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KATE
My eyes snap open from a black, dreamless sleep. I stare at the white popcorn ceiling above me, trying to figure out where I am.
Pain hits me with the force of a swinging socket wrench. It’s a head-to-toe, all-consuming ache.
There is only one thing that can make me hurt this much, and it’s not childbirth. In comparison, childbirth had been a cakewalk for me.
Running. Only a long, brutal ultramarathon can leave me feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck. Or in this case, chased by zombies and shot by my best friend.
With a soft groan, I ease myself into a sitting position. Thinking of the bullet wound on my arm makes me think of Frederico, my best friend. He died on our two-hundred-mile run from our home to Humboldt University. He died so I could reunite with my son.
Where is Carter? I look around the room. Blue curtains cover the windows. Gray carpet, spotted with lopsided stains, sits beneath my bare feet. On the other side of the small room is a six-person table and kitchenette.
Dorm room. I’m in a dorm apartment on the second floor of Creekside. I vaguely remember tottering up the stairs as Carter told me how he and his companions had cleared one of the suites and taken up residence there.
Sitting at the table, hand poised above a note pad, is a young man. He’s a handsome kid if you can see past the huge, ridiculous sideburns that conceal half his face. A joint dangles in one hand, which he stubs out when he catches me looking at it.
“Sorry, Mrs. S.” He gestures to the joint. “I only use it to stimulate my creativity. I’m not a pothead or anything.” He crosses the room, holding out a hand in introduction. “My name is Johnny. I was hiding under the kitchen sink until Carter and the others cleared this dorm room after theirs caught fire.”
I shake his hand, trying to imagine this young man folded into the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. I can’t fathom how he fit, but I’m glad he’s alive.
“You can call me Kate,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”
He plops down on the coffee table across from me, eyes intent as he rests his elbows on his knees. The way he stares at me is unnerving. I feel like a bug under a microscope.
“Mrs. S.—Kate—I’m a writer. Carter told me a little bit about your running. I want to write your story. Will you tell me about your run to Arcata?”
This kid is intense. I rise, stifling a groan as I head toward the kitchenette for a drink of water. Stiff does not begin to cover how I feel. I’m pain on two legs.
Moving is good, I remind myself, focusing on the sink piled high with dirty dishes. Moving will loosen up muscles and speed up the recovery process.
Except that my rolled ankle throbs, which makes moving hurt that much more. What I wouldn’t give for an Epsom salt bath right now.
“Kate?” Johnny trails after me.
“I need some water.” And perhaps a table to put between me and this intense kid. “Where’s Carter?”
“He’s out getting first aid supplies for you.”
I pause mid-stride, turning around to look at Johnny. “What?”
“Carter wanted to get first aid supplies for you. Don’t worry, he’s in the building. A few of our friends are with him. They should be back anytime now.”
Panic constricts my throat. I fight against it, reminding myself Carter and his friends are capable of watching each other’s backs. They survived together, cleared this dorm room, and even cleared the downstairs lounge.
“How long have they been gone?” I ask.
“Forty-five minutes or so. They should be back any minute. Don’t worry.”
I turn away, attempting to calm the unreasonable panic clenching my chest. This, unfortunately, gives me a close-up view of the sink. Not only is it piled high with dirty dishes, but there are ants crawling on the hardened lumps of food stuck to the plates and silverware.
The crowning glory is the cast iron skillet sitting on top of the pile. It looks like someone cooked chili in it. The ants are in a full frenzy on the congealed food.
The sight of the ants makes my skin itch. I hate the insidious little fuckers. Even in a world where shit’s gone sideways, I still have the energy to hate ants.
As I focus on my surroundings, I realize the mess doesn’t stop at the sink. The trash can overflows. I count three garbage bags mounded next to it, a trail of ants going into each of them.
Just because the world has ended doesn’t mean young adults have become any better at cleaning up after themselves. Apparently, I’ve left zombie-infested roadways and entered a pigsty.
I hurt way too much to form a coherent plan to deal with the disgusting mess. There has got to be a clean water glass around here somewhere.
