“The Willamette Valley can be so ugly,” I say. “Everyone goes on and on about how pretty Oregon is, but the ride from Eugene to Portland is like the road from Purgatory to Hell. Except for the eight seconds when it’s not raining and you can see distant mountains.”
“Why’d you stay here?” Tom asks.
“Kids, Pop, friends, you know how it goes.”
“I do,” Tom says, as if he truly does. “Eugene’s not a bad town, but I could do without the rain.”
“You know what they called it back in the day? Skinner’s Mudhole.”
He laughs. “For real?”
“For real. If we didn’t live in the South Hills, I’d go crazy.”
We thought about moving years ago, but Ethan is from the area, and there was nowhere specific we wanted to go. Len and Diane, my in-laws, ditched the winter rains for Arizona when the kids were teens. If this is everywhere, they’re likely gone. A condo on a golf course, in a place where water isn’t abundant, doesn’t bode well for survival.
They’re good people. Nice people. I love them, but I didn’t feel much like speaking to them in recent months, and I feel terrible about that now. I was tired of putting a brave face on things, smoothing shit over. Diane called to check in the day before the virus hit, and I ignored the message, thinking we’d speak on my anniversary. It’s likely we’ll never speak again.
I press my forehead to the window. A cul-de-sac of pastel houses branches off the main road, and a big group of zombies loiters outside. The next three cul-de-sacs are empty. Houses come one after the other, all looking worse for wear unless they’re fenced. An apartment complex to the left is burnt, the freestanding buildings blackened. A mini storage’s doors are raised, and the roads between the garage-like buildings are covered with garbage, discarded clothing, and a few barbecue grills. Someone took refuge inside, but I see no people besides the few dead ones who follow our vehicles.
Pop slows to a stop just before Thirteenth Avenue. Tom pulls alongside, engine idling, as Mitch rolls down her window. “Walmart’s just down there,” Pop says. “You want to check it out?”
The road is empty fields and a few industrial shops before it curves right, where it will put us at the Walmart side entrance. We’ve already agreed it’s likely the first place people went for supplies, but, if they didn’t, it’ll have everything we need.
“Let’s give it a shot,” Tom says.
We go slow around the curve, then pull into the side entrance past the garden center. The spring plants out front are still in bloom, having been watered by rain, and pallets of garden amendments are lined up on the asphalt. I file that information away. Soil and manure won’t feed us now, but we might need them one day. When it comes to keeping plants alive, I need all the help I can get.
Tom stops beside Pop’s truck. The parking lot is jammed with vehicles in parking spots, in the lanes, stopped half up on curbs. A few have shattered windows, as though someone took a bat to them. An SUV rammed the driver’s side door of a tiny import outside the exit doors, and its driver still slumps in the seat, face mashed into the steering wheel.
Bodies lie on the asphalt, surrounded by empty packaging and paper bags that have been rained on and trodden upon until they turned pulpy and stuck to the ground. Some bodies look the same as Nick did: bloated and wet and a rainbow of colors. They were human when they died.
The horror stretches across the gigantic lot. I can imagine the fights over supplies, the struggle for life over death, and how it culminated in these accidents, the traffic jam, and then total desperation. More bodies lie in the lane to our right, some sporting head wounds. I point when something moves. A torso, devoid of arms and legs, begins to wiggle. Its head lifts as it struggles to peer at us from the ground.
“What the fuck,” Jesse whispers, echoing my own thoughts.
Zombies stumble from the entry doors and head our way, their hisses loud in the silence. Five bodies walk around the side of a van. Dozens more stagger from the entrance behind the first, then more after them.
“Let’s go!” Pop calls.
Tom reverses past the garden center and curved entrance, then backs into the street. Pop trails us to the road we traveled into town, which is still clear but for a few zombies. We dodge more who stumble into our path, then circumvent an accident in an intersection by taking the crosswalk.
