The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  Francis and Lana turn for a peek along with me and Daisy. Josh and Tanner are watching the countryside, but Lance is using his reflection in the back window to fix his hair. I lose it along with the others.

  On a normal day, if you haul ass, you can drive I-5 from San Francisco to Eugene. On a zombie day, when you take winding backroads, you can get about two hundred miles, not all of which head strictly north. We’ve driven two-hundred-thirty miles in nine hours, which isn’t breaking any records but is much more than we accomplished in a week’s time.

  The gas gauge is just below half a tank. It won’t get us to Eugene, not with the extra miles on our current route, and now that the road has turned to dirt, the going is slower than before. Josh and Company have tied t-shirts over their faces to protect from the dust the truck kicks up. At an earlier rest stop (in the non-working bathroom of a farmhouse) the three said they’re heading north. They’re from the Midwest, were out in California for spring break, and have a plan to make their way cross-country once they can travel east.

  When Lana turns onto the next road, complete with smooth asphalt and yellow center lines, a cheer comes from the back as well as inside. The land is scrubbier and a white-topped mountain peeks over distant hills. I shift in my seat. My ass hurts. My back hurts. I’m hungry. Tired. Nervous.

  Lana pulls over by a few cars stopped on the road. None has the hallmarks of a hurried exit in the form of open doors and bloody upholstery. “What do you think that’s about?”

  “Bet they came off the highway,” Francis says. “Route 36 cuts over from I-5.”

  “They’re probably out of gas,” Troy says, “but let’s check.”

  I open my door. It’s best not to think about what can go wrong and just get it over with. Daisy slides out after I hit the asphalt, standing on her toes and stretching her arms above her head. “If I’m this cramped, you must be about to die,” she says, looking up at me. “You’re pretty tall.”

  “I’m all right,” I lie.

  Josh and Company eye Daisy. Though it isn’t quite an ogle, they could do with a little restraint in the undressing-with-the-eyes department. Daisy drops her hands to her hips and glares at them. “Help you with something?”

  The boys flush and look away while Daisy winks at me. I was considering how to defend her honor, forgetting she can probably beat the crap out of all of us.

  “What’s going on?” Josh asks, venturing another peek our way. At Daisy’s warning frown, he quickly busies himself with his shoe.

  Troy walks around the back of the truck. “Checking those cars for gas. Wanna join?”

  “Sure.” Josh and Tanner jump to the ground. They both hold a knife and flex their muscles when they pass Daisy. Lance follows with a cocky smile.

  Troy opens an SUV’s door and leans inside to turn the key in the ignition. The engine doesn’t so much as crank, but the dash lights up and the gas gauge shows empty. The next cars are the same. The two without keys present more of a problem. After he takes a look under one, Troy pokes around in his pack until he pulls out a collection of tubes stored in a large Ziploc bag.

  “Gonna use the siphon on this one,” he says. “Most cars today have plastic tanks, but this is metal. Stab it with steel, and you could spark any fumes. If I’m going to die, it’ll be by zombie, not dumbassery.”

  Troy removes the gas cap and feeds a wide hose down, then threads a smaller diameter tube down the center of the first. He notices my interest and asks, “You see how the end of the smaller tube is angled?” I nod. Troy spins the tube as he pushes it farther. “Once you get down to the valve, you’ve got to kind of work it around until it gets past—” He pushes again. “Got it. You can buy a fancier one, but a homemade one works, too.”

  He connects the end of the smaller tube to another hose with a black rubber squeeze pump, while Lana sets the end of that hose in a gas can we found at a house. A moment later, liquid patters into the receptacle and the scent of gasoline fills the air.

  I join Francis keeping watch on the shoulder, though the chance of something sneaking up on us is slim due to our altitude and the low scrub. Daisy arrives a second later. “I think Lana was right about that Lance guy,” she mutters.

  Francis casts a dark look over his shoulder. “You want me to set him straight?”

  “No, I can do it myself. I’ve done it a million times.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Francis smiles at her, then resumes his watch.

