Read Online Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) by Camille Picott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Camille Picott
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overpass and into town. A minivan full of kids in pee wee football uniforms rolls by us. Go Bulldogs! is written in white paint across the van’s side windows.
The woman behind wheel gives us a skeptical look before rolling onto the on-ramp. To her, we probably look like whack jobs on really good weed because who would run over an overpass wielding a lug nut wrench?
We jog up behind the McDonald’s, wading through a margin of waist-high weeds as we circle around toward the parking lot. The drive-thru is empty, though I see a blond-haired teen spraying cleanser on the pick-up window ledge.
Two yards into the grass, a stomach curdling stench hits me. I draw to a halt, covering my nose and checking my shoes, wondering if I stepped on roadkill.
In the same instant, Frederico trips on something. He grunts in surprise, then lets out a surprised yelp.
“Kate, look out!”
Chapter 9
Boy Scouts
A dreadlocked kid rears up from the weeds like an animal, baring his teeth and snarling. His eyes are the now-familiar eerie, opaque white. His right arm hangs awkwardly, strands of sinew showing through the bloody gash in his shoulder. He’s wearing a green shirt that says Meat is Murder. Go Vegan.
Oddly, the kid only rises to his knees before lunging. Frederico easily dodges aside, raising the wrench defensively but not attacking.
The zombie crashes to the ground, snarling. He struggles to crawl through the grass, fingers slipping in the damp earth. A closer look reveals a pair of legs twisted at odd angles.
“Something happened to him,” I say, easing around the zombie. “His legs are broken.”
“Good for us. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t agree more.
We retreat, scanning the grass as we back away from the zombie. There’s no one else around. The blond teen has disappeared from the drive-thru window. A battered forest-green Camry pulls around the corner of the drive-thru, the driver not even glancing in our direction.
The beast snaps his teeth, struggling to follow us. How did this poor kid end up here, anyway? From the looks of him, he’s homeless. Northern California has its fair share of hippie-esque homeless and vagabonds.
“Kate, look what I found.”
Frederico pulls a big frame backpack out of the grass. It’s faded on the top and covered with dirt splatters. A dingy sleeping bag is rolled up and fastened to the top.
Poor kid. My eyes flick to the zombie, who’s now a good twenty feet away from us. He really was homeless.
Frederico rummages through the backpack. He tosses me a granola bar, then takes a wrapper off a second one and starts to eat. I don’t argue, scarfing down the bar in a few quick bites.
Frederico finds one last granola bar, which we squirrel away for later. He also finds a nice Swiss Army knife, which he slips into a pocket. A minute later, he pulls out a tie-dyed shirt that says I Don’t Eat Anything With Eyes . Though part of me registers the humor in this, I can’t find it in myself to laugh.
We leave the vegan zombie behind for good, jogging past the McDonald’s and into the parking lot. Safeway is on the far side of the shopping center. I start compiling a mental list of the things we need to stock up on. Electrolyte powder, if we can find it. Some Ziplocs to put it in. Portable food. Energy bars would probably be the best, and maybe some—
A scream draws my attention. I freeze, head swiveling toward the sound. The Camry has pulled up beside the Boy Scouts and the white van. A woman—presumably a mother of one of the boys—screams hysterically. At her feet is a pile of McDonald’s paper bags. Latched onto her right forearm are two Boy Scouts. Both of them have deep wounds on their shoulders and necks, blood covering their small bodies.
They snarl, digging their teeth into her flesh. The woman stumbles back. Blood spurts from her wounds onto her plain white T-shirt.
Frederico takes several steps forward, lips parting in a silent shout. The
The woman behind wheel gives us a skeptical look before rolling onto the on-ramp. To her, we probably look like whack jobs on really good weed because who would run over an overpass wielding a lug nut wrench?
We jog up behind the McDonald’s, wading through a margin of waist-high weeds as we circle around toward the parking lot. The drive-thru is empty, though I see a blond-haired teen spraying cleanser on the pick-up window ledge.
Two yards into the grass, a stomach curdling stench hits me. I draw to a halt, covering my nose and checking my shoes, wondering if I stepped on roadkill.
In the same instant, Frederico trips on something. He grunts in surprise, then lets out a surprised yelp.
“Kate, look out!”
Chapter 9
Boy Scouts
A dreadlocked kid rears up from the weeds like an animal, baring his teeth and snarling. His eyes are the now-familiar eerie, opaque white. His right arm hangs awkwardly, strands of sinew showing through the bloody gash in his shoulder. He’s wearing a green shirt that says Meat is Murder. Go Vegan.
Oddly, the kid only rises to his knees before lunging. Frederico easily dodges aside, raising the wrench defensively but not attacking.
The zombie crashes to the ground, snarling. He struggles to crawl through the grass, fingers slipping in the damp earth. A closer look reveals a pair of legs twisted at odd angles.
“Something happened to him,” I say, easing around the zombie. “His legs are broken.”
“Good for us. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t agree more.
We retreat, scanning the grass as we back away from the zombie. There’s no one else around. The blond teen has disappeared from the drive-thru window. A battered forest-green Camry pulls around the corner of the drive-thru, the driver not even glancing in our direction.
The beast snaps his teeth, struggling to follow us. How did this poor kid end up here, anyway? From the looks of him, he’s homeless. Northern California has its fair share of hippie-esque homeless and vagabonds.
“Kate, look what I found.”
Frederico pulls a big frame backpack out of the grass. It’s faded on the top and covered with dirt splatters. A dingy sleeping bag is rolled up and fastened to the top.
Poor kid. My eyes flick to the zombie, who’s now a good twenty feet away from us. He really was homeless.
Frederico rummages through the backpack. He tosses me a granola bar, then takes a wrapper off a second one and starts to eat. I don’t argue, scarfing down the bar in a few quick bites.
Frederico finds one last granola bar, which we squirrel away for later. He also finds a nice Swiss Army knife, which he slips into a pocket. A minute later, he pulls out a tie-dyed shirt that says I Don’t Eat Anything With Eyes . Though part of me registers the humor in this, I can’t find it in myself to laugh.
We leave the vegan zombie behind for good, jogging past the McDonald’s and into the parking lot. Safeway is on the far side of the shopping center. I start compiling a mental list of the things we need to stock up on. Electrolyte powder, if we can find it. Some Ziplocs to put it in. Portable food. Energy bars would probably be the best, and maybe some—
A scream draws my attention. I freeze, head swiveling toward the sound. The Camry has pulled up beside the Boy Scouts and the white van. A woman—presumably a mother of one of the boys—screams hysterically. At her feet is a pile of McDonald’s paper bags. Latched onto her right forearm are two Boy Scouts. Both of them have deep wounds on their shoulders and necks, blood covering their small bodies.
They snarl, digging their teeth into her flesh. The woman stumbles back. Blood spurts from her wounds onto her plain white T-shirt.
Frederico takes several steps forward, lips parting in a silent shout. The
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