Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) Page 30

  I scramble up a ravine, whip through the trees, and at last slide to a halt behind a large boulder. I crumple to the ground, breathing hard and pressing my back against a mossy stone.

  I huddle there, hands and arms trembling. It occurs to me that I’m close to cracking. My sanity is held together by spider threads. One stiff breeze, and I’ll unravel.

  It also occurs to me that my fear is possibly unfounded and irrational. Basketball coach might be a nice person. The taint spoiling our world might not yet have touched him.

  I could be misjudging the situation, but I don’t care. No way I’ll let that man or his friends get close to me. I don’t care if they’re the reincarnation of Mother Theresa.

  I take a deep gulp of water, listening for signs of pursuit. The trees are quiet. There are voices in the distance—the basketball coach’s “we,” no doubt—but nothing immediate moves in the forest around me.

  Until the jackalope hops out of the underbrush. His fur is rumpled. Leaves and twigs are lodged in his antlers. He gives me a narrow-eyed glare and hops closer.

  “Just remember,” he says. “What you do to me, you really do to yourself.”

  I look away from him, my delicate spider web of sanity shivering dangerously.

  I summon a memory of Kyle. You’re batshit crazy, babe. But that’s why I love you. I hear his voice in my head and see his lopsided, loving smile.

  “I love you, too, babe,” I whisper.

  “Talking to yourself now?” the jackalope asks.

  “Yeah. I’m losing it. But I don’t really give a shit.” I push myself to my feet. “I’m going to finish what I set out to do, or die trying.”

  I owe that to Frederico. He gave his life so I could get to Arcata in one piece.

  I expect the jackalope to sneer at me, but instead he says, “That a girl. Dig deep, sister.”

  I power hike south through the forest, angling in the direction of where I think the road is. Two miles later, I find it. Through the thinning trees, I see another tourist trap selling larger-than-life wood carvings. The sign above the shop reads, The Legend of Bigfoot in big, bold letters. Outside are carvings of Big Foot, forest animals, and cartoon characters.

  There are two men wrestling a giant wood carving of a dwarf across the parking lot, hauling it toward the shop. Nearby is another pile of zombie bodies. I continue south in the trees, avoiding the shop.

  “They could be nice,” the jackalope says. “I bet they have food.”

  “No fucking way,” I whisper, and continue on.

  Half a mile later, I emerge onto the road. All the walking has helped combat some of the stiffness. My body still hurts like hell, but that’s to be expected. I toss the walking stick aside and break into a jog.

  Mile one hundred fifty-one.

  I reach the small hamlet of Benbow. The highway runs on a ridge perched above the town. To the right is a KOA; to the left is a Tudor-like chalet perched on the edge of the freeway.

  I see evidence of the outbreak. A large fire burns in the KOA, enveloping several of the burning buildings. A car is overturned on the off-ramp. Half of the Tudor-like hotel has also burned, the north side collapsed in its own smoldering ash.

  A six-car pileup lies in the middle of the highway before me. Three zombies shuffle aimlessly on the asphalt. I slow to a walk, trying to make as little sound as possible. I pull out my screwdriver and a railroad spike, holding one in each hand.

  Making a wide arc, I steer around the car wreck. One of the zombies—a teenage girl in jeans and a tank top—pauses in her shuffling, cocking her head in my direction. I freeze.

  The zombie girl and I stand in suspension: me stock-still on the side of the road, her with her head tilted toward me as she listens.

  Just when I think she’s going to turn away, she moans and takes a step in my direction.

  My stomach knots. I have to do something. I won’t survive another run like last night.

  The jackalope sits unconcerned at my feet, grooming his hind leg. Little fucker.

  With a silent scream, I charge the zombie girl. She has only seconds to register my attack. Her lips peel back in a snarl, and she takes two more steps toward me, arms reaching. I sidestep her fumbling hands and ram a spike through her eye.

  The two remaining zombies converge on me. One is a man in tight Wranglers and a cowboy hat, the other a teenage boy in an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. I sprint away from them and scramble onto the hood of a Honda Civic, putting myself momentarily out of reach.