  Daisy catches her lip in her teeth, pretty brown eyes searching Francis’ face, before she realizes I’m watching. She crosses her arms and blows her bangs off her forehead. “Anyway, we’ve gotten far today. Knew it’d be easier up north.”

  Her voice is too high, trying to play off the moment. I may not have romantic inclinations, but I can spot them, and Daisy has more than a few for Francis.

  “Now you’ve jinxed us,” I say, and try to show her with a smile that her secret’s safe with me. “Thanks for that.”

  Daisy pushes me lightly. “Let’s check on the gas.”

  When we get there, Troy is removing the tube from the car. “About half a gallon. Better than nothing.” The next car would be easy—hammer a spike through the plastic gas tank—but someone got there first. Troy slides out from under the chassis. “Someone else knows what they’re doing. Let’s go.”

  As the road descends, rocky soil becomes grass and trees. A barn-red building appears. Another plundered general store. We stop anyway, but it’s stripped of food and fuel the same as other towns we’ve traveled through. Even the cars have been defueled, many with Troy’s method of a hole in the gas tank.

  “Maybe we should stop for the night,” Lana says. “It might take a while to find a place.”

  The sun is dipping west, and an entire day in the car has taken its toll on body and spirit. Lana mentioned that they camped before meeting me, but no one slept well, if at all, when nothing stood between them and zombies. I don’t blame them—I’m a big fan of zombie-proof walls.

  After a few more miles, we come upon a log cabin store, pillaged the way the others have been yet otherwise deserted. Francis drives into the lot, then toward the concrete pad that provides access to the underground gas tanks. The metal cover is missing, along with the cap to the inlet pipe.

  While Troy and Francis hunt for a stick long enough to check the level in the tank, I go to the store with Lana and Daisy. The front deck, where one once sat at picnic tables to enjoy a snack, is caked with mashed food, strewn with food packaging, and crawling with ants. Inside the store is dim, but it’s easy to see it’s been picked over countless times, and every shelf is bare except for some toiletries, random trinkets, and auto supplies like air fresheners. The café area is decimated, with dishes and pots and pans scattered on every kitchen surface behind the serving window.

  A body lies in one aisle, its boot just visible. It’s responsible for the smell of death that I’ve barely registered except to make certain it isn’t a Lexer. I check the beverage coolers, find them empty, and give the body a closer look. The man is facedown, the back of his head covered in wispy white hair and a knife planted in his shoulder. His cane’s handle peeks out from under his thigh.

  An old man. Not a zombie. And someone killed him. There’s always the chance he was an evil old man, but how much trouble could a cane-wielding elderly gent in orthopedic shoes really get up to? Probably nothing stab-in-the-back worthy, at least.

  Daisy comes to my side. “I hate the zombies, but I hate the fuckers who do this the most. You know?” I nod. After a few seconds, she says, “Francis is nice, that’s all. He’s not even my type.”

  I don’t laugh, but I can’t hide my amusement. “Nice isn’t your type?”

  Daisy grins. “No. Isn’t that terrible?”

  “The world could use more nice—”

  “Gross,” Josh says from behind us. “That guy reeks.”

  Tanner and Lance join him, and Lance prods the old man’s leg with the toe of his boot. A
swarm of flies lifts directly into Tanner’s face, causing him to yell and trip backward over Lance’s shoe. He hits the ground ass-first and smacks at his face. “What the fuck, Lance?”

  Josh and Lance scream with laughter. I pull Daisy away from the triad of geniuses and out the front door. Lana’s on the porch, eyebrows raised. “What happened?”

  “Don’t ask,” I say. “I’ll see how Troy and Francis are doing.”

  I walk across the lot, small rocks crunching beneath my boots. An old woman’s body sits in one of the cars by the truck, with no obvious wound on her purplish skin, and I wonder if she’s the old man’s counterpart. When I reach Troy and Francis, they shake their heads.

  “Nothing.” Troy drops his long, dry branch to the ground. “Let’s find a place to sleep.”

  A place to sleep ends up being a double-wide manufactured home just down the road. The people are gone, and the clothes, food, and suitcases thrown throughout the house reveal they left in a hurry. Possibly hoping to beat the virus north to safety, when north was still safe. If it ever was. From what the others say, it was only a matter of days between the major outbreak in California and the fall of the East Coast.

