The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  Dad steps alongside me. “Not bad, Clare-Bear,” he murmurs, wearing his half smile.

  I shake out my right arm. It hurts like a bitch, and sweat rolls down my legs, which aren’t exactly steady. But I did it. I killed three of them with my hammer, and I’m more than a little proud. “Really? Just not bad?”

  He pulls me to his side with a soft chuckle as we reach the end of the trees. The green ranch house sits across a large lawn, the last house at the end of a road that’s more like a long driveway. A few bodies wander outside the homes farther down. I keep my eyes on them the entire way and let out my breath when we reach the safety of the back of the house. I wanted zombies, I got them, and now I’ve had enough for the day.

  The landscaping is trampled, but the raised garden beds out back are fine, thanks to the wire surrounding them to keep the deer away. Six of the eight beds are empty. The other two hold leafy green plants. Rose checks them out, walking normally now, and raises a thumb. “Lettuce and spinach,” she whispers upon her return. “We’ll take it with us.”

  My mouth waters at the thought of something green and crunchy after so many meals of reconstituted vegetables. The back door is unlocked, and when nothing comes at Dad’s knock, we enter. It’s a nice house, nothing fancy, with a giant TV and a hallway full of photographs of the same two parents and three children—two boys and a girl. The open gun safe in the living room is cleared out.

  “Guess I expected as much,” Sam says. “I’ll check down the hall. Maybe they left ammo somewhere else.”

  “I’ll come,” Dad says.

  The faint odor of death is stronger in the living room, though it’s old and musty. Holly and I follow the scent to the foyer, where what was once a dog has been reduced to a thin, furry husk. The front door is marked with deep gouges and covered in brown streaks of dried blood. Claw marks. It tried to escape until its paws were bloody, and then it must have died of dehydration.

  My throat tightens at the thought of hours spent in a desperate battle with the door. Holly sniffs a few times before a tear runs down her cheek. I pull her arm, but she rips from my hand and continues watching the scene.

  “Do you think my dad died like that?” she asks quietly. I stare at the poor dog, unsure how to answer the question. Unsure it is a question. “He could’ve starved to death or been trapped without water. Or maybe he was lucky and was eaten really fast. What do you think?”

  “Hols,” I whisper, “don’t torture yourself.”

  I thought she was doing okay, but despair lurks in her eyes. “Why? Why shouldn’t I torture myself? He was probably tortured.”

  Jesse enters the foyer and takes in the dog, then his sister. “Dad would want us torture ourselves?” he asks.

  “No, but—”

  “He’d want us to stay alive, and to take care of ourselves and Mom.” Jesse puts an arm around Holly’s shoulders and guides her into the living room. “He’d want you to be the Angel of Death again. That’s what he’d want.”

  Holly’s laugh is short, and she wipes her face on her sleeve. “Dad wouldn’t expect me to be the Angel of Death. I don’t think I can do that again.” She moistens her puffy lips. “I want everything to be normal and for him to be alive.”

  Jesse’s reddened eyes meet mine briefly before he exhales. No matter how angry he is, or was, at his dad, his pain is evident. “I know. Me, too.”

  He hugs her to his chest, where she reaches inches below his shoulders. Rose peers into the living room from the kitchen entryway. At the sight of Holly and Jesse, she lowers her brows in concern. When I nod that they’re okay, she retreats.

  Holly pulls from Jesse with a quivery smile. “I’m glad I have you, even if you are an idiot.”

  “Same,” he says.

  Jeremy and I weren’t as close as Holly and Jesse, likely because he was four years younger. But we could always count on the other for moral support and a lively round of parental bitching, for a movie or a music-listening party. I’d imagined we’d get closer as he matured, since we already had. But he’ll never be a grown man, or have a family, or get to know our new father, and that makes my throat tighter than it already was.

  Holly comes to take my arm, her lips pursed in sympathy. “I’m glad I have you, too. You know I like you better than that jerk.”

  She points to Jesse, and my impending tears recede with my laugh. “Ditto,” Jesse says. “Especially after the woods just now. Guess I can call you War Hammer after all.”

