The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  He’s been even more of a jerk since our trip downtown. I lived with one in recent years, and I’m not thrilled to be stuck in my own house with another, especially one with whom I didn’t vow until death do us part. It’s bad enough that he’s barely polite to anyone, but if I have to watch him rebuff Clara’s every attempt at connection much longer, I will lose my mind.

  Tom’s exhale is a disdainful laugh. “What else would be moving?”

  I drop the spoon as frustration moves up my throat to my mouth. I usually hold back angry words, but maybe it’s time to let them fly. Keeping them in doesn’t work, I know that much. I spin to face him. “That’s not the point. The point is that it costs you nothing to be nice. Why can’t you give people a chance?”

  “You don’t know what I do or don’t do,” Tom says, face tight like I’ve struck a nerve. He seems to grow by inches with his irritation. He doesn’t scare me. Zombies scare me, but not this man who could do better but just won’t.

  “I know your own daughter keeps trying to talk to you, to get you to love her, and you won’t. Maybe you can’t. Either way, I’m tired of it.”

  His dark brows meet, and he growls, “Of course I love Clara.”

  My face heats with the arrival of another wonderfully timed hot flash. It pisses me off more, and I clench my hands so that my nails dig into my palms. “And how do you show her that? By yelling at her? Or is it by never once asking if she’s okay when she’s just lost her mother and brother? She cries herself to sleep, and you know how I know that? Because I gave you my bed and sleep on Holly’s floor. Because I’m fucking nice! So either be a nice person or…or get out.”

  I’m not screaming, but I’m not whispering either. Tom wears a look of shock, mouth open. Good. He needs to be shocked. I pick up my casserole dish, push past him, and head for the house. Halfway there, I stop in the quiet. Blissful, peaceful quiet. No moans or dragging sounds, no skittering of rocks or thumping of bodies into the fence.

  Guilt is already creeping into my consciousness, making my stomach tighten. Even if every word was true, I shouldn’t have yelled at Tom. He lost his wife and son only weeks ago, and I told him to get out. How’s that for nice? I shake my head and enter the house, where I drop the food on the table.

  Footsteps sound behind me. Tom. Everyone else is crowded around the window, and I join them. The road is empty once again. “Which way did they go?”

  Pop points toward town. “Long as they keep moving, we should be good to get to the school. We’ll go to the neighbor’s first.”

  “Sounds good. Dinner’s ready. Thanks to whoever set the table.”

  “Clara did.” Holly turns from the window and walks for the dining area. “It smells good.”

  Tom has filled the glasses with water, and he sits as we approach. I sit at my place and don’t look at him. Mitch dishes out the food, placing a fair amount on my plate with a stern expression, and she smirks at my admittedly weak glare.

  I take a bite. It isn’t too bad. Not creamy like regular macaroni and cheese, but hot and filling and salty and possibly the last cheese I’ll eat for a long while. “Sorry it’s not as good as usual,” I say to Jesse, who used to love my mac and cheese.

  “It’s good anyway.” He sucks a string of cheese into his mouth. “Thanks.”

  Everyone murmurs the same. I nod and watch my plate. Much of the reason I don’t flip out is because I hate being at odds with people. I hate tension. I didn’t call Ethan out on his actions the way I should’ve, I didn’t stand up for myself, all because I’m a coward. Instead of fighting back, I pulled back, marinating in my hurt until things were smoothed over, usually by Ethan’s apologies or my willingness to pretend it didn’t happen. But it was akin to smoothing a bedspread over twisted sheets—it looks good on the surface but is a mess underneath.

  After another minute, Tom says, “We should have a plan for tomorrow.”

  “Up early, then across the street,” Pop says. “We’ll take the truck to the school. No one should be walking the roads, and we’ll have plenty of room for food.”

  “What will we use for weapons?” Clara asks. “I have the knife Dad gave me, but I don’t know if it’ll work forever.”

  “Would I give you a crappy knife?” Tom asks her.

  “Not on purpose, but I’m guessing it has to be pretty strong to go through skull.”

