The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  “Holly and Jess showed me once.” I recall the image of the poor ant, frozen in place on a leaf while the fungus grew a stalk from its head in order to deliver spores to other unlucky ants. “But that’s a fungus, right? It scattered spores around.”

  “Yeah, and thank God this isn’t. Imagine if it were floating in the air out there? One post said this virus works the same way somehow. It controls the nervous system, which is why you have to get the brain or brain stem, shut it down.”

  “If someone did make it, that someone is an idiot.”

  “If someone did make it, that someone is responsible for the largest genocide the world has ever seen.”

  Tom lifts his beer to his mouth while I finish mine. I need it for what I’m about to ask. “This is it, isn’t it? The end of the world.”

  In my heart, I think I know. But Tom is sensible—he doesn’t imagine all the unlikely ways things could go wrong. He sets his empty beer on the side table and turns to me, lips compressed in apology. “I think so.”

  “You were supposed to tell me it was a crazy idea so I could let it go.”

  “Can’t do that. But I promise the gas tank didn’t explode.”

  “I guess that’s something.”

  One side of Tom’s mouth lifts. He checks his watch. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight. We can sleep down here.”

  “I’m fine on the floor.”

  “You’ve had enough nights on the floor. You get the couch.” When I protest, he raises a hand. “You’re insulting me, the gracious host who’s fed you crackers, beer, and nothing else. Sheila would kill me. Are you hungry?”

  “I saw some soup on the counter. We can eat it cold if you don’t have a camping stove.”

  “We have one in the garage.”

  I follow him through the kitchen. Tom turns on his flashlight as we enter the three-car garage. Half of it is walled off by drywall with a door set in the center, and enough light comes in the garage windows to see the one SUV inside. The remaining half of a parking space is taken up by a worktable and at least seven bicycles sitting on the floor and hanging on the wall. Except for two smaller bikes, the rest appear to be Tom’s size.

  “Are they all yours?” I ask, and he nods. “You have a lot of bikes.”

  “I do.”

  “Is it like one for every day of the workweek? Or to match your outfits?”

  Tom smiles and shakes his head as though he finds me odd yet entertaining. It’s only taken a decade. “Outfits. Definitely.”

  “For real, though. Why so many bikes?”

  “They do different things. You have your mountain bike, your road bike, your fixie, your commuter, your touring bikes. They can be made of steel or carbon fiber or titanium or any number of materials. You need a different bike depending on what you want to do.”

  “And for outfits.”

  “Right,” he says. “And outfits.”

  I grin and point to the door in the wall. “Is that the hangout for the kids?”

  “Yup. And exercise room.”

  “I’ve never seen it.” In later years, Sheila and I usually met at the café by my office, but I’ve heard about the room from Holly and Jesse. The kids had loved having a place to go with no parents, and I loved that I knew exactly where they were.

  Tom leads me around the SUV and past neatly organized shelves to the door. Inside, two windows allow in enough late afternoon light to see a sitting area with rug, couch, and chairs. The furniture faces a large TV and stereo system on one wall, while shelves of DVDs, CDs, and what look like records take up another. In the back are free weights, a weight bench, and a couple of tall workout machines whose functions are a mystery.

  I point to one—all metal bars and pulleys, with another bench attached. “I know that one’s for waterboarding, but what’s the other? The rack?”

  “That one’s for drawing and quartering.”

  I keep my laugh low; a zombie lurks in the trees outside the window. Though far enough it probably won’t hear, I’m not about to tempt fate. “I’m impressed. You know your medieval torture. I thought I was fancy with my treadmill, but you win.”

  “You did all right running before.”

  “I was dying inside, believe me.”

  Tom hands me the flashlight and goes to the shelves we passed, where he pulls a long, deep bin from a top shelf and sets it on the garage floor. It clunks as if heavy, and his easy handling of the weight is proof of how often he used his medieval torture devices.

  “Should be in here.” He pulls out a green camping stove and small tank of propane. “If we crack a window for fresh air, it should be fine. We won’t have it on long to heat soup. Will you grab that lantern?”

