Undead Ultra

by Camille Picott

  My stomach feels like it’s been scraped clean with a spoon. Everything hurts. Blisters throb. Knee aches. Skull feels like it’s going to split in half.

  Cattails and burrs speckle me from ankle to thigh. They scratch at me through the compression pants, some of them having wormed beneath the fabric. The dozens of small cuts on Frederico’s legs have left tiny trails of blood all across his skin.

  Still, we walk.

  Stout never strays from our side. Her ears are on constant alert, swiveling at sounds we can’t hear. I take heart in the fact that she’ll sense a zombie before we will. She’s only been with us for a few hours, but I already feel like she’s family.

  We pass vineyards, farm pastures, and open space with native oak trees. The railroad meanders back and forth with the natural curves of the land, always taking us north. The freeway moves in and out of sight.

  The farther north we go, the more relieved I am to be on foot. We’ve passed so many wrecked cars I’ve lost count. Zombies wander the highway and nearby land. So far, we’ve been lucky that none have come near the railroad.

  Still, I keep my eyes peeled, constantly scanning the land. The rest of my energy goes into propelling myself forward. One step after another, until I get to Arcata. And Carter.

  If I don’t collapse first.

  Don’t think like that, I berate myself.

  “Tell me why you started running.”

  Frederico’s strained voice jars me.

  “What?” I ask stupidly, blinking through my haze of concentration.

  “I told you why I started running,” he replies. “You never told me why you started.”

  There’s a rough edge to his voice that I recognize. I’ve only heard him like this a few times, all of them at tough ultra races.

  Frederico’s at his lowest. He needs me to help distract him from the pain of his fuel-deprived state.

  I need someone to distract me from my fuel-deprived state.

  Suck it up, I tell myself. Frederico needs you.

  I take a long sip of water, then speak. “I started running to . . . to get away from Kyle.” The truth sends a pang through me, even after all these years. “I told everyone it was because I was trying to lose post-pregnancy weight. I even told myself that. It was partially true, but Kyle and I were lost. We lost each other in parenthood, work, and school.

  “I waited tables at night. Kyle went to school and worked part-time as an office manager for his parents. We hardly saw each other. When I went to work at night, he stayed up late, drinking. In the morning, when he didn’t have to work or go to school, he’d be hungover and in no shape to spend time with me and Carter. I’d be angry that he was hungover, but too wimpy to speak up, so I’d put Carter in the stroller and go out running. Sometimes I couldn’t stand being home with him. It didn’t matter how hard or how fast I ran. Things didn’t get better.

  “At first, my runs with Carter were short. Kyle was depressed when we went out without him, so he started drinking during the day. My runs got longer. I’d go out for two, three, four hours at a time. The longer I was out, the more he’d drink. He started skipping school and work.

  “I felt guilty for our situation. I was angry and resentful about everything. Parenthood had been a shock for us both, and I thought he needed the drinking to de-stress. I thought he regretted marrying me and having Carter. I thought he needed me to take care of him by buying him beer. How fucked up is that? I was so angry that he was drinking all the time, and I kept buying him beer because I thought I was taking care of him.

  “One day, I ran twenty miles to my parents’ house and didn’t go home.” I swallow, throat tight with the memory. Even after all this time, the memory of the pain is vivid and raw. “I stayed with my parents for six weeks, trying to sort out my feelings for Kyle. I had just about convinced myself our marriage had been a big mistake. And then . . .” Again, my throat tightens.

  “And then?” Frederico prompts, huffing along beside me.

  “Kyle came to my parents’ house and told me he’d joined Alcoholics Anonymous and quit drinking. It was two in the morning. I’d gotten home from my shift in the restaurant, and he’d been waiting outside.” I remember the way my stomach turned at the sight of him getting out of his car. “He said he loved me, he loved Carter, and he would do whatever he had to do to save our family and our marriage. He already had an AA sponsor. He’d been sober for sixteen days. He was . . . so earnest, so sincere. I . . . I decided that any man willing to work so hard to save our marriage was a man I wanted to meet halfway.”

