Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) Read Online Free PDF Page B

I see a terrified limo driver leap out from one of the vehicles. Three of the bloody finance people lumber after him. The other three, drawn to the noise of my car, come straight toward us.
    “The hill, the hill!” Frederico shouts. “Get around them!”
    The four-lane highway splits; the southbound lane to our left rises a good one hundred feet above us. To our right is a steep hill of dry grass that slopes down to a frontage road.
    “The hill!” Frederico shouts again.
    There’s no way I can stop the car before hitting the people or the cars. Taking Frederico’s advice, I swerve around the wrecked limos and head for the hillside slope. My little hatchback shoots off the freeway and goes airborne. I scream like a little girl.
    “Brace yourself,” Frederico roars, grabbing the oh-shit handle with one hand. “Hold on!”
    I clench my hands around the steering wheel and press my feet against the floor.
    The hatchback hits the ground with a tremendous clunk . It rattles every bone in my body. The airbags deploy in a rush of air, hitting me in the face with the force of a tornado. The car bounces, back end lifting higher than the front.
    “Shit-shit-shit,” I scream. My poor hatchback is about to go ass over teakettle down this bleak stretch of land.
    But it doesn’t flip. Instead, it bounces three more times. It settles, then stops. A hissing sound comes from the engine.
    We sit in silence, absorbing the shock of the last thirty seconds. The airbags deflate, slowly revealing the scene before us.
    The frontage road is empty and quiet. The dry grass surrounding my car is still and silent. In the distance, over the hum of the engine, I hear screaming.
    “Try the accelerator,” Frederico says.
    I obey, tentatively pressing my foot against the pedal. I give a small shriek of surprise when the car lurches forward.
    “Again,” Frederico says.
    I press the pedal, this time with more confidence. The car limps forward, rolling over the dips and bumps on the small stretch of grass. When it rolls onto the frontage road, I sigh in relief.
    “I can’t believe it still works,” I say, marveling.
    Frederico gives me a tight look. “We hit pretty hard when we landed. Let’s stick to frontage roads for now.” He glances back in the direction of the freeway. “Not sure one-oh-one is the safest route now anyway.”
    I follow his gaze. Several more cars have plowed into the Hummer obstacle course. There is more screaming. Oxford shirts and pencil skirts are piled on top of the poor limo driver.
    I swallow, feeling sick. “Call the police,” I say hoarsely. “Tell them about the wreck.”
    Frederico nods, woodenly complying with my request.
    I head down the frontage road. We roll into Geyserville, a small town ten miles north of Healdsburg. The town sports one stop sign, a fire station, two restaurants, and a few tasting rooms. It’s surrounded by gorgeous vineyards, and today, it’s filled with tourists for Barrel Tasting.
    I scan the tourists, looking for signs of trouble. At first, all I see is regular people strolling, talking, and laughing. A bit of tension eases out of my chest.
    Then I spot a man in a linen suit with a big red stain on his arm. To the average person, it would look like a wine stain. But I see his staggering gait. The sun hits his face, illuminating eyes glazed with eerie whiteness. His nostrils flare, head tipping in the direction of the crosswalk and a group of wine tasters meandering between the white lines.
    “That guy over there,” I say, pointing. “I think he’s—he’s one of them .”
    “What are we going to do?” I ask.
    Frederico looks at me. “What do you think we can do?”
    “We—” I break off, really considering his question.
    What can we do? Get out of the car and try to warn people away from the man in the linen suit? Who would listen to us?
    We could tie the man up and call the police. For an instant, I have a crazed vision of us finding a jump rope and tying the man to