  “If you’re trying to get through thick skull, you’ll need more than a knife,” Tom says, as if it’s the most elementary of ideas. “Maybe you should stay here until you know what you’re doing.”

  Clara’s eyes narrow. “How will I know what I’m doing if I don’t get to do it? Besides, I already killed some with that knife, remember?”

  Tom doesn’t answer, though his throat moves with a hard swallow. Clara’s speaking of the ones they killed along with Jeremy. I think Tom’s trying to keep her safe, but he’s going about it the way he does everything else—mulishly.

  “Clara, I think your dad is worried,” I say. “You know to go for somewhere softer. An ear or eye or maybe under the chin.”

  “I am worried,” Tom says. “Worried you won’t follow directions, as usual.”

  He regards Clara with something like distaste. Maybe it isn’t truly, but it’s close enough, and I can’t imagine Pop looking at me that way. Nothing I said sank in—not a word of it.

  Clara drops her fork with a clatter, eyes incensed. “Are you ever going to—forget it. I’m going, and good luck trying to stop me.”

  “You do what you want, Clara. You always do.”

  A silence falls over the table. Clara bends to her plate, scooping up pasta and swallowing it almost whole. Tom does the same. If this is how family dinners went at the Jensen’s, it’s no wonder Clara ate half her meals with us.

  I choke on an apple slice and force down as much food as I can, then toss the rest onto Jesse’s plate when Holly shakes her head at the offer of half. “You sure?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  Jesse shovels it in while the rest of us try to make normal conversation. When dinner is through, Tom stacks the plates and brings them to the sink, where we’ve set a collapsible water container with spigot. It sat at the edge of our picnic table on family camping trips through the years, and seeing it now brings back too many memories of good times. And bad times. And my failures.

  Clara throws glances at her dad while he soaps up dishes, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She doesn’t look angry, just hurt. I scrutinize Tom’s broad shoulders for a few seconds, hoping to gain some clue as to his mood, then realize I’m doing what I always do: searching for a way to be the peacemaker, to not upset anyone. It’s exhausting. I’m tired of other humans, of having no alone time, of zombies and rationing and even myself. I am officially peopled out. All I want is for today to be over.

  “I’m going to lie down in the basement,” I say. It’s the only place I won’t be in the way.

  “You feeling all right?” Pop asks.

  “Just tired. Don’t wake me if I fall asleep. Maybe I’ll sleep until morning.”

  “Sleep in your bed,” Tom says, still facing the sink.

  My first reaction is to refuse, but it’s my bed. I want it back, especially since I gave it to a jerk. “Okay.”

  I walk down the hall and get under the covers. It feels huge all alone, but I don’t mind. There’s no one I have to placate or mollify or convince all is well, and that makes it perfect.

  I wake early, feeling better than I did. I’m not raring to take on the world, but I don’t want to cry or murder everyone, which is more than I can say for last night. A big lump sleeps under bunched blankets on Ethan’s side of the mattress. I try to rise stealthily, but Mitch wakes and rolls over. “Morning.”

  I sit down on the covers with a yawn. “Sorry, I tried to be quiet. Why are you in here?”

  Mitch runs a hand through her hair. After almost thirty years of friendship, I’m still envious of the way her dark, silky strands obediently sett
le into a sleek line. “I gave my room to your dad so Tom could take the couch. Tom offered to sleep in the basement, but I said I’d sleep with you from now on. He asked if I minded, and I told him how we like to have pillow fights in our lingerie and giggle until dawn, so it’d be fun.”

  I laugh and toss my pillow at her. “Like so?”

  “Exactly.” She tosses it back. “You know, it’s a shame Tom’s an asshole. He’d be hot if he weren’t.”

  I didn’t lust after Tom the first time I met him, but I was more self-conscious than usual around the muscular guy with the dark eyes and striking bone structure. That passed quickly, and now a decade later all I see are glowering eyes and set shoulders that don’t give an inch.