  The gentle curve of his lips reminds me of the night we kissed, so much so that my face overheats and my stomach somersaults. I nod and look away. He can’t ever know how I feel because I couldn’t stand for him to let me down easy. And he would—it’d be kind and jokey and full of understanding, and it would completely demolish my heart.

  “Ditto here, too,” I say. “Are we staging a love-in or doing something productive?”

  “Love-in,” Holly says, but she pulls me toward the hall.

  Though there are no weapons, they left behind food, clothing, and ammo—the latter of which doesn’t match our guns, but we take it anyway. Mitch finds a few shirts that fit her better than Ethan’s t-shirts, which makes her happy. Dad and Sam are pleased with their new holsters. And the fifty-pound bag of dog food makes everyone happy, though Willa may not be as pleased when human food becomes a memory. Dad loads the majority of the dog food into his pack, with the remainder split between us.

  The two boys shared a room. We poke around and survey the shelves. Holly holds up a case of Hot Wheels cars. “Remember when you liked these, Jess?”

  “I like them now.” He unsnaps the case and removes a sports car, which he proceeds to drive along the top of a bookshelf while making vroom vroom noises.

  “So mature.”

  “Your mom,” he says, and Holly laughs. Jesse ramps the car off the organizer, flips it in the air, and drives it back into the box with a squeal of tires. He snaps it shut. “Look at all the Nerf guns. We can practice killing foam zombies.”

  “I don’t think that will prepare us for real-world experiences,” I say.

  “Did I say it would? Nerf guns are just cool.”

  I roll my eyes. The girl’s room holds nothing we need, but the bathroom has medicines and prescription bottles. We dump them into our packs and set out for the kitchen. Every cabinet door is open, and what’s left of the food sits on the counter.

  Rose and Mitch pack the various cans and pull food from outer packaging to save on space. Dad opens the refrigerator, releasing the stench of rotten vegetables, then slams it shut again. I unsling my pack and layer cans over the dog food, then line the top with a bag of popcorn.

  Rose squeezes my shoulder on her way past and holds up a box of Velveeta. “This is as close to cheese as we’re getting. I don’t care if it’s made of plastic and whey solids, we’re eating it.” She sets it in her pack on the table. “You girls okay?”

  “Yeah,” Holly says.

  Rose kisses her head and then studies me. “Fine,” I say. “Really.”

  “Did I ever tell you you’re my other favorite daughter?”

  “You have.” Though I smile, my throat aches with the sharp grief I can usually keep at bay. I never thought my mom wouldn’t be here to watch me grow, to love me, to protect me. Not until I was a real adult, possibly with adult kids of my own. Not until I was ready—as ready as you can be to lose your mother, anyway.

  The others resume packing food. Rose moves to hug me one-armed, pressing her lips to my hair. “A moment?” she asks softly.

  I nod, blinking back tears. She told me to expect these moments where the pain barges in like a surprise visitor rather than loitering like an unwelcome roommate. Where I’d feel lost and lonely and even angry. I’m all of those things right now, but I’m also grateful for the security of Rose’s embrace, the compassion in her eyes, and I feel lucky to have someone who understands.

  The ache isn’t gone, but its grip has lessened. I’ve never been one to wallow in e
motions, and I take a deep breath to vanquish it entirely. Though I wouldn’t call it a success, I’m able to speak. “What are you wearing?” I ask Rose.

  After a brief inspection to confirm I’m not verging on a breakdown, Rose spins to show off the tan camouflage pack on her shoulders. It’s more like a vest with a small pack in back and two storage pouches on both front straps. One hip holds a water bottle pocket and the other a canvas holster. “I guess it’s for hunting. Cool, right?”

  “Very.” I take in her army jacket and tight bun. I always wanted to be like Rose when I grew up—cool, but not trying to be cool in the embarrassing way of some parents. “You look kind of badass.”

  “As badass as a mom can look,” Holly adds.