  While we make a space to sleep and check our surroundings, Lance regales me with tales of his battlefield prowess. “…so I knocked down three of them, then threw a new clip in my gun and got the others just before they reached us. It was sick.”

  I wince for the fifth time. Dad would not be happy to hear clip when one is speaking of most handguns. I toss a pile of discarded clothes into a corner and straighten the sheet on a mattress.

  “And then there was that time we fought those people,” Lance says. “They were in, where was it, Tanner?”

  “Not sure,” Tanner says.

  “Maybe Bakersfield,” Lance continues. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, so we’re biking along, and these dudes come out of nowhere. I mean nowhere, bro, and started popping off rounds like crazy. And Josh is all, ‘Hide!’ And I’m like, ‘No, fuckers!’ So I rolled behind a car and started shooting. Popped out the clip and—”

  “Magazine,” I say because I can stand it no longer. I think I hear Troy laugh in the kitchen.

  Lance squints in confusion. “What?”

  “Magazine. The thing you load with bullets is not a clip. It’s a magazine. Only a few guns use clips, and you’ll know one when you see it.”

  “Oh.” Lance quiets as if the very foundation of his world has been rocked. He recovers quickly. “So, I popped out the magazine,” he points a finger gun my way, and I nod in acceptance of his props while I try not to roll my eyes, “and took them out. It was nuts, bro. But it’s kill or be killed now. Vigilante justice and shit.”

  I suppose it is, but the days when I took pleasure in that disappeared with my pubescent testosterone. Honestly, there never were those days. I already lived in a world of constantly rocketing adrenaline and anxiety when there weren’t zombies, and it’s never been fun.

  “I wish we could meet some girls,” Lance says. “It’s gonna suck if there aren’t any girls left. Right, Tan?”

  Tanner’s jaw drops as if he hasn’t considered that, and he looks to me. “That would suck.”

  There’s no way in hell I’m explaining asexuality to these kids. I’m not a fucking afterschool special. “I’m sure there are harems of girls just waiting to be bedded by the two of you,” I say. “Right now they’re probably more focused on staying alive than hooking up, though.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Lance says. “I’m going outside. Help keep watch. You coming, Tan?”

  I lift a hand as they leave. And though I feel the tiniest bit bad for taking the wind out of Lance’s sails, I appreciate the silence. Troy leans into the living room. “Safe to come out? Oh man, you had me laughing in there. He was driving me crazy with clip this and clip that. How do you know it’s a magazine?”

  “My dad,” I say. “He was a gun guy. He taught me how to shoot.” At Troy’s bemused expression, I add, “I know, I don’t look the type.”

  “You said it, not me.” Troy grins so amiably that I laugh. “You should carry one of those pistols I found today.”

  I know I should. I don’t want to, but I’m not a moron who’ll shoot myself in the foot by not carrying a gun when it could be a lifesaver. Though it’s been so long there’s a good chance I will literally shoot myself in the foot. “I’ll take the revolver, if it’s cool with you.”

  It’s a Smith and Wesson .357, which means it’ll fire .38 as well. Dad owned one—his favorite. I try not to think about that part, only that familiarity might make foot-shooting less likely. I haven’t held a gun since Dad died, and I’m not looking forward to it.

  “Good choice. Revolvers will go forever. Chamber’s full, but we don’t have extra ammo. We’ll keep an eye out. And take one of the knives, too. Spike is good for zombies, but you’ll need a knife if it’s human.”

  Once the house is set for the night and the sun is going down, we eat. Along with bemoaning the lack of the fairer sex and recounting tales of their exploits, it seems deliberating the origins of the virus is Josh and Company’s favorite pastime, since they’ve done nothing but discuss it for the past thirty minutes. “I’m telling you,” Lance says for the fourth time, “someone planted it everywhere. All you had to do was infect a couple dozen people in a bunch of cities and let it ride. China would do it to us, too.”

  “Except it started in China,” Tanner says dismissively. “The LX stands for a city in China.”

  “No, it was in Korea.”

