The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  I found bills paid on time, papers organized, and nothing of a personal nature that wasn’t Mom’s, except for the dusty camping gear in the basement. I gave it all to Goodwill. Mom had given Dad’s guns to one of his buddies decades before. I had Rose sell the house, gave half to Mike, and put my half away for retirement. The plan was to retire by fifty-five, and I was well on my way. Not that it does me much good now.

  Retiring early was a challenge. Leaving the Bay Area eventually and moving closer to Mitch and Rose. Our plan is to grow old together in a retirement community of our own design—with plenty of alone time built in—and, though I never told them, I had every intention of footing as much of the bill as necessary to make it a reality.

  Not that I would’ve had to. Mitch is fine money-wise, and though Rose didn’t have much for years, she kicked ass with her realty and gave me her money to tend. I babied the shit out of it, growing it slowly and sensibly, only taking a big chance when I was almost positive it’d pay off. Whenever I tried to explain the risks of what I was doing, she waved a hand. I trust you, Craigy. I know not everything’s a sure thing.

  “Whatcha smiling about?” Lana asks beside me.

  “Just thinking about my friends, the ones in Oregon.”

  “Is one a special friend?”

  “They’re special, but not in that way. They’re like family.”

  “That’s nice.”

  I nod and watch the road’s curved descent. More houses go by. Three Lexers lurch from a driveway hidden by wooden fencing, and Troy swerves to miss them. He’s ready for the next four, which he avoids by gunning the engine and flying past with a loud hoot.

  “I hear some Texas in that hoot,” Francis says.

  Troy hoots again. “Damn straight. Thought I might clip one, but this little truck’s got some power.”

  “It’s almost like he enjoys this,” I mutter.

  “Oh, he does,” Lana replies, then says at a louder volume, “Hey Troy, were you ready for the zombie apocalypse?”

  “Ready, willing, and able!” he calls, then swings right at an intersection, almost sideswiping a collision. “I knew it when I saw the first reports. No one believed me, but that’s why I’m here and they’re not. There were a lot of motherfuckers I wanted to see dead, and, God help me, I still don’t regret it.”

  I don’t know if Troy means he killed them himself or the virus did it for him. Probably a question better left unanswered.

  A mechanic shop, a small convenience store, and a locksmith flash by. A few cars are parked haphazardly at the curb, two others crashed, and two more left in their lanes as if their owners tired of driving and took off.

  “Make a left,” Francis says at the next dead traffic light.

  Troy does and then slams on the brakes. The road is four lanes, and every one of them is blocked. The map rustles in the passenger’s seat. “Go back the way we came,” Francis says. “I see a road that’ll get us near a nature preserve a couple miles down.”

  Troy does as requested while I watch figures pick their way through the stopped cars. Inside the truck feels safe—well, safer than a bike, and certainly safer than walking. Francis fires off directions, but, once again, we’re stopped by traffic. I was wrong to say this was the way to go. Everyone is silent, likely pissed they listened to me. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

  Troy briefly touches his forehead to the steering wheel. Francis holds the map between them, pointing out an open area with dotted lines instead of the solid line of a road. “The nature preserve has hiking trails. Might work.”

  Troy throws the truck into reverse. “We’ve got four-wheel drive. I say we try it.”

  He backtracks until we’re on residential streets and climbing higher, past large houses with carefully landscaped lots and swaths of grass that once thumbed their noses at the drought, though they’ve reverted to crunchy brown carpet. There are no Lexers, likely because the road gets steeper by the minute. There are no people, likely because their water went out. The houses grow larger, with terracotta roofs and balconies for the western view. The coast mountains—I’m pretty sure—loom that way, differing shades of blue-gray beneath the afternoon sun.

  We reach the end of the road, where an almost-hidden driveway travels up to a gigantic house set on the summit of the rise. Troy whistles. “Just like my place down in L.A.”

  Daisy laughs. “Mine, too.”