  I find the electric lantern among spare propane tanks, something made of sheet metal, and sets of camping dishes and cookware. Once in the kitchen, I peer through the crack in the curtains. Immobile bodies lay scattered on the lawn; loitering bodies stand in the street.

  Tom noiselessly retrieves a pot and lid, then the can opener. He dumps in two cans of lentil soup, lights the burner, and sets the pot on the camping stove. “Don’t want to open a window in case they hear.” I nod despite my misgivings, and he asks, “What’s the matter?”

  “We won’t know we have carbon monoxide poisoning until it’s too late.” I think I can feel the odorless gas fogging my brain, though I know that’s impossible in the five seconds the stove has been lit.

  “The carbon monoxide detector runs on batteries, and it’s right outside the kitchen.”

  “That makes me feel better,” I say, “until it goes off and draws all the zombies to our door.”

  “You worry about everything.”

  “Not everything. The thing is I’m a naturally happy person. I just fuss about stuff.”

  Tom stirs the soup. “Worry obsessively about stuff, you mean.”

  “I prefer fuss.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  That C appears in his cheek. I elbow him and move to the cabinets, opening two before I find bowls. Yesterday, I couldn’t imagine being in the same room with Tom without murdering him, and now we’re making soup while we joke around. Maybe it’s the beer, or the tears, but he’s mellowed an enormous amount in a short span of time. Or maybe it’s the opportunity to change. Sometimes you need someone to assure you it’s possible before you believe it yourself.

  “Soup’s on,” Tom says. “Let’s eat in the living room.”

  He points me to the silverware drawer while he dumps soup into the bowls. It smells good and looks hearty. I hold my hands over the steam to warm them. Though it’s still light, the cool dampness of the April evening is finding its way through layers and into bones.

  He sets the pot in the sink and lifts the bowls along with his eyebrows. “And we’re still alive. Imagine that.”

  I follow him into the living room smiling. I could get used to this Tom.

  I wake at the first gray in the sky. Zombies stand on the road and in the trees, but far fewer than yesterday evening. Tom lies in a jumble of blankets on the floor, pistol beside him on the rug. I tiptoe to the kitchen, drink some water, and eat a few crackers. We’ll take his food and whatever else we can carry when we leave.

  Yesterday, we ate our soup and went to bed just after dark. When it came time to get the blankets, I saw Tom steel himself for the trip upstairs, and I offered to go instead. The hallway linen closet contained only sheets and towels, and I grabbed Clara’s comforter and pillows, then went to the guest room to look for extras in that closet. I didn’t want to bring down Jeremy’s.

  The smell that wafted from under Tom and Sheila’s bedroom door was bad, but no worse than what’s assaulted my nose for weeks now. The boy in the guest room, however, was bloated and blackened and liquid, with a horrific shit-like, greasy odor. I shut the door quickly, gagging, and went for Jeremy’s bedclothes, though I covered his comforter with a spare sheet and used it myself.

  I saw a sewing kit in the linen closet
last night, and I hope Tom won’t be angry at what I plan to do this morning. I creep upstairs and pull out the kit and some sheets, then stand outside Tom and Sheila’s bedroom door for a full minute before I work up the courage to open it.

  The smell is manageable, as I thought. I move to the window, open the curtains, and turn to the bed. It’s bad—Sheila’s face is purple and black, a hole in her cheek edged with rot—but she hasn’t become the bloated mess of that poor boy, Nick. Tom killed him while still human and barely infected, which leads me to think the full-fledged virus keeps putrefaction at bay.

  I imagine Tom carrying Sheila to their room, laying her down and tucking her in. The blankets are neatly folded over, her head centered on the pillow. Before yesterday, he seemed so brusque, at times unfeeling, but there’s a gentle, heartrending love in the way she’s arranged.

  I take a shallow breath and pull back the blanket. Sheila’s clothes are stained brown with blood, but the sheet beneath her is clean. It happened downstairs, and most of the mess must have stayed down there, on that chair and the kitchen floor. I don’t need the white sheets after all, since Sheila lies in bed over a white top sheet.