7-Eleven is destroyed. Two dead dead bodies lie in the Dari Mart lot, covered with broken glass. An industrial plaza and an auto repair shop go by on the left. To our right is an open field where zombies slog through the muck, traveling for our trucks. The kids haven’t yet seen the destruction, and all three wear the same devastated expression I likely did on my first trip into town.
“Will we be able to get past again?” Holly asks.
“Of course,” I say automatically, although I’m far from sure.
I tuck my hands beneath my thighs and regret leaving the house more than I ever have in my life—and that’s saying something. We’re safe there. We can sit in the dark, stretch the food, until the zombies die off. It’s better than taking this risk. I’m not a gambler, especially when it comes to the people I love.
Tom turns onto First Avenue. We pass airplane hangar type buildings that house construction, hydraulics, and shipping companies, along with businesses at whose trade I can only guess, since their names provide no clue. Our next turn takes us down a dead-end street lined with buildings that resemble two-story apartment complexes, though they have rolling metal doors rather than residences on their ground floors.
Tom pulls into the last parking lot outside a long one-story building with a few entry doors and multiple rolling doors between them. None has a sign, and the only hint we’re at a business is a sheet of laminated copy paper in the closest window, on which is printed ALWAYS READY.
“Here it is.” Tom stops beside the entry door, then shuts off the engine while Pop does the same. “They take up this end of the building.”
Nothing moves on the street or in the lot. The two businesses across the way are gated, and the building to our right is quiet, all loading doors shut tight. We sit in silence, windows rolled down and waiting for any zombies to approach, until Tom says, “Looks clear. I’ll make sure no one’s here.” He leaves the truck and knocks on the door, then taps the glass and turns with a shrug. “May not be anything left.”
I step to the ground. Mitch comes to my side, eyes circling the lot. “What the fuck was with that body at Walmart?”
I grimace. Of all the crazy things I’ve seen, that torso is in the top five. “They only need a brain, I guess.”
Tom and Pop inspect the door while the kids watch the streets as they’ve been ordered. The block seems empty, and with wetlands all around, it should be easy to spot something coming. Of course, a dead-end means nowhere but one direction in which to run.
Rather than stew on that, I watch Mitch stretch her arms and pick at the butt of her jeans. “You okay?”
“Fine, but your husband’s jeans fit me like shit. I was going to grab some in Walmart.”
“You, Mitch Brenner, were going to shop in Walmart?”
Mitch has money, and she spends it. Good shoes, nice clothes. She loves a bargain, but lack of a bargain doesn’t stop her from buying something she wants. Only Walmart does—she holds an ecowarrior grudge against them that even the apocalypse hasn’t mended.
“I was going to steal from Walmart, like Robin Hood, and give it to my needy ass.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry we can’t go to your house and get stuff.”
Mitch lives on the east side of town, by Hendricks Park. Her house is gorgeous, with big windows and expansive views, but the roads are small and winding, and the neighbors all close by.
“Whatever, I’m alive. I’d be trapped there with all the basket-toting richies. Can you imagine anything worse?”
Mitch also holds grudges against people who use baskets instead of regular cloth bags, and there are plenty of them in town. I d
rop my head back with a groan. “You and your baskets.”
“Except for picnics, is there ever a good time for a basket instead of a bag?” Mitch argues for the millionth time. “It takes up more space, it doesn’t close to keep out the elements, and everyone can see your organic crackers. Which is why they carry them—so everyone can see their organic crackers. It’s a club. No basket, no entry.”
Tom, fitting a crowbar into the crack between door and jamb, lets out a chuckle. “What’s with the baskets? They weigh a few pounds alone. I don’t see how that’s more convenient than a bag.”
Mitch throws up her hands. “Thank you, Tom.”
Though I’m glad Mitch and Tom agree on something, I still shake my head. “There are good and bad basket carriers. You can’t lump them all together.”
Tom looks over his shoulder. “You carry a basket?”
“Hell, no,” I say, hands on my hips. “Do I look like I carry a basket?”
“It could go either way.”
