I leave behind the stuff that requires preparation: Top Ramen, mac-n-cheese, and Rice-A-Roni. I rummage through the kitchen and find two forks, two spoons, a can opener, and—miracle of miracles—a tube of super glue. Super glue can be an ultrarunner’s best friend. I stash it in the pocket of my running pack.
In the tiny bathroom, I score a portable first aid kit, complete with Band-Aids, scissors, and Neosporin.
Pretending not to see the blood smeared all over the RV interior and pooled on the floor near the sofa, I grab my pillowcases and haul them up to the cab.
“I don’t suppose you found any bolt cutters inside?” Frederico asks as he takes the pillowcases from me.
“No, but I found a first aid kit. We can take care of our blisters.”
“How about a paperclip?” He fingers the fabric-wrapped collar around his neck. “There’s got to be something in there to help us get these fuckers off our necks.”
I duck back inside and continue my rummaging. After pawing through two drawers in the galley kitchen, I let out a garbled exclamation of triumph.
“There’s a whole box of paperclips in here,” I call out. “The jumbo ones!”
“Thank god. Bring them up!”
I scramble back outside and present the tiny box of paperclips to Frederico as if it’s a bar of gold from Fort Knox. I eagerly unroll the shirt from around the collar. Wet dirt showers down as I do. The bells ring softly, making me wince.
Frederico bends open a paperclip and leans forward to inspect the chain. I feel him blow against the lock at the back of my neck, clearing away the dirt. Then the metal of the paperclip scrapes the inside of mechanism. A few seconds later, the lock pops open.
I let out a sigh of relief as the collar falls into my hands. I momentarily close my eyes, reveling in the weightlessness around my neck. There are chafe marks under my chin, but nothing worse than that.
“My turn.” Frederico pushes the paperclip at me. “It’s a cheap lock. Just poke around and it’ll come free.”
Careful not to make too much noise, I set my collar on the ground, then get to work on Frederico’s. I’ve never picked a lock in my life, but he was right about the locks being cheap. After twisting and prodding for a minute, it pops open.
Frederico wads the collar into a ball and hurtles it through the broken window of the RV. There’s a loud racket when it lands, making me wince.
“Did you have to do that?” I scowl at him.
“Yeah,” he replies tersely. “I did. Come on, let’s eat.”
We haul the pillowcases a quarter mile into the woods. Finding a small clearing covered with damp pine needles, we settle down.
It’s been about sixty-five miles since our last food binge. Time to fuel up.
We spend the next forty-five minutes in graceless consumption of food, passing the can opener back and forth. A pile of discarded packaging grows next to us. I barely taste the SpaghettiOs as I shovel them into my mouth. Frederico sucks down the syrup after polishing off a can of peaches. I use a few squirts of apple juice to clean a smear of blood off my arm.
In a perfect world, we wouldn’t binge like this. There’s a good chance one of us will get an upset stomach. But there’s no way to carry the food we need for a run of this magnitude, and it’s not like we can count on a well-stocked aid station every ten miles. No, we have to eat when we can.
“I used to buy these for Aleisha when she was a kid.” Frederico holds up a box of Hostess CupCakes. “I always brought them home after a drinking binge, hoping she’d forget the fact that I’d been gone for two or three days. It really pissed off her mother.”
“Can’t blame her for that,” I reply. “They don’t exactly qualify as food.” Despite this statement, I help myself to two of them. “Did it work?”
“Dif whaf wurf?” Frederico looks up around his own mouthful of Hostess.
“The bribe. Did Aleisha forgive you for being gone when you gave her the junk food?”
He shrugs, swallowing the last of his cupcake. “When she was little. By the time she was a teenager, she’d wised up to my game. I remember the day I brought them home wrapped with a red bow. She was twelve. She said, ‘Dad, those will make me fat and rot my teeth. If you really loved me, you’d buy me an iPhone.’”
I snort with laughter. “Smart kid. Did you get her one?”
His shoulders sag. “Couldn’t afford one. Wasted all my money on liquor and pot.”