  I’m scared. Scared of dead bodies, scared of death, the way most people are these days. For centuries, millennia, people cared for their dead until funeral homes took over the business. They washed them and cared for them and said goodbye. It’s the right thing to do, if you can, and I can. I remind myself this is all that’s left of someone who loved, who was loved, and there’s no reason to be afraid.

  The sheet is too low. I pull on dishwashing gloves I found in the kitchen, then try yanking at the fabric. When that doesn’t work, I ease my hands under Sheila’s torso and scoot her down a foot, the way I moved Holly and Jesse when they were small and I didn’t want to wake them. My back complains that Sheila is heavier and I’m older now, but I ignore it. Thankfully, the gloves protect me from the feel of cold flesh.

  I once watched a show where they prepared a body for a green burial and have an inkling of what to do. But first, I have to remove the knife buried behind Sheila’s ear. I grasp the handle and ease it out, wincing at the crunching sound of blade on bone, then set it on the floor. I smooth her blond hair while I concentrate on how pretty it looks and not the sunken flesh of her face below it.

  Then I fold the sheet. First, all four corners in. Then the top and bottom, followed by the side closest to me over the length of Sheila’s body. The other end is longer, as it covers more of the bed. I draw it toward me, tuck it under Sheila’s side, then move to the far side and pull it through, folding and tucking it under again so I have an even edge to sew. With a needle and white thread, I work quickly from top to bottom with neat looping stitches. I sewed some when the kids were little, enough to sell a few handmade items. I never officially learned how, and I can make it look good, though a true seamstress would likely be horrified by what’s beneath.

  When I’m finished, Sheila looks tidy, which is how I remember her. She made me feel unkempt, though not deliberately, and not necessarily in a bad way. Her hair was smooth where mine is unruly, her clothes clean lines where mine are grungy or fairy-like. Her words were meaningful and judicious where mine tumble out and venture so far off topic I can hardly remember where I started.

  I remove my gloves and sit on the floor with the pink and green flowered sheets I found in the closet. The knife from Sheila’s skull is only feet away. I push it under the bed with my foot and cut the sheet in long thick strips with the kitchen scissors, then fold the strips to hide the raw edges. When I have three, I feed them under the shroud—one below Sheila’s head, one around her middle, and one above her feet—and tie them in simple knots that resemble bows. I cut them to the same length and whip stitch the very ends closed to hide the edges, then stand at the end of the bed.

  I would prefer fresh flowers, but this looks pretty. Sheila looks pretty, as she usually did. Floorboards creak in the hall, and I leap, my heart pounding. Tom stands in the doorway with his face in shadow.

  “I thought maybe…” I begin, then stop because I don’t know how to explain what might not make sense to him. “I can take it off.”

  Tom steps into the light, eyes brimming with tears, and shakes his head. He walks forward and drops to his knees beside the bed, then rests his forehead on Sheila’s torso. I tiptoe downstairs and into the kitchen when I hear his voice, deep and low. Whatever he says to Sheila is between them, and it feels wrong to eavesdrop even if by accident.

  I search the motionless figures on the lawn through the window until I find Jeremy. He lies on his side, body shrunken and long limbs askew. He looked like his dad, would likely have been the spitting image when he grew up. He idolized Jesse the times we were all together, eyes shining with a kind of hero-worship and almost too shy to speak. I picture Jesse out there and hug myself tight; it’s a wonder Tom can smile at all.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tom joins me at the kitchen window. “Why’d you do that?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

  “I thought maybe you’d want to say goodbye.” I keep my eyes on the lawn. “I thought she’d like it. She was always so pretty.”

  Tom swallows, loud in the silence. “Thank you.”

  “I wish I could do it for Jeremy.”

  “I’m coming back for him when it’s safe.” Tom stares out the curtains for a long moment, then draws them closed. “The woods behind the house look clear, but I don’t know if there’s anything past where I can see. Are you ready?”

