I find what feels like a twisted chunk of track. Then more and more dirt.
My heart pounds.
When I hit the tunnel wall on the opposite side, I bite back a wail of despair. I stand my toes, feeling as high up as I can.
“It can’t be,” I whisper. There must be a way over the cave-in. There must be.
Frederico and I bump into each other. My forehead connects painfully with his elbow. A sob catches in my throat as the truth of our situation settles on my shoulders.
“Goddamn motherfucking asshole.” Frederico swears a lot when he’s stressed. “It’s a goddamn dead end. Fuck!”
Chapter 34
The Next Right Thing
Kyle was sixty-eight days sober.
We sat together on the couch. Pink Floyd’s The Wall played in the background. It was one of Kyle’s favorite albums. Carter, nearly four years old, had long ago fallen asleep.
Kyle and I didn’t speak. We just sat there, holding hands. Our relationship had only recently emerged from a near-fatal collision; we were doing our damnedest to patch things up. Sometimes that just meant sitting together. Just being together.
“I want a drink,” Kyle said, breaking the silence. “Really bad.” He turned his gaze to me, eyes wide and desperate with the longing that coursed through him.
I stared back at him, anxiety knotting my belly. I squashed the instinct to cajole and comfort him, to kiss him and tell him everything would be okay. To rush to the store and buy him a six-pack. The words of my Al-Anon sponsor rang in my ears.
“You have to DETACH, Kate,” she’d said. “That stands for Don’t Even Think About Changing Him. Worry on changing yourself.”
With this advice looming over me like an avenging angel, I bit my lip and kept my mouth shut. I gripped his hand, determined to meet my husband halfway on this painful journey we were on. That meant staying silent and DETACHed, letting him work through his anguish as I worked through mine.
“My sponsor says I have to concentrate on doing the next right thing,” he said at last. “I guess for right now, that means sitting here and not drinking.” When he looked at me, the wildness in his eyes took on a new edge—a determined edge.
I saw in his face a rising will to resist. To survive.
In that moment, my love for him surged. It was a white ribbon of joy flowing through me.
We could survive. We would survive. We just had to do the next right thing—together.
*
“Son of a bitch.” Frederico’s string of virulence continues, “Cocksucking, no-good, assfuckers. Dammit all to hell and back.”
His fear and frustration fade to the background as I focus on the feeling expanding in my chest. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or guardian angels or anything like that, but in that moment, I swear I feel Kyle’s presence with me. It fills me with a comforting warmth.
“Cocksuckers,” Frederico snarls. “Of all the fucked up bad luck—”
In a distance, a growl ripples through the tunnel. I squeeze Frederico’s arm, silencing him.
The next right thing. That had been the mantra to save ourselves and our marriage, and it had worked. Why couldn’t it save me and Frederico from zombies?
I draw a steadying breath, summoning the determination and focus of that time so long ago. I’m going to need it if we’re going to survive the next ten minutes.
Right now, only one imperative thing must happen.
“We have to get back around that corner,” I whisper in his ear. “If they pen us in back here where we can’t see, we’re dead. Our only chance of fighting free is to get someplace where we can see. Come on.”
I tug on his arm, urging him back along the tunnel. After a few steps, he grunts in acceptance. One hand on the wall to guide me forward, I move quickly, staying light on the balls of my feet.
Within minutes, we’re back at the bend in the tunnel. Something in me loosens at the sight of the exit. It’s little more than a fist-sized white smudge, but it sheds enough light to cast our world into shades of gray. Since my eyes have already adjusted, I can see.
“Look for spikes,” I say. This is our next right thing: arming ourselves. “Or rocks.” I heft a large one and pass it to Frederico.
I continue forward, scanning the ground. Ten feet later, I find a railroad spike sticking halfway out of the ground. It comes free after a few tugs. A few seconds later, I find a fist-sized rock for my other hand. Frederico finds his own railroad spike.
