Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) by Camille Picott Read Free Book Online

fingers, cracking loudly against the cement walkway. I fell to my knees, snatching clumsily at it.
    “My husband fell,” I said breathlessly to the operator. “Please, send an ambulance. Please, please . . .”
    Even as I said the words, I knew it was too late. Kyle was gone. His face was pale and flaccid, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His beautiful blue eyes stared sightlessly at the sky above him.
    Carter placed both hands on Kyle’s chest, pumping up and down. “One, two, three,” he counted, choking on a sob. He bent over, tipping Kyle’s head back and blowing air into his father’s mouth.
    I folded over into a ball, sobbing. I felt my world shatter delicately around me. Carter continued to administer CPR.
    It didn’t do any good. Kyle was gone.
     
    *
     
    A fluke. A stupid accident. Kyle slipped on wet pavement and cracked his head open. Just like that, he was gone. Stolen from me and Carter.
    Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I imagine I hear the crack as the back of Kyle’s skull connected with the cement. It’s a dull sound. Distinct, but not very loud. Soft, but deadly and permanent.
    In all my nightmares and morbid mental movies of his death, I am haunted by the sound of his skull connecting with the pavement. It’s a deep, faint thud I’ve only imagined, and it’s identical to what I just heard when I split this zombie’s skull.
    The sound often drives me into my running shoes and out onto the road, but it doesn’t matter how far or how fast I run. I can’t escape the fact that my husband, the love of my life and my best friend, is gone.
    Did Kyle hear that dull, horrible noise before he died? Had he died instantly, like this zombie, or had he dwelled in unconsciousness while his life bled out of his head? Could Carter and I have saved him if we’d gotten home five minutes earlier? Ten minutes?
    As I stare at the zombie’s ruined head, all I can think of is Kyle. My dead husband’s brown goatee and strong nose are superimposed on the face of the zombie with the bleeding skull. My hands shake. My chest is constricted, making it hard to breathe.
    “Kate!” Frederico shouts in my ear, giving me a rough shake. “It’s not Kyle. It’s not Kyle!”
    And just like that, the moment is over. Kyle’s features melt away, replaced with the grotesque one of the zombie. Panic drains out of my chest, letting breath flood normally into my lungs. I sag, letting tears dry on my cheeks.
    “I miss him,” I whisper. “Every moment of every day. I miss him so goddamn much.”
    “I know.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I know, Jackalope.”
    I press fingers to my temples, burying thoughts of Kyle. Grief and sorrow will not help me now.
    Focus on something else. That’s what I need to do.
    I push off the car, frantically rooting around in the passenger seat until I find my phone. I nearly sag with relief when I see a missed text message from Carter.
    I’m OK. Had 2 move furniture in front of door. Text when u can. Don’t call. Can’t talk. Need 2 stay quiet.
    I press the phone against my chest, momentarily closing my eyes.
    Carter is okay. My son is still alive. Taking a steadying breath, I text back.
    We’ve seen the zombies. Are you safe?
    I purposely do not look at the mangled body lying a few feet away. Even if it was a monster, I don’t like thinking about what I did to him.
    I’m glad you’ve seen them , comes his reply. Wasn’t sure how 2 explain things.
    A strangled laugh escapes me.
    Zombies aren’t supposed to be real , I text back.
    No kidding. Everyone said they were meth-heads. Then I saw 3 girls eating a guy at a party last night.
    Frederico leans against the car beside me, glancing over my shoulder at the phone. In the aftershocks of my panic attack, I realized I’d forgotten all about my friend’s catapult into the vineyard.
    “I’m so sorry,” I say, looking up from the phone. “I’m a complete shit. Are you okay? You flew at least fifty feet.”
    “I’m a tough