The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  “Of course.” I watch the family, warmth spreading in my chest. It feels good to help someone else. That I’m in a position to do so is astonishing.

  Carl practically falls at our feet when Lana tells him the news. “Oh my God, thank you! I have a can right here.” He races to his car and lifts a five-gallon gas can. “We found a car down the way you came. A hybrid. We’ll walk to that.”

  “Good plan.” Troy climbs into the bed with the Gas Caddy and sets the can down. “This looks pretty self-explanatory.”

  While Troy sets up, I take in the store. It has a sign for a café off to the side, which touts it’s the home of the infamous pancake challenge. I have no idea what that is, but I assume it involves eating a lot of pancakes, and my mouth waters. With the food we found in that house’s pantry, we have enough for five or more days, but none of it is pancakes hot off a griddle and dripping with maple syrup.

  Troy cranks the gas tank’s pump while keeping an eye on the gauge. When it’s lowered some, he sets the can into Carl’s waiting arms. “I need to find me one of those,” Carl says. “What’s it hold?”

  “Thirty gallons,” Troy replies. “We found it close to full at a farm. Might be worth a look if you pass any farms on your way.”

  Carl nods eagerly. “Oh, we’ll check. Don’t worry about that.”

  “How’re your food stores? Need any?”

  “You’ve done enough.” Carl lifts the gas can. “This is fine. I don’t want to—”

  “You have a daughter who needs to eat,” Francis says. “How about a few things?”

  “We could use it, yeah, but—”

  “Then take it.” Daisy leans into the bed with Troy, where she pulls cans and assorted items from our plastic tub of food. “Lily, you want to grab these?”

  Lily steps forward, hands in prayer position. “Thank you. God bless you. Are you Christians?”

  “Some of us are,” Lana says, “and some of us aren’t. All of us want to help.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for all of you.”

  “I never say no to prayers. You take care on the road, okay?”

  “You, too,” Carl says. “Thank you again. How are you getting north? A few people came through a day ago and said Route 199 was blocked, but this road here seems okay. It meets up with 238 and goes north all the way to Grants Pass.”

  He motions to the first turn after the store. Francis opens the atlas, finds the winding road, and confirms it goes that way indeed. “Thanks for the heads up,” he says to Carl. “We would’ve wasted a lot of time and gas.”

  We say our goodbyes and turn up the road to Oregon.

  47

  Craig

  “I must say,” Troy announces, “I’m feeling very Christlike at the moment.”

  Lana takes a sip from her bottle and grimaces at the metallic tasting water from that campground spigot. “Feel free to turn my water into wine.”

  “Are you Christian?” I ask Troy.

  “Sure am. I love me some Jesus. You?” I shake my head, and Troy says, “Daisy is a maybe, Francis is a not anymore, and Lana is a—”

  “Lana is a hell no,” Lana says. “Which is also where I’m going, according to Troy.”

  Troy’s laugh booms. “Me and Jesus have our own thing going on. You can pray to the Mother of Trees for all I care. I do know some churchy people who might not have made it, but I’m sure I’ll see you up there.” He lifts a hand from the wheel and points toward Heaven.

  Lana groans. “So I have to spend eternity listening to you, too? Next time you speak to Jesus, would you ask if we can live in separate towns?”

  “Lana, Lana, Lana.” Troy shakes his head sadly. “You’d be miserable without my cunning wit.”

  Lana sucks her teeth in disagreement, and the rest of us laugh. I look out the back window at Josh and Co. The guys’ hair whips around, their cheeks and arms are sunburnt, and their faces are dirty again. They haven’t bitched at any of our bathroom stops, though, not even Lance. “Should we switch off with them in the back?” I ask, feeling guilty for not having considered it until now.

  “I said I was Christlike, not Jesus himself,” Troy says. “They’re young and…shit.”

  The truck slows at a jumble of cars in the road. There have to be over twenty at differing angles, as if people came this far and then gave up. Or they came this far and ran into zombies, as a few gnawed bodies with head wounds suggest.