  Tears prick the corner of my eyes at the memory. “Carter and I moved back home the next day. I started going to Al-Anon meetings. We got a marriage counselor. Things got better. Things got . . . good. Great, even.”

  I fall silent, letting out a long, shaky breath. I’ve never told anyone that story before. Retelling it now brings back all my shame—shame that I had been ready to give up on us, on our family. Shame that I had encouraged Kyle’s addiction. Shame that I had run away from Kyle and our problems.

  I feel like the dysfunctional, co-dependent, scared young woman all over again. I don’t like that part of myself. No matter how far or how hard I run, I can’t get away from her. It’s the same part of me that went to pieces when Kyle died. There’s a weakness inside myself I can’t escape.

  “In some ways, relationships aren’t so different from ultrarunning,” Frederico says. “Once you decide you’re going to make it to the finish line, you will. Doesn’t matter what hell you encounter on the way.”

  Is that the subconscious appeal of ultrarunning? Do I run to prove to myself that I was good enough for Kyle? Good enough for the man who loved me so completely? The man I almost walked away from? How many miles will it take before I proved to myself that I was worth loving?

  I remember I’m supposed to be lifting my friend out of a bonk. A depressing story likely isn’t helping him.

  “Anyway, that’s why I started running,” I continue, trying to make my tone lighthearted. “You know how it goes. Before I knew it, I was signed up for my first fifty-kilometer race.” Fifty kilometers is equivalent to thirty-one miles; they’re considered the shortest ultramarathon distance. “I never looked back after that. Or stopped running.”

  Chapter 20

  If I Get Eaten

  I glance at him. “How are you feeling?”

  He grunts. “A little better.” His face is pinched, the toll of the bonk still plain on his features.

  I need to be strong for my friend and help him through this funk. How can I distract him and keep his mind off the pain? Depressing stories obviously isn’t the way. If I hadn’t been bonking myself, I’d never have told him that story.

  I attempt to steer the conversation in a more lighthearted direction. “Let’s play: If we get eaten by zombies in the next thirty minutes.”

  Frederico quirks an eyebrow at me; this is a good sign. “How do we play that?”

  “I make a statement, like this: If I get eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, I’ll regret never getting to run the Hardrock One Hundred.” Five times I’d entered the lottery for Hardrock—one of the most iconic one-hundred-mile races in the country—and had yet to have my name drawn. I grin at Frederico. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “If I get eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, I’ll regret never getting to run the Copper Canyon Ultramarathon.” He sighs, more of a thoughtful sigh than one of true regret. “I was saving money with the hopes of running that race for my seventieth birthday. With the world going sideways, I doubt I’ll make seventy.”

  “Hell, with the way things are going, I doubt I’ll make forty,” I reply.

  “Guess I don’t have anything to complain about.” He gives me a small smile. I smile back, relieved to see that some of the stress of the bonk is lifting from both of us.

  “If I get eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, I’ll die knowing I finished Fat Dog,” Frederico says. “Hardest rac
e of my life.”

  Kyle and I had crewed for Frederico at the Fat Dog 120, a one-hundred-twenty-mile footrace also known as Mountain Madness. The combination of a wet trail and slanted terrain caused him to rip subdermal tissue in his right foot. That had happened around mile ninety-seven. When he’d limped into the Skyline mile ninety-nine aid station, I remember the set lines of his face. His expression told me he was going to finish the race come hell or high water.

  “You’re one tough son of a bitch,” I tell Frederico.

  “I paid for that race,” Frederico replied, eyes crinkling in fond memory. Only an ultrarunner can look back on ripped foot tissue and intense pain with fondness. “Remember when I had to use a knife to shave the scar tissue off the bottom of my foot?”

  “God, how could I forget that? I think you gave Kyle nightmares with that stunt.” I laugh at the memory. “If I get eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, I’ll die knowing that I finished the Bear One Hundred Mile Endurance Run.”

