Undead Ultra

by Camille Picott

  “Listen to the boy.” Frederico takes another long swig from the tequila bottle.

  I stare at the scene, at Frederico. At my friend, who’s falling apart before my very eyes as he clutches a gun and a tequila bottle. At his zombified daughter, still snarling and pinned beneath a barstool. God, why did I agree to help him get inside this place? I should have dragged him away when I had the chance. Alvarez tried to warn us, but we wouldn’t listen.

  “Give me the gun back,” I say.

  “Leave it alone, Kate.”

  “Frederico—”

  “Shut up!” he bellows. “Just shut up and leave me alone!”

  I retreat, cowed by his display of emotion. I thump back onto the table and let Alvarez dump more vodka on my wound. The stinging pain is nothing to me now, not as I watch Frederico annihilate the tequila.

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” Alvarez says. “You got lucky. I’m going to stitch it up.”

  My throat is tight with tears that threaten to overwhelm me. “Have you ever given anyone stitches before?” I ask hoarsely.

  He grimaces. “No. But I used to watch my grandma sew patches onto my jeans when I was a kid.”

  The same basic concept?

  “Woah.” I hold up my good hand to ward him off. “You mean to tell me you went through boot camp and didn’t learn how to stitch someone up?”

  “They save that stuff for the medics. Grunts like me learn basic stuff, like applying tourniquets and a treating heatstroke.” He shrugs. “I’m telling you, I watched my grandma sew all the time. I can do this. Besides, I have twenty-twenty vision and she had cataracts.”

  Cataracts. Fuck me. I close my eyes.

  “All right, Twenty-Twenty,” I say. “Do your best.”

  He lifts the vodka bottle and holds it in my direction, head tilted in a silent offer.

  Frederico thumps down the empty bottle of tequila. He reaches over the bar and snags a bottle of gin and takes a drink. I look away, sickened.

  “No thanks,” I tell Alvarez. Someone has to be sober.

  What am I going to do with Frederico? How am I going to get him back on the road when he’s shit-faced drunk? What are we going to do with Aleisha? And what the hell does he plan to do with that gun? I need to get it back from him. But how?

  “Ouch.” I make a face as Alvarez starts sewing my arm with a needle and thread from the tiny first aid kit.

  “Sorry.”

  “Sometimes when I get really bad blisters, I put super glue on them.” I only half hear myself as I watch Frederico systematically obliterate the bottle of gin. “After I lance them, I mean. Could I just slather some super glue on the bullet wound?”

  Alvarez drops his hand and stares at me as if I’ve completely lost it. Maybe I have. After all, I’m watching my best friend shatter twenty-five years of sobriety as he pins his zombie daughter to the floor in a dive bar.

  “What are you talking about?” Alvarez asks.

  I shake my head dully. “Nothing. Just running stuff.”

  For the first time, he takes in the details of my appearance: the running shoes, the hydration pack, the compression pants. Probably my smell and the vomit splatters on my shirt as well, or maybe he just chalks those up to the apocalypse at large.

  “Are you guys out . . . running?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  His lips part in surprise. “That’s why you’re still alive,” he breathes. “You’re not drawing attention when you move on foot. When my platoon moved in at the south end of town . . .” He shakes his head. “I think the jeeps drew them out. Wait.” His gaze sharpens on me. “You guys are planning to . . . run to Arcata?”

  I nod.

  “That’s insane,” he breathes. “How far have you come so far?”

  I shrug, then glance at my watch. “One hundred twenty-eight point three miles.”

  His eyes bug. “Holy shit. You guys are those crazy ultramarathon runners. I saw a documentary on people like you once. How long have you been running?”

  “We left Healdsburg around ten yesterday morning.”

  Alvarez levels a look at me. “You guys are fucking crazy,” he declares.

  “No more crazy than what’s going on in the world around us.”

  Alvarez purses his lips in response and continues sewing. I do my best to ignore the sting every time the needle pierces my skin.

