Clara’s car still sits, door open, in front of the garage. Bodies lie at the porch, and I divert my gaze so I won’t see Jeremy’s among them. I retrieve the spare key from its spot beneath a rock and fit it in the door. Rose rushes in and I follow, though I have to force myself over the threshold.
24
Clara
Sam paces the living room. His face is almost as pale as his hair, and he rubs his eyes every few minutes, digging fingers in until the skin beneath is baggy. I stand with Holly and Jesse by the front window to watch for Dad and Rose. There are only zombies.
We came home quickly after our narrow escape and unloaded the truck as fast as we could, tossing items onto the back patio. Sam moved the truck to the gate again while we brought our food inside. It sits on the counters and kitchen floor, since no one has the heart to put it away.
I thought we were dead outside the school. I clutched Holly’s hand and wondered how you outlast monsters who keep their eye on the prize without the need for sleep or food or anything else. The answer: you don’t. Then Dad and Rose came to the rescue, drawing the monsters toward themselves, and we were safe. But they weren’t; most of the bodies followed them. We watched many more cross that intersection at the top of the hill as we drove toward Holly’s house.
Mitch comes to the opening of the dining area, arms around her waist. “Anyone hungry?” We all say no, and she drops against the wall. “Yeah, me neither.”
The last thing Dad said to me pierced my heart, in part because I wish I had come home more. I thought there’d be time. Endless amounts of time to see Mom and eat her terrible dinners. I’m hurt and angry, but it doesn’t change the fact that I want him here. Just like he’ll do anything to save me, he’ll do anything to get back to me. He’ll rescue me and then scold me for breathing wrong. That’s Dad, in a nutshell. He’ll get Rose home, too. Knowing Dad, he’ll make sure she gets home before himself. He’s chivalrous that way, and he knows how much I love her.
I peek over the wood again. More than a dozen. Jesse turns from the window. “They won’t get past with those out there. I’m going to take care of them.”
“I’ll do it,” Sam says, and Jesse shakes his head vehemently. “Jesse, you—”
“I’m sorry, Pop, but this is bullshit.” Jesse squares his shoulders, and his normally easy-going tone is firm. “I’m twenty-two years old, and you’re trying to keep me in the house like I’m twelve. If I weren’t here, I’d be in Washington dealing with this shit. What if they don’t come back? Are you going to keep me inside forever?”
He stalks to the kitchen, slams open drawers, then throws open the basement door and thuds down the stairs. “Geez, Jess,” Holly says under her breath. “It’s not like we’re trying to be quiet or anything.”
Sam watches the hall for a long minute, then turns to Holly. “I’m following your mother’s wishes here.”
Mitch walks into the living room. “Jess has a point, you know. Rose gets a little crazy about this stuff.”
Sam tugs at his short beard, grabs a flashlight, and heads for the basement door just as Jesse reappears with full arms. He dumps the variety of tools he holds onto the coffee table and pushes his hair from his face. It swoops to the side in a way that makes my stomach swoop, and it also makes me realize that almost every guy I’m interested in resembles Jesse in some way—and that attribute was what attracted me to them in the first place. Nick’s hair had that same swoop, Jake had the blue eyes, Keith the soft lips and strong chin. I’m ridiculously transparent, and possibly not quite as over pining for Jesse as I told myself.
Jesse reaches in his back pocket for his fitted leather work gloves, then pulls them on. “You can come with me, or not, but I’m going down there. They can’t get us through the fence. All we have to do is wait for them to come to it.”
“Hang on,” Sam says. “Can you give me three minutes?”
Jesse nods, arms crossed over his chest. Sam leaves for the hall and the back door closes a moment later. “Where’s he going?” Holly asks.
“Don’t know. Are you coming with me?” Jesse stares at his sister in challenge. “You’ll have to do it sooner or later. You should get it over with.”
Holly chews the end of a finger while she walks to the coffee table, where she lifts a steel spike attached to a glossy, ball-shaped wooden handle. “What’s this?”
“Scratch awl,” Jesse says. “From Mom’s woodworking period.”