We eat the rest of our meal in silence.
By the time we’re finished, there are only two boxes of Triscuits left. A huge mound of trash sits next to us. Frederico’s brow is still furrowed in self-revulsion.
Knowing there’s nothing I can say to make him feel better, I find a semi-comfortable spot against a tree and remove my shoes. The tread is two-thirds gone, worn down over the nasty miles behind me. Gingerly, I tug off my socks. The blisters I find underneath are to be expected after one hundred miles.
I get to work lancing blisters and applying Neosporin. The second toenail on my left foot comes off. I toss it to the forest floor without a second thought, barely noticing the pain.
Pulling out the super glue, I apply small drops between the wounds and the loose, lanced skin on top. It stings like hell, but it’ll wear off in the a few minutes. When it dries, I’ll have a nice, hard shell over the raw skin. The loose skin on top will stick to it, creating an extra barrier of protection. Way better than Band-Aids in a situation like this.
After a moment’s thought, I even decide to apply super glue to the top of the toes with missing nails. The skin is tender and sore. A little extra protection will be a good thing.
When I’m finished, I toss the blister kit in Frederico’s direction. I lie on my back and elevate my feet against the tree trunk. They hurt like hell.
Just fifteen minutes, I tell myself. Fifteen minutes to let blood drain from my feet while Frederico takes care of his blisters. I stare up at the blue sky, determined to keep my eyes open . . .
“Kate. Wake up. It’s time to go.” A gentle hand squeezes my shoulder.
My eyes snap open. I’m on my back, feet still propped against the tree. A bit of drool warms the right side of my jaw.
I roll sideways, getting guiltily to my feet. “Sorry.” I rub at my eyes. “How long was I out?”
“Thirty minutes or so.” Frederico’s easy smile is back.
“You want to take a quick nap?”
He shakes his head. “I’m feeling okay. We’re not too far from Laytonville. I’m anxious to get to Aleisha.
I nod in understanding, wondering where Carter is and if he’s safe. A knot of anxiety immediately forms in my stomach, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand.
I take the two remaining boxes of Triscuits and open them, then tear a corner of the bags to let the air out. I pass one bag to Frederico. He has a zippered compartment on the outside of his pack where the crackers fit. I shove mine into the hydration compartment, on top of the water bladder.
“Ready?” I ask, surveying the mess we’re leaving behind in the clearing. It’s hard to care about litter when the world has ended.
“Ready,” Frederico replies.
Chapter 40
Strong Enough
Mile one hundred five.
With a freshly refueled body, I feel oddly energized. My body hurts from one hundred miles of pounding, but that’s to be expected. I lock the discomfort into a small corner of my mind, focusing on the task at hand.
The landscape subtly changes as we run. Pine trees infiltrate the oaks, slowly and steadily taking over the terrain. The grassland disappears, succumbing to the forest. The miles are blessedly shady, the trees growing right up to the roadside and providing protection from the sun.
Human dwellings are few and far between. We pass the occasional rundown home or mobile trailer. These sparse pockets of humanity have yards filled with various debris: broken-down cars, piles of half-used building supplies, and plastic bags filled with trash and re
cyclables.
A few homes have a zombie or two in the front yard. So far, all of them are contained by a chain-link or wooden fence at the perimeter of the property. Even so, Frederico and I slow to a walk, making as little noise as possible until we pass the danger.
Mile one hundred nine.
There’s something that happens during long runs. The miles blur together and pass in the blink of an eye.
The running feels good. Life feels good. Some people call it the runner’s high. Some call it trail surfing.
It happens to me there on the road in the shade of the pine trees. Even with all the death and mayhem behind me—and likely in front of me—I find joy in running. It’s fucked up, but it’s the truth.
Mile one hundred thirteen.
We pass a rest area on a downhill climb. Other than a semi-truck, the parking lot is deserted.
“Do you see the drinking fountain down there?” I ask, pointing.