  Frederico continues to chug away on the bottle of gin. My heart breaks with every swallow he takes. For the first time since I lost Kyle, I’m glad my husband isn’t with me. It would kill him to see what I’m witnessing.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  Frederico’s broken voice is slurred. He leans over the barstool to look brokenly down at his daughter, the gun gripped in his hand. He’s finished off the bottle of gin. His curly gray hair, in complete disarray, shields his face. Aleisha growls, sightless white eyes rolling up toward her father.

  The gun. My eyes are locked on it. I have to get it away from him.

  Licking dry lips, I rise from my seat on the table. Alvarez shifts, clearly planning to join me, but I shake my head. No reason to risk both of us.

  “Frederico.” I take two steps toward my friend. “You need to put the gun down.”

  His head whips in my direction. His expression is wild and lost.

  He looks again at Aleisha. He lifts the gun. Panic seizes me. I have a flash vision of him blowing his brains out.

  “No!” I lunge, but I’m not fast enough.

  Frederico fires the gun twice.

  Chapter 44

  Separate Ways

  The bullets slam into Aleisha’s forehead.

  The silence that descends is thunderous.

  Frederico drops the gun to the floor and staggers into the kitchen. I hear the sound of plates breaking and pots being hurled against the wall.

  He’s going to draw every zombie within a ten-mile radius. If we haven’t already with all the gunshots and shouting.

  I force myself to look at Aleisha’s body. Her face is a bloody mess. I cover it with a bar towel, then hurry into the kitchen with Alvarez on my heels.

  I find Frederico winding up to hurl a serving platter against the wall.

  “Stop it!” I keep my voice soft and seize him by the wrists. “Dammit, I know you’re hurting, but you’re going to get us killed!”

  “Let them come,” he slurs, wrenching away from me. “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

  He flings the platter like a Frisbee. It connects with the stainless steel dishwasher, denting the machine before falling to the floor and breaking into half a dozen pieces.

  Frustration rises in me. “You may not give a fuck, but I do. Carter is still out there!”

  “Carter’s dead. Just like my girl. This was a hopeless quest, Kate. We both knew it. We’re both just too fucking stubborn to admit it.”

  He kicks at the remnants of the platter, sending them flying through the air like shrapnel.

  “I’m sorry you lost Aleisha,” I say desperately. “This isn’t the way to cope. Please. Please stop before you get us killed.”

  In response, he seizes a large stockpot and flings it. It hits a rack of cooking supplies. Four other pans are dislodged in the wake of the stockpot, all of them clanging to the floor with a racket that is nothing short of cataclysmic.

  Frustration gives way to a heated rush of anger. I’m never going to find Carter if he keeps this up.

  “You selfish jerk,” I snap, my voice rising. “Is this what you were like when you were a drunk? No wonder Aleisha’s been pissed at you for the last thirty years!”

  It’s a low blow. I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Frederico rounds on me, eyes blazing.

  For a second, I think he’s going to hit me. Alvarez steps closer, as though he plans to insert himself between us.

  Then all the air goes out of Frederico in a rush. He sags, tears welling in his eyes. He turns his back on us.

  “Get away from me,” h
e says, voice half slur, half sob. “Just leave me here.” He retreats farther into the kitchen, shoulders shaking with grief.

  I start toward him, but Alvarez lays a hand on my arm and shakes his head. I hesitate, then nod reluctantly. We retreat back to the main room.

  “He needs a few minutes,” Alvarez says, as though he’s the authority on grief.

  Hell, for all I know, maybe he is. I trudge into the main room and thump onto a pool table. My eyes bleakly roam the room, so much of it covered with blood and bodies. Then I spot something smooth and red behind the bar.

  My spine straightens.

  “What?” Alvarez asks.

  “That’s a phone.” I hurry behind the bar, seizing the old-fashioned, bright-red plastic phone with white buttons. It must be at least thirty years old. “It’s a phone,” I repeat, hope rising inside me. “A phone with no password protection!”