I open a few cupboards and find a pint glass printed with the backside of a naked lady. The text across the top reads Bottoms Up.
Yep. I’m in a pigsty. A pigsty populated with college kids.
Stacked along the countertop are all matter of containers, every last one of them filled with water. Larger containers are on the floor, also filled with water.
I take a long drink, then refill the glass and take a second one. “No more running water?” I ask, gesturing to the various containers. It takes every scrap of willpower not to comment on the ants.
Johnny shakes his head. “We lost power a few days ago. We knew it was going to happen, so we filled up everything we could with water. There’s also the water heater. We’ve been using that for the toilet. We should be set until help comes.” His eyes dart at this last statement, communicating his discomfort.
Until help comes. I consider my words carefully, not sure how well the young man in front of me has adjusted to this new world. “How secure is this building?”
He shifts, eyes once again darting away. “We haven’t cleared any other rooms, but we did the lounge on the bottom floor. That gave us a way in and out of the building.”
Apparently, they half-ass survival the same way they half-ass dish duty. This does nothing to calm my nerves.
A pretty Asian girl enters the common room, eyes widening at the sight of me.
“Mrs. S.,” she exclaims. “You’re awake! I didn’t think you’d be up for another two days.”
I half smile, half frown at the odd statement. “Why would you think that?”
“Carter said you always sleep a day or two after a one-hundred-miler. Since you ran two hundred miles to get here, we figured you’d need four days of sleep.” She speaks fast, her eyes never leaving my face.
“This is Lila, by the way,” Johnny says.
Lila and Johnny both stare at me like I’m some sort of strange, unexpected wild animal in their midst. It’s unnerving, only reinforcing the uncomfortable feeling of being under a microscope.
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask.
“Almost two days,” Johnny replies. “You didn’t even get up to pee.”
I can tell by my dry mouth that I’m dehydrated, which isn’t surprising considering how far I went on foot. It’s not unusual to be dehydrated after an ultra. It can be challenging to replenish water as quickly as it sweats out. Or, in my most recent case, it can be challenging just to find water.
“Are you sore?” Lila asks.
“Don’t be stupid,” Johnny says. “She just ran two hundred miles. Of course, she’s sore. Right, Mrs. S.?”
I wish he’d stop calling me that. It makes me feel old. I’m thirty-nine, not ninety-nine.
“Kate,” I remind him. “Please, call me Kate. Yes, I’m a little sore.” No need to tell them my body feels like it’s been worked over with a baseball bat.
Lila’s face brightens. “I have just the thing. Hold on.”
She returns from her room carrying a small glass jar filled with a pale-yellow substance. It looks like a candle, but when she opens it, the unmistakable smell of marijuana wafts out.
“I’m developing a cannabis salve for athletes,” she tells me. “This is a blend of coconut oil, beeswax, and cannabis oil. I also mixed in a little copaiba essential oil, which is great for reducing inflammation.” She holds it out to me. “Here, try it.”
Dubious, I take the jar. I don’t really want to walk around smelling like a marijuana plant, but the girl’s eyes are so earnest I don’t have the heart to tell her no.
The balm inside has the consistency of soft wax. I sniff it again, holding back a grimace. I’ve never liked the smell of pot.
“I’m getting a degree in chemistry,” she tells me. “I’m going to start my own cannabis company after I graduate.”
“Lila is always working on different balms and stuff,” Johnny says.
“Cannabis is good for so many things,” Lila says. “Pain relief, stress relief, skin care, all kinds of things. It’s not just for getting high.” She says this in such a way that leads me to believe she spends a lot of time defending her chosen career plan.
I decide not to point out she needs to work out a way to eliminate the stinky odor of this stuff if she wants to have a chance in hell at selling it.
“Thanks. I’ll try it.” I scoop out a lump. After a moment’s consideration, I decide to rub some on my swollen ankle. That particular part of my body can use all the help it can get. And it’s the farthest away from my nose.
“I should take a picture of it,” Lila says. “To track the recovery time as you use my salve.” Her face falls. “Too bad my phone is out of batteries. The guys stole solar panels to run the Xbox and ham radio, but we don’t have any other power. The solar panels don’t last long anyway.” She looks away, gaze shifting to her shoes. “Besides, until the government cleans up this mess, there’s no one to call.”
