Undead Ultra

by Camille Picott

  Ahead of us is a group of college kids in tutus. They are a riot of color, ranging from Barney purple to CalTrans orange. Seriously, wine tasting really does take all kinds. One of the tutu-wearers rubs at a small wound on her arm.

  “What a creep,” I hear her say. “I can’t believe he bit me.”

  Frederico and I exchange looks as we dodge through the tutu brigade.

  “There’s an ambulance just down the street,” I say. “You could have that looked at.”

  A few of the kids turn. They take one look at our grimy running gear and dismiss us. A few of them even titter.

  I open my mouth to say more, but Frederico grabs my arm and shakes his head at me. “We tried. We can’t make them listen.”

  “But—”

  “What are you going to say? Besides, we don’t know what’s going on.”

  This gives me pause. He’s right. That metro gang could be high on yuppie designer drugs. Those Red Hatters could have been suffering from dementia and really bad lipstick jobs.

  “We have to get to the car, Kate. You need to call Carter.”

  This snaps me out of my dilemma. “Okay,” I say, glancing back at the tutu gang. They’re laughing and sipping wine and generally having a grand time as they stroll away. “Okay, let’s go.”

  We continue on, slowing to dodge through a crew of professional wine tasters. These are people who know they’re going to get shit-faced, and dress for it. Sensible sneakers. Comfy clothes. Hats for shade. Smears of white sunscreen on their necks and noses. If there was a guidebook on how to attire oneself for wine tasting, these guys could be on the cover.

  “Can you tell us how to get to Warrior Wines?” one of them calls to us as we hurry by.

  “You don’t want to go there,” I call back. Warrior Wines is right on the Plaza. “Try Clandestine Cellars right outside of town—their zinfandel in the best!” I try to load my voice with enthusiasm, even though I’ve never had anything from Clandestine Cellars. I don’t even know if they make zinfandel. But at least that will get those people away from the violence.

  The professionals wave in thanks and cluster around a map, talking excitedly about zinfandel as they try to locate the winery. Maybe, just maybe, I saved their lives. Or maybe I’m a paranoid freak and just sent them on a wild goose chase for a wine that doesn’t exist.

  We reach my car without any further incident. Once inside, I lock the doors and check for messages. There’s another text message from Carter.

  Glad u r with Frederico, it reads. Let me know when you get back to the house.

  I put the cell phone to my ear as I pull a U-turn and speed toward my house. To hell with California hands-free laws.

  My son answers on the second ring. “Mom.” There’s relief and fear and tension all twined together in that single word.

  “Carter! Are you okay, baby?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  Silence. There’re soft murmurings in the background, but nothing I can make out.

  “Carter?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Are you back at the house yet?”

  “On our way now. I’m with Uncle Rico. Baby, what’s going on?”

  “Mom, this is going to sound weird. I want you to get home before we talk more, okay?”

  “Did you see people get attacked, sweetie?”

  Another long silence. My stomach drops into my feet.

  “Carter, did you—did you see people biting other people?” I brace myself. “People, um, eating other people?”

  I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of—a skeptical laugh or a confirmation. I haven’t been the sanest person since Kyle’s accident two years ago. Carter watched me run fifty to eighty miles a week for most of his life; after his father died, he watched me ramp up workouts to anywhere between one hundred twenty and one hundred forty miles a week. He saw me break down into tears at the grocery store when I couldn’t find my favorite chocolate chips. He even saw me chew out the mailman for not putting the mail in the box the “right way.”

  I’m ashamed I haven’t been stronger for Carter. There’s a desperate wildness always screaming inside me. I can usually keep it under control if I run myself ragged; otherwise I end up with mailman incidents and other embarrassing events. Before he moved away to Humboldt State University, Carter bought me two pairs of running shoes and ten boxes of electrolyte tablets.

  “Take care of yourself while I’m gone, Mom,” he’d said to me, all too aware of my fragile state of mind.