  “Actually,” I say, looking up from my bowl of beans and corn, “it was in Vietnam. Long Xuyen.” I’ve heard of the city before. Dad wasn’t big into sharing feelings, but he shared his Vietnam War stories with Mike and me. It gave us nightmares until Mom forced him to quit.

  “Same difference,” Lance says.

  Daisy growls. “Yeah, we Asians are all the same, right? Jackass.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I’m eating outside.” Daisy leaves for the deck with her bowl. I start to follow but sit when Francis and Lana go after her.

  “Anyway,” Lance says, eyeing Troy and me.

  If he expects commiseration, he’s disappointed. I glare, and Troy’s brow darkens. “Say something like that again, and you’re walking.”

  “Sorry.” Lance throws up his hands. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “Then say things in your head before you say them out loud,” I say. “That’s what big kids do.”

  Lance mutters to himself and continues eating. The boys have MREs, which are sealed plastic pouches of pre-cooked food that range from vaguely to wholly unappetizing. Not that my beans and canned corn are delicious, even loaded with the hot sauce Lana found in a cabinet.

  Josh speaks into Lance’s ear. Lance ignores him until Josh whacks the side of his head. “What the hell, man?”

  “Now,” Josh says loudly.

  Lance stands, lips in a pout, and clomps out the front door. “He’s apologizing,” Josh says to us. “Sorry. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just a moron who doesn’t think before he speaks. I’ve known him since fifth grade. My parents call him Motormouth.”

  “Apt name,” Troy says. “Where are your parents?”

  “Iowa. We all grew up about an hour outside of Des Moines.”

  That’s not a giant surprise. For all their muscles and weaponry, they act like they’ve just rolled in from Farmtown, USA. “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Lance and Tanner are twenty. I’ll be twenty next week. Happy birthday, right? I spoke to my parents two days before the phones went. They said there were some cases in Des Moines. They’re probably fucked by now.”

  Josh’s Adam’s apple bobs, and my sympathy grows a tad. They’re practically babies, close in age to Holly and Jesse, and thousands of miles from home.

  “The city is,” Troy says. “But your parents might not be. You’re not.”

  “That’s true.” Josh looks t
o Tanner, who smiles as though he wants it to be true but isn’t sold on the idea. “Well, we’re going there as soon as we can. Once the zombies are gone.”

  Lance walks in the front door, followed by Lana, Daisy, and Francis. “I forgave him,” Daisy announces, “with the understanding that I will kick his ass if he does it again.”

  Lance hangs his head. Behind him, Lana mouths Told you.

  46

  Craig

  The revolver weighs down my shoulder in the backseat of the truck. With only seven rounds, I didn’t want to waste any on a test shot, so I’m hoping for the best—the best being I won’t have to use it. Considering the world is crawling with zombies, I’m sure that hope will soon be dashed. It’s comforting, in a way, to know I have a last resort if a pointy object doesn’t work.

  Still, every gun brings to mind walking into the room where Dad did it. The red-splashed wall behind the bed. The bloody mess of the back of Dad’s head. His hand still slightly curled as if holding the pistol grip, though his weapon had dropped a foot away.

  They said it was suicide caused by PTSD. At the funeral, a friend of Dad’s told me that before that official diagnostic name, it was called battle fatigue, and before that it was shell shock and soldier’s heart and nostalgia, going back generation after generation all the way to the 1600s. Even ancient writings referenced the trauma of war, though it remained nameless.

  I thought soldier’s heart the best description. Dad wanted to be different, to stay with us, but his heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it’d gone down with a chopper or been unintentionally dropped beside a dead Viet Cong soldier. I pictured Dad’s heart, forlorn and forgotten, in the mud beside that soldier’s motionless leg, flattened by boot treads as my father, and the war, marched on.

  Mom, Mike, and I marched on without Dad. Except we didn’t march; we trudged and faltered. Mom was sad and tired and snapped all the time. I was nervous and jumpy and convinced my father would’ve tried harder had he not been saddled with a weakling son. Mike threw himself into school and friends and afterschool jobs as if nothing had happened, though I heard him crying in the bathroom more than once.