The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  “I was nearby with nothing to do. I thought I’d say hi and see if you needed anything.”

  “The only thing I need is you.” He draws me closer and gazes down, face creased with pleasure. “And here you are.”

  I smile as best I can. When they say guilt eats you up inside, they have to mean this gnawing sensation in my stomach that makes me vaguely nauseous. “Where’s Rhonda?”

  Rhonda is the other nurse. She retired ten years ago, which is likely the reason she’s still alive. I’ve been told most medical personnel died in the outbreak with everyone else at the hospitals.

  “She went for lunch.” Ethan kisses my hand before he lets go, then points to a chair. “Sit. Hang out. I have a few things to do, but I can go to lunch with you when she’s back.”

  I put my feet up on a desk while Ethan writes something in a notebook and then sorts through pill bottles in the cabinets. He quit nursing partly because of his habit—a while into his addiction, he started recommending drugs for homebound patients who didn’t need them, then pocketing most of the pills. He stopped before he was caught. That was before he progressed to buying pills, and then to heroin.

  “Those are the pain meds.” Ethan points to a locking file cabinet, as if he can read my mind. “We keep count.”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t know what else to say. I watch his back while he works, observing his straight shoulders, his sure stance, and force myself to remember the good things. The love in his eyes when he looks at the kids, tucking my hair behind my ear while saying he was the luckiest man in the world, our talks late into the night, when sometimes we laughed so hard we cried, our agreement on most things—humor, politics, what constitutes a happy life.

  He’s a good person; that’s what makes this so hard. It’s as though there are two people in there, one of whom came along later and was most unwelcome, and he ruined everything.

  Ethan closes the cabinet door and sees me watching. “What?” he asks, his slight smile unsure.

  “Just looking.”

  “You like what you see, baby?” He says it in a Brooklyn accent, raising his chin in my direction, and my laugh is genuine. He comes to my chair, where he sinks to eye level. “I know I like what I see.”

  “Frizzy and wrinkly does it for you, huh?”

  “Guess so.”

  I push his chest. He smiles and leans in for a kiss. Instead of backing away, I close my eyes as our lips touch lightly, then meet again. It’s better than the last time, and though my body stirs, it also protests. It would be so easy to do this by rote—it’s been over twenty years, by now I have it down—but I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want it to be as real as it was before.

  The opening door saves me from having to make a decision. Ethan stands as Carver enters and nods at me. “Ethan, I’ve got a few sick people over in the ice rink. Was wondering if you’d take a look.”

  Ethan finds his stethoscope and a bag on a desk. “Sure. What’s wrong?”

  “Slight fever, achy, that kind of thing.”

  “Were they out of the gates at all?”

  “Nope, not a one. First thing I checked, believe me.”

  It would only take a couple of people to turn and then attack, making more zombies in the process. I imagine the scene, locked inside the gates with Lexers. We have no way of escape except our feet or our truck, and getting a vehicle out from behind locked gates might prove impossible. If we have to leave unexpectedly, our plan is to meet up at the house and put our original exit plan into effect if necessary. But in order to do that, we have to be able to escape in the first place.

  “Guess I won’t be around for lunch,” Ethan says to me. “I’ll see you later?”

  “Maybe. I might be out running errands.”

  Carver finds that amusing, judging by his smile. I like him, and his soldiers like him. That other guy, the one who looks like a squashed frog, is creepy. And though I try not to base my opinion of others on appearance, he acts exactly how he looks. If anything, he gives frogs a bad name.

  We leave for the front of the building, taking the long corridor on the side of the Exhibit Hall and exiting one of the many sets of glass doors from the lobby to the parking lot. Just around the corner of the building is the southeast gate, at which three soldiers stand. To my left, a locked person-sized gate meets with a footbridge that crosses Amazon Creek. Though the chain-link is covered, I peeked the other day and saw that the footbridge’s far end is blocked by a vehicle parked in the grass.

  The Expo Halls sit just ahead, stretching almost to the ice rink, behind which another bridge, this one wide enough for a vehicle, crosses the creek. I have to admit they’ve done their best to minimize the chance of zombies coming through the gates, and there are none on the streets outside the fences. Still, I worry. About the boundaries, about the zombies, about our drinking water and food. If the water runs out and we’re trapped inside, all the rules that keep this place in order will turn to chaos.

  At home, I could find the kids at any given moment—they were always a shout away. Here, in an emergency, I might not be able to find them. I try to keep tabs on their whereabouts in an unobtrusive manner, though they likely know my breezy What are you guys up to today? is more a gale of anxiety.

  People wander in and out of the Expo Halls as we pass. “Any news of the outside world?” I ask Carver. They don’t tell us much, though it seems there isn’t much to tell. Barry’s unconfirmed reports that the zombies won’t die soon are always on my mind.

  “Some broadcasts from around the country, where they’ve made Safe Zones. We thought we heard something official from California, but it fizzled out.” At my disappointed noise, Carver pulls his gaze from the lot, where tents hold showers, people eating, and a dozen kids chasing a ball. “Planning a trip?”

  “One of my best friends lives in Oakland. I’m hoping he’s okay.” Carver’s expression is sympathetic while it warns me not to get my hopes up. I know that. I know. But I want so badly for Craig to be alive that I can’t help it, even if everyone thinks I’m crazy to hope. “I’m also hopping on the first flight to Hawaii once I get the all-clear.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “You’re invited. I’ll buy the first round of Mai Tais. You seem like you’d be fun when you’re not yelling at an underling.”

  “I’m there,” Carver says with a chuckle.

  My stomach drops when Ethan’s face hardens, and I begin to review my tone and body language before I make myself stop. It’s obvious that inviting Carver on my fictional post-zombie trip to Hawaii was a joke, not a come-on.

  When we reach my building, Carver waves. Ethan returns my smile with a wink that fills me with relief. I have to stop reading into his every flinch or minute facial expression. It’s what he does to me, and it drives me crazy. I walk into the hall, thinking that for the first time since coming to the fairgrounds, I didn’t want to scream at Ethan’s touch. I actually liked him for ten whole minutes, even if I am relieved he’s been called away. Keeping my guard up is exhausting.

  I turn the corner into our row of drapery-rooms. Mitch, Holly, and Clara sit in varying states of boredom on the folding chairs we set in the open space outside our curtains, where the back wall is bare. Our makeshift living room. “You gals look excited to be alive,” I say.

  “It’s sad when the