Another growl ripples down the tunnel. I stare into the darkness, scanning for zombies.
Silhouetted against the light, something in the distance moves. I can’t tell how many there are.
Frederico gives me a tight-lipped nod, gesturing toward the entrance. We pick our way forward. Now that we can see, we move back onto the railroad. Using the wooden cross ties as stepping stones, we’re able to move quietly. The bells are thankfully silent, muted by the dirt and our shirts.
In another two hundred yards, the zombies become clear. There are six of them bunched together, steadily making their way in our direction. More follow behind them, though I can’t get a clear count.
Now that they can’t hear us, they move at a slower pace, occasionally moaning or grunting.
I chew on my lower lip, trying to figure out our next move—our next right thing.
We’ve been lucky so far with our zombie encounters, but we’re a long way from being proficient killers. I’m not stupid enough to think we can take out an entire pack. Maybe if we had machine guns, but all we have between us is two rocks and two railroad spikes. Direct confrontation is not our best bet.
So if we can’t confront them, what can we do? What is the right thing to do in this moment with a pack of dead zombies shambling in our direction?
“Get ready,” Frederico breathes in my ear. “I’ll take the three on the right.”
The answer comes to me in a startling moment of clarity. “I have a better idea,” I whisper.
Without another word, I turn around and lob my rock into the darkness—away from the zombies, and away from the tunnel entrance. It clatters loudly, pinging once off the metal tracks.
The zombies let out a collective moan. They pick up their pace, three of them breaking into a jog. They trip, fall, get up, and trip again. They never stop moving forward.
I take Frederico’s rock and lob that down the tunnel, too. Then I flatten myself against the wall, gripping the spike in my right hand. I wave my free hand at Frederico, motioning for him to do the same. He frowns but follows my lead.
The first of the zombies jog past us. It’s a teenage boy in a Lakers basketball jersey. His knees are badly skinned from falling, the bone of his right shin gleaming a dull, reddish white. He trips, hits the ground, and clambers right back up. He makes it look seamless—like it’s completely normal to run blind.
The boy zombie continues straight past us, chasing the sound of the thrown rock.
Frederico looks at me, understanding dawning in his eyes. He chucks his railroad spike down the tunnel.
The noise excites the zombies. Three more of them hurry past us, arms stretched forth.
Two of them are on the tracks, but the third one crunches along on the gravel beside the rails. It’s a slim, middle-aged woman in stretch pants and a tunic with red and yellow flowers. The left half of her face has been chewed off and she’s missing several fingers.
She passes within inches of me, her stench filling my nose and turning my stomach. I press myself as hard as I can against the tunnel wall, thankful for my too-skinny frame.
She pauses in front of me, head cocked and listening. I barely dare to breathe, afraid to make any sound that will draw her attention. My fist tightens on my spike—the last weapon we have.
Can she smell me? I weigh the stench of her rot against the stench of my running stink. She definitely smells worse, and more potent. That has to count for something, right?
The zombie bares her teeth and snarls, lifting her
nose and scenting. She’s pointed forward, all her attention down the tunnel—not to her immediate right, where Frederico and I are hiding. My heart beats so fiercely I worry she’ll hear it.
Several of the zombies moan as they bump into the wall at the turn in the tunnel. They scratch at the wall, growling as they feel their way around the curve.
The skinny zombie moans and continues on, leaving us behind. I sag in relief.
The rest of the zombies move past us, unaware of our presence. I count eleven altogether.
Frederico and I stay where we are even after they’ve all passed. In this moment, the next right thing is to let them get to the cave-in before we make our move.
A keen of frustration echoes down the tunnel, along with the sound of crumbling dirt and bouncing rocks.
“Okay,” I whisper to Frederico. “Let’s move.”
Chapter 35
River Crossing
We step carefully back onto the tracks. My shirt, still tucked around the bells on my neck, is saturated with sweat and mud. We move lightly down the track, whispering along on the wooden ties. The tunnel mouth grows larger with every step. Behind us, the zombies continue to scrabble away at the cave-in.
