Free Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) by Camille Picott

rest of the Boy Scouts shift, trampling the to-go bags as they converge on the woman. Growling and snarling, they bear her to the ground in a blur of green-and-khaki uniforms. She screams one more time, then goes silent.
    Just like that, the poor woman is gone. It happens so fast that I can only stand there, paralyzed by the horror unfolding before me.
    Then I see what had the kids distracted up until this point. I had assumed they were huddled around camping or biking gear, or something Scout-like. What I see instead is a pudgy Scout leader, his stomach ripped open. Viscous blood pools on the parking lot asphalt, pale ropes of shiny entrails trailing across it.
    “We gotta get out of here,” Frederico says, clamping one hand around my wrist. “Move, Kate.”
    We retreat, taking a dozen steps backward. Just as we turn, another scream splits across the parking lot.
    I turn and see a chubby, brown-haired woman running out of the McDonald’s—and coming straight for us.
    “Call nine-one-one!” she shrieks. “The fry cook is attacking the cashier. Please, help!”
    The commotion draws the attention of several Scouts. Blank white eyes turn in our direction as the woman nears us.
    “Fuck,” I whisper. I move toward the woman, thinking to quiet her, but Frederico yanks me aside.
    “Shit’s going sideways. We have to get the fuck out of here.”
    He hauls me toward a battered old Nissan parked about ten feet away. Right as we reach the car, five of the Scouts peel away from the group and start running toward us. Frederico swings the lug nut wrench, shattering the driver’s side window.
    “Inside!” he bellows, yanking open the door. He turns to the hysterical woman. “Come with us,” he shouts to her.
    I never know if she hears us.
    I dive through the opening, scrambling over the emergency brake. Frederico leaps in next to me, tossing the lug nut wrench onto the floor. In his hand is the Swiss Army knife he lifted off the vegan zombie, the flat head screwdriver extended.
    I look up to see if the woman is coming. As I do, three of the zombie Scouts barrel into her. Her shriek of, “The fry cook—!” is cut off as she’s slammed to the ground. More screaming comes from farther away in the parking lot.
    Two zombie Scouts smack into the side of the Nissan. Frederico unceremoniously jams the flat head Swiss Army screw driver into the ignition and turns it. The car hums to life.
    Several more Scouts reach us, white eyes rolling in their sockets. They run straight into the back passenger door, hitting it so hard I’m pretty sure they dent it.
    One boy lets out a high-pitched keen as he claws and scratches at the door. Several more surge across the parking lot after us. A few of them trip as they run. The falls don’t stun or slow them down; they bound back to their feet, continuing their awful forward momentum.
    Frederico throws the car into drive and slams on the accelerator. The tires squeal against the pavement.
    He makes a hard left with the steering wheel. The little Nissan rockets out of the parking space. I grab my seat belt, trying to jam the buckle into place while simultaneously watching the Scouts.
    The car hits the asphalt curb surrounding the parking lot. The right side of the car flies up; the left side makes an awful metallic sound. Frederico leans hard on the gas pedal. The back of the Nissan bucks as it rolls over the curb and we hit the street.
    The pursuing Scouts crash into the car, this time running into the trunk. Frederico floors it. The car lurches forward, swerving to the left across the road.
    “Dammit!” Frederico puts all his weight into the steering wheel, struggling to keep it from veering to the left. He curses, straining against the wheel as the car hums up the overpass.
    Just as we reach the far side, the left wheel comes off. The car tilts wildly. The wheel bounces away. Sparks fly up as metal skids again asphalt. Seconds later, the poor Nissan screeches to a crooked halt.
    “We