  “I guess,” I say. “Unfortunately, his personality cancels it out. Are you sure you want to sleep in here? You wake at everything.” It’s why I gave Mitch the guest room and slept on the floor in the first place. Nobody sleeps in the basement, where only one means of egress could result in being trapped by incoming zombies. Upstairs, every window is an escape hatch.

  “I haven’t been sleeping well, anyway. You may not have noticed, but there are zombies out there.”

  “Really? Thanks for telling me.”

  Mitch sits up. “Go fetch me some coffee, Jeeves. And draw a hot bath while you’re at it.”

  “I wish.” I pull out my ponytail and flatten my hair the best I can. “I can do the coffee part, once I brush the disgusting taste out of my mouth. Did everyone decide what we’re doing today?”

  “First the neighbors. Then the school. You should’ve seen all the knives lined up on the table. Jesse was getting really into it. I think he might be a serial killer.”

  I shake my head, but I can’t stop my smile. “Lie down. I’ll get you coffee.”

  Mitch drops on her pillow. “You’re the best. Why don’t I find you even the remotest bit sexually attractive?”

  “If you did, you wouldn’t like me anymore.”

  “True.”

  “But thanks for that dose of confidence,” I say. “I’ll be back with coffee if I don’t slit my wrists first.”

  Mitch’s laugh follows me to the kitchen, where I freeze at the sight of Tom by the window. He doesn’t turn, and I move out of view to quietly brush my teeth at the sink before I put on rain boots and walk to the RV.

  I set water to boil, then start on coffee. Coffee was another Costco purchase and one of the only things I bought multiple months’ worth of at a time. I brew a full pot even though the thought of being in the open makes my heart jump like I’ve had twelve cups already. And it isn’t only zombies—there are likely people out there with guns, and everyone knows people do desperate things. I believe that people are good, or they want to be good. Most people, anyway. But some aren’t.

  In the best of times, people murder and rape and steal. It won’t be any different now, except there’s no one to stop them. Eugene is hardly a place where you have to watch your back, but that could change. Maybe it already has.

  I’m so lost in thought about Holly and Clara being abducted and used for purposes I don’t want to imagine, that I almost scream when Tom enters. I hold my chest and pant, speechless with surprise. “Sorry,” he says. “Thought I’d help you bring coffee and breakfast down.”

  I set a hand on the counter and look at my raggedy nails instead of him. Maybe I was in the right for what I said, but I still feel bad about how I said it. Of course, the one time I open my mouth, I go overboard and practically threaten to feed someone to the zombies. “I was thinking oatmeal,” I say. “No one loves it but Pop, but it’s warm and filling and he just bought a new container.”

  “I like oatmeal.”

  I add oats to the boiling water. Tom’s presence is disconcerting. Not only is he a big guy, but it feels as though he’s acting in a supervisory manner. The man is a control freak. I side-eye him. Maybe he takes the hint because he walks into the living room and stops by the gas fireplace. “This is a nice rig.”

  “Pop bought it, hoping to travel. Then he got cancer, and it didn’t happen. He thought maybe this summer he’d head for Alaska. I guess that’s not happening, either.”

  Tom grunts. I return to the oatmeal, wishing I had milk to make it tastier, and recall an extra can of sweetened condensed milk bought in case of any pumpkin pie mishaps last Thanksgiving. “Will you stir the oatmeal? I want to get something from the house.”

  I hand him the spoon and take off down the grass, my breaths coming easier once I’m out of the enclosed space. I grab the flashlight by the basement door and head to the downstairs pantry, which is a closet with shelves and nowhere near as full as I’d like, find the milk and grab what’s left of the walnuts, then cross the grass to the RV.

  At a snapping sound in the woods, I freeze. It came from behind the RV, where the fence marks the end of our property. Another snap and a crack, and then a doe and fawn bound through the trees. Crashing follows them—a man in a Carhartt coat, whose hisses are loud enough that Tom steps through the RV’s door. I raise my finger to my lips and move inside quickly.

  “They must eat animals,” I say once the door is shut. “It was a man chasing a doe and fawn.”

  “Anything alive, I guess.” Tom leans on the small island that separates the kitchen from the rest of the space.