Holly sniffs in amusement. Rose is forever getting excited about a new hobby, and when they tease her about it, she only laughs and says she’s well-rounded. “Do you think it would go in far enough?” she asks. “Like, into an eye or something?”
Surprise propels me forward. “Wait, you’re going?”
Holly’s eyes are huge and dark, but her head shifts up and down. “They have to get home, right? And Jess has a point. You know you can do it, I don’t. I’ll use this and bring my knife from the school.” She walks to the foyer, lifts the seat of the storage bench, and retrieves the gloves we used earlier. “Thankfully, Mom doesn’t throw anything out unless it’s in front of her or she’s in her Feng Shui period.”
Jesse and I laugh. “All right, that’s enough ranking on your mom,” Mitch says.
“Ranking?” Jesse asks. “Is it 1985?”
“Funny guy.” Mitch punches his arm. “What should I use? I’m not letting you young’uns get all the glory.” She roots around in the pile. “Screwdriver’s longer than that awl, Holly-Bird. If you’re interested.”
The back door opens. Sam appears a moment later, out of breath and with a duffel bag dangling from his hand. It clanks when he sets it on the table. “Have a look-see. I had this stuff ready to go, just in case.” He turns to Jesse and extends the sheath he wore to the school. “This is my old knife, but it’s a good one. Had it for over thirty years. It’s yours.”
Jesse draws it out. The handle is bone and silver, and the sturdy blade curves in slightly to end in a point. It looks deadly and narrow enough to slip through an eye socket. “It’s great. Thanks.”
“Your grandma got that for me. Handmade. As long as you take care of it, it’ll take care of you.”
“You should keep it if Grandma got it for you.” Jesse holds it out. He and Holly never met their grandmother, as she died before they were born, but it’s always been clear how much she’s missed by Rose and Sam.
“She’d want you to have it. Don’t be a numbskull.”
Jesse’s smile is brief but no less bright for that. “Thanks, Pop.”
Sam nods. “Since I can’t talk you out of it, here are the rules. We go down together, we stay behind the fence, and if any of you try to pull a Rose Winter, know that I will whip you soundly after I drag you back over.” We snicker. “Be careful and don’t be stupid.”
Mitch lifts an axe from the bag. “I like this. What else do you have out there, Papa?”
“That’s about it. Got rid of a lot of tools when I sold the house.”
I move to the bag and pick up a black hammer type-thing with a spike where the nail puller would normally be. The hammer part has small spikes, and the longer spike is silver along the edge, where it’s more like a blade.
“That’s a war hammer,” Sam says. “A buddy of mine got it for me as a gag, but it’s a solid piece.”
“Use it,” Jesse says to me. “It fits you.”
“A war hammer fits me?” I ask, though I like that he thinks so.
“Yes,” Holly says with a laugh, twisting her long hair into a knot on the back of her head. “It does.”
I set it down, then pull on my gloves and coat with shaky hands. Maybe I killed them on the porch with my dad, but that feels like a million years ago. And it was different—it was for Jeremy. I was more determined than afraid. Now I’m just afraid. But Dad and Rose are out there with many more than the dozen on the road. I’m behind a fence. I’ll do what I can to get them home.
Mitch swings the axe. It would be a scary sight if I di
dn’t know her—the woman is tall and tough—but Mitch’s cover doesn’t match her insides. She’s like a mom herself, though she always says Rose’s kids are more than enough for her.
She motions me and Holly closer, then speaks out of the corner of her mouth, “Ladies, I’m going to need you to fuck shit up out there. No squealing or otherwise being a discredit to your gender. Got it?”
“How about grunting?” Holly asks.
“Grunting’s cool. You ready?”
We set out for the road. Halfway there, an old lady spots us. She rams the fence, arms outstretched and fingers clawing the air. Her noises alert the others, and they stumble forward until they’re clumped together. The fence rattles, though the posts don’t budge.
“Spread ‘em out when we get down there,” Sam says, looking less enthusiastic than ever at agreeing to this.