I note how both Lila and Johnny talk about our current state as if it’s temporary. Like we’ve entered a dark tunnel but will find our way back out in a few weeks.
How much have they seen? How much do they know about what’s happening?
I think back on my journey here, of all the death and desolation I encountered over the two hundred miles. The world I passed through isn’t one that will heal quickly.
I don’t say this. There’s no reason to upset these kids right now.
A weight settles on my shoulders as I think of Carter. I want my son here, with me, so I can see he is whole and in one piece.
“I’m going to go find Carter,” I say. “Do you know which floor he’s on?”
“I just saw him, Eric, and Jenna out the window,” Lila says. “They were hauling some bodies outside. They must have killed a few on their supply search.”
Jenna. Carter’s girlfriend. The one he never told me about. I stifle my irritation. It would have been nice to know my son had someone special in his life.
Johnny, watching my face, says, “Don’t worry. The army wiped out just about everything and everyone around here. It’s pretty safe out there.”
If his intent was to comfort a fretting mother, he failed. “What do you mean, the army wiped out everything?” I ask, voice sharp.
Johnny and Lila shift, exchanging glances. I can’t discern their expressions.
“Arcata was under martial law for a few days,” Johnny says at last. “Things ... got out of hand. They opened fire on everything. And everyone.”
I recall the carnage I saw on Granite Avenue, the long road leading to Creekside dorm where I am now. All the dead kids, many of them murdered with guns. The dead soldiers littered among them. The burned buildings. Out of hand doesn’t begin to cover what I saw. From the uncomfortable look on Johnny’s face and the way he avoids my gaze, I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Lila busies herself in the kitchenette, rifling through the cabinets. “Are you hungry?” she asks with forced cheer. “We have SpaghettiOs.”
My mind is sucked down a tunnel to the last time I ate SpaghettiOs. It had only been a few days ago. Frederico had still been alive. Exhausted, hungry, and desperate, we raided an RV for supplies after we killed the family of seven zombies inside.
I would prefer never to eat SpaghettiOs again. I wish Frederico was still here. A wave of sadness passes through me at his loss.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m going to go find Carter. I—”
Several gunshots sound from outside. I fly to my feet and half run, half limp to the balcony. I throw open the door just in time to see Carter, Jenna, and another boy disappear into a nearby dorm building across the way.
Carter!
His name leaps to my throat, but I swallow it back. I limp onto the balcony and crouch behind the railing, peering into the parking lot.
Two men run into view, guns in hand. They look like homeless vagabonds, the sort that live throughout northern California. Their clothes are faded and stained. They have sun-darkened faces and permanent dirt in the grooves of their knuckles and necks.
Anger rockets through my bloodstream. How dare these fuckers aim weapons at my son?
“Where the fuck did that little weasel go?” says one.
“I saw the others in the parking lot. He must be around here somewhere,” says the second man.
“They could be hiding in any of these buildings.”
“Mr. Rosario will be pissed if he gets away. You know how she feels about thieves.”
Mr. Rosario.
My anger intensifies, a hot coal in my belly. I’ve met Mr. Rosario. Why the plump, overweight woman goes by a man’s name is still a mystery to me. Some of her people found me and Frederico on our journey here. They held us at gunpoint, tied us up like prisoners, and carted us off to a remote, off-the-grid camp run by the drug dealer. We barely made it out of there alive. In fact, Mr. Rosario had done her best to kill us.
And now her people are downstairs, threatening my son and his friends.
To hell with that.
I snatch the disgusting wrought iron skillet out of the sink and march straight to the door in my bare feet. Well, I try to march. It’s more of a determined limp. Every nerve ending in my body complains and begs me to sit back down. I relegate the pain to a distant part of my brain and shove my way out the door.
“Kate, where are you going?” Johnny says.
“You can’t go out there,” Lila adds. “It’s dangerous!”
I leave them behind and head toward the stairwell. I didn’t run two hundred miles and lose my best friend to let that bitch’s goons kill my son.