We emerge into the sunlight. I blink as my eyes adjust, sending a silent thank you to my late husband for getting us out of that tunnel.
But we aren’t out of the woods yet, literally or figuratively. Another five zombies are coming down the tracks in our direction. Frederico gestures, pointing east into the trees. I follow his lead.
Our legs swish through waist-high weeds. I glance back and see three of the zombies cocking their heads in our direction. I pick up two rocks lying at my feet and throw them at the mouth of the cave. The zombies hone in on the noise, all five of them turning toward the cave and loping toward it. Frederico and I duck around a tree and lose sight of them.
“We have to find a way around this mountain to the railroad tracks on the other side of the cave-in,” Frederico says, voice low. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the tunnel. “I think it’s too steep to climb.”
I glance back toward the steep slope that rises over the tunnel. It’s nearly vertical and covered with loose humus.
“It would be a good way to lose the zombies,” I suggest.
Frederico shakes his head. “We’d make too much noise. And if either of us takes a fall, the zombies will be the least of our problems. We have to go around.”
I nod in agreement. We take off at a lope. The forest continues at a gentle downward slope. Half a mile later it levels out, softening into sand. Frederico pushes aside a thick patch of shrubs, revealing a gray-green river. I peer over his shoulder. It’s a good twenty feet to the other side of the water.
“We’re going in.” Frederico shoulders through the shrubs and steps into the water.
“Are you crazy?” I hiss. “What if there are zombies in the water?”
“There might be zombies behind us,” he replies. “This gives us a chance to lose them for good. Besides, it’s the quickest way around the mountain.”
Without giving me a chance to argue, he plunges forward. Water swirls around his ankles, quickly rising as he wades upstream. I hurry after him, wrinkling my nose as my shoes and socks are submerged. God, how I hate running in wet shoes.
The water is cool, but not frigid. It rises past my knees, hips, and navel. I remove my pack, pausing to pull out my water bladder.
“I’m filling up,” I call softly to Frederico. “You should, too.”
Frederico considers the situation, then shrugs and unfastens his pack.
It’s a measure of how much our perspective has changed since the beginning of our journey. Less than ten hours ago we poo-pooed river water in favor of a zombie-infested hardware store.
I like to think we’ve wised up since then. Besides, it usually takes two to three days for water-borne viruses to kick in. If I’m still alive in two or three days, giardia or dysentery will be a small price to pay.
The river cuts east, leading us around the mountain. Still no sign of our zombie pursuers. As we follow the curve of the land, something in my chest relaxes. The tension of the last few hours ebbs, and I begin to think that we just might make it out of Mr. Rosario’s trap.
“Do you think we’ve lost them?” Frederico asks.
“I hope so.” I glance down at my watch. “Hey, we’ve run ninety-two miles. And we’re still alive.”
“Hungry, filthy, beat to shit, but alive,” he says. “What time is it?”
“Eight thirty.”
“Not bad.” He flashes me a quick smile. “We’re on track to a do a sub-twenty-four-hour one hundred.”
I return his smile. “Do the ten miles in the ATV count?”
“Yes,” he replies firmly. “Because we’ve run the last ten with bell collars on our necks and zombies on our heels. The two cancel each other out.”
I can’t argue with his logic. We continue on in silence, following the river for another two hundred yards. I scan the land around us, trying to locate the railroad tracks.
“Do you see them?” I ask.
“Zombies?” He stiffens, looking over his shoulder.
“No, the railroad tracks.”
“Oh.” Frederico sags, visibly relieved. “I don’t see the tracks.” He glances around. “Maybe they’re up that way?”
I peer in the direction he points. Up a hillside is what looks like an open patch of earth running beside a line of trees. Unfortunately, from our angle, there’s no way to know if that flat stretch of land is the road, the tracks, or something else.