  It’s modern, all angles and planes, with lots of glass and wood. Pleasing in an architectural sense, though nothing about it screams welcome to our home. More like admire our home, and don’t you dare drop anything on the floor. The view is amazing. To the west, the Bay and mountains. To the south and east, green meadows and trees on rolling hills. Maybe even the Sierras on a crystal-clear day.

  Troy pulls the truck near the edge of the parking pad and we step out to peer down the grassy slope of the preserve. Clumps of trees stand on land crisscrossed by trails wide enough for the truck to travel.

  Francis points to an open area below, at a brown trailhead kiosk under a cluster of trees. “I’m going down to see what it says.”

  “Want company?” Troy asks.

  “Nah, I’m sick of you.” Francis punctuates his words with a grin and tromps downhill, sidestepping small green bushes. He’s agile for his size, and clearly not terrified of Lexers.

  Lana stretches her arms above her head and leans to either side. “That incident on the RV roof took more time than we had. I think we should stay here. No one’s home. And they have solar. That means light, possibly hot showers.”

  I spot the panels on the roof. The sun is nearing those distant mountains, and though it’ll be a while until sunset, I can think of nothing worse than driving in the dark with zombies.

  “Damn, woman,” Troy says. “You knew you’d get me with hot showers.”

  Francis returned with the news that the trailhead has a map. He drew the trails over our map in black ink, marking off a spot on the opposite side of the preserve where we can return to a road. The idea is that, this far out, we’ll bypass any traffic jams.

  We broke into the house, which is as chic and pristine as I imagined. Francis took a look at the solar, fiddled with a few things, and pronounced it would only last until sundown, as there’s no battery bank to store the electricity. After that, we took quick showers using water from the giant water heater, and I watched a month of stench go down the drain. We turned on lights in rooms full of sunlight for the sheer fun of it, and we cooked the meager food in the cabinets—pasta, red sauce, and olives—on the electric stove.

  Now I sit in one of the sleek recliners in the living room, watching the sunset through gigantic windows that face west. The soaring ceiling and walls are a soft white, with a colorful painting taking pride of place over the nonoperational gas fireplace. The wood floor glows orange with the last of the light.

  Troy flops on the couch opposite. Daisy, on the other end of the couch, sighs without looking up from her architectural magazine and brings her feet closer to her butt. Francis lies in the other recliner, eyes closed, and Lana is stretched out on one of the mattresses we pulled from the bedrooms. They informed me of their rule—when unsure of their safety, they sleep in the same room to protect each other.

  “I declare these Tempurpedic mattresses worth every penny,” Lana says, propping her head on another pillow. Her hat is off, and her brown hair has dried into soft waves. She wears a bathrobe, since her clothes hang outside on a balcony to dry from a sink washing.

  I wonder where these four people came from, how they met up, but I don’t want to ask. Inevitably, it will involve loss and heartache, and I’m never good with those things around strangers.

  “What’s your story?” Troy asks, his attention settling on me.

  It’s akin to the teacher calling on your unprepared ass. I stammer for a few moments before I speak. “Just…lived in Oakland. I’m a—I was a—financial advisor. I grew up in Eugene, where my two best friends live. Rose and Mitch. And
Rose’s kids. I’m supposed to take care of them if anything happens to her.”

  I think I see a glimmer of respect in Troy’s eyes. It’s respect I don’t deserve, since it’s foolish to think I can protect the kids when I couldn’t leave my own apartment, but it makes me feel the tiniest bit stronger, as if I could kill the next zombie who happens by. Maybe I could, if I think about Holly and Jesse. Because I’d do whatever I had to for them. Without a doubt.

  “Any girlfriend in Oakland?” Troy asks. “Sorry, or boyfriend?” I shake my head, and Troy winks. “Figured they’d be all over you with that apartment. You were doing well for yourself.”

  It’s best to get it out there before this goes any further, but I don’t want to discuss my sex life—or lack thereof—with a gun-toting macho man, no matter how decent a guy he appears on the surface. “I don’t really date,” I say.

  “Too shy.” Troy nods sympathetically. “You’ve just got to put yourself out there. He, she, or they, it doesn’t matter to me. If it makes you happy, go for it.”