  I snatch the receiver off the cradle, daring to lift it to my ear. The low buzz of an active phone line greets me.

  “It’s working,” I breathe.

  I dial Carter’s number, grateful I’d memorized it when I purchased his cell phone instead of just relying on my contacts list.

  It rings, and rings, and rings, and then—

  “Hello?”

  “Carter?” My voice is half sob, half breathless.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

  “Where are you? The caller ID says Rod’s Roadhouse.”

  “We’re in Laytonville. Me and Frederico.” I lean against the wall, resting my forehead against the worn wood paneling. I can’t stop the tears of relief that drip down my cheeks.

  “Did you find Aleisha?”

  I exhale sharply.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah, sweetie. Yeah, we found her.” I lapse into silence.

  I don’t need to say anything else. Carter is a smart kid.

  “How is Uncle Rico?”

  How is Uncle Rico? The question is like a one-hundred-pound weight on my shoulders.

  “He’s . . . struggling,” I say. “I’m giving him a little space. How are you doing? Are you safe?”

  Silence.

  “Carter?”

  “I’m as safe as I can be, Mom.”

  What the hell is that supposed to mean? “What—”

  “Arcata is overrun, Mom.” His words are clipped and bleak. “Turn around and go back to Healdsburg.”

  “No fucking way.” The words come out harsher than I’d intended. “No way I’m going back.”

  Another long silence.

  “Mom, you need to listen. The school is overrun. My friends and I are holed up in the Creekside Lounge with a few other students. We’ve barricaded the doors, but the zombies are everywhere. The soldiers . . . they rolled in here with the Hummers and guns and other weapons . . . there’s been a lot of panic. The Internet is still working and Johnny’s laptop still has some battery. We’ve been tracking the news . . . it’s bad, Mom.”

  “I know,” I reply, looking at Alvarez. “I know Eureka has fallen, too. So has Laytonville.” And Aleisha, too, I think with an ache. “There’s no place safe out here, baby. I’m coming to find you.”

  A pause. “I’ll wait here as long as I can. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be safe here. Did your cell phone run out of battery?”

  “Something like that. I’m using a landline in the bar right now.” I take in a few breaths to steady myself. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to contact you again.”

  We’re both quiet for a long moment.

  “What shoes are you wearing?” he suddenly asks.

  “My Altras. The Olympus.” Carter has endured countless shoe talks with me over the years, so he’ll know which ones I’m talking about.

  “Your favorites.” I hear the smile in his voice.

  “Yeah, my favorites. They’re covered with mud and burrs.” And a little bit of blood from the bullet wound in my shoulder, but I don’t say the last part out loud.

  “What are you using for fuel?” he says.

  “Whatever we can scavenge,” I reply. God, it’s so good to hear his voice. I’m so lucky he’s alive and safe, at least for the moment. Why couldn’t Aleisha have been safe, too? “We raided an RV twenty miles back and ate everything we could get our hands on.”

  “An RV, huh? No zombies inside, huh?”

  “No, there were zombies inside. Seven of them. A whole family.”

  Pause. “You guys killed seven zombies?”

  “Yeah. Remember the Attack and Stack racing theory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, we applied that to zombie killing. Created a narrow opening and made them come out at us one at a time. Sort of.”

  “Wow. My mom the zombie killer. That’s . . . pretty cool.”

  I’m tongue-tied by the compliment. Unsure how to respond, I say, “Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “We’ve been eating out of the vending machines.” He pauses. “We had to break into it.”

  Poor Carter. Vandalism isn’t in his nature.

  “How long will the food there last you?” I ask.

  “A while, I guess . . . Mom?”

  “I’m here, sweetie.”

  “Do you remember that time we went spelunking for Dad’s birthday?”

  How could I forget? That trip took place less than a year before Kyle’s accident. It was our last family trip together.