  Fuck. My son is going to think I’ve completely lost it. “I’m putting you on speaker phone, sweetie.”

  “Uncle Rico?” Carter’s voice projects out of the phone, which I hand to Frederico.

  “I’m here, kiddo,” Frederico replies, holding the phone in the air between us.

  “Is my mom okay?”

  “Yeah, kiddo. Your mom is fine. I got her to eat two apple fritters this morning.”

  I scowl at Frederico, annoyed they’re talking about me like I’m not here. And eating those apple fritters had been my idea.

  “You’ve got me and your mom a little scared, kiddo,” Frederico says. “Tell us what’s going on.”

  Carter’s words come out in a rush. “Weird stuff has been happening this past week. There were reports of meth-head attacks around campus and in town. They said meth-heads were biting people. I didn’t think much about it, but last night I went to a party and—and—”

  A shriek goes up in the background, interrupting Carter. Jumbled shouting comes through my iPhone.

  “Dude, we’ve gotta barricade the door!”

  “Reed, grab the other end of the bed.”

  “Wait,” I hear Carter say. “Jenna isn’t back yet—”

  “Carter!” I slam on my brakes and snatch the phone from Frederico. “Carter!”

  More muffled shouting, then the distinct voice of Carter saying, “Oh, shit—”

  “There’re zombies everywhere, dude!”

  Then a huge banging sound, like someone smashed the phone, and all is silent.

  “Carter!” I lean toward the phone, as if proximity to an electronic gadget can take away what I just heard. “Carter!”

  My breath comes in short, ragged breaths. Spots swim in front my vision. “Carter,” I whisper.

  “Kate, pull over.” Frederico takes the phone from me. “Take a deep breath and pull over.”

  I jerk the car toward the curb, snatching the phone back from Frederico. I hit redial, heart pounding as I wait for Carter to answer.

  The phone rings, and rings, and rings.

  Another ambulance and two more police cars speed by us, sirens wailing.

  Carter’s voicemail picks up. “You’ve reached Carter. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

  “Shit.” I end the call and hit redial. Still nothing.

  “Kate—”

  I give Frederico a fierce look. He clamps his mouth shut. I turn back to my phone, tapping out several desperate text messages.

  What is going on?

  Are u okay?

  Call me asap.

  I lean my head back against the seat rest, heart pounding in my chest. A few tears leak out of my eyes.

  “Kate?”

  “They said the ‘z’ word.” I swallow and force myself to look at my friend.

  His face is pale. “Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I heard that.”

  Zombie. The word buzzes in my head, hanging on the tip of my tongue, but it’s too absurd to say out loud. There’s no way those guys are zombies. Are they? No. They can’t be. Zombies aren’t real. There’s another explanation. Right?

  “Do you really think those metro guys outside Bread Box were on drugs?” I ask.

  Frederico hesitates, then shakes his head. “Drugs can make a person do really fucked up things. I should know.” He grimaces. “I may be twenty-five years sober, but you never forget the things drugs do to you.”

  “And what about those old ladies from the Red Hat Society?”
/>   He shakes his head again. “I don’t know of any drug that makes people bite other people. Those women definitely had blood on their mouths.”

  “The pigs at Lake Sonoma?” I ask. “Do you still think they were killed by mountain lions or coyotes?”

  He meets my eyes. “In all our years running at the lake, we’ve never seen kills like those.”

  Reality crashes in around me. I feel it as profoundly as if chunks of cement are raining down.

  God dammit. I’m going to say it. I’m just going to use the word.

  “Zombies.”

  That single word hangs in the air between us.

  Our eyes meet. I see my fear and dawning realization reflected back at me.

  Carter.

  “Fuck this.” I slam my foot on the accelerator and nearly side swipe a limo as I pull back onto the road. The chauffer honks and flips me off.

  “I’m going to Arcata,” I tell Frederico, gripping the steering wheel with sweaty hands. “I’ll drop you off.”

  He’s silent as I make a hard left at an intersection, completely ignoring the stop sign. I drive another two blocks before he speaks.