  I crouch on the hood, calculating my next move. Both zombies flail at the front of the car, moaning and stretching their hands toward me.

  I need to split them up. Divide and conquer.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the jackalope. He’s holding a video camera.

  A fucking old-school VHS recorder. The red light blinks at me, confirming my suspicion that he’s filming my exploits.

  He gives me a thumbs-up, which is odd, considering rabbits don’t normally have thumbs. “You got this, sister!” he calls.

  I clamber onto the roof of the car, purposely making noise. I hope they’ll split up, each coming at me from a different side. Then I can fight them separately.

  No such luck. They both circle to the left, bumping into each other and growling.

  Dammit.

  Plan B.

  I swing my good foot and kick the cowboy in the face. He staggers back with a growl. I take the opening and dive across the roof of the car, grabbing the teenage zombie by the collar of the shirt. I haul him forward and stab him through the eye.

  Cowboy zombie recovers and makes a swipe at me. I cry out involuntarily. He grabs my arm, jerking it toward his mouth.

  Using his grip on me as leverage, I jerk my torso around and deliver another brutal kick—this time with my bad foot. Pain lances up my leg, but I ignore it. The zombie momentarily loosens his grip. I jerk free.

  Then I leap off the car like I’m a James Bond stunt double, knocking into the cowboy zombie. I grunt at the impact, landing heavily atop the undead monster. His hat goes flying. My elbow scrapes against the asphalt.

  He reaches for me, but I’m quicker. I bring the spike down. Hard.

  The fucking zombie moves. I miss his eye, connecting with the concrete instead. A shock goes up my arm from the impact.

  “Undead fucker,” I snarl. I slam my other hand onto his forehead, holding him in place. He claws at my arms, drooling.

  My spike comes down again—once, twice, three times. Then several more times for good measure, until red mush is all that’s left of the cowboy zombie’s face.

  “That’s for Frederico, you undead fuck.” I get shakily to my feet. My hands are smeared with blood. I wipe them as best I can on the cowboy’s Wranglers.

  “Bravo!” The jackalope hops into view, still wielding his video camera. “You’re going to be famous on YouTube!” he crows. “The title of your video will be Crazed Runner takes down Undead Cowboy.”

  Grimacing in disgust, I turn my back on him.

  Chapter 52

  Death Run

  I make a quick scan of the vehicles. There are zombies in four of them, clawing and salivating on the windows. The other two are empty, one of them with the passenger door hanging open.

  “Gonna try your luck with another car?” the jackalope asks.

  “No. I’m done with cars.” I’m also past caring about the fact I’m having a conversation with an imaginary nemesis.

  I rifle through the first car and hit the jackpot. The trunk is full of camping supplies. Among the sleeping bags, cooking gear, and tarps is an ice chest full of food. Next to the ice chest are several grocery bags crammed full of dry goods.

  Stomach rumbling, I reach greedily into the bag, grabbing the first thing I touch. It turns out to be a box of Hostess CupCakes.

  I flash back to the last meal I shared with Frederico on the side of the road, after we cleared that RV of zombies. I see him shoving his face full of Hostess CupCakes as
he talked about his failed attempts to connect with his daughter.

  I was a shitty father, Kate, I hear him say. Still am.

  I burst into tears. They come streaming out of my eyes, pouring down my cheeks and dripping off the tip of my chin. My chest heaves and my nose clogs up with snot.

  I slump down to the ground, hugging the box of cupcakes to my chest.

  Frederico should be here. He should be here to eat these with me.

  God, I miss him. I miss him so much. I want to see his wild, curly gray hair and the gentle crow’s-feet around his eyes when he smiles. I want to hear him call me Jackalope.

  Frederico! I scream his name silently. Tears dampen the cupcake box.

  “It’s your fault,” the jackalope says calmly, coming to sit beside me. The fucking video camera hangs around his neck. “You should have stayed home. You never should have left Healdsburg.”