Closer, the zombies take on details. The teenage boy still wearing a backpack, the woman in the yellow and green U of O tracksuit, the professor-type guy, the hippie lady with gray hair, the cop whose presence doesn’t bolster my confidence that this situation will ever be under control.
Their noises—hissing, harsh, and raspy—grow louder. The fence moves. Just half an inch, but enough to stop Holly and me in our tracks. Mitch plows onward. “They won’t leave now that they know we’re here. Fuck shit up, ladies!”
Holly starts forward again, faster this time. She isn’t normally the type to saunter headlong into dead bodies. I catch up to her. “Where’s Holly? Who’s this person practically running toward zombies?”
Holly tries for a smile, but her stiff lips barely move. “There are, like, five people I’d do anything for. You and Jess, my dad, Pop, and my mom.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be.”
We stop three feet away from the fence, out of arm’s reach. Because I’m not in a complete panic, I have time to take in their faded eyes and rough grayed skin. The wounds that, though gaping, don’t bleed. One—backpack kid—is almost fresh. He has red blood and pinkish-gray skin, with eyes less faded and veins not yet as dark. His parents must have worried about him, if they lived long enough to worry.
Mitch walks left, moving close to the fence as she does, then lightly taps her axe on the wood. Two break from the crowd and follow her. Then two more. She steps back, winds up her arms, and brings the axe sideways into the head of the hippie lady. The woman goes down, and Mitch flies forward when the axe doesn’t dislodge from skull. She lets go just before she hits the fence and backs away from the reaching hands, then glances at the rest of us. “I did that so you could see what not to do.”
Jesse’s laugh comes from behind, and then he’s at the fence with his new knife. He seizes the professor guy by his shirt and rams the blade into his eye. Then he moves down the line, waits for one to follow, and gets him in the ear. Dark gore sprays from the hole he makes. He may not be a ninja, but he’s not hurting in the strength department.
“Ears work,” Jesse calls, then shakes off his knife and goes for another.
I inspect my hammer. The spike could get stuck same as the axe, though blunt force is worth a try. I step to the side of backpack kid, then bring the hammer down on his head with all the strength I can muster. His body jerks at the force before he tries to catch me, not the least bit hindered by the blow. If anything, his groans are more enthusiastic. I, on the other hand, have an aching arm and the likelihood of a sore neck later. Blunt force is not a winner.
Holly sets her knife in the grass and walks past me to the fence, paler than ever. The kid grabs at her, but she pushes his arm aside and holds his wrist in her right hand. She’s a full foot shorter, and she lifts onto her toes as she raises her awl in her left hand and jams it into his eye. He drops, and she jumps back when another takes his place.
“Oh, God,” she says. “That felt…”
“I know,” I say.
Holly takes a deep breath, captures the next one’s arm, and slams the spike in again. It falls. Another lunges for her, but she dances down the fence line. It follows, and this one she strikes in the temple. She retreats from the fence, shaking out her arm, and turns to find my jaw hanging.
“Damn, girl,” I say, and she laughs.
I take my knife from my sheath and head for a woman. I don’t want to get close, but there’s no choice in the matter, and I’m not about to be a baby while Jesse looks on. The woman takes hold of my coat with gray, rotted fingers. I hold the knife in my fist and stick it into her light brown iris. Her fingers loosen, her body slumps over the fence, and I shove her to the ground.
While I stab the next, Jesse takes down one beside me, and Mitch jabs another with a knife. Sam finishes off one and then stands close by, ready to jump to our rescue if necessary. When all are down but the final one, he brings his long knife home under its chin.
Over fifteen zombies lie on the ground. Rose and Dad don’t suddenly appear, but we’ve made it safe for them to arrive. Holly pants, the freckles on her face matched by the spatter of brown juice on an old light blue jacket I remember from high school.
Silently, so we don’t attract more, we make our way to the house and remove our outer clothing. Holly washes her hands at the sink and releases her hair from its knot, letting it fall around her face and reverting to my sweet-tempered best friend.
“You were like the Angel of Death out there,” Jesse says to her.
“Seriously,” I say. “I’m glad I’ve never pissed you off.”