  “When you are.”

  We pack what we can fit in old backpacks. Tom returns from the garage, holding the sheet metal thing I saw in the camping bin. “A folding oven for camping. We could use it for baking on your fireplace insert or a camping stove.”

  Normally, I would marvel at something so neat, but we’re about to run through the woods, and breathing is difficult. I take another sip of water and trip over my feet on my way to put the glass in the sink. I can barely walk, and I’m planning to evade a gazillion zombies?

  Tom zips his pack, throws the bag with the folding stove over a shoulder, and readies his knife. I clench mine in my fist. This is crazy. We’re going to die.

  Tom checks outside the sliding doors. “Still good.”

  I tug at my backpack straps, feeling weak and ridiculously ill-prepared next to him. He’s all muscle and take no shit. I, on the other hand, am half-convinced fairies are real. Or magic is, at least sometimes. I hope it is. I need some now.

  He glances at me, does a double take. “You okay?”

  I attempt to put some verve in my nod, but even that feels feeble. Tom lets go of the blinds. They swing into place, and he settles his bulk against the door frame, arms crossed. His dark brows are low, but he seems more serious than annoyed. “Let’s play a game.”

  “What?”

  “A game. It’s called What’s the Worst that Could Happen? So, what’s the worst that could happen? Lay it on me.”

  I moisten my lips. The possibilities are endless, but it all ends the same way. “We could die.”

  “We could always die, at any moment. How could we die now?” It’s dim, but I swear there’s a twinkle in his eye.

  “There could be a thousand in the woods, and we could be surrounded,” I say. “Or maybe I trip on a branch, and you turn back to help me and they eat you, too. Or we get through the woods, but we lead them to the house and then they break down the fence and we die along with the kids. There could be a cougar. Or maybe we get lost in the woods. People die of exposure all the time.”

  “So we die. It’ll be over quickly, unless it’s exposure, and then we won’t care anymore.”

  I lift my stiff shoulders. “No biggie.”

  “We’re not dying today.” He’s smiling, the lunatic. “But point taken. I won’t turn back to help you.”

  Though I would’ve sworn nothing about this is funny, a laugh slips out. It grounds me, puts me back in my body instead of floating in my worries.

  �
�Ready?” he asks.

  I grip my knife tighter. “Ready.”

  Tom slides open the door.

  26

  Tom

  Rose proves to be a lot quicker and quieter than I expected. Her face is set while we move through the woods, stopping at any noises. She knows the route as well as Clara, and I let her lead the way. Being early spring, there isn’t much cover, but the downed branches and trees of years past hide us well enough from a body here and there.

  It isn’t far. At worst, we’ll have to run it and hope whatever follows doesn’t break down the fence after we go over. Rose steps on a bed of leaves and then freezes at the loud crack that follows. She turns to me and mouths Sorry.

  I shrug and wave her on. Maybe I would’ve been irritated a day ago—unjustly irritated—but that’s changed. Yesterday, I finally realized how stupid I’ve been. How wrong. Rose called me on my shit, and while I like being called on my shit as much as anyone does, she was right.

  This morning, I stood in the hall and watched Rose gently weave the ties beneath Sheila’s shroud and finish them off with needle and thread. Her face was relaxed, serene, and her movements tender. There was no reason to do that for Sheila, for me, except kindness. Those moments I had with Sheila, where I said goodbye and promised to do better with Clara, are something for which I can never properly thank Rose.

  Rose comes to a halt and motions to a few zombies ahead. I gesture left, and she edges in that direction. The rain, which was soft enough to barely make its way past the fir boughs, begins falling in earnest. It’s good, and it covers the crunch of a stick under my boot as we make our way around a blackberry thicket.

  A house sits just beyond the trees at the end of a long driveway, and at least twenty zombies mill outside. I put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. She spins around in alarm, then relaxes when she sees it’s me. I point at the pack, she nods, and we slink from tree to tree. Raindrops run down Rose’s face and turn her ponytail a deep brown. I blink them from my eyes.