  “Turn around and go that other way?” Troy asks.

  Francis opens the atlas. “Remember what he said? It’s blocked even worse. We’re just over twenty miles from the Oregon border now. It’s this road or that one. No other choices unless we want to backtrack and go east toward I-5.”

  Grumbling ensues. I remind myself of all the ground we covered today. It’s been a good day, as these things go, with few zombies. I haven’t gotten a chance to use my spike or gun, which I’m not brokenhearted about.

  Josh and Co. walk in front of the truck. After a few seconds of deliberation, Tanner comes to Troy’s window. The scalp beneath his buzzcut is a deep pink that’s going to hurt later. “We can move them. It shouldn’t take long if we all pitch in.”

  He claps his hands together, end of huddle style, then returns to his friends. “Ah, the optimism of youth,” Troy says. “Let’s do it.”

  There are a couple of ways to move the cars without keys, Lance tells us, but the simplest is that many cars have a shift lock release that allows the car to shift into neutral. The trick is finding the access panel, usually by the shifter, then either pulling up on a strap, using a screwdriver to push a tab to the side, or a combination of both.

  “And here we were disconnecting the transmission,” Francis says. “How do you know this?”

  “My dad once lost his car keys and we had to move his car. The mechanic said you can find the location in the manual if it’s not obvious.”

  “Good work, kid,” Daisy says.

  Lance barely looks her way, likely because she now terrifies him. “Yeah, so I guess we should start?”

  We begin with the first car in line, pushing it far ahead and into the left lane to make room for the cars behind. Though it’s easier than what Francis described with the transmission, it takes a long time, especially when we first have to search for the owner’s manual to find the location of a few. With three people watching the woods, and two cars that won’t budge no matter what we do, it takes two hours to clear a winding lane for the pickup.

  The sun is lowering and the road is cool in the shade. After a few miles and only two houses, Troy slows at a small, tin-roofed house set in the trees. “If we go any farther, we might not find a place before dark.”

  It’s disappointing not to reach Oregon, even if it’s only twenty miles closer to Eugene. I wanted to hit that mental milestone. But it’s better to be alive to reach Oregon than dead by the border.

  I help set up the sleeping areas and heat food on Josh’s and Lana’s backpacking stoves. We use the house’s plates and silverware to keep ours clean and refill our water containers from the water heater. After the sun has set, I settle myself on the floor and close my eyes until my watch shift just before dawn.

  I’m awakened with a violent shake and a soft hiss. “Something’s out there,” Lana whispers, then crawls toward where the others lie sleeping.

  It’s dark, with barely enough moonlight to see shapes. I hear more whispers across the room, then sit up straight at the crack of a branch outside, my heartbeat drowning out all else. We didn’t see any Lexers except the dead ones in town, but that doesn’t mean anything. Zombies are mobile.

  A flashlight flares in the corner of the living room and is quickly dimmed. Francis’ head is silhouetted in the light of the window before he ducks out of sight. I don the shoulder holster, find my spike in the dark, and then crawl across the room toward the others, moving slowly to minimize creaks in the old wood floor.

  When I arrive, Lana leans to my ear. “People. Francis saw at least five.�
��

  That’s worse than zombies. Much worse. I press my back to the wall. There’ll be no Oregon border, no seeing Rose or Mitch or the kids. Troy crawls to my side, the whites of his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I’m going out back and around while Francis and the others keep them at the window. Can’t wake the boys without them hearing.”

  Josh and Company are in another room. I stare at Troy, unsure what this means for me, until I understand he wants my help to ambush the people. There was a little something extra in Troy’s after-dinner cigar if he thinks I’m up to that task.

  “Okay,” I whisper, though what comes out is a rush of air and a squeak.

  Troy clamps a hand on my shoulder before he crawls toward the back door in the kitchen. I follow because whatever I am—terrified, incompetent, weak—I keep my word, even if it kills me. And I have no doubt it will kill me.

