Dawn Patrol Read online

  DAWN PATROL

  an Undead Ultra story

  By

  Camille Picott

  www.camillepicott.com

  Copyright 2018 Camille Picott

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  1 | Training

  2 | Pink Flannel

  3 | Lottery

  4 | Hunter

  5 | Ultrarunner

  6 | Uphill

  7 | The Plunge

  8 | Fetid Adder’s Tongue

  Author’s Note

  Free Gift

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Camille Picott

  1

  Training

  MILE TWENTY-THREE.

  Niles sucks in the crisp, predawn air as he plows down the dirt trail, his legs burning with exertion. The beam of his headlamp illuminates his path.

  A bat zips by overhead, a grayish blur in the night. Squeaking follows as the animal joins up with his fellows.

  Mile twenty-four.

  The trail tips to a sharp uphill. Gritting his teeth, Niles leans into the hill and pumps his arms, the muscles of his glutes and calves propelling him upward.

  Mile twenty-five.

  Niles puffs up the last few paces of the single-track trail. He slows as he enters a deserted gravel parking lot. Panting, Niles shines the beam of the headlamp onto his watch.

  Five hours, forty-seven minutes, with five thousand feet of vertical climbing in the last twenty-five miles.

  Damn.

  Niles grimaces in disappointment. He has a fifty-mile training run to complete this morning. His goal had been to complete the workout in eleven hours. Knowing the second half of his run will be slower than the first, he’ll be hard-pressed to meet that goal.

  He pulls an energy gel out of his pocket, tearing off the top with his teeth. He downs the gel, ignoring the sickly sweet taste. He might not like gels very much, but the calories it contains will get him through the next hour of his workout.

  In his mind, he visualizes himself at the starting line of the Western States Endurance Run. The race begins in Squaw Valley, California, and continues for one hundred miles all the way to Auburn, California. In just a little over two months, Niles will toe the starting line of the world’s oldest and most iconic one-hundred-mile footrace.

  He holds this fact in his mind as he pulls out two of Celeste’s cranberry-oatmeal cookies, his treat for the halfway point of his training run. His girlfriend makes the best cookies.

  As he wolfs them down, he relishes the knowledge that he won’t gain an ounce from eating them. Since he started running a few years ago, he’s gone from a size forty-five to a thirty-eight waistline. He’ll always be stocky, but when he looks at himself in the mirror, he can honestly say he’s no longer fat. And he can eat cookies.

  He bites down on the end of the silicone straw fastened to the shoulder of his running backpack. The straw leads to a two-liter water bladder in the pack. Niles takes a long drink of electrolyte water, taking a moment to savor the first rays of sunlight that lance the darkness around the peaks of Lake Sonoma.

  He pulls out his cell phone and snaps a selfie of his profile against the backdrop of the sunrise. The parking lot has cell reception, so he posts the picture on Facebook.

  25 miles down, he writes, 25 to go. Western States here I come! #dawnpatrol

  The entire break takes him less than three minutes. Now it’s time to get back on the trail. If he wants to cross the finish line of Western States, he has to train hard.

  Western States has a thirty-hour time limit. That may sound like a long time, but Niles knows he has his work cut out for him. During the race, Niles will climb a total of eighteen thousand vertical feet. In a bad year, finishing rates can be as low as fifty-five percent. Only hard, dedicated training will get him to the finish line. If he isn’t breathing hard and hurting on his training runs, he isn’t working hard enough.

  Niles exits the parking lot, following the same trail he came in on. It’s exactly twenty-five miles in each direction. Lake Sonoma is a great place to log miles without having to do repetitive loops. Niles is running two loops today, one clockwise and one counterclockwise.

  His headlamp reveals rocks, roots, and trail debris before him. Interspersed are divots and small trenches carved by rainwater runoff. His feet fly down the path as he eats up the distance, sidestepping or leaping over obstacles.