“Let’s look.” I wade to the shore, sloshing onto the sand. I tug unconsciously at the cloth-wrapped bells around my neck. “I don’t know what I want more right now. Food or bolt cutters.”
Frederico grunts, splashing up beside me. He looks like hell. But then, so do I.
We climb the short hill leading away from the beach. At the top of the rise, we find a narrow dirt road, the sort used for hiking. No railroad.
“Too bad we don’t have our map,” Frederico says. “I only have a vague idea of where we are.”
“Should we follow this road, see where it goes?” I ask.
“I’d feel better if we could find the railroad.” Frederico considers the battered footpath in front of us. “Okay, let’s follow this. Maybe it will lead to the road. The tracks won’t take us much farther anyway.”
That’s right. I’d forgotten they veer east, away from the 101, a few miles outside Willits. Turning our efforts to locating the highway makes more sense.
We set off at a jog. Puffs of dirt rise around our shoes. The grit sticks to our shoes, ankles, and shins. The bell collars rattle as we go.
After nearly ninety miles of running on the uneven tracks, the dirt road is a welcome change. It doesn’t require the focus and attention of the tracks.
My body feels the wear of the miles. My injured knee throbs. The hydration pack is starting to chafe the inside of my arms. Both arms ache from the constant swinging.
There’s a burning along the bottom of my breastbone—chafing from my sports bra. More chafing in my crotch from my underwear. God, what I wouldn’t do for a stick of Body Glide. I can’t believe I have to run another 110 miles without lube.
And my feet—my feet are bricks of pain. The constant pounding. The burn of the blisters. I feel new ones on the bottom of my feet and on the tips of my toes. Too bad our blister kit is miles behind us in the drug camp. What I wouldn’t give for a thirty-minute stop to elevate my feet against a tree.
The road slopes up and disappears around a corner. Frederico puts his hand out to slow me down. He points to his ear, then points to the corner.
I stop and listen. At first, all I hear is the soft whistle of the wind as it stirs the trees and underbrush. A few seconds later comes the distinct scuff of a shoe on gravel, followed by a moan.
I recoil, taking several steps back. Frederico latches onto my forearm, backing up with me.
> Three zombies come around the corner. It’s a father and two kids. They look like they’re dressed for camping: hiking boots, dirty jeans, and T-shirts.
I nearly trip over Frederico in my haste to get away. Instead of falling back with me, he breaks away. Eyes wild, he snatches up a rock from the side of the road and launches himself at the biggest zombie.
Well, shit. So much for running.
As he slams into the father zombie, I snatch up a rock, too. The littlest of the zombies—a boy maybe four years old—bares his teeth and darts toward me.
I bite back a squeal as I swing my makeshift weapon. My stomach lurches as the rock crunches into the little boy’s head. He drops without a word—just in time for the other child to rush me. It’s a little girl about eight. She trips over her brother’s body, sprawling in the dirt at my feet.
Frederico lunges forward, delivering a succinct blow to her head. Blood bubbles out of her crushed skull. I stare down at the kids in horror.
They were already dead when we got here, I tell myself. We weren’t the ones who killed them.
Frederico raises his eyes from the dead child. I see my own anguish reflected in his expression. After a moment, he turns the child over and pulls off her Disney Princess backpack.
“We need food,” Frederico says quietly. He opens the princess backpack and pulls out some dried fruit and two energy bars. Apparently, this little family was going out on a hike when they were turned. Frederico stashes the food in his pack. He gives me a look of self-loathing, then moves on to the body of the father.
This is what we’ve been reduced to. Scavengers who feed off the bodies of dead children. As much as I’d like to stand here and let Frederico search the bodies, it isn’t right to let him embrace this new reality alone.
Swallowing, I turn over the little boy and pull off his SpongeBob backpack. Inside are two energy bars, a bag of trail mix, a water bottle, and prepackaged cookies.
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