  The oatmeal is done. I open the can of condensed milk, pour some into the pot, and let it heat through. I debate adding the walnuts, since food is precious, but I decide to think positively and dump them in. We’ll find more food, and we need the protein. “It’s ready.”

  Tom takes the pot. “You get the coffee.”

  I grab the coffee pot and shut off the machine, then make sure everything else is off. The batteries recharge via solar when there’s no electricity, but there isn’t much sun in an Oregon April, and I don’t want to waste what power we have.

  As we make our way to the house, it occurs to me that maybe Tom is trying to be more agreeable. If so, I should show him I noticed. “Thanks for helping.”

  “I came up there because you shouldn’t go alone. You should know that.”

  I stop on the patio and find his eyes chock-full of disapproval. Mitch is right: they’d be attractive, and he would be good-looking, if he ever fucking smiled or expressed anything but displeasure. It’s too early for this bullshit, but it seems Tom is ready to school anyone, morning or night.

  “I have a dad, Tom, in case you didn’t notice. I’m also forty-two and more than capable of deciding what I can and can’t do. But thanks for the concern, if that’s what it is.” I pull open the door. “Coffee’s getting cold.”

  Tom walks past me with a frown, but he doesn’t say a word.

  23

  Tom

  The house across the street had a shotgun and box of shells, as well as hygiene supplies and some food. It’s maybe four days’ worth for the seven of us. We’ll need more to reach the end of the month, but I think we’ll need more than a month anyway—we’ll need a lifetime. Even if the zombies die after thirty days, I have my doubts all will return to normal.

  No planes, no radio reports. They can broadcast long distances these days. They can do all sorts of things, and there’s been nothing. The world has gone down the tubes. I’m sure of it—have become more certain as the days tick by since the trip downtown. This is it. This is my future: a daughter who hates me and people who can barely stand me.

  I tried to be nice to Rose this morning, and I screwed that up, too. I followed her to the RV to tell her that I would try with Clara. Not only did I not say that, but I also lectured her on safety. I couldn’t help it. We have to lay some ground rules or things will get out of control. Everyone knows that.

  We lock Willa in the basement when we leave for the school. She’s usually quiet, but no one knows if she’ll bark while we’re gone. She stands on the top step whining, and I’m thankful when her pitiful noises fade into silence. Little purse dogs aren’t my thing, but Willa is a good girl. She seems to like
me, though the scraps of food I sneak her from my plate likely help with that.

  After a check of the road, which is clear as far as we can see, we jump in the truck. I sit in the pickup’s bed with Rose and watch the woods intently. I’m not nervous about making the trip myself, but Clara out here makes me jumpy as hell. If she were gone, that would be the end of me. There’d be nothing left to live for.

  If I were gone, I’m sure she’d be sad but relieved to have me off her back. It wasn’t always like this between us, but I’ve forgotten how to be any other way. I’m not a drunk, but everything else I hated about my father is exemplified in me. The very thing I railed against until I finally surrendered—doing things the “right” way, my father’s way—I forced on my kids. Am I truly that much of an asshole that I wanted them to suffer the way I did?

  I push the unwelcome thought from my mind. I have the conversation with Rose to thank for that, and by thank, I mean blame. Why I let her get inside my head is anyone’s guess. The woman doesn’t have enough sense to use the buddy system.

  She sits on the storage box in the bed, wearing an army-type jacket—green, with various pockets—and beat-up black paratrooper boots, the latter of which made Mitch laugh when Rose broke them out earlier. You still have those? Mitch asked, and Rose joked she’d been saving them for the zombie apocalypse. Apparently, I wasn’t wrong when I thought she dressed decades younger than she is. I have to admit she looks ready to fight, though. Her hair is tied back, damp with the drizzle that falls, and she holds her knife at the ready. The rain is good; the patter on leaves in the woods will help to hide any noise.

  One of the last houses before the incline to the school has a decent privacy fence. We’ve been hiding out so far, which has worked, but with what I suspect, what I know, about the virus, we need a taller boundary around the house—one zombies can’t see through. I’ll have to insist on that.