  Troy stays low as he opens the kitchen door. Moonlight outside affords us a better view, though it’s still lacking. He pushes open the screen door and crooks a finger. I slip through the open space and off the back step to kneel at the side of the house. The damp ground soaks through my jeans. The cool air sears my lungs.

  “Stay low,” Troy whispers. “When we get to the front, we fire once. Francis will turn on the light. Shoot anything that moves.”

  I fumble for my pistol. Something I should’ve already had in hand. I try to breathe, to think of something that will give me peace in these last few minutes of life, but there’s only fear. When Troy moves, so do I, rounding the side of the house in a low trot until we reach the front corner.

  “Now.” Troy’s arms raise, then comes a deafening boom and a flash of orange.

  I lift my pistol as the flashlight shines out the window into the trees. Two men are near the front door. Two slighter people, possibly women, stand thirty feet away where the trees are thicker. Another few figures are to the left of those, and every gun is turned toward the house. A cacophony of shots sounds—Lana, Daisy, and Francis firing into the night. Troy gets off two and then shoves me back as bullets hit the siding with deadly thumps.

  “Stay low.” Troy crouches and ducks around the side of the house.

  I follow, my knees sinking into earth behind the bushes out front. The woods echo with gunfire, a steady boom boom boom that shatters the house’s windows and drowns out everything but a sharp, piercing scream. Something—many little things—hit my head and back. I almost scream myself, until I realize it’s glass shards from the window above me. I can’t see anything, anyone, and I sink lower to stay out of range.

  Ahead, Troy aims steadily at the trees, returning fire that comes our way. The men at the door are gone. Maybe they decided it wasn’t worth it. Left for something easier.

  I can’t think, can’t move. I’m as frozen and useless as ever. Holding a gun when I have no business with one. That’s what Dad said during our last trip to the woods, after I missed my third clear shot at an elk. Some people have no business with a gun.

  I could turn and run. I could leave right now and walk the final miles alone. There have to be supplies somewhere—a can of food here, a water bottle there. I’ll walk it. I’ll hike to Eugene, ashamed but alive.

  My attention is caught by a figure behind the bushes on the other side of the door, just under the living room window. A man coming for Troy. In a split-second, I see myself explaining to Rose and Mitch how I made it there on the backs of the people who rescued me. I’ve already died myriad ways in my mind, and though terrifying, any one of those deaths is preferable to living with that cowardly, pathetic version of myself.

  I tackle Troy to the ground just before the man’s gun sputters orange. I land low, belly sinking into mud, and lift my revolver. When I wasn’t nervous, which wasn’t very often, I was a decent shot. Better than Mike. Sometimes better than Dad.

  I pull the trigger twice, forgetting not to flinch. But the man falls, and then I pull myself into a crouch and inch toward the open front door, eyes on the trees. A bullet splinters wood above my head. Not a warning shot—a test shot. They can’t see me with the flashlight in their eyes. They’ve moved into the deep gloom beyond its glare, hoping I’ll fire and give away my location. A shout comes from inside, and then the sound of an engine along the side of the house. Troy is up beside me, breathing heavily. “See anyone?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  Brake lights flare red in the driveway. The truck. Someone has the pickup. Two figures break from the trees at the same time as a car on the road flashes its headlights and honks its horn. I aim. Breathe in. Let it out. Then I fire. When one stumbles, I know I’ve hit them. I track the figure’s slower course and shoot twice more until they fall.

  Troy drops the other with a single shot, then leaps to his feet and races for the truck. Lance darts through the open front door, gun in hand, and follows him. I spin to the trees to cover them, but whoever was there is gone with the vehicles. Troy and Lance fire down the road a few times before they give up. It’s a lost cause, and ammo shouldn’t be wasted.

  They lope for the house while I enter the front, calling out, “It’s Craig!”

  I’m unspeakably relieved to see Francis at the window with his gun, and Lana and Daisy kneeling with a flashlight in the corner. An unknown man is facedown in the shadows opposite. It’s only when I return to Lana and Daisy that I notice the two bodies they kneel beside and recognize Tanner’s buzzed head and Josh’s blond hair.