  Around him, the colors of the forest change. The narrow tunnel of black created by his headlamp expands as the early rays of dawn poke and prod at the night. The thick black transitions to light gray, the darkness rolling up like a stage curtain. The full beauty of the outdoors is revealed in muted tones.

  Native California oak, madrone, and manzanita trees fill the space on either side of the trail. Delicate ferns poke up from the dirt. The long hoot of an owl echoes overhead. Lupine bushes rattle in the early morning breeze.

  As he sails around a corner, banking hard to the right, something catches his eye, a pale puff of purple surrounded by silver foliage.

  He draws up short, unable to stop the smile spreading over his face. Swamp thistle, one of the many beautiful flowers that grows around Lake Sonoma.

  He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture. Celeste doesn’t know it, but he has more than one mission out here this morning. Besides a long training run, he’s on the lookout for wildflowers.

  By the end of the run, he should have a beautiful virtual bouquet. He plans to post a flower collage on Celeste’s Facebook page. The wild beauty far surpasses anything he could buy her in a flower shop.

  It’s his way of showing her that she fills his thoughts on the long miles. That she’s always with him.

  If not for her, he’d still be a fat, depressed loser. He still doesn’t know what the tall, lean young woman he’d met at UC Davis saw when she met him in a math study group.

  Celeste was the one who convinced him to sign up for his first half marathon. He’d been so in awe that she was dating him, the fat guy, he would have agreed to eat beetles if she’d asked. So when she wandered into his dorm room three months into their relationship and dropped the half marathon flyer on his bed, he’d agreed to it without any argument. The exhilaration of that first race was all it took to propel Niles into marathons, and after that, ultras.

  Niles resumes running, grinning to himself at the memory. Celeste still races, though she sticks to half marathons.

  He breaks through a thick clump of trees. The sprawling expanse of Lake Sonoma spreads before him, the waters a dark turquoise in the early morning light. Clumps of fog play over the lake, spreading their misty fingers into the steep, forested hillsides.

  He soaks in the beauty without slowing, propelling himself along with long strides and deep sweeps of his arms. He feels weightless and free.

  Another few miles and he reaches the outskirts of Liberty Glen, the largest campground at Lake Sonoma. There are a dozen or so RV hookups and several group campsites with pergolas large enough to shade twenty to thirty people. Scattered among these are smaller campsites for tents.

  Today, the campground is packed. This is Barrel Tasting weekend, a popular event in Niles’s hometown. The local wineries open their cellars and let people sample wine straight out of barrels. People come from all over the United States to taste. Most stay in fancy boutique hotels in town, but there’s always a small contingent who choose to camp.

  The trail drops down and cuts a wide arc around the perimeter of Liberty Glen. To the right is a twenty-foot hillside that leads up to a plateau where the campground is located. The views up there of the lake are spectacular. To the left is a tumble of oak-covered hills that bump and roll down to the water’s edge. Wild, bright green grass grows between the trees. The trail is a thin,
light brown track that cuts a meandering line through the terrain.

  At this early hour, Niles is used to seeing a quiet, slumbering campground. Today, a buzz of activity hangs in the air. People are out and about, many of them in tight clusters.

  It’s awfully early for so many people to be up. He wracks his brain, trying to recall if some other event is taking place today. A Boy Scout campout? A mountain bike race? An archery competition? All are common around here.

  He doesn’t recall seeing anything on the kiosks around the lake. He gives a mental shrug, turning his attention back to the trail that slopes down gently past the campground. His shoes whisper over the hard-packed dirt.

  A shrill scream cuts through the early morning air, stopping Niles in his tracks.

  2

  Pink Flannel

  THE HEAVY TREAD OF his trail shoes scuff against the ground, sending a handful of pebbles skidding into the tall grass. He scans the edge of the plateau above him. His vantage is limited, but he’s able to see those milling nearest the outer perimeter of the campground.

