a full night of partying. Whatever the case, they look like hell.

  “This is better than reality TV,” Frederico says around a mouthful of biscuit.

  I nod, shoving a chunk of apple fritter into my mouth.

  The metro with red wine all over his lavender shirt lunges at a pretty girl in tight pants. The neckline of her shirt practically plunges to her navel. The metro paws at her breasts, a loud moan passing between his lips.

  “This is more like a bad porno,” I reply, picking up the second apple fritter.

  “Get away from me, you pervert,” the girl shouts.

  She tries to shove the man away. He’s nearly twice her size and doesn’t flinch under her pathetic force. He moans again, still pawing at her breast.

  “A really bad porno,” Frederico agrees, anger seeping into his voice. He shifts, and I know he’s considering going out to help the girl.

  The metro suddenly seizes the girl and buries his face in her neck. She screams. It’s not a cry of disgust or violation; it’s a piercing shriek of pain that jars me to the core.

  Frederico jumps up, knees hitting the table. The plates and silverware bounce and rattle.

  The girl twists in the man’s grasp, her eyes wide like a desperate animal’s. The man in lavender leans back, blood staining his mouth and raw flesh hanging from his lips. Blood gushes down the girl’s throat, a river of it running between her breasts.

  “What the fuck?” Frederico cries.

  We both stare, paralyzed with shock and horror.

  The girl is screaming, screaming, screaming. The metro in lavender leans back in, sinking his teeth into her jugular. Blood sprays, splattering all over the window—right by my face.

  Chapter 3

  Red Hats

  “Fuck!” I jump to my feet, knocking over my water glass. “Fuck!”

  I gape, transfixed, as the pastel shirt club swarms the girl. They bear her to the ground, sinking their teeth into her flesh and eating her alive. I stumble back, bumping into Frederico.

  “What the—” He stares as the metro horde devours the girl, mouth hanging open.

  Behind us, our w
aitress screams. I turn in time to see her drop two orders of biscuits and gravy to the floor. The few other patrons in the diner are on their feet, all of us stupidly watching the horror movie unfolding in front of the restaurant.

  A group of gray-haired men dressed in sensible sneakers—all with Barrel Tasting bracelets—stumble into the metro gore. One man sees the girl on the ground and tries to intervene. Seconds later, two members of the metro club pounce on him. One claws into the man’s enormous gut, tearing through his shirt in a spurt of blood.

  Two other men—restaurant patrons—race past us, bursting through the front door. They grab onto the closest of the metros, attempting to drag him off the girl. At the table next to us, a woman is on her cell phone, eyes wide.

  “I need to report an attack,” she says breathlessly into her phone. “There are drunk men mauling people in downtown Healdsburg!” Her voice goes up an octave as the body of the girl is abruptly hurled against the window.

  Blood smears the glass in thick, gloppy rivulets as the body slides to the ground. Through the red gore, I see one of the restaurant patrons go down under a rush of pastel shirts. The mass smashes against the front door of the restaurant. One metro in pastel green-and-yellow stripes nearly tumbles inside, but he rights himself and launches back into the melee, blood dripping down his chin.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Frederico says. “Move!”

  The remains of an apple fritter fall from my hand. I snag my purse and phone before retreating after him.

  “What’s going on?” I say, voice coming out in a squeak. “What—what’s wrong with those men?”

  “They’re probably fucked up on some designer drug,” Frederico replies. “We’re not going to stick around to find out.”

  Drugs. That must be it. Those guys are on drugs. It wouldn’t be first time wine tasters tried to amp up their experience with drugs.

  Frederico and I hurry toward the swinging white door that leads into Bread Box’s kitchen. Behind us, patrons are on their cell phones to the police, shouting about drunken attacks and murder.

  We push through the swinging door into the kitchen. The two line cooks and dishwasher look up in surprise as we burst into the tiny space. The waitress, right behind us, launches into a frenetic retelling of events.

  “Those men just started—started chewing on her!” she cries shrilly.

  Carter’s frantic message reforms in my head, taking a different shape. I stop dead. Has Carter seen attacks like we just witnessed? Is that why he called me this morning? Is he in danger?

  I fumble the cell phone, awkwardly swiping at the screen.

  “What are you doing?” Frederico snaps.

  “I have to call Carter. What if—”

  “Not now.” The severity in Frederico’s voice brings me up short. “Move, Kate. Move.”

  My hand numbly shoves the phone into my purse. I nod, knowing he’s right. Somewhere outside is the wail of police sirens.

  We head to the back door, slipping into the alleyway behind Bread Box. It’s devoid of people. In contrast to the chaos of the restaurant, it’s quiet. I can’t even hear the screaming from the street, although the wail of the police cars grows louder.

  “Let’s go,” Frederico says. “If you see trouble, run like hell.”

  I nod. Side by side, we hurry north toward the street. We’re nearly to the alleyway exit when a hunched form steps into view.

  The figure is dressed all in purple with a bright-red hat. The hat is a small thing perched jauntily on the owner’s head. A small red mesh veil hangs from the hat, covering the woman’s forehead and part of one eye. The hat is almost the exact same color as the red staining her lips. It could be lipstick gone bad, but it could also be blood. The one visible eye is an eerie milky white.

  “Holy shit.” Frederick skids to a halt. “It’s the Red Hat Society.”