Holly smirks. “Never pissed me off enough, you mean.”
Jesse turns to me. “Not too bad, either. I was going to call you War Hammer from now on, but that was a no-go. I guess we’ll stick with Clary Sage.”
I smile sweetly. “And I’ll continue to call you Dickwad.”
Evening comes without Rose and Dad, and we really start to worry. We went down and killed another four who stopped by the first group, then dragged them all across the road. Way past nightfall, Sam stands at the window, though it’s pitch black, and he’s not only told us there’s no point but also assured us they’re somewhere safe for the night.
“Why don’t you kids go to bed?” he asks.
“I’ll stay with Papa,” Mitch says. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you if they come.”
Holly hands Sam the windup flashlight, kisses his cheek, and takes a lantern with us. We have two lanterns, but we use them sparingly because batteries are low.
After the three of us brush teeth at the sink, Jesse follows Holly and me down the hall and hangs back in her doorway. “I think they’ll be home in the morning. Like last time.”
Holly sits cross-legged on the bed, her eyes huge and now absent of her earlier bravery. Willa curls by her side, head on her knee. “I’m scared, Jess. What if Mom doesn’t—” She shakes her head, unwilling to say it aloud.
“I know.” He comes into the room and drops to her quilt. “Let’s make a rule. No matter what, we stick together. The two of us don’t split up—the three of us, if Clary Sage wants in.”
The smile he gives me is lit ghostly by the lantern. I bring my feet onto Holly’s desk chair and hug my knees to my chest, happy to be included. With Dad gone, they’re all I have. “Of course I do.”
“Okay, cool.” Jesse heads for the door.
“Jess,” Holly says, “do you want to sleep in here, on the floor?”
“Sure.” He returns quickly, as though he dreaded going to his room and sitting in the dark alone. I don’t blame him.
Holly slides under the covers closest to the wall. It’s her side. Mine is the outside, as it has been since our first sleepover. I tuck myself beneath the blankets and watch Jesse set out Rose’s sleeping bag and pad on the floor. Once he’s climbed in, only a few feet away from me, Holly shuts off the lantern. I hear her breathe in, about to add something more, but she only says, “Good night.”
We say good night and then I lie in the dark, wondering where my dad is. If he’ll return, and how soon we’ll fight if and when
he does. I’m tired of it, but he doesn’t give me a chance. He never has. And while I admit I have a part in our conflict, I’m trying. I told Jesse I wanted a new normal, and I still do.
Holly’s breathing soon takes on the deepness of sleep. I turn onto my other side. Five minutes later, I turn again. “You awake?” Jesse whispers from the floor.
“Yeah. I can’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
A moment later, the covers rustle and he sits on the floor by the nightstand, his shoulders a foot away. His profile is just visible in the moonlight that streams through the uncovered part of the windows, and I study him while he can’t see.
Crushing on your best friend’s brother doesn’t leave much room for sugarcoating, especially when you’ve known him since middle school. He’s farted in front of me more times than I can count—gleefully, I might add—been sick, been obnoxious, been grouchy and happy. He’s had stupid hair and cool hair and said dumb shit and surprised me with his perceptiveness. And I’ve never stopped liking him through any of it. Of course, this means he’s seen me in the same circumstances—though not farting gleefully—and that has likely killed any chance I had with him.
“So, talk to me,” he says.
“About what?”
“Whatever.”
“What happened to Super Bitch?” I’ve been wondering what became of his girlfriend. Holly didn’t like her, and Holly likes everyone, so I didn’t like her either.
“Long story, but it all ends with it wasn’t meant to be.”
I poke my hand from under the covers and flick his head. “That was a terrible story.”
He rubs his ear. “Yeah, okay. Neither of us was feeling it, I guess. And then she made out with a friend’s friend at a party in front of me, which was the icing on the cake.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, she was aptly named.”
He doesn’t sound broken up about it, but it had to have hurt, at least a little. My straightforwardness with guys has been known to verge into bitchy territory, but that crosses a line to malicious. “What an ass,” I say. “Did she ever apologize?”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 19