Undead Ultra (Short Story): Foot Soldier Read online

  Foot Soldier

  Undead Ultra

  Camille Picott

  Published by Camille Picott, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  FOOT SOLDIER

  First edition. June 10, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Camille Picott.

  Written by Camille Picott.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Foot Soldier

  Mile 1

  Mile 5.3

  Mile 5.9

  Mile 7.6

  Mile 8.2

  Mile 8.5

  Mile 9.2

  Mile 18.3

  Mile 25.3

  Mile 25.3 + 1 night of sleep

  Mile 25.5

  Mile 26.2

  Mile 30.1

  Mile 34.7

  Mile 39.7

  Mile 48.2

  Mile 48.2 + 200 Hundred Yards

  Mile 50.2

  Free Gift

  Acknowledgments

  Foot Soldier

  An Undead Ultra Short Story

  By

  Camille Picott

  Mile 1

  KATE HANDS HIM A SHOVEL encrusted with blood and brain matter. “Take it,” she says. “It’s quieter than a gun.”

  Alvarez takes the shovel from the woman he just watched bludgeon two zombies to death. She’s in her late thirties or early forties, lean and strong. The bar, Rod’s Roadhouse, looms large behind her thin frame like a giant locust ready to pounce.

  Alvarez closes his eyes to blot out the sight of the building. Of the bodies. Of all the blood.

  Of the guilt that makes him want to vomit his guts out all over the gravel parking lot.

  “Bye, Kate,” he says. “Good luck.”

  She reminds him of his mother in a way, though his mother would never be caught dead with gray roots. He secretly hopes she’ll try to talk him out of going south.

  She doesn’t.

  “Good luck, Alvarez. Nice knowing you.” She gives him a quick hug.

  He should have said yes when she invited him to travel with her and her friend, Frederico. But the idea of going past Rod’s Roadhouse—of pushing farther north—felt like an impossible hurdle.

  Ukiah is south. Going south will allow him to turn his back on the bar and all the gory memories crammed around and inside it. Going south will allow him to join a group of soldiers sent to establish another road blockade.

  Going south might help him find redemption.

  Fifty miles. That’s how far it is to Ukiah. That’s how far he has to travel on foot. He’s never walked so far.

  But with the zombies out there, attracted to sound, foot is the safest mode of transport. He’s seen zombies swarm cars. Hell, his unit had pretty much led a pack of them straight to Rod’s Roadhouse. He’s not going to make that mistake again.

  He strides out of the gravel parking lot and into the trees that surround the bar. Fear weighs heavy on his shoulders, his constant companion since things went to shit a few days ago.

  In his hand is the shovel from Kate. He has a Beretta and a knife on his belt. On his back, he wears a military-issue duffel bag like a backpack. It’s filled with supplies scavenged from Rod’s Roadhouse. Some bottled water. A loaf of bread. A few oranges.

  The bar disappears in minutes, shrouded from view by the many trees that grow thick in this area. Alvarez glances down at the Fitbit he wears, resetting it to zero. He decides then and there that he is going to run a full half marathon—thirteen point one miles—without stopping. He should be able to do that in, what, two hours? Yeah, two hours.

  Kate and her friend are on foot, running two hundred miles through zombie-infested land to find Kate’s son. They’ve already run over 120 miles in a little over twenty-four hours, and they’re old. Granted, they’re ultrarunners, people who make it a hobby to run stupid long foot races for fun. Fifty miles, one hundred miles, sometimes even more. The point is, if two old people can hoof it, so can he.

  Can you run for two hours? The thought flits through his brain. He ignores it, breaking into a jog through the woods. He follows one of the many game paths crisscrossing through the trees.

  It’s a little awkward with the shovel in one hand and the duffel bag on his back, but he gets a rhythm going after a few minutes. He’s got this. He can totally do this shit for two hours. No problem.

  He veers off the game path toward the road. It will be faster to move on the asphalt. Besides, there are a few houses ahead peeking out of the trees. There’s no telling what the fuck is hiding in and around them.

  He pauses at the roadside, taking in the scene. Laytonville is a small town of two thousand people. The hamlet straddles Highway 101, a loose string of unremarkable shops and homes. Here on the outskirts of town are several wrecked and abandoned cars, a few bodies, and a dead dog.

  The sight of a dead man in camouflage pants is like a bat across the face. His heart rate jerks, breath rasping through his lips.

  Bar-screaming-shooting-biting-blood-blood-moreblood—

  “He’s not a soldier,” Alvarez mutters, forcing himself to look at the body. It’s just a man in camo pants. Probably a hunter. Lots of hunters in this remote part of Northern California.

  Alvarez jogs by him. In another few minutes, he draws abreast of a laundry mat.

  He hears the zombies before he sees them. They make wet, smacking sounds when they eat. Three of them are in front of the laundry mat, crouching around a body. Fresh blood balloons across the pavement as the monsters feed, creeping unheeded over the tips of their shoes.

  One looks up as he jogs past, unseeing eyes blinking. They are blind white globes.

  The zombie was an average twenty-something guy before he turned. He doesn’t look so different from Alvarez’s army buddy, Joe.

