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

hours again.” PR stands for Personal Record. The pride of that day come back to me, along with memories of Kyle’s beaming smile. “He kissed me with his gorilla mask and told me I was his batshit crazy woman and he loved me.”
    “He was proud of you, you know,” Frederico says.
    Yeah. Proud of his insane, ultrarunning wife. God, I miss Kyle so much. I could use a husband in a fluorescent-orange gorilla suit right now.
    “Come on, Frederico,” I say. “Let’s find some more spikes.”
    There are some perks to running on an abandoned railroad. Within ten minutes, we are both armed with two spikes. They fit perfectly into the front straps on our running packs.
    Without another word, we set out.
     

Chapter 13
    Ultra Dog
     
     
    Mile twenty.
    The hills keep coming, one after another, undulating before us. We run down the declines and power hike up the inclines. Yellow, white, and purple wildflowers dot the countryside.
    A hot spot has formed on the bottom of my big right toe and another on the inside of my left foot.
    Blisters. Here they come.
    Under normal circumstance, it would be time to stop and swap out for a dry pair of socks.
    Today, there is nothing to do except run. The wet weeds continue to whack at my legs. My ankles and the tops of my shoes are covered with cattails and burrs.
    Mile twenty-one.
    I’m light-headed with hunger. I start to fantasize about food. Biscuits and gravy, turkey sandwich with avocado and bacon. Bacon. Bacon with tomatoes and lettuce on rye bread.
    “What I wouldn’t give for a Double-Double Animal Style from In-N-Out,” Frederico says.
    “I’ll take a strawberry milk shake,” I reply. “With a double order of fries.”
    Chili fries. Hell yeah. That would be good right now. Chili fries with pizza. And chicken wings with a double serving of buffalo bleu sauce on the side.
    “Do you think we’ll ever have a chance to eat at In-N-Out again?” I ask.
    “Hard to say, Jackalope.”
    Mile twenty-two.
    Something moves in the bushes. I don’t hear any sound, just see a slight shivering of the undergrowth contrasting with the quiet, unmoving world around us. I fling out a hand, snagging the hem of Frederico’s shirt. He gives me a questioning look, and I gesture toward the bushes.
    We each pull out a railroad spike. Standing side by side, we scan the tall weeds. Again, I see that oh-so-delicate shiver of the undergrowth.
    I tighten my grip on the weapon. Frederico drops into a crouch, raising his spike.
    How many hobo zombies are out there? I wonder wildly. Are we destined to have a run-in with every one of them between here and Arcata?
    Something whines, then barks.
    I let out an audible breath.
    A dog. It’s just a dog.
    The animal creeps forward, ears flat and tail tucked between its legs. It’s a mixed mutt with long legs and short, brown-black fur.
    “Come here, buddy.” Frederico holds out a hand.
    The dog whines again and slinks forward. It bypasses Frederico and comes to me, pressing a wet nose against my arm. I rub its head and neck. It leans against me, nearly knocking me over. I shift into a better position. Frederico joins me, both of us petting the animal.
    My hand connects with a collar. It’s a dirty, grimy orange.
    “Her name is Stout,” I say, reading the tags. “She’s from Willits.”
    “Stout? As in, Guinness?” Frederico asks.
    “I guess so. She’s the color of a stout.”
    “She’s a long way from home.”
    “Not a good sign.” I pause, looking up at my friend. “The last beer Kyle and Carter made together was a stout.”
    “Maybe it’s a sign.”
    “Maybe.” I shrug, rising. “Come on, we have to keep moving.” I give the dog one last pat.
    When we break into a jog, Stout follows us. Frederico and I glance at each other without stopping.
    “I wonder how long she can keep up with us?” I say. Dogs are fast runners, but they aren’t cut out for long distance.
    “Six, maybe ten miles at most,” Frederico replies.
    “She did come