  Almost in unison, their heads turn in the direction of the cry. The act is eerie; it’s not the startled movement of a group surprised, but a focused, purposeful movement. Niles even sees a few noses lift into the air as if the campers are scenting the breeze.

  The shrill scream sounds a second time. This time, Niles makes out a single word: “Help!”

  As though the word is a pitchfork in the behind, every camper moves in the direction of the sound. They lope, their movements quick and sharp. Many of them stumble over the uneven terrain, even falling to the ground. They don’t cry out, and no one stops to help them up. Instead, they lumber back to their feet, continuing in the direction of the sound.

  Something is wrong. It’s like they’re all hypnotized.

  A crazy scenario spins through Niles’s head. He imagines a cult leader renting out the entire campground so his flock can get high on peyote. Would peyote explain the odd movements and behaviors of the people? Some other drug, like meth?

  Maybe it’s a fraternity from the local college out for a long night of drinking and drugs. Or maybe a twenty-first birthday bash. Or a corporate retreat and someone thought it would be funny to lace the chili with ecstasy. That might explain the moaning. All the people seem to be moaning.

  The cry splices the air again, and this time Niles can tell it’s a woman. A chill shoots across his lower back, along with the certain knowledge that someone is in danger.

  The sound spurs on the campers, driving them to pick up their pace. They continue to stumble and trip but always surge right back to their feet.

  Somewhere nearby, a loud keening sounds from one of the campers.

  Something isn’t right. Niles has no idea what’s going on, but someone out there needs help.

  He cuts in the direction of the sound, slipping off the trail and into the calf-high grasses. The green strands leave dew licks across his bare legs. He scrambles up the steep hillside beneath the campground, staying out of sight. He doesn’t want to risk being seen until he has a better idea of what’s going on.

  The female’s screams intensify, driving Niles forward. Entwined with her cries is a second voice, which shrills out a single word: “Mom!”

  Niles drops to all fours, crawling the rest of the way up the hillside to the edge of the campground.

  Tick season. The thought comes and goes, scurrying through his brain like a cockroach. These grasses are teaming with ticks this time of year. A tick can leave a person with Lyme disease, a vicious autoimmune disorder.

  He takes shelter behind a butter lupine bush. Were the situation anything except what it was, he would snap a picture of the yellow flowers for Celeste’s virtual bouquet. And smear himself with some Deet wipes to ward off the ticks.

  Niles peers around the bush, getting his first close-up view of the campground. People hurry past him, all rushing toward the sound. Someone trips and goes down right in front of him.

  Niles stops breathing, shock congealing his brain and body.

  The person on the ground before him is a middle-aged man in flannel pajamas. The right side of his face is a mashed, bloody pulp. The sleeve of one arm is ripped, exposing mangled flesh.

  A moan passes between the man’s lips. His eyes, white and sightless, roll in opposite directions in his head like compass needles encountering a magnetic pole and going haywire.

  Though he’s no more than two feet away from Niles, it’s clear the man doesn’t see him. He’s blind.

  The man gets back to his feet and hurries away, rejoining the crowd that streams through Liberty Glen. That’s when the true state of the campground materializes, the details leaping out at Niles in the growing light.

  Tents have been flipped over and ripped apart. Campsites are torn up, equipment and food supplies broken and strewn on the ground.

  It looks as if a bear rampaged through camp, except there are no bears at Lake Sonoma. Or at least, he doesn’t think there are bears here. He’s never seen one or heard of them being out here. Mountain lions and wild boar, yes, but no bears.

  His eyes next focus on the state of the campers—on their white eyes and bloody bodies. Every last one of them appears to have been blinded and has some sort of grisly wound. He spots one woman loping by, her entrails dragging on the ground.

  Heart pounding, bile rising in his throat, Niles ducks down. His breath comes in rasps as if he’d just pounded up a long hill, when in fact he’s barely moving. The cookies, electrolyte water, and energy gel fight their way up his esophagus.

  Niles battles the physical need to vomit, terrified to make a sound and draw the attention of those things on the plateau. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but something is very, very wrong.