  Rose tsks. “You might be a mom at some point, dear child, and one day when you’re feeling pleased with your bad self, I want you to remember this moment and feel very, very guilty.”

  “What was with the ninja walk, anyway?” Jesse asks.

  “A character did it in a book I read as a kid, and I thought I’d give it a try.” Rose lifts a foot. “You set your foot down gently and roll heel to toe. Did it make me more badass?”

  Jesse smirks. “You’re as badass as they come, Mom.”

  “I can’t believe my own flesh and blood would forsake me like this.” Rose hugs me to her side. “It’s official—Clara is now my favorite kid.”

  I stick my tongue out at Jesse and Holly, who laugh. Dad watches from where he leans against the counter, something like relief behind his smile. A peace that wasn’t there before. I’ve known all along that Rose will watch over me. Maybe he didn’t.

  Back home in the RV, Sam assesses our haul and lifts a box of found ammo. “Wish I hadn’t gotten rid of my other guns. This nine-millimeter’s about as useful as rocks.”

  Dad grunts in agreement. “We should go looking again soon. There have to be guns out there.”

  “You both should stay right here,” Rose says from the kitchen, where she washes the lettuce and spinach. “We’re lucky we got back with no problems.” Sam fails to hide his smile, and Rose huffs. “Sorry I want people to live. Even the ancient ones.”

  “I’m not useless just yet, Rosie. But I know you’ll take me elk hunting when it’s time.”

  “You and your elk hunting.” Rose turns to the rest of us. “Pop says if he ever gets dementia, I’m supposed to tell him we’re going elk hunting, lead him into the woods, and shoot him in the back of the head.”

  “No wonder you’re nuts,” Dad says to her. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Sam roars with laughter, and everyone joins in. Everyone except Holly, who sits on the far end of the couch with Willa. I plop down beside her while the conversation in the kitchen continues. “What happened out there? In the woods.”

  Holly shrugs, running her fingers along Willa’s head. “I got scared.”

  “So did I. Did you not see me standing there like a moron?”

  “But you didn’t let it stop you. Not for long. I would’ve been eaten.”

  “You would’ve moved your ass if you needed to.”

  Holly shakes her head, mouth twisted. “I was so scared, Clars,” she whispers. “Frozen scared, like Kara was.”

  I don’t like the fatalistic tone in her voice, as though she’s not going to try. Holly tries at everything. She’s not punking out on me when it matters most. “Come on, you never fail. Pretend it’s an organic chemistry exam.”

  “More like physics, at which I suck ass. All I could think was that I didn’t want to do this. I want everything to be the way it was.”

  “We all do,” I say quietly.

  “I know.” Holly lowers her head in apology, and I squeeze her arm—she has as much right to be sad as anyone. “It’s just…I keep thinking about that dog.” Her voice cracks and her hand tightens around Willa before it strokes a velvety ear. What she means is she keeps thinking about her dad, too. “I wish we knew what’s happening. At first I thought, okay, thirty days isn’t so bad. But then it didn’t end. Are we supposed to do this forever?”

  I wish I had an answer. One that would make her happy. “Want some advice?” I ask. Holly nods, head bowed. “Take whatever’s happening as what it’s going to be for now. If it changes, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  “I hate that advice.”

  “I didn’t say it was good advice. Just advice.”

  She laughs and wipes her nose with the tissue balled in her hand. Disappointed groans come from the kitchen, where Rose and Mitch chew something, their faces screwed up.

  “They’re bitter,” Rose says to us. “The lettuce and spinach bolted.”

  “How do you know?” Dad asks.

  “Every patch of lettuce I’ve ever planted was ruined by an unseasonable heat wave. It gets long and stalky practically overnight, and then it goes bitter. This was in the ground too long, I guess.”

  My dream of a salad is crushed, and so is Holly’s, judging by her protracted sigh. She turns to me with a wry smile. “Guess it’s going to be complete and total suck.”