  His words pierce me like venom. I push violently away from him and return to the car.

  A bit more rifling reveals a plastic two-gallon water jug. With slightly trembling hands, I yank it free. I take a long drink, then fill my pack.

  “You never should have left Healdsburg,” the jackalope repeats. “Instead, you dragged Frederico out here on this death run.”

  Death run. That’s a good name. I’m on a fucking death run.

  I stare at the array of food before me, trying to figure out what to do. I’ve completely lost my appetite, but I know I need to eat.

  Hell, does it even matter what I eat? No. No, it doesn’t matter. I just need fuel in whatever form it comes in. I seize the closest bag of groceries and yank on the cloth handle, tucking the cupcakes in on top.

  “You brought Frederico out here on this run because you’re broken,” says the jackalope. “You’re broken, and you think running is the only thing that will put your insides back together.”

  His words fly into me like darts, wounding me in places I didn’t know existed. I shrink from him, momentarily curling my body around the grocery bag.

  As if that will protect me.

  “No,” I whisper. “That’s not why I run.”

  “Liar.”

  The word cracks across me with the sting of a barbed whip.

  I turn away and break into a run, fleeing from the jackalope. I hug the groceries close to me, clinging to them like they’re my last lifeline.

  “That’s right,” the jackalope calls after me. “Run, Kate! Run! That’s all you know how to do.”

  Mile one hundred fifty-one.

  I leave Benbow at a fast clip, trying to lose the jackalope. His words drive me forward.

  Run, Kate! Run! That’s all you know how to do.

  My breath burns in my throat. The grocery bag jiggles and bounces in my arms. My body is a solid block of pain.

  Mile one hundred fifty-two.

  I’ve given up trying to lose the jackalope. I’m too tired, too beaten down.

  I polished off the Hostess CupCakes and currently work my way through a bag of barbecue chips, shoveling the salty wafers into my mouth. I eat as I move, committed to a fast walk. It’s the best I can manage while simultaneously eating and wrestling with a shopping bag.

  The jackalope trails me, keeping ten feet between us.

  “That’s right, Kate,” he jeers. “Keep running! Doesn’t matter how fast you go. I’ll always be here.” He lets loose a creepy laugh that would do justice to any horror movie.

  Mile one hundred fifty-five.

  Even now, with all the pain and physical discomfort I’m shouldering, I can honestly say I still love running.

  To be honest, pain is part of what I love. Why is that? It’s a complicated facet of my obsession for this strange sport.

  When I first started to run, it was to escape the maze of my relationship with Kyle. The maze was our own making, and the physical stress of running was a distraction to the larger pain I faced at home. To be honest, I had never truly forgiven myself for running way from Kyle all those years ago.

  Mile one hundred fifty-eight.

  I shovel uncooked pasta shells into my mouth, crunching them as I jog. Vaguely, I wonder what they’ll feel like if I throw them up later. I’ve thrown up lots of things on ultra runs, but never uncooked pasta. Will they cook in my stomach? Soften in the stomach acid?

  In front of me is a sign that reads Avenue of the Giants. The Avenue of the Giants is a 31-mile stretch of highway that winds through towering, ancient redwood trees. I veer right, unconsciously heading for the exit.

  It’s not until I’m a mile down the road that I realize I’ve left Highway 101.

  I pause, glancing at the redwoods looming up on either side of me. It’s hard to grasp the enormity of the giant trees without seeing them in person. They’re living high rises, remnants of a world that no longer exists. It’s hard not to feel insignificant and full of awe, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.

  Carter and I drove this road together. Is this why I came this way?

  In the quiet solitude of the ancient trees, I can almost imagine zombies don’t exist. That Frederico and Kyle are still alive. That the world is still right side up.

  “Keep dreaming, sister.” The jackalope hops up and sits at my feet. “The world is fucked up, and so are you.”

  “Shut up.” Upending the half-full box of pasta shells, I dump them on his head. “No one asked you.”