  “I’ll go with you,” he says.

  “What? You don’t have to—”

  “When Carter went away to college, I promised him I’d look after you. I intend to keep my promise.”

  I scowl at him. “He just wanted you to make sure I didn’t run myself to death. And apparently he wanted you to make sure I eat junk food.”

  “He wanted me to make sure you were eating, period.”

  I give him another dirty look, taking a corner a little too hard. The tires squeal and I smell burning rubber.

  “I’m not going home to pack or change my clothes. Or take a shower.” I say it like a threat, like it will make him think twice.

  It doesn’t, of course.

  “Do I need to remind you that I rode in the car with you after you finished Badwater?” he asks. “Do you have any idea how bad you smelled after forty hours of running? Your puny run this morning doesn’t hold a candle to that.”

  I grimace. I did smell after that race. I had to endure jokes about my armpits for weeks.

  Frederico sighs, shifting in his seat. A look of unease flits across his face. I jam my foot on the brake, pulling over in front of a row of condos.

  “What is it?” I ask. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Aleisha,” he says at last. “Dumbo Dan convinced her to move to Laytonville. She’s tending bar in a dive, and he’s changing oil at a lube and tire place.” Frederico’s expression grows stormy. Dumbo Dan is the not-so-flattering nickname for his daughter’s boyfriend.

  His insistence suddenly makes sense. Laytonville is on the way to Arcata.

  “You want to stop in Laytonville and check on Aleisha,” I say.

  “I need to check on her,” he says. “Make sure she’s safe. I’d like to get her out of that place, but she’d never come with me. It won’t take long. She’ll probably slam the door in my face.”

  “She might hug you,” I say, trying to be optimistic. The love he bears for his estranged daughter is painful to witness.

  Frederico shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. She’s my daughter and I love her. I need to make sure she’s safe.”

  “I get that.” I give my friend’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then pull back onto the road. “Let’s go find our kids.”

  Chapter 5

  Car Trouble

  I press the accelerator to the floor, speeding up the Highway 101 northbound onramp to toward Arcata. I pull into the fast lane and lean on the gas pedal, careening past the tourist traffic.

  “Do you want to call Aleisha first?” I ask. “And what about Brandon? Maybe you should call him, too.”

  “Brandon is deployed in Puerto Rico. There’s no way for me to reach him. Aleisha . . .” He hesitates. “You know how things are between us. She usually won’t answer my calls.”

  Frederico’s daughter has never forgiven him for his years of alcohol and drug abuse. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I never miss the pain in his eyes when he mentions her.

  “I know you guys don’t communicate much, but you should call anyway. Even if you just leave a message. You should warn her to stay home. She might not know about the zombies. Besides, my number will come up on the caller ID. Maybe she’ll answer.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Reluctantly, he dials her number. After a few rings, I hear the automated voicemail service answer.

  “Hey, Aleisha,” Frederico says. “It’s Dad. Look, Kate and I are on our way north. Thought we’d swing by and say hi. Haven’t seen you in a while. There’re, um, I mean, uh, I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but there have been . . . meth-head attacks up in your area. Stay inside if you can, okay? Carry one of Du—Dan’s guns, okay?” He disconnects.

  I glance at him in silent, open-mouthed disbelief.

  He hunches his shoulders uncomfortably. “She’s never listened to my advice. Why should she start now? At least if I tell her they’re meth-head attacks, she’ll believe me. She’ll think I’ve gone over the edge if I use the ‘z’ word.”

  Zombies. God, I can’t believe we’re using that word to describe real life.

  I flip on the radio and scroll through the news stations.

  “. . . strange reports of a viral mania sweeping through Portland,” says an announcer. “A listener just sent me a YouTube video of a dog walker attacking an innocent woman on the street. He rips right through the shoulder of her shirt and bites hard enough to draw blood. You can see this disturbing video by googling Cannibal Dog Walker.”

  The station cuts to a commercial.