I make a face. He turns to the door with a grin and motions for Pop to hit it with the mallet. After the first thud, he adjusts it for the next hit. It takes five solid whacks before the door gives way with a splintering sound.
We all pause. After a full minute, nothing arrives eager to eat us, and Tom pushes the door wide. “I’ll go in first and open the loading door.”
He takes a flashlight from his back pocket and enters cautiously, gun in his other hand. I get a glimpse of a small room with a couple of desks before he disappears through another door to the right.
“What did you do to him?” Mitch asks me quietly.
“What?”
“Tom. What’d you do to him while you were gone? He left a total jerk and came back a human being. You did something.”
I haven’t given details about our time at his house. It’s too personal, and Tom isn’t the type who broadcasts his business. “I gave him a hug.”
Mitch rocks back on her heels, eyes squinted in suspicion. “You gave him a hug?”
“He needed one. You know hugs are magic.”
“It’s more like you’re magic, but okay.” Mitch assesses the building. “He knew this place from before?”
“His company filled a big printing order for them. They sold to survivalists and preppers, and they did survivalist shows.” The steel garage door trundles up. The kids start forward, but I raise a hand. “Stay.”
Holly pants like a dog while Clara and Jesse laugh. Pop, Mitch, and I enter, turning on our own flashlights. “You weren’t kidding, Tom,” Pop says.
The front of the large storeroom is occupied by a long steel table. One side has an arm that holds a roll of bubble wrap, the other a roll of plastic. Packing tape dispensers sit at every corner, while flattened cardboard boxes are stacked beneath.
A network of shelving surrounds the table and extends into the dark, crammed with boxes. I train my light on one shelf, where labels beneath open boxes read Breakfast Skillet, Beef Stroganoff, Granola with Blueberries and Milk, and Pasta Primavera. More than fifteen varieties of freeze-dried food for camping and backpacking, all in mylar pouches.
Mitch has walked behind the first shelves, and now she yells, “Big cans back here. And boxes that say Meals, Ready to Eat.” She lets out a whoop. “Hey, I see lanterns. And the Lord said Let there be light!”
I laugh and hear Pop’s echo toward the back. He comes forward, flashlight blinding until he reaches the light at the door, and his smile is almost as bright. “They have a whole mess of camping stuff, too. And those water pouches. We’ll never get all this home, but we could live off it for a year if we could.”
“Let’s decide what we need most.” Tom runs a palm over his hair and his gaze sweeps the room as if surprised at the bounty. “Maybe the owners had enough at home and didn’t need to come here.”
“Or they didn’t make it,” Mitch says.
We stand silent for a moment during which I think it’s the luck of the draw that I’m alive. That any of us are. If we’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time, if we had no fence, if Holly, Jesse, and Clara weren’t home, some of us might be wandering the streets. It’s a breathless relief, one that makes me hurry outside to the kids. Jesse watches me advance, his dark-lashed blue eyes hopeful. I’m his mother, but it isn’t my partiality that leads me to think he’s gorgeous. He resembles his dad, and, once upon a time, I thought Ethan gorgeous. “It’s good?” he asks me.
“It’s great. Go in, all of you. I’ll keep watch.”
They don’t wait for me to change my mind, not that I will. They’re safer in there. I climb into the back of Pop’s pickup and watch the empty street, the silent buildings, the green fields and distant trees. The lot across the street has a few cars, and I wonder where the people are. Did they get a ride home on that day? Carpool and head for safety? Are they dead somewhere? Undead?
The horror is unimaginable, even as I stand in it. There were thousands, millions, maybe billions, of Julians and Elliots torn apart beside their parents. Watching their parents be torn apart. I shiver, both from the thought and the chill in the air. The valley is temperate as winters go, but spring can leave a lot to be desired when it comes to warmth.
“Don’t you know you shouldn’t be out here alone?” Tom asks behind me, voice stern.