  “They ran out of their room,” Lana says, her face pallid in the light. “Right into the two guys.”

  My mind still languishes in the world of fifteen minutes ago, when all was well. The sight of the two boys on the floor won’t compute. They were smart enough to stay in their room, or at least not run directly at people with guns. Troy and Lance burst through the doorway and stop dead. Dead, like Josh and Tanner.

  “What…?” Troy asks, his voice faint.

  Lance lands on his knees in front of his friends, hoarse sobs breaking my daze. This is reality: two young men dead over a truck in a world full of fucking trucks for the taking. I have two of the seven bullets left, and I want nothing more than to put them both into the people who did this.

  Lance drops his head in his hands, shoulders bucking with sobs. Lana wraps her arms around him, and he holds on like a heartbroken little boy. A branch cracks outside. Francis and Troy head for the door, and I fall in behind them. Another crack, then one from the opposite direction. Lexers, making their way toward the noise and light. I lift my spike from my belt while Francis waves the flashlight around.

  “Can’t be that many,” Troy says. “Let’s wait and see.”

  Two women stumble onto the driveway from the trees. Not only have some human fuckers killed people and stolen our truck, but their scheme has also brought on another threat. I stride toward the Lexers, just now realizing I wear only socks.

  Fuck it.

  I close in on the first. The flashlight’s beam lights half her face in a way that makes her one staring eye and rotted cheek more grotesque. I bring my spike into that one eyeball and yank it out, spinning for the other before the first falls. Troy is already there, and the woman hits the gravel.

  Francis hollers as he storms the woods opposite. We move that way, Troy’s flashlight keeping Francis in sight as he meets with the five Lexers advancing. By the time we reach him, two are down, and I’m almost gleeful as we take the last ones to the ground.

  48

  Rose

  The infirmary is in the Events Center, in a long, narrow office space at the rear of the giant building. Now, the office holds cots in the back and chairs in the front, split by desks and cabinets which help to screen the patients along with the omnipresent trade show drapes. When I enter, Ethan is rooting around in a cabinet. He glances over his shoulder and rises quickly.

  Too quickly. I’m trying to quell this suspicious voice, but it’s impossible to undo five years of mistrust in a few days. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi.” Ethan we
ars a real smile, a happy-to-see-you smile, that helps dispel my wariness.

  Drapes part in the back of the office. The woman who exits is a decade younger than me, with chin-length bleached hair and small, pretty features that would be prettier if she weren’t so sullen. She strolls toward the front of the office in her tight black jeans and boots, her lips pouted.

  “Rose, this is Eva,” Ethan says. “Eva, Rose. My wife.”

  “I know. You’ve only been talking about her non-stop for, like, ever.” Eva rolls her eyes and stops in front of me. “Nice to meet you.”

  At this distance, it’s apparent Eva’s closer to fifteen years younger, somewhere in her late twenties. And though she’s declared it nice to meet me, her crossed arms and chilly smile give off an annoyed and slightly superior vibe that only increases when she takes me in from top to bottom.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I say, and battle the urge to pat my hair or check myself in a mirror. I’d chalk Eva’s rudeness up to youth, but Holly and Jesse don’t greet people this way. If they did, I’d open a can of whoop-ass on them.

  “Eva helps out in here,” Ethan says, moving to us. “She’s learning the ropes.”

  “Were you a nurse before?” I ask.

  Eva sniffs. “Not at all. But I had some experience in the healthcare industry.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure Ethan appreciates the help.”

  “I sure hope so,” Eva says, as if the thought she’d care either way amuses her. She grabs a coat off the desk chair. “See you later.”

  “Bye.” I watch her walk out the door, then I turn to Ethan. “Why do I get the feeling she doesn’t like me?”

  “Don’t take it personally, Eva doesn’t like anyone.”

  “Isn’t she a little too angsty to be a nurse? I feel like she’d just as soon murder me as cure me.”

  Ethan laughs. “Some days, maybe. But she’s good at the medical stuff.” He takes my hand. “What did I do to deserve this visit?”