  The Red Hat Society is a social organization for “mature women.” I occasionally see groups of them roving downtown Healdsburg, shopping, wine tasting, and generally having a grand time. They always wear flamboyant purple dresses and bright-red hats.

  The hunchbacked woman in purple suddenly multiplies. She is joined by at least a dozen more old ladies, all of them dressed in dramatic purple-and-red outfits. All have the same milky white eyes. Many have red smeared on their mouths.

  “Do you think they’re on drugs, too?” I hiss. My voice echoes off the walls of the alleyway. The red-and-purple pack swivel in our direction. As a unit, they lurch toward us.

  “I don’t know,” Frederico whispers. “But something’s not right. You know that plan we talked about?”

  “The one where we run like hell?”

  “Yeah. That one. Now would be the time to follow it.”

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice. We turn and run south, heading for the opposite end of the alley. Our footfalls make crunching sounds on the loose chunks of asphalt. The Red Hat Society lumbers after us, many of them gnashing their teeth. Lucky for us, they don’t move fast.

  Just as we reach the other end of the alleyway, a middle-aged woman with a boob job runs screaming toward us.

  “Help!” she screams. “Someone help me!”

  A chunk is missing out of the shoulder of her designer dress. The skin beneath bears a large bite wound. The woman is wild-eyed. One foot is barefoot; the other limps along on a stiletto heel. Blood seeps down her shoulder.

  “She’s bitten,” Frederico says, holding an arm out in front of me. “Steer wide.”

  I give him a sharp look. Neither of us has said the “z” word, but clearly I’m not the only one thinking it.

  “Help me, please!” the woman howls. She paws at her face. “There’s something wrong with my eyes. Please, help me!”

  Her noise agitates the Red Hatters. One of them lets up a loud keen. The others snarl and growl, continuing their steady shuffle toward us.

  “I’ll call nine-one-one,” I say, wanting to help the woman. I grope in my purse for the cell phone. “We’ll get an ambulance over here.”

  “They attacked us in the tasting room,” she whimpers, tears running down her face. “They—they bit us. They bit me.” She makes that last part sound like the biggest insult.

  Frederico and I hug the wall, moving in a semi-circle around the wounded woman toward the mouth of the alleyway. The pack of Red Hatters inches ever closer.

  “I’d stay away from them,” I tell the woman, indicating the purple-and-red women.

  She nods, still sobbing.

  We peer out of the alley. Police have set up a barricade on the corner, blocking access to Bread Box’s street. A cluster of tourists gathers at the barrier, sipping wine as they gawk. Beyond them are more tourists, oblivious or unconcerned with the bloodshed.

  My questing hand at last locates the cell phone. Just as I’m about to pull out the smooth rectangle, an ambulance screams into view, rolling past the barricade.

  “There’s an ambulance over here,” I say, turning toward stiletto woman. “You can—”

  A shriek interrupts me. I spin around and find the woman rushing toward me. Clinging to the hem of her dress is an old lady in a red fedora. Behind them come the rest of the Red Hat Society.

  The woman stumbles under the weight of the old lady, dragging her across the pavement. One of her enormous silicone orbs slams into me. I stumble back, smacking into the wall.

  “Help me!” the woman shouts again. Her eyes have a milky white film over them.

  I am many things. A mother. A widow. A waitress. An ultrarunner.

  I’m not a trained badass who knows how to handle a situation like this. I scream like a girl and grapple with the woman, trying to twist away from her and the growling old lady latched onto her.

  “Kate!”

  Frederico plants one dirt-covered trail shoe on fedora lady’s hip. He shoves. Hard. She staggers sideways, crashing into several of her red-and-purple brethren. They topple over in a tangle of red-and-purple. Half a dozen of them are s
till upright, but they’re a good ten feet away and not moving fast.

  Boob-job woman falls to her knees, clawing at her eyes. She screams and screams, the sound raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe, falling back against Frederico.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he replies, grabbing my hand and pulling me backward.

  “But the woman—” I gesture helplessly at the blond as the Red Hatters inexorably inch toward her.

  “The police.” Frederico jumps out of the alleyway, waving his arms in the direction of the cops. “Over here,” he yells. “Someone needs help! There’s been another attack!”

  Two cops break away from the blockade and run toward us.

  “Move back, sir,” one of them shouts. The cop hits the corner of the alleyway at a dead run, nearly losing his balance when he draws up short at the sight of snarling, bloody old ladies and the hysterical boob-job woman.

  The second cop is right on his heels. The both pull out billy clubs, stationing themselves between the Red Hatters and the panicked woman.

  “Move back!” the first cop says again.

  “Nothing else we can do here,” Frederico says. “Come on.”

  He’s right, of course. I wish I could say I was ex-military with a lifetime of survival skills under my belt. I wish I could say I had a black belt in badassery. But I’m nothing more than a widowed waitress with an obsession for running. People like me don’t rescue desperate women with boob jobs from a pack of drugged-out Red Hatters.

  I nod to my friend. Side by side, we break into a run, pelting away from the madness as fast as our feet will carry us.

  Chapter 4

  Disconnected

  We head east, heading away from the violence.

  Wine tasters are out in force, all of them armed with wine glasses and enthusiasm. With the sidewalks being so crowded, we’re forced to alternate between jogging and fast walking as we weave through people.