  Alvarez sobers at the thought of Joe lying dead with the rest of his squadron back at the bar, of the flies that had already gathered around the open cavity wound in his friend’s body.

  A piece of severed flesh hangs between the teeth of the zombie Joe look-alike. The corner of his tongue flicks out, lapping up a droplet of blood.

  God dammit, Alvarez, don’t just stand there for Christ’s sake—do something!

  The creature returns to its feeding.

  Alvarez keeps running.

  Mile 5.3

  MAYBE DECIDING TO RUN thirteen point one miles had been ambitious. Alvarez feels like his lungs are going to saw their way out of his chest. His arms are sore from carrying the shovel. His uniform is soaked with sweat.

  He remembers watching his little sister, Jalisca, run up and down the soccer field. He loved the way her dark ponytail flew out behind her, the way her feet churned up clumps of dirt as she sprinted for the ball.

  Even way back then, he’d like watching her run. But that was a far cry from him ever wanting to run. Hell, doing a timed mile at boot camp was enough to convince him that running sucked.

  Since he left the bar, he hasn’t even been running nonstop. He slows to a tiptoe anytime he spots milling zombies, slipping by them like a cat burglar or circling wide like a teenager avoiding homework.

  Damn, he is one out of shape fucker. He likes to lift weights at the gym, but this running stuff sucks ass.

  Luckily, there’s no one around to see his shame. Laytonville is a small, dead, empty town. The few bodies he passes are real dead.

  Six point two miles, he decides. He’ll run a full ten kilometers before stopping. He can make it. It’s less than a mile more. If that old lady can run a hundred miles, he can run a 10K.

  Mile 5.9

&
nbsp; FUCK IT. HE’S TAKING a walking break. Fuck this running shit. Five point nine miles is practically six point two. Who’s counting anyway? There’s not a single fucking person alive anywhere in this godforsaken place.

  He leaves Laytonville behind, trudging down the deserted highway.

  Mile 7.6

  INSECTS BUZZ AROUND him. Mosquitos. Flies. All sorts of whizzing things that he bats away.

  His tongue is welded to the top of his mouth. Alvarez tries not to imagine collapsing from dehydration. You have to get really, really dehydrated before that happens. He’s not even close. Right? He’s been sweating for almost eight miles. Even if he has walked the last two.

  It hasn’t taken him long to drain the two water bottles in the duffel. The empty containers make the bag lighter, but that’s a shitty consolation prize.

  But getting more water means stopping. It means going close to a building, or worse, inside a building.

  Get inside, Alvarez. That’s an order!

  He joined the army because he wanted to help people. He’d always been the one who looked after his little sister, Jalisca. Chased off bullies who bothered her. Beat up any little shits who gave her trouble, especially when their dad started drinking again. Taking care of her was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind when his old man drank. So long as he had Jalisca to protect, he could be strong.

  He thought he’d been strong when he beat up the neighbor kid for daring to smoke a joint with his sister. That little punk never so much as looked at her after that.

  He thought he’d been strong when he kicked the ass of two dickwads that thought it was funny to post pictures of their drunken dad on YouTube. Those fuckers never saw the person who attacked them from behind and clobbered them with a broom handle.

  He thought he’d been strong when he attended a teacher’s conference for Jalisca. His mom and dad had been too busy dealing with the sexual assault charge after his dad was caught urinating in a grocery store parking lot.

  He thought all those things made him strong.

  Then he came up against the undead.

  Get inside, Alvarez. That’s an order!

  “I need water,” he mutters.

  Something white and angular gleams under the high sun. He shades his eyes and squints into the distance.

  He blinks, realizing what he’s seeing. A semi. No, not one semi. Three semis, all of them lined up in a neat row no more than a half a mile away.

  It’s a rest stop, a large roadside parking lot with bathrooms and vending machines. They’re all over California.

  Water. He’ll find water at the rest stop.

  Mile 8.2

  CHERRY CREEK REST STOP.

  He absorbs the name carved on the wooden sign, absently wondering if there are indeed cherries anywhere around here or if it’s just a stupid name.

  Alvarez stands on the tip of the parking lot, taking in the scene before him. Even in this remote rest stop, there are outbreak victims.

  Two dead bodies lay beside the bathroom. Three zombies mill around in the parking lot.

  He fingers the Beretta on his belt. It would be so much easier to shoot them from afar. But shooting a gun is akin to setting off a siren. If there are any undead around here, it will bring them flocking.

  All he wants to do is keep going. But he needs water. He won’t make it much farther if he doesn’t find a way to alleviate his thirst. It’s a measure of his fear that he actually mulls over the option of drinking his own piss in lieu of venturing close enough to the undead to kill them.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” he tells himself, wrapping both hands around the shovel. “You got this.” He watched Kate clobber two zombies to death with the shovel; if she can do it, so can he.

  He leaves the duffel beside the Cherry Creek sign, not wanting to be encumbered when he attacks. Licking his lips, he lifts the shovel and advances.

