Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) (29 page)

“We have to pull the body out of the way,” Frederico says. “Give the others a way out.”

“Honestly, I was hoping there were only four people inside. We’ve already killed five.” I grimace. “Maybe we should move on.”

“Are you kidding?” Frederico gives me an incredulous look. “Your Attack and Stack idea is brilliant. It’s working. We can’t stop now. Just think of all the food waiting for us inside.”

He’s got a point. “Okay.” I heft my spike and get myself into a balanced position. “Pull the body out.”

Frederico grabs the arm of the dead zombie and yanks it out of the opening. As soon as he does, a sixth zombie scrambles free.

It’s the mother. Her pale hair is streaked with gray and she looks pregnant—very pregnant. She rushes me, but I’m ready for her.

I sidestep, letting her tear past me. As she does, I stick out a foot and trip her. She sprawls, growling and gnashing her teeth all the while.

Like all the undead, she is unfazed by the pain of her fall. She barely hits the pavement before she rebounds onto her hands and knees. I pounce, stabbing her through the back of the skull with my spike.

“What the hell?” Frederico hollers behind me. “Didn’t these people ever learn about birth control?”

I turn around to see two more children streak out of the RV—straight toward Frederico. They’re small, maybe four or five. Two girls. I’d say they’re twins, based on their matching skirts and shoes.

They reach Frederico at the same time. He rams the base of his tree branch through the skull of the one on his right. The second one grabs his arm, snapping her teeth as she tries to get a bite.

With a wild yell, Frederico drops his branch and swings his arm, trying to dislodge the child zombie. I’m about to rush to his rescue when movement near the RV windshield draws my attention.

A woman with gray hair and a wizened face climbs out, moaning. Drawn to the commotion Frederico and the undead child are making, she moves toward them.

“There’s a grandma!” I cry. “Watch out for the grandma!”

I dash to intercept the old woman, putting myself between her and Frederico. I don’t have time to get my spike into position. Instead, I ram both my hands into her chest. Her wrinkled, light form flies backward and strikes the hood of the RV.

Not giving her a chance to recover, I leap forward and jam my spike into her eye socket. I barely notice when blood sprays me in the face.

Spinning back around, I find Frederico picking himself off the ground. One of his spikes sticks out of the sixth zombie’s skull. Pursing his lips, he pulls it free, wiping the blood off on the girl’s shirt.

Our harsh breathing fills the air. We stand there, both of us poised and intent on the RV. Nothing else stirs inside. The vehicle is silent and still. And yet . . .

“Do you hear that?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Frederico’s mouth is pressed into a tight line. “There’s another one.”

It’s a small, faint growl. At first, I think there’s a zombie somewhere out in the woods, making its way toward us and all the racket we’ve just made. Then I realize the sound isn’t coming from the woods.

Moving back to the mother, I roll over her body.

“Ah, shit.” I stare down at her. What I had mistaken for a pregnant belly is in fact a very small infant secured tightly to her torso with a blue cloth that matches her dress.

The little thing turns its head sideways, baring bloody teeth at me. Now that I’m looking closely, I can see where it tore huge chunks out of its mother’s breast and chest.

My hands go clammy. Tightening the grip on my spike, I take a few steps back.

“Should we . . . should we put it down?” Frederico says.

I shake my head. “We just took out the fucking undead Brady Bunch. I’m done.”

Turning away, I step toward the RV. “I’ll go in and forage,” I say. “You keep watch.”

Not giving him a chance to argue, I slip through the shattered glass and into the cab.

Chapter 39

Paperclip

A few years ago, a neighborhood raccoon was hit by a car outside our house. The poor animal had the grace to drag itself off the road and onto our front lawn, where it died. Animal Control won’t remove any animal on personal property, so the disposal of the raccoon corpse fell to Kyle.

Being an efficient man not overly burdened by details, Kyle scooped up the raccoon with a shovel and dumped the body into our garbage can.

We then went camping for two weeks, during which time the raccoon body commenced the decomposition process.

Inside the RV is an aroma similar to the one that plagued our trashcan after the raccoon incident—only multiplied by ten. If we hadn’t gone to such efforts to empty the RV of zombies, I would have moved on.

I partially unwrap my shirt from around the collar, pulling it up over my nose and mouth. Breathing through an open mouth, I will myself not to gag. After hauling the dead teen off the steering wheel, I steel myself and venture into the RV.

The next thirty minutes are spent ransacking the interior. I get two pillowcases from the sleeping loft and fill them with everything edible I can find. And with nine people living in this tiny RV, there’s a shitpile of food.

Canned chili, canned peaches, canned corn, and SpaghettiOs make up the bulk of the foodstuffs. There are enough cracker-type foods to stock an aisle at Walmart: Wheat Thins, Goldfish, Cheez-Its, pretzels, Triscuits, Cheetos, and Ritz peanut butter sandwiches. Dessert for this family consisted of Hostess Twinkies and CupCakes.

There isn’t a bottle of water in sight, but there are several cases of juice packs for kids. I rip open a case of apple juice and dump the boxes into a pillowcase.

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 recyclables.

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.