Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) by Camille Picott Page A

long pants. With a last glimpse at my extra pair of shorts, I decide not to change.
    With the pants selection complete, I move on to my shoe collection.
    Trail shoes. Road shoes. Trail-road combo shoes. Trail shoes with beefy soles for post-race recovery. Road shoes with a negative heel-toe drop. Old shoes encrusted with mud, which I use when running in storms; no reason to ruin more than one pair. Shoes I bought just because they were on sale and I liked the color scheme. Plus a few others that weren’t on sale. Running shoes for every scenario, and then some.
    After a few moments of thought, I pull out a trail-road combo pair with a thick, beefy sole. I won’t be able to carry multiple ones with me, so I need to be prepared for as much variation as possible. The medium tread will work well enough on multi-surfaces, and the beefy sole will give my foot extra cushion on the long run.
    After lacing them on, I load my pack, shoving as much as I can into the pockets. I scavenge a few maps out of the glovebox and stuff them into the compartment with the water bladder. There’s a small pocket knife in my gear box, something I always carry when running trails that take me far from civilization.
    I silently lament the loss of the things I don’t have room for, like the extra batteries and shirt. The sunglasses, handheld knuckle lights, and the portable drinking straw that purifies water with UV light. There just isn’t enough room for everything.
    Headphones are a no-go, too. They could be suicide on a course infested with zombies. I sigh, tossing them back into my car. Running two hundred miles would be nicer with music or a podcast.
    God, and what about my waterproof jacket? I just don’t have enough room. Well, shit. I’ve done my fair share of training runs and races in storms. This may be another one if a spring rain decides to open up.
    Frederico comes around the car, decked out in my fluorescent-pink shorts and matching compression sleeves with orange polka dots. If our situation wasn’t so dire, I’d be doubled over in hysterics. As it is, all I feel is a sense of overwhelming relief that zombies are blind. Frederico is impossible to miss in those clothes.
    He digs around in trunk, tossing handfuls of my gear into the backseat of the car.
    “What are you doing?” I ask.
    “Seeing what else you have in here. We could use a weapon or two.” He pulls up the bottom of the trunk, revealing a spare tire, jack, and lug nut wrench.
    “What do you think about this?” He hefts the lug nut wrench in one hand. “For crushing zombie skulls?”
    “How are we going to carry it?”
    He taps the wrench in his palm, considering. “Could we lash it to the back of a pack?”
    “Maybe.”
    There’s a zip cord meant for securing a jacket on the back of Frederico’s pack. I take an extra shirt and wrap it around the wrench like a sling. After some fiddling, I get the wrench semi-secured to the zip cord.
    “Not very stable,” I say, rocking it back and forth. “But at least it won’t swing free and hit you.”
    “Probably worth the nuisance if we get in a jam.”
    “We won’t be able to get it out very fast if we need it.”
    “We could figure out a way to hang it from my waist, but I’d get bloody and bruised from it.”
    Another good point. I sigh. “I guess this is as good as it’s going to get.”
    We stand there in contemplative silence. Nearby is the occasional hum of a car as it whizzes down the freeway. And in the far, far distance is a smaller, distinct sound: screaming.
    “Do you hear that?” I ask softly.
    He nods. “It’s spreading.”
    I set my GPS watch to zero. For the next seventy-two hours, our lives will revolve around this watch as it tracks our time and miles.
    My eyes meet Frederico’s.
    Our packs are full of water and supplies. We’re laced into our shoes.
    Time to run.
     

Chapter 8
    Don’t Be an Idiot
     
     
    There’s a famous saying in the ultra world, penned by runner-writer Scott