“Yeah.” Frederico peers down into the rest area. “My water bladder is still half full. Yours?”
“Yeah, mine is fine.”
“God, it’d be nice to take a shit in one of those toilets,” he says. “Wipe my ass with real toilet paper. I’m sick of leaves.”
“Yeah. It’d be nice to break into that vending machine, too. Get some snacks for the road.”
Despite this conversation, neither of us suggests stopping. For my part, I’m loathe to go where I might have to fight zombies. I’d rather scrounge by with our meager supplies for as long as possible before facing the undead again.
I don’t know what Frederico’s excuse is.
Mile one hundred seventeen.
The green-and-white road sign informs us that Laytonville is ten miles away.
I glance at Frederico, gauging his reaction. His expression is tense, his eyes locked on the sign. He says nothing, so I stay silent.
We encounter a vehicular pileup. We skirt around it, scrambling up a steep embankment and picking our way through ferns and underbrush. By the time we make our way back to the road, the wreck is far behind us and out of sight.
God, please let Aleisha be alive, I think. I have no idea how we’re going to get her out of Laytonville if and when we find her, but we’ll figure something out.
Mile one hundred twenty.
My runner’s high is gone. In its place is a growing queasiness in my belly, a feeling I am all too familiar with. I know I should slow down, let my body restore some of its equilibrium, but fuck that. The road is clear and I don’t want to waste daylight catering to my pansy-ass stomach. I don’t want to give into the nausea and barf up all the food we fought so hard to get.
I’m going to power through this. A small part of my brain tells me not to be an idiot, but I ignore it. I boarded the idiot train a hundred miles ago.
“Remember what Carter used to say at aid stations?” I ask in an attempt to distract myself from the physical discomfort in my belly.
Frederico doesn’t bother to look up, but I see the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’ve never been any closer to the finish line.”
I laugh at the memory. It didn’t matter if Carter met us at mile eleven or mile ninety-six; he always said the same thing. Thinking of my son brings a mix of achy despair and desperate love.
“Sometimes it really pissed me off when he said that,” Frederico says.
“Yeah, me, too. Especially when I was really hurting.” I tilt my head, taking a moment to soak in the view of the trees towering above me. “But sometimes it gave me a much-needed dose of optimism.”
“Me, too. Carter got his optimism from Kyle.”
“Yeah. He did.”
The temporary mirth fades from Frederico’s face, replaced by the same tension I saw earlier by the Laytonville sign. He’s thinking about Aleisha.
“When we find her, we’re going to have to figure out another way to travel,” Frederico says. “She can’t run.”
“Maybe we can find bicycles,” I offer.
“Yeah, maybe.” He falls silent, and I know he’s doubting his ability to convince her to come with us.
I mentally calculate our odds of avoiding detection by zombies and military personnel while on bikes. I like our odds better on foot, but we can’t expect Aleisha to run. For that matter, I haven’t even considered how I’m going to get Carter out of Arcata when I find him. He can’t run, either. At least, not like Frederico and me.
You don’t finish a race by obsessing about the finish line; you finish a race by taking one step at a time. You focus on every turn in the trail, every climb, every decline, always putting one foot in front of the other.
First, we find our kids, I think. Then, we figure out how to get them to safety.
Mile one hundred twenty-four.
Fucking shitballs. Why was I such an idiot?
I stand on the side of the road, sides heaving. The SpaghettiOs I ingested twenty miles ago lay in a nasty pile by my feet.
“You need to walk it off,” Frederico says. “Come on.”
“No,” I snap. “We need to keep moving.”
Frederico gives me a firm look. “We’re not stopping. Just moving at a slower pace. Come on.”
I open my mouth to argue. As I do, my stomach gives another heave. This time canned chili comes up.
“What a waste,” I grumble.
“Power walk,” Frederico says. “Just keep moving.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. Slowing down will help my body right itself.
Taking a drink, I rinse out my mouth. Beside me, Frederico tenses. I freeze in response, eyes flicking back and forth.