  The jackalope scowls at me, swatting irritably at the pasta. “Face it, Kate. Running is the only thing you’re good at.”

  Mile one hundred sixty-one.

  I haven’t always run away from things. As Kyle and I worked through our issues, I found myself running toward him. Toward us.

  Every time I finished a tough race and crossed a finish line, I found proof of inner grit and strength. I found a woman worthy of Kyle’s love—a person who didn’t quit when things got hard and painful.

  I like that woman.

  Mile one hundred sixty-three.

  I’m down to the bottom of my grocery bag. All that’s left is a six-pack of Sprite. Seeing it makes me think of Frederico. I’ve never been a fan of soda, but he always took some to ultra races, often downing a can at every aid station.

  Slowing to a stop, I drop the grocery bag and pull out a can. I glance at the jackalope.

  “For Frederico,” I say softly, then crack open the can and take a long drink.

  “For Frederico,” the jackalope echoes. I’m grateful when he doesn’t make a caustic remark.

  The carbonation fills my throat with an uncomfortable pressure. I ignore it and continue to drink.

  “Too bad you killed him.”

  Something in me snaps. The soda falls from my hand and splats on the ground.

  I spin around and seize the jackalope by the horns. He lets loose with a very human-like yell. Face twisting in a violent rictus, I tear off his antlers and fling them into the woods. Blood oozes from the sockets.

  His yell turns into a scream. I pick up his furry body and hurl him into the forest, a crazed hiss passing between my teeth. He collides with a tree and falls out of sight, rattling through the bushes as he thumps to the ground.

  My chest heaves. I clench my fists and stare into the trees, waiting for him to return.

  One minute ticks by. Two. Three. Five. Ten.

  No sign of him. No movement from the trees. I’m alone on this desolate road. At least for now. I know the jackalope will be back. He always comes back.

  I sag, an anguished sob wracking me.

  Frederico! I scream his name silently in my mind.

  It’s my fault he’s dead. He died because he cared about me more than he cared about himself. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t ask for the sacrifice. It doesn’t matter that I don’t feel worthy of the sacrifice. The simple fact is that he died so I could live.

  This knowledge settles around my shoulders with an unwelcome weight.

  I want Frederico’s death to mean something. I want to make him proud. I want to make Kyle proud.<
br />
  Hell, I want to make myself proud. Will I ever be able to do that?

  Swallowing back my tears, I pull out another can of soda. I silently say good-bye to my friend with each gulp.

  Chapter 53

  Avenue of the Giants

  I leave the empty grocery bag and the rest of the sodas on the side of the road and start to run. It’s impossible to suppress the mega burps that result after the pounding of the Sprite. Worried I might alert every zombie in a ten-mile radius, I muffle them against my arm.

  The enormous redwood trees line the two-lane country road. On encountering a few abandoned cars, I head into the woods and creep past them.

  Mile one hundred sixty-four.

  My legs are numb. When did that happen?

  This is another sign that I’ve been running for a really, really, really long time. The body, pushed past the brink of exhaustion, diverts energy to the core. Nonessential extremities, like arms and legs, go numb as a result.

  Corporal therapy. That’s what running is to me.

  Some days, I may as well be flogging myself.

  Mile one hundred sixty-five.

  Miranda.

  It’s a hamlet with a population of 520. If you blink, you might just miss it.

  There’s a post office, a few restaurants, a motel, and a smattering of mobile homes. Carter and I stopped in a cute cafe here and had burgers.

  I decide to avoid Miranda. I cut into the forest, slowing to a walk so I won’t make too much noise. It takes a solid hour to make my way back to the road on the north side of town, but I get there without any confrontations. I spot a few zombies, but manage to creep past them without drawing attention.

  Mile one hundred seventy-one.

  It’s not fair to boil running down into a form of corporal therapy. Yes, there’s a twisted embracing of pain, but there have been countless times I ran for the simple love of the sport.

  Escape, therapy, joy—running is all these things. How can one simple act have so many facets and such deep meaning in my life? The person I am is inextricably enmeshed with a verb.