Undead Ultra (A Zombie Novel) Read Free Page B

but he rights himself and launches back into the melee, blood dripping down his chin.
    “We’ve got to get out of here,” Frederico says. “Move!”
    The remains of an apple fritter fall from my hand. I snag my purse and phone before retreating after him.
    “What’s going on?” I say, voice coming out in a squeak. “What—what’s wrong with those men?”
    “They’re probably fucked up on some designer drug,” Frederico replies. “We’re not going to stick around to find out.”
    Drugs. That must be it. Those guys are on drugs. It wouldn’t be first time wine tasters tried to amp up their experience with drugs.
    Frederico and I hurry toward the swinging white door that leads into Bread Box’s kitchen. Behind us, patrons are on their cell phones to the police, shouting about drunken attacks and murder.
    We push through the swinging door into the kitchen. The two line cooks and dishwasher look up in surprise as we burst into the tiny space. The waitress, right behind us, launches into a frenetic retelling of events.
    “Those men just started—started chewing on her!” she cries shrilly.
    Carter’s frantic message reforms in my head, taking a different shape. I stop dead. Has Carter seen attacks like we just witnessed? Is that why he called me this morning? Is he in danger?
    I fumble the cell phone, awkwardly swiping at the screen.
    “What are you doing?” Frederico snaps.
    “I have to call Carter. What if—”
    “Not now.” The severity in Frederico’s voice brings me up short. “Move, Kate. Move .”
    My hand numbly shoves the phone into my purse. I nod, knowing he’s right. Somewhere outside is the wail of police sirens.
    We head to the back door, slipping into the alleyway behind Bread Box. It’s devoid of people. In contrast to the chaos of the restaurant, it’s quiet. I can’t even hear the screaming from the street, although the wail of the police cars grows louder.
    “Let’s go,” Frederico says. “If you see trouble, run like hell.”
    I nod. Side by side, we hurry north toward the street. We’re nearly to the alleyway exit when a hunched form steps into view.
    The figure is dressed all in purple with a bright-red hat. The hat is a small thing perched jauntily on the owner’s head. A small red mesh veil hangs from the hat, covering the woman’s forehead and part of one eye. The hat is almost the exact same color as the red staining her lips. It could be lipstick gone bad, but it could also be blood. The one visible eye is an eerie milky white.
    “Holy shit.” Frederick skids to a halt. “It’s the Red Hat Society.”
    The Red Hat Society is a social organization for “mature women.” I occasionally see groups of them roving downtown Healdsburg, shopping, wine tasting, and generally having a grand time. They always wear flamboyant purple dresses and bright-red hats.
    The hunchbacked woman in purple suddenly multiplies. She is joined by at least a dozen more old ladies, all of them dressed in dramatic purple-and-red outfits. All have the same milky white eyes. Many have red smeared on their mouths.
    “Do you think they’re on drugs, too?” I hiss. My voice echoes off the walls of the alleyway. The red-and-purple pack swivel in our direction. As a unit, they lurch toward us.
    “I don’t know,” Frederico whispers. “But something’s not right. You know that plan we talked about?”
    “The one where we run like hell?”
    “Yeah. That one. Now would be the time to follow it.”
    He doesn’t need to tell me twice. We turn and run south, heading for the opposite end of the alley. Our footfalls make crunching sounds on the loose chunks of asphalt. The Red Hat Society lumbers after us, many of them gnashing their teeth. Lucky for us, they don’t move fast.
    Just as we reach the other end of the alleyway, a middle-aged woman with a boob job runs screaming toward us.
    “Help!” she screams. “Someone help me!”
    A chunk is missing out of the shoulder of her designer