  All eyes are on me now. Even Francis has come out of his stupor to watch. “I don’t date because I don’t want to date. Anyone. I’m not into that.” I wipe sweat from my brow, which was clean a minute ago and already feels greasy.

  “Oh, come on,” Troy says. “Who doesn’t want to date? Get a little action? Don’t you—” Troy yelps when Daisy’s magazine connects with his temple. “Ow! What the hell, Daisy?”

  Daisy drops against her pillow, rolling her eyes. “How dense are you? Maybe he’s ace.”

  “He’s an ace? What does that have to do—”

  “He is ace, not an ace. Asexual.” Daisy tilts her head toward me. “Am I right?”

  I nod, thankful she’s hijacked the conversation. Troy frowns, deep in thought. “Like a plant? How does that work?”

  Lana’s laugh echoes off the high ceilings. “Really, Troy? Have you been too busy cleaning your guns to pay attention to the rest of the world?”

  “Even I know what ace is,” Francis adds.

  “Well, goddamn if it isn’t new to me.” Troy crosses his arms, resting one hand beneath his chin, and asks me, “How’s that work?”

  I wish someone else would jump in, but, apparently, I’ve been thrust into the role of post-apocalyptic ace spokesperson. I’m comfortable with this piece of myself now, maybe the one piece of myself with which I am comfortable, but some people don’t get it. They blame it on my childhood, or they think I need fixing, or they decide I’m a freak.

  Not Rose and Mitch, though. When I told Rose as a teen, the day we sat on her couch listening to The Smiths and holding hands, I was afraid I was less than human, incapable of love—real love, according to the rest of the world. Rose turned to me with teary eyes and a soft smile that was a balm on my battered heart. This is real love, she said, her conviction leaving no room for doubt. And no one does it better than you.

  “I just…don’t have any interest in sex,” I say. “I think the whole thing’s kind of odd, actually. Put it like this: give me a choice between sex and cake, and I’ll go for the cake every time.”

  “Hell, I might go for the cake today. I miss cake.” Troy chuckles. “I guess sex is kind of odd, if you really think about it. Bodily fluids and all that. So, you have no interest in a relationship or anything?”

  The ball of tension in my belly dissolves a little. Troy is absorbing this information with far more equanimity than I foresaw. I decide to lay it all out there. “Not really, though some aces have romantic and physical relationships. It’s a whole spectrum. Mainly, close friendships are enough for me. I don’t miss the other stuff. I’m what you call an aromantic asexual.”

  These days there’s a name for it, groups to attend and forums to join, and the notion that others don’t have to feel as lost and confused as I did never fails to cheer me. Until now, that is, since they’re probably all zombies.

  Troy nods slowly. “You learn something new every day. Like I said, if it makes you happy, I’m all for it.” He rests his hands behind his head. “I’ve gotta say, though, it must be nice not to think with your little head. That gets you into heaps of trouble.”

  I burst out laughing, and the others join in. Troy throws a hand in Francis’ direction. “Does it not?”

  “Hell yes, it does,” Francis says.

  “All right, then.” Troy grins and rubs his gut. “We have any more of that pasta? Let’s heat it up again before the light’s gone.”

  31

  Craig

  The sun comes in the east-facing windows early, and everyone springs into action. After a bowl of warmed soup pilfered from the diner, we pack our gear and head out. The pickup bumps over grass and trails until my head feels like it might detach from my spine. Wildflowers grow in patches near what Francis says is rare manzanita, and Troy does his best to avoid squashing it, which I appreciate. He doesn’t have to give a shit in the midst of this, but he does, and sometimes it’s the little things that show a person’s true colors.

  When the tires hit smooth road at the preserve’s main entrance, everyone groans in ecstasy. The street outside the park is a housing development, with stucco structures topped by terracotta roofs. As we roll down the hill, signs of unrest begin to show themselves: broken doors and windows and a couple of burglarized cars, though most vehicles are either garaged or gone. Lower down, two bodies lie on the sidewalk, truly dead. A hundred feet later, dozens are scattered on lawns and sidewalks. Some sport head wounds, others died of unknown causes.