A long moan reaches my ears. My head snaps around. A single zombie ambles around a curve in the road ahead.
Frederico clamps down on my wrist, pressing one finger against his lips. I nod in understanding. Maybe, just maybe, if we remain silent, the zombie won’t notice us.
It’s a teenage girl in a long yellow sundress. Even from a distance, I can see the blood matted in her short blond hair. More blood smears her face, giving the illusion of a lipstick application gone bad.
My stomach gives a violent roil. Bile rises in my throat.
No, no, no.
I hunch over, pressing both hands against my abdomen, and swallow. Not now. I shut my eyes, willing my stomach to settle.
The zombie lets out another long, low moan. In response to her call, two more teenage zombies appear around the bend, a girl and a boy.
Frederico’s grip on my wrist tightens. I latch onto him with my free hand, digging my nails into his shoulder. More bile rises in my throat.
Stay down, I tell my food. Stay—
Round two of chili surges up my throat. My stomach heaves as another pile of vomit hits the pavement at my feet.
Chapter 41
Nausea
The zombies immediately break into a run, coming straight for us. And it’s not just three. Five more teenage undead round the corner—making it eight in total. I have only an instant to wonder what eight teenage kids are doing out in the middle of the woods before Frederico hauls me away.
“Too many,” he whispers.
I nod in agreement. Even if my legs weren’t shaky and my stomach was in better shape, going up against eight zombies on the open road would be suicide.
Frederico picks up a stick and flings it across the road. It thumps into the underbrush. The zombies veer toward the sound. Frederico throws two more in the same direction, herding the zombies away from us.
He gestures for me to move. I follow him, tiptoeing up the road. Frederico keeps bending down to scoop up rocks and sticks, keeping up a constant barrage of sound to keep the zombies occupied on the other side of the road.
We can only hope it will be enough.
We draw abreast of the zombies; they’re a mere fifteen feet away, grunting and growling as they rifle through the underbrush. They were probably out here smoking pot before all hell broke loose and they turned.
The scent of rot wafts in the breeze. My
stomach clenches in response. I swallow back rising bile and keep moving.
Frederico throws another rock. A zombie boy shifts, and the stone that should have flown into the trees hits the undead in the shoulder instead. The creature grunts and spins in our direction. A long, low growl issues from his throat.
We freeze. The other zombies turn, heads cocked as they listen. The girl in the yellow dress flares her nostrils, sniffing. She takes one step toward us, then another.
Wild fear rises within me. I imagine this is how deer feel when being stalked by a mountain lion.
I look at Frederico, running one finger along the rusted spike that rests in my pack strap. A silent question: do we fight? I lick my lips nervously, eyes moving between my friend and the zombies.
He hesitates, my fear reflected in his eyes. He gives the barest shake of his head: no.
No, we don’t fight. I nod in agreement. Eight against two are impossible odds. We’d be overrun in minutes, if not seconds. Frederico and I are many things, but we are not ninjas.
The sundress zombie takes another step in our direction. Her lips pull back from her teeth in a snarl.
My mouth goes dry. My palms grow sweaty. My stomach clenches painfully, violently.
This time it’s the Cheetos that choose this instant to develop an exit strategy. They surge up my throat and eject out of my mouth in a gooey, orange stream.
The zombies rush us en masse.
Even as I wipe a ribbon of vomit from my chin, I break into a sprint. Frederico follows suit, the two of us plowing up the road. Now that we’re running, the zombies lock onto the soft tap of our feet.
I pump my arms and legs, propelling myself forward as fast as I can. I don’t consider myself a sprinter, but I can haul ass for short distances. So can Frederico. He streams along beside me, curly gray ponytail bouncing between his shoulder blades.
“Think we can outrun them on the road?” I huff.
“We have to. I’m too tired for another forest run.”
I understand how he feels. At almost one hundred thirty miles, our senses are dulled and exhausted. Neither of us has the focus or the strength for a good forest bushwhack right now. Not to mention my upset stomach.
Undead Ultra Page 23