  Ten steps into the parking lot, he realizes his disadvantage. The thick fabric of his fatigues rustles as he moves, making soft swish-swish sounds. Even the thick rubber soles of his boots make soft taps as he eases his way across the pavement. In the buzzing quiet of the rest stop, he feels like a walking boom box.

  He watches with sick dread as the three undead roll their heads in his direction, moans rising from their lips. They don’t shuffle in his direction. Instead, they stand there, heads cocked as they listen.

  What are you waiting for, Alvarez? Waste those fuckers already!

  His hand cramps around the shovel. If possible, his already dry mouth drains further of moisture. Fear is a full metal jacket, strangling him to death. His heart pounds so hard he feels it thudding in his temples.

  It had been just like this back at Rod’s Roadhouse. The paralysis. The fear so thick and stifling he ceased to function.

  Maybe he can sneak by them. The first of the semis is only fifty yards away. He can reach the door and get inside before they reach him. Yes. That’s what he’s going to do. The semi is safe. There will be water inside. The windshield is clear of blood, no sign of an inhabitant inside.

  Alvarez breaks into a headlong sprint, charging straight at the semi. His feet pound the pavement. His clothes swish. His breathing rasps.

  The three zombies turn in unison like heat-seeking missiles. Their bald white eyes track his movements. One of them lets up a keen that feels like a knife down his spinal cord. They move in his direction. It’s a stumbling, shuffling movement due to their blindness, but it’s by no means slow.

  Alvarez slams into the side of the semi and yanks the handle. His sweat-slick hands fumble on the locked door. He grabs it a second time, yanking. It remains locked.

  The zombies are closing in. Thirty yards. Twenty.

  He leaps to the ground and scrambles around the front grill, heading for the next nearest semi.

  A bloody face smashes itself against the glass as he approaches, snarling and licking at the driver’s side window.

  A bellow of terror tears free of his lips. He charges toward the third semi, the last in the lineup. The three undead close in behind him.

  Get inside, Alvarez. That’s an order!

  He yanks so hard on the handle he slips off the metal step. The door swings open under the force of his pull. He tumbles backward with a shout, hitting the ground. The shovel flies from his fingers.

  The first of the zombies lunges at him, white eyes rolling and claws snatching.

  Silence is the key to survival. Alvarez knows this. He saw evidence of it firsthand when his unit’s jeep was swarmed outside of Rod’s Roadhouse.

  Even knowing that, he can’t help the scream that tears itself from his throat as he leaps backward.

  The effect is instantaneous. The zombie trapped inside the neighboring semi throws itself against the glass, scraping at the window with bloody fingers. The remaining two undead in the parking lot surge forward, joining the one already closing in on Alvarez.

  Alvarez presses back against the middle semi, gasping for breath. Above him is the trapped zombie, going nuts as it tries to bust through the glass. Nearly upon him are three more zombies.

  Fear crowds around him like a cage, threatening to suffocate him. His feet are welded in place. He stands there, unable to move, knowing he’s going to die.

  Salvation arrives in a strange form. Another zombie tumbles out of the semi rig he just opened, colliding with the foremost of the threesome nearly upon him. All four monsters go down in a tangle of legs and snapping jaws.

  Alvarez acts on pure instinct. Seizing the opening, he sprints headlong for the highway with only one goal in mind: to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monsters.

  He doesn’t even care that he’s thirsty.

  Mile 8.5

  THE FOUR UNDEAD SET after him in pursuit, loping like blind cattle. They might be unable to see and unable to move as fast as he does, but they have other advantages. Such as being impervious to pain.

  In one wild glance over his shoulder, Alvarez sees a z
ombie trip on a pothole and sprawl across the pavement. The blacktop eats up half his cheek, but the monster hardly slows. In a seamless motion, it surges to its feet and keeps loping—coming straight for him with the rest of the undead fuckers.

  Alvarez pours on speed, cranking his way down the freeway. It takes him another solid two hundred fifty yards to realize he’s making a ton of noise.

  The stomp-stomp of his boots. The swish-swish of his pants. The huff-huff of his breath. The fft-fft of his arms every time they swing across his body. Topping it all off is the rattle-rattle-rattle of the weapons on his belt.

  He’s like a motherfucking one-man traveling band. Or a pied piper. Yeah, that’s it. He’s a zombie pied piper. With nothing else out here, the little sound he makes has all their attention.

  Before he can even begin to consider the consequences of his actions, he tears at his shirt. Buttons pop off as he peels it from his body. He tosses it aside without a second glance.

  One of the zombies trips, her ankles tangling in the fabric. She’s up seconds later, never slowing her relentless pursuit.

  Terror threatens to choke him. He bites back another scream that builds in his gut.

  Next, he unbuttons his belt. The thing jangles like a Christmas bell. He shoves his knife into a pocket and the gun into his waistband before flinging the belt behind him.

  The buckle hits a zombie in the nose. The thing keens and hisses, grabbing the belt and sinking its teeth into the black leather. A growl rumbles up from its throat when it finds no flesh and blood.

  All that’s left now are his boots and pants. These two items, however, are not as easily shed. He needs a distraction. Something to delay the undead just long enough for him to shimmy out of his clothes.