  I pat her shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

  38

  Tom

  We’ve stopped our nightly watches, mainly because I sleep on the couch. It makes no sense to keep someone awake staring into the dark when I’ll just as easily hear any noises worth hearing. I’ve always been a light sleeper, but now it feels as though I only briefly dip into sleep, like I’m sticking my toes into a pool to test its temperature, and my body refuses to dive in.

  The dreams don’t help. During the day, I can distract myself from thoughts of Sheila and Jeremy. It’s both a blessing and a curse because my brain makes up for it—gets even, more like—when I’m vulnerable, and the nightmares are brutal. There are the ones where Sheila and Jeremy are monsters, and, possibly worse, the ones where they aren’t. Where I wake on the brink of a sob and the loss seems unbearable.

  I lie on the couch and listen to the low sounds of the zombies on the road. More have come in the days after the pack that followed Kara. Many more. One pack passed for thirty minutes yesterday, though the last of them lingered out front into the evening. They have no interest in the fence so far, and the plan is to take care of them later if they don’t move along.

  When the sky lightens, Rose enters the kitchen as she does every morning. I turn to watch her at the sink. Her hair is in a ponytail atop her head, and her curls come down like a fountain. I’m always glad when she appears. It’s another night over. The sun coming up. Rose usually has a smile, something silly or weird or ridiculously random to say, and I hardly believe I once found it annoying when now I look forward to it.

  In the kitchen, Rose sneezes twice. It happens every morning. Two sneezes before she takes her allergy medication, after which she mutters something along the lines of Fucking Oregon or Goddamn grass. This morning it’s Stupid Willamette Valley.

  I smile to myself as she takes her pill and wets her toothbrush, then I throw back the covers and sit up, running a hand through my hair. I was late for a haircut before the virus, and it’s getting longer than I’ve had it in years.

  Rose spins from the sink with her toothbrush in her mouth. “Did my stupid sneezing wake you? I’m sorry. The hall bathroom is out of water, and I—”

  “You didn’t wake me.” I stand to fold my blankets while she continues brushing. It’s funny how many of the things that were once private are now done in front of others. Thankfully, the bathroom doors close. “Where’s Willa?”

  “Still sleeping on Mitch. I didn’t know dogs could be that lazy.”

  I stow my bedclothes in the storage ottoman and enter the kitchen. Rose has finished brushing, and now she opens cabinets and peers at bags of freeze-dried food. She squints at one bag with particularly small type. “I swear, last year I could read everything. Now I feel like my dad, cursing at all directions not printed in twelve-point font.”

  “Welcome to old age,” I say.

  Her hair i
s insane now that I see it up close—a spill of auburn with lighter strands that are likely graying but appear more blond. She sees me looking and her hand goes to her ponytail. “Let’s pretend I took this out before I came to the kitchen.”

  “I like it. It’s very 1983.”

  Rose laughs, her cheeks pinker than they were. “It’s the pineapple.”

  “The what?”

  “The pineapple. You pile all your hair atop your head before you go to sleep so that you’re not a frizzball in the morning. For me, it has a sixty-three percent success rate.”

  She pulls out the ponytail tie and lets her hair fall, then works her fingers in to flatten it some. It’s still insane, but it suits Rose—slightly crazy, spilling everywhere all at once, yet warm and soft. At least I think it’s soft. I haven’t actually felt it. I have a lunatic urge to ask if I can and bite my tongue.

  “The struggle is real,” she says, and throws up her hands as if admitting defeat. “Silk pillowcases, countless hair products, wide-tooth combs, plopping, and the pineapple, and still I lose the battle.”

  I wonder what plopping is, but I’m half-afraid to ask. “Why not cut it?”

  “If I cut it, I’d look like a deranged poodle. I did that once, and never again. I’ll be one of those old ladies with long gray braids.”

  “Ah, one of those hippie old ladies.”

  “You know it.”

  I squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush, then wet it under the water container spigot. While I brush, Rose pokes around in the cabinets some more. She throws a couple of things into a cloth bag and starts out of the kitchen.

  I spit out my toothpaste. “Want some help with breakfast?”

  “Sure. I’m only making freeze-dried food and coffee.”