  The sky is blue, studded with puffy white clouds, and green hills roll behind the homes as far as the eye can see. It likely seemed safe out here once upon a time, but it’s quickly becoming clear that nowhere is safe. The downfall of civilization took less than a month. That thought makes me sigh louder than I intended.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Lana says. “You should’ve seen some places we went through.”

  “They looked like an end-of-the-world movie,” Daisy adds.

  The two women were nice enough before, but this morning they smile at me and throw multiple comments my way. It often happens once women find out there’ll be no attempted entry into their pants—their guard lowers and they talk to me the way they do each other. I appreciate women for purely aesthetic reasons, but that’s as far as it goes. They’re more likely to understand that physical contact can be only about comfort and friendship. Not that I go around hugging random people when I barely speak to them. There are few I want that intimacy with, the same as everyone else. Everyone except Rose, who’d hug everybody on Earth if given half a chance.

  “This is the turn,” Francis says.

  Troy swings right. We’re greeted by the sight of burned houses. Bodies clutter the lawns, and just past the first intersection—the one outlet to the main road—is a mashup of cars and a box truck, all burned to create a hulking collection of charred metal that blocks the way forward.

  Aside from the carnage, the day is peaceful. Troy stops the truck and takes in the scene, fingers tapping the wheel. “Maybe we should walk down to the road and see if it’s worth trying to move this mess.”

  “Let’s all go,” Lana suggests.

  I feel for my screwdriver in my coat pocket and draw my knife from the side pocket of my bag in the truck bed. My hand vibrates with foreboding, and the smell of dead flesh doesn’t help to alleviate the feeling.

  Daisy steps onto the wall of the corner house’s garden bed, then skirts sideways between charred bushes and the rear of a burnt SUV. A moment after she disappears from sight, she peeps around the side of the SUV and lifts a thumb. The others start through. I go last, ashamed of that fact even as I suspect they wouldn’t want me in front anyway.

  The main road is a hundred feet down, and the stopped cars make it obvious we won’t be cruising east anytime soon. We continue to the housing development entrance anyway, where a large sign welcomes us to Pleasant Hills Homes.

  “Nothing pleasant in these hills,” Troy mutters. />
  The road is packed with vehicles: cars and SUVs with boxes tied to their roofs, RVs, even a garbage truck. They face east in every available lane, whether eastbound or not.

  Lana climbs a sedan roof and lifts a pair of binoculars. “There’s a roadblock up ahead, or another accident. I can’t tell, but we’re not getting through unless we get farther down.”

  “How far?” Francis asks, his map already out.

  “Not sure. The road curves, but it looks open after that.”

  Francis studies the map. “If we can take those trails higher, I think I see another road that’ll get us past that curve.”

  Lana spins at a hiss and groan from the west. My grip on my knife tightens. Just before the road curves out of sight in that direction, two Lexers weave their way through the vehicles. No one seems as alarmed as I am by their presence.

  Troy helps Lana down from the sedan. “Guess we’ll do that? The good news is, if we can get past the blockage, it may be open the rest of the way.”

  They discuss the plan while I shift my gaze from my fellow travelers to the approaching Lexers, then back again. I don’t understand how they’re so fucking calm. I clamp my teeth together so they don’t chatter, though my churning bowels can’t be stopped. This is an inopportune moment, to say the least, in which to excuse myself for a bathroom break.

  The hisses grow louder. Under them comes a soft drone, then the distant clang of metal hitting concrete. More Lexers round the bend, stumbling between cars. They’re followed by a dozen more, then another dozen, and now I see my alarm mirrored in the others’ faces. Milder alarm, but it’s there.

  “Time to get out of Dodge,” Troy says.

  Sweeter words have never been spoken. I slow to allow the others to go first, though I don’t argue when Francis and Troy wave me through the bushes before them. I pop out the other side behind Lana and Daisy and force myself not to run for the pickup.