  That gets a chuckle out of Frederico. Winter had come early to that September race, and I ran for over ten hours in a snowstorm. In a pink running skirt. That had been hell. Complete hell. A cold, freezing, wet, miserable hell. I’d even gotten frostbite on my legs.

  But I’d finished. I’d come in dead last. Despite that—hell, maybe because of that—the Bear 100 is the single race I’m most proud of finishing.

  “That was the only time I’ve seen Carter fret about you,” Frederico says. “That boy is as calm as they come, but the snow had him on edge.”

  “Here’s to being tough sons of bitches.” I hold up one hand and we slap high fives.

  “After all we’ve been through, what’s two hundred miles to Arcata?” he says.

  “Exactly.” I grin.

  The heaviness of the bonk is dissipating. Even the worst of the hunger has receded. Things really aren’t all that bad.

  This is how things go in ultras. They’re an ebb and flow—a series of lows and highs strung together by gritty determination. A joke or kind remark can be as nourishing as food.

  “If Stout gets eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, she’ll die with friends.” I reach down to scratch the dog between the ears.

  “That dog’s too smart to get eaten,” Frederico replies. “She’ll survive both of us.”

  I laugh. “True. If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I can go to heaven saying I was a dog owner.”

  Frederico raises an eyebrow. “We’ve owned—and I use that term loosely—Stout for about two hours.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “She’s part of our pack now. That denotes ownership.”

  “I think we’re part of her pack. That means she owns us.”

  We both look at the dog. As though aware she’s the topic of conversation, Stout pricks her ears in our direction and wags her tail.

  I feel more energy returning to me. Not wanting to lose the little momentum we’ve scraped together, I plow forward with our impromptu game.

  “If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I’ll die knowing what true love is,” I say. Kyle’s blue eyes flash in my mind. “I’m grateful to have had Kyle in my life.”

  “If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes, I’ll die having experienced the many textures of sobriety,” Frederico says. “I’m grateful I had the opportunity to give up drinking. Best and hardest thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Sounds like marriage,” I reply.

  “Yeah. It is, in a way.” His voice softens. “If I get eaten by a zombie in the next thirty minutes, I’ll regret not being able to make amends with Aleisha.”

  This makes me reflect on my life. “If I get eaten in the next thirty minutes by a zombie, I’ll regret never going back to college. I always said I would, someday. Now I guess someday has come and gone.”

  “Why didn’t you ever go back?”

  “Kyle always encouraged me to, but I was making good money waiting tables. I couldn’t imagine juggling Carter, a job, and college. So I never went. Seems stupid now.”

  “It’s not too late,” Frederico says. “If our country pulls out of this zombie apocalypse, you could go back to school.”

  I stop, planting my feet between two railroad ties. I turn to face my friend.

  “Let’s make a deal,” I say. “If we survive the zombie apocalypse, I’ll go back to college and get my degree, and you’ll start calling Aleisha once a week, just to say hi. Even if she doesn’t answer.”

  “What if . . .” He pauses, licking his lips. “What if Aleisha is . . . gone?”

  I don’t have to ask what he means. What if Carter is gone when we get to Arcata?

  I shake my head. “We can’t think like that. Our kids are going to be okay.” I give my friend a look. “You will call your daughter once a week, and I will go back to college. When all this shit” —I make a vague gesture to the world at large— “is cleaned up and the world is right side up again. Deal?”

  Frederico hesitates, then extends his hand. “Deal.”

  We shake. A shiver runs through me. There are no more excuses for me. If the world survives—if I survive—I’m going back to school. That’s a pretty big if, but even so, I can’t help feeling a little intimidated.

  Stout lets out a small yip. As a unit, Frederico and I turn in her direction. She sniffs the air, nose pointed north.

  Without thinking, I draw my screwdriver. Frederico pulls out his hammer. Both tools are covered in dry blood and bits of sticky matter I don’t let myself think too hard about.