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Remember how he made you crawl first through the tunnels so he could, you know, frisk you?”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. More tears come to my eyes, but they’re happy tears. Kyle had tweaked my ass in those narrow tunnels, finding my squawks of protest hilarious. Carter had been thoroughly disgusted, as only a teenager can be in purview of his parents’ physical affections. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t actually see what was going on, but he’d been smart enough to figure it out.

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “I’m glad you guys were happy together. When Dad was alive, I mean. I’m glad.”

  This feels too much like a good-bye. “Carter, you stay strong. You hold out. I have less than seventy-five miles to go. With any luck I’ll be there in less than twenty-four hours. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “What are we going to do when you get here?”

  His question stuns me. To be honest, I haven’t thought beyond getting to Arcata and finding him.

  “We’ll find a way to survive,” I say. “Somehow. Together. You, me, Frederico, and whoever else you’re with. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “I love you, Carter.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.”

  Hanging up is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I gently place the red phone back in its cradle, wiping at my eyes. I look up to see Alvarez watching me.

  “I’m glad your son is alive.”

  I hear the unspoken for now in his words. Some dim part of my mind tells me I might be in Frederico’s shoes in less than twenty-four hours. What will I do if I find Carter dead and zombified?

  The thought is too horrible to contemplate. No, I can’t think that way. I need to believe my son is alive. It’s the only thing that will keep me going.

  “Carter is strong. And smart. He’ll be okay,” I say. “Frederico and I are going north. Will you come with us? We’re safer in a group. We can look out for each other.”

  He hesitates, then shakes him head. “No.”

  I study him. He avoids meeting my eyes.

  “You’re going on to Ukiah, aren’t you? To join the soldiers there?”

  He flinches, like I’ve caught him in a lie. “I could never keep up with you guys anyway. I ran a half marathon once, but that’s as far as I’ve ever gone.”

  “What if they’ve already been overrun?” I say quietly. “What if—”

  “I ran,” he blurts out. “When shit got thick in the bar, I ran.”

  He stares at his shoes, shameful red cr
eeping up his neck. I am very careful not to stare around at the slaughter that surrounds us.

  “I should have died here with the rest of my platoon,” he says quietly.

  “So you’re going to Ukiah to make up for not dying here?” I can’t keep the sadness from my voice.

  Alvarez meets my eyes. He doesn’t say anything.

  I resist the urge to sag. God, I’m so damn tired. I like Alvarez. I hate to see him rushing off to a hopeless case.

  “We’re not so different,” Alvarez says, a touch defensive. “Neither of us has much chance of surviving.”

  He’s got a point there. I sigh, resigned. “How will you travel?” I ask.

  “On foot, like you guys. Walking, though, not running.”

  “Will you help me bury Aleisha? Before we go our separate ways?” It needs to be done and Frederico is in no shape to help me.

  Alvarez stares at Aleisha’s body. I see reluctance in his face, but all he says is, “Yeah, I’ll help you. Come on.”

  *

  It takes us a solid hour to dig the hole for Aleisha.

  In the movies, characters always dig perfect rectangles in the earth. Alvarez and I managed a crooked oval using a shovel with a broken handle we found by the dumpster. It isn’t very deep, but it’ll have to do.

  “Bye, Aleisha,” I whisper. I jam the shovel into the earth, wiping away the sweat beading my forehead. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here in time.” Sorrow makes my throat tight. Even though she caused Frederico nothing but heartache, I’d have given anything to save her.

  Frederico never comes out. I consider going in to get him, but the truth is that I’m a big chicken. I’ve never seen him drunk before. I’m in new territory with my oldest friend, and I have no idea what to do.

  “How’s your shoulder?” Alvarez asks.

  “It’s okay, thanks. You did a good job stitching me up.”

  In truth, the wound hurts like a motherfucker and the stitches look like they were put in by a dyslexic kindergartener, but I’m not going to complain.

  “You should take the vodka with you,” he says. “Use it to keep the wound clean.”

  I shake my head. “Even if I can carry the bottle, I can’t have alcohol around my friend.”