There’s something liberating about a long run. I love everything about it: the salty dribble of sweat in my eyes; the smell of wet dirt on the trail in the morning; the burning in my calves as I plow uphill; the exhilaration of a stunning view after that uphill climb; the thrashing of my quads on the inevitable downhill; and the screaming ache in my biceps from pumping up and down for hours on end.

My soul finds peace in the mindless labor of the run and the untamed nature of the trail. Some call it the runner’s high, some call it trail surfing. I call it joy. Bliss. Oblivion.

Unfortunately, all these fancy adjectives evade me this morning. I’m stalled only three miles into today’s run. Standing on the single-track trail that circumnavigates Lake Sonoma in Northern California, I wait for my running buddy to drop a deuce in the woods.

“Hey, Kate.” Frederico pokes his head out from behind a tree. His shoulder-length, curly gray hair is pulled back in its customary ponytail. In his early sixties, he’s been running and racing for over thirty years. “Can I borrow your socks?”

I make a face at him. “What’s wrong with
your
socks?”

“I used them.”

“
Both
of them?”

He wrinkles his nose. “I ate chili last night.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Mrs. Crowell’s habanero chili?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed for holding out on me. The little old lady who lives next door to Frederico is legendary for her chili.

Grumbling, I plop onto the ground and unlace my shoes. I hate running without socks. Knowing one won’t be enough to mop up Mrs. Crowell’s chili, I pull off both of them.

“You’re washing these,” I say, tossing them in Frederico’s direction.

He gives me a wicked smile as he catches the socks. “Did I mention my washing machine is broken?”

“Fuck you.” I half scowl, half grin at him. “Those are brand-new socks. The least you could have done was get some chili for me.”

“I knew there wouldn’t be enough socks for both of us, so I ate it all myself.”

I chuck a rock at his head. He ducks back behind the tree. The rock bounces harmlessly into the brush.

I’d like to say this is the first time something like this has happened. I’d like to say I’ve never asked to borrow
his
socks. When you run for hours and hours out in the middle of nowhere, shit happens. Literally. And if you’re lucky, you’ll have a friend to help you out.

“All done.” Frederico jogs back out to the trail. The front pouches on his hydration pack bulge with the soiled socks.

“Yick.” I plug my nose. “You smell like shit.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “I’ll have you know, little jackalope, that my shit doesn’t stink. It smells like roses.”

Jackalope
is Frederico’s nickname for me. It’s a jackrabbit with antlers, an urban myth in North America.

“You wish,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “I’m running in front so I don’t have to be downwind of you.”

I break into an easy lope, skimming up the narrow, uneven trail. The thick tread of my trail shoes grip the damp earth and provide sure footing.

The morning is glorious, crisp with the smell of last night’s heavy spring rain. Bars of sunlight break through the trees, ephemeral strands that dance with life. To my right, I glimpse the serene blue of Lake Sonoma. A hawk glides on invisible currents of air.

Frederico and I have twenty miles planned for today. I feel myself slipping into the joy of the run. My brain moves into a state of pleasant numbness, a special place where the ache in my heart subsides. Out here, running through the woods, I can almost pretend Kyle is home, waiting for me.

“Kate, I gotta go again.”

Frederico’s voice draws me up short, reality snapping back in around me. I turn around in time to see him dash behind another tree.

“All my other socks are in the car,” I call, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. We haven’t even done four miles yet. “I saw some poison oak a little ways back. Want me to get you some?”

“Fuck you, Jackalope,” he calls back cheerfully.

I sigh, scuffing the tread of my running shoe irritably in the dirt. Through the dappled morning light, something red flashes in the corner of my eye.

I turn, peering through the trees. After a moment, I realize what it is I’m seeing: a dead pig.

Wild pigs are pretty common at Lake Sonoma. They wreak havoc in the parks with their rooting. What’s not common is to find a dead one with its blood and entrails pooling on the forest floor.

“There’s a dead pig over here,” I call to Frederico. “It’s stomach has been ripped out.” Flies and maggots have already congregated on the animal’s body. Poor thing.

“It’s hunting season,” Frederico calls back.

That’s true. We’ve run into hunters out here on our runs, some with guns and some with bows. It can be creepy to come across armed men in camouflage in the middle of the woods, but so far all our encounters have been friendly.

“Poor bastard probably got shot but managed to get away,” I agree.

“Mountain lion or coyote could have taken it down once it was wounded.” Frederico trots out of the trees and takes a look at the dead pig. “Yeah, I’d say something with claws and teeth definitely got into that guy.”

“God.” I take a step back from him and plug my nose. “You’re starting to smell like porta potty.”

He makes an apologetic face. “Oak leaves make shitty ass wipes.” His expression morphs into one of earnest wheedling. “Can we go back to the car?”

I scowl in response.

“Pretty please?” he says.

“I really needed this run today,” I mutter. When I run, I don’t have to think about anything other than my next step, my next breath. Everything is better when I run and shut off my brain.

“Remember when I ran thirty-eight miles smelling my own shit at Western States?” Frederico asks.

I snort. Western States is a 100-mile footrace from Squaw Valley to Auburn. Kyle and I crewed for Frederico at that race, meeting him at the various aid stations with food and other running supplies. Some bad fish had given Frederico a serious case of runs. We ran out of extra shorts and socks by mile sixty-two. He was too tired by that point to care much about wiping. After that experience, he vowed never to run with a smelly ass again.

“I’ll buy you breakfast,” Frederico says, eyes plaintive. “Bread Box?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I want breakfast at Bread Box, plus coffee and an apple fritter. And I want you to wash my socks.”

BOOK: Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel)

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