  “Is it zombies, girl?” he asks.

  Stout cocks her head at us, then trots away. We hesitate for a few seconds, then follow.

  Several minutes pass before I realize we’re jogging. I sense the moment when Frederico has the same realization. We look at each other and grin.

  “Another bonk for the books,” he says.

  “Another bonk for the books,” I agree.

  We run for another five minutes, Stout leading the way. I glance down at my watch.

  “Mile thirty-five,” I say. “Only one hundred sixty-five miles to go.”

  We round a bend of oak trees—and there, in front of us, out here in the middle of nowhere, is a house.

  Chapter 21

  Breaking and Entering

  The house sits in the middle of a large pasture, partially concealed by ancient, gorgeous oak trees. Stout stops and wags her tail at us, as if to say, See guys? I knew where I was going.

  Frederico and I crouch behind a large patch of thistles, taking careful surveillance of the scene.

  The old farm house has a deep front porch, peeling yellow paint, and second story dormer windows. To the right of the house are a half dozen cars in various states of disrepair, all of them classics— two Mustangs, a Cadillac, and several cars with tail fins I can’t name.

  A few hours ago, my first instinct would have been to see if any of the cars was in working order. Now, between the military blockades and the zombie swarms, I want to avoid all cars like the plague.

  There are two cows in the field to the left of the house—both of them dead. Four zombies—two teenage boys and two adults—feed on the animals. A family, before the outbreak got them. And if a family in the middle of bum-fucked Egypt got infected, is there any place that’s safe?

  “Do you think we can get inside?” I whisper. The property is surrounded by a pasture fence and topped with barbed wire.

  Frederico gives me a look. “Do we want to get inside?”

  “If we’re quiet, we can avoid the zombies,” I reply. “We really need food.”

  He sighs. “I know.”

  “Let’s try the fence. We can dig under it.”

  There are natural dips and rises along the property. We find a small stream that has burrowed its way under the fence. We claw at the moist earth, slowly widening the opening.

  As soon as Stout realizes what we’re doing, she jumps between us. She paws at the earth, sending up great gouts of dirt. Frede
rico and I fall back, grinning at each other and letting her work. Within minutes, the opening is wide enough for us to crawl through.

  Frederico goes first, dropping into the muddy hole and wriggling through. I peer through the fence, watching the zombies eat the poor cows. They give no sign of having heard us.

  I follow Frederico, grimacing as I slide through the mud. Yuck. Cold and wet. It slicks the side of my face and the front of my shirt and pants.

  Stout is the last one through. The three of us stay near the fence line, edging around the perimeter of the property.

  One of the zombies is a little boy, no more than seven or eight. His profile is outlined against the brilliant green of the surrounding grass as he dines on a cow’s large intestine. The scene makes my stomach roil.

  A long, low moan rolls across the pasture. I freeze, thinking we’ve been spotted. Frederico and Stout also halt, all three of us staring in fear at the zombies.

  The sound rolls out a second time, and this time I recognize it for what it is: a moo.

  One of the poor cows is still alive.

  I look at Frederico. He shakes his head and continues on. There’s nothing we can do for the poor animal without risking ourselves. Stout tucks her tail between her legs and slinks away.

  We reach the porch of the farmhouse. There are signs of violence: blood pools by the front door and smears down the steps; an overturned chair; a half-eaten finger on the floorboards. The gore makes my skin crawl, but now isn’t the time to let my nerves get the better of me. With Frederico on my left and Stout on my right, we mount the stairs.

  The old wood creaks underfoot. We freeze, automatically glancing at the zombies. One of them—the father—turns his head in our direction, chewing on a bright-red cow organ as he does. None of the others look up. The father chomps away, white-eyed gaze rolling in our direction.

  The ten steps between us and the front door suddenly seem like ten miles. Eyeing the stairs and the battered wooden porch beyond, I see a field of land mines. One wrong step could alert the zombies to our presence.