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

Douglas: In the first half of the race, don’t be an idiot. In the second half of the race, don’t be a wimp.
    This bit of wisdom has been hammered into me over my years of ultrarunning. It’s guided me through dozens of races.
    Even so, I find myself scowling when Frederico says, “We’re doing nine-minute miles. Let’s slow it to nine thirty.” He catches my look and raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.
    I swallow my frustration. He’s right. We can’t help Carter and Aleisha if we push too hard now and collapse at mile fifty.
    I force my legs to slow and my breathing to ease. The act makes me feel like a wild horse in a cage. I want to bust free and run hard and fast. I want the world to blur by on either side, to pass in a rush and transport me to Arcata, to my son.
    “Perfect,” Frederico says. “If we can hold this pace for the next fifty miles, we’ll be in good shape.”
    He’s right, of course. We settle into a familiar rhythm, running side by side down the frontage road. We pass wineries, houses—some so old they look like they’ll tip over in a stiff breeze—vineyards, and even a lonely church. I try not to think about how little food we have and how shitty we’re going to feel when it runs out. Thank goodness the next town isn’t far away.
    Despite my worry about food, tension leaches out as we move down the road. It always does when I run. There’s an odd normalcy to me and Frederico running together. As I cruise along—my shoes landing lightly on the pavement and my breath feathering in and out of my lungs—I can almost imagine the world is still normal. That zombies aren’t real, that my husband is still alive, and my son is safe in his dorm.
    The road meanders northward, sometimes drifting closer to the freeway than I’d like. There’s a chain-link fence separating us from the main highway. Will that be enough to protect us if we run into zombies?
    “Do you think the news reports are right?” I ask. “Do you think this is a bioterrorism attack?”
    “Don’t know,” Frederico replies. “It’s not outrageous to think whatever it is—a virus, bacteria, whatever—came in on a cargo ship. It wouldn’t be the first disease to get past customs.”
    I shiver. Nothing to do but put our heads down and keep running.
    At mile three, we encounter our first car wreck. It’s a single car crashed into a pine tree on the side of the road. Both driver and passenger side doors are open. A thin stream of steam hisses up from the engine.
    At first I think the car has been abandoned, but then I see the pair of legs sticking out from behind the car. The legs are attached to a woman, who lies prone on the dirt while a man dips a hand into her stomach cavity and feast on her entrails. I gag and look away as we run by.
    The frontage road drifts away from the freeway. All is eerily silent and deserted. A lone cyclist passes us, bent low over his bike. He swings wide around us, looking at us with wide, panicked eyes before disappearing over a hill.
    Two pit bulls bark as we run by their chain-link fence. Their shrill voices echo, crashing in my ears like cymbals.
    “Is there a way to shush pit bulls, short of shooting them?” I ask.
    “Maybe they’ll pipe down when zombies show up to eat them,” Frederico replies.
    The dogs throw themselves at the fence as we pass, their snarls following us.
    At mile six, we come upon a second car wreck. There are four cars in all. One engine still hums, the front wheels dangling into the drainage ditch on the side of the road.
    There are five zombies, all of them clustered around the car with the purring engine. Glimpses of eerie, lifeless white eyes make my skin crawl.
    I slow, worried my footsteps will draw their attention. Will that chain-link fence be enough to protect us? Can they climb?
    “Keep moving,” Frederico says. “Run on your toes.”
    I follow his instructions, rising up onto my toes. With less surface area to make contact with the road, my