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

all the way from Willits. That’s gotta be at least—what?—maybe forty miles or so from here?”
    “Sounds about right. But who knows how long that journey took her?”
    “Maybe we have an ultra dog on our hands.”
    “Ultra dog? I like that sound of that. What do you think, girl?” Frederico asks.
    Stout wags her tail, ears pricking up as she paces along beside us. We have officially transitioned from a running duo to a running trio.
    Mile twenty-three.
    An old metal bridge comes into view, straddling the land that rises up on either side of the railroad tracks. The bridge is a hulking mass of trussed steel that’s been painted a dark green. I recognize it. That bridge means we’re about a mile away from the tiny hamlet of Hopland.
    Frederico and I slow beneath the shade of the bridge, pausing to suck water from our near-empty hydration packs. Graffiti tags adorn the bottom of the bridge with garish color.
    “We need to find water,” Frederico says. “My pack is almost empty.”
    “Mine, too.” I hesitate, then add, “We need fuel, too.” As if either of us could forget how hungry we are. I’ve been dreading this time, even though I knew it would come.
    “Water has to be the priority,” Frederico says. “If we see an opportunity to get food, we can take it, but let’s focus on water.”
    I shake my head. “We can’t run two hundred miles on water.”
    He sighs and makes a face. “I know. I’m deluding myself because the idea of foraging for food scares the shit out of me.”
    The sound of a police car siren fills the air. We freeze, both of us automatically looking up at the bridge above us. The sirens draw closer, the wails growing louder.
    Moments later, the sirens shut off. This is followed by the sound multiple car doors slamming.
    “Police,” I whisper. “They’re just above us.”
    Frederico nods.
    We remain where we are, crouched beneath the bridge. I hear the muffled voices of the police officers talking, but it’s impossible to make out their words.
    “Let’s get closer,” I whisper.
    Frederico nods. With Stout by our side, we creep out from under the bridge. We manage to work ourselves to high ground. Luckily, a thick screen of oak trees growing beside the highway provides cover. The underbrush is thick and rough. There’s poison oak, too. Nothing to be done about it. I lift my hands and elbows, doing my best to keep them above the poison oak. At least my legs are protected by long pants, but poor Frederico is bare from knee to thigh. Dozens of little cuts cover him.
    Peering through the thick foliage, we see four Mendocino County police cars and eight cops. They’ve created a barricade with their squad cars at either end of the bridge.
    “How long are we supposed to blockade the road?” one officer asks.
    A dark-haired woman with the shoulders of a linebacker shrugs. “CDC said they’d have military reinforcements here in the next twelve hours.”
    “Shouldn’t we be wearing, I don’t know, biohazard suits or something?” another officer asks.
    The woman shakes her head. “It’s not airborne. They said it’s transferred through bodily fluids. If someone contracts the disease, symptoms manifest at different rates. Some people show symptoms within hours, others not for a few days. Those are the only details they gave me. Here, we have these.” She tosses a box of latex gloves onto the trunk of the nearest squad car. “We should all wear these when talking to civilians.”
    I tuck away these few pieces of information, mentally flipping through all the zombies we’ve encountered so far. Every single one of them bore some trace of a wound or bite mark. This makes sense, giving what the woman cop said about the disease being transferred through bodily fluids. This also means we don’t have to worry about getting zombie blood on our skin.
    “This disease must be pretty bad if they’re shutting down roads and setting up CDC checkpoints,” says the first officer.