I glance back, ready to argue, but he wears a smile. It’s been a common sight the past few days, like he’s making up for lost time. “I knew you or my father would be out to yell at me any minute.”
He jumps into the bed with a quiet laugh, the pickup dipping under his weight, and walks to where I stand. “You shouldn’t be, though.”
“Better me than the kids. If anything comes, all they’d have to do is pull down the door and they’d be fine with that food and water.”
“The worst that could happen?”
“You know me,” I say.
“I guess I do. They’re figuring out what to bring home. Any requests?”
“Aside from lights and food, what could we use the most?”
“A shortwave radio or transceiver of some kind, but it doesn’t look like they carried them.” Tom leans his elbows on the cab’s roof, eyes on the road. His hair is unkempt, blowing in the breeze, and the hair at the nape of his neck has lost its clean edge and now rests in little whorls and spikes on skin gone browner with time spent outside. “I’d say the batteries, the medical stuff—they have blood clotting supplies and suture kits. And the stoves. They have a few different kinds of stoves. I made a list.”
I hide my smile; of course he made a list. “That sounds good. I can’t believe I never knew this place was here.”
“Not so strange. Their business was mainly online, though you could pick up your order if you were local. They shipped all over the country.” He straightens suddenly, gaze fixed on a field to our left, before his shoulders come down. False alarm. “I wouldn’t have known about it except for that job. There’s enough in there to feed us for a while.”
“I know we can’t take it all, but should we leave it here? If someone else finds it, they could clear it out before we come back.” I hate the anxiety that makes me want to hoard everything. It’s greedy—or maybe it’s fear. But fuck it. I’ve tried not to be greedy all my life, and this time I’m giving in. “Could we hide some of it? Maybe in a business no one would check?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“I’m full of not-bad ideas. Some might even be good. Great might be overstating things a bit, though.”
Tom’s eyes glint. Pop comes to the door. “Want to move the trucks over with me, Tom? Rosie, come in and start packing.”
I make my way inside, where three square white lanterns provide a strong but not blinding glow. Upon closer inspection, they resemble five-inch square balloons. I poke one. It’s made of translucent vinyl and has a solar panel on top.
“Cool, right?” Jesse asks through a mouth full of something. “They’re inflatable and charge by solar. Look how small it is before you
blow it up.” He lifts a square less than an inch thick. “Oh, and they’re waterproof.”
I turn it over in my hands. It weighs next to nothing. “Very cool.”
Holly and Clara are chowing down on freeze-dried cheesecake bites from a pouch. Holly tosses a package to Jesse, then shoves another handful in her mouth. It’s a welcome sight—I want them to gorge themselves. “Want some space cheesecake?” she asks me.
Her anxious demeanor isn’t gone, but it’s hard not to be positive when you’re surrounded by shelf after shelf of food. I hold out my hand, and Holly dumps in a bunch of little squares edged with graham cracker crust. After more than a week of little to no dessert—real dessert, because the canned fruit from the school is a pathetic excuse for dessert—the rush of sugar is heaven-sent. “These are delicious.”
“I know. We put more on the table to pack up.” Holly watches the open rolling door, her smile giving way to a distracted stare.
“It’s safe in here,” I say. “We could pull down the doors and practically live forever.”
She pulls her eyes to me and gives a quick shake of her head. “It’s not that. It’s—it’s worse than I thought. Everything is just…gone.”
I nod, saying nothing because I know there’s more. She was always reticent when it came to her emotions, but it worsened when a fellow third grader declared that girls who married girls go straight to Hell, which produced many tears on her part and resulted in me storming the principal’s office the next morning, ready to kick an eight-year-old’s ass. Holly was the child who hated to see anything suffer, who was genuinely shocked when people were mean for no reason. No matter how supportive we were, she’d learned not everyone would accept her, that certain parts might be best hidden, and that maybe pretending it didn’t hurt would make it go away.
She draws in a breath, eyes filling. “I don’t know why I thought Dad might be out here. There’s nothing out here. How stupid was that?”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 23