  He has to get out of here. He needs to run fast and far, put as much distance between himself and whatever is happening in Liberty Glen.

  Except someone is still here. The cries of the woman have faded, but faint, tearful gasps of Mom still carry to Niles’s ears. He’s terrified to move.

  Gripping his cell phone in a sweaty hand, Niles dials 911. Liberty Glen usually has cell reception.

  He gets a busy signal.

  Fuck. He dials a second time.

  Busy signal. Again.

  Niles takes this as a bad sign.

  Keeping his cell phone in his hand, he drops onto his belly and crawls through the grass, moving as fast as he dares toward the cries for help. He stays on the pitched hillside below the campground.

  The voice grows in volume, becoming louder as Niles gets closer. More words materialize.

  “Let her go! Let her go! Moooom!”

  Twenty feet later, Niles dares to peek back over the plateau threshold. At first, all he sees is a jumble of feet. Some are bare, some are in shoes, some are in socks.

  All are dirty. All are bloody.

  Through the tangle of ankles, he spots a slack body on the ground in pink flannel pajamas. Niles sees a spill of dark hair but nothing else.

  Surrounding the downed woman is a thick clump of campers. Their faces all press against her. Arrows stick out of a few of them. Slick red stuff—blood—is everywhere.

  For the second time that morning, his heart seizes in his chest.

  The cell phone falls from numb fingers, thudding into the grass.

  It lands next to a clump of shooting star wildflowers. The purple petals grow in an upward fashion that give the illusion of the flower being inside out. Niles thinks they look like inverted bells. Celeste loves shooting stars.

  Normally, he would snap a picture. He would crouch down in the grass and angle the phone at just the right angle to capture the rising sun and the light dusting of stars that remains in the grayer parts of the sky. The picture would have been a part of his virtual bouquet for Celeste.

  Now, he stares dumbly at the flowers, his mouth dry and his stomach leaden. He stares at them because they are the only safe place to look. In the face of the Liberty Glen horror,
the shooting stars are a haven.

  “Daaad! Where are you?”

  The voice jerks him out of his stunned staring. His gaze darts toward the sound, purposely flicking past the pink flannel pajamas.

  Perched in an oak tree, high above the clustered people, is a figure. It looks like a man in dark camouflage, though it’s hard to tell for certain. Niles spots the tip of a crossbow peeking out through the boughs of the trees.

  A pig hunter. Wild boar make their home around Lake Sonoma. Hunters are limited to bows and arrows, no firearms. It doesn’t take a math genius to figure out the man must have shot his arrows into the milling mass below.

  A milling mass that seems entirely unaffected by the arrows poking out of their bodies. A milling mass that appears to be eating a woman.

  Niles’s mind spins, trying to shy away from the reality before him. The horror is the sort of thing reserved for zombie and slasher and serial killer movies; it’s not the sort of thing a guy sees on his morning training run.

  But here it is. The people clustered around the pink flannel mound are tearing into it with their teeth, ripping out raw chunks of flesh, and devouring it like caviar. The rubbery white of an intestine dangles from the jaw of one feeder.

  They’re everywhere. The feeders. Those near the back of the cluster jostle, trying to get close to the woman who, Niles thinks, must be dead. More of them gather beneath the pig hunter in the oak tree, hissing and gnashing their teeth.

  The police. Someone has to know what’s going on. Niles fumbles his phone out of the wet grass and dials 911 again.

  Another busy signal.

  What would make people eat another person? He should take pictures. Film what’s going on. Record it so these fucked-up feeders can be brought to justice.

  Celeste. She needs to know about this.

  He dials her number. Maybe she can get ahold of the police. She has a landline in her cubicle. She can—

  The busy signal blares in his ear.

  It takes all of Niles’s willpower not to slam the phone against the ground. Instead, he dials the number of his younger brother, Todd. Dammit, someone needs to pick up.