  “Fuck.” Frederico turns down the volume. “It really could be zombies.”

  “What do you think happened to Carter?” I ask softly, eyes focused on the road. “What about—”

  “Don’t think about it.” Frederico cuts me off. “You have no control over it. All you can do now is get to Arcata.”

  I nod, flying around a corner at eighty-five miles an hour—and slam on the brakes.

  “Shiiit!” My tires squeal against the pavement, sending up a gush of smoke.

  Sprawled in front of us are three Hummer limousines. One has careened into the side of a bluff. The second one has smashed into the first. The third one has spun out and lost a tire.

  When I see the three massive, obnoxious cars barricading the entire road, I know we’re in trouble.

  Hummer limos are a hot topic in the small town of Healdsburg. They ooze luxury and badass in one neat package and are all the rage for tourists when they go wine tasting.

  Residents—myself included—hate them. No, hate is too mild a word. We loathe them. We write letters to the editor extolling their evils. They are agenda points at local city council meetings.

  For starters, they’re obnoxiously large. Around the Plaza, a Hummer limo can literally take up half a city block. Out in the countryside, they clog up the quaint one-lane vineyard roads and back up traffic for miles. Some wineries have gone so far as to ban them from their property.

  So when I see the three wrecked Hummer limos completely blocking the road, I’m pissed off. These assholes are keeping me from my son.

  Then I see the six bloody people with milky white eyes, each of them covered with bite marks and grotesque wounds. Based on their clothing, I’d say they were imported from San Francisco’s financial district. Shiny shoes and Oxford shirts for the men, conservative pencil dresses and pumps for the women. They probably came up here on a team-building excursion.

  As my car tires squeal against the asphalt, I see a terrified limo driver leap out from one of the vehicles. Three of the bloody finance people lumber after him. The other three, drawn to the noise of my car, come straight toward us.

  “The hill, the hill!” Frederico shouts. “Get around them!”

  The four-lane highway splits; the southbound lane to our left rises a good one hundred feet above us. To our right is a s
teep hill of dry grass that slopes down to a frontage road.

  “The hill!” Frederico shouts again.

  There’s no way I can stop the car before hitting the people or the cars. Taking Frederico’s advice, I swerve around the wrecked limos and head for the hillside slope. My little hatchback shoots off the freeway and goes airborne. I scream like a little girl.

  “Brace yourself,” Frederico roars, grabbing the oh-shit handle with one hand. “Hold on!”

  I clench my hands around the steering wheel and press my feet against the floor.

  The hatchback hits the ground with a tremendous clunk. It rattles every bone in my body. The airbags deploy in a rush of air, hitting me in the face with the force of a tornado. The car bounces, back end lifting higher than the front.

  “Shit-shit-shit,” I scream. My poor hatchback is about to go ass over teakettle down this bleak stretch of land.

  But it doesn’t flip. Instead, it bounces three more times. It settles, then stops. A hissing sound comes from the engine.

  We sit in silence, absorbing the shock of the last thirty seconds. The airbags deflate, slowly revealing the scene before us.

  The frontage road is empty and quiet. The dry grass surrounding my car is still and silent. In the distance, over the hum of the engine, I hear screaming.

  “Try the accelerator,” Frederico says.

  I obey, tentatively pressing my foot against the pedal. I give a small shriek of surprise when the car lurches forward.

  “Again,” Frederico says.

  I press the pedal, this time with more confidence. The car limps forward, rolling over the dips and bumps on the small stretch of grass. When it rolls onto the frontage road, I sigh in relief.

  “I can’t believe it still works,” I say, marveling.

  Frederico gives me a tight look. “We hit pretty hard when we landed. Let’s stick to frontage roads for now.” He glances back in the direction of the freeway. “Not sure one-oh-one is the safest route now anyway.”

  I follow his gaze. Several more cars have plowed into the Hummer obstacle course. There is more screaming. Oxford shirts and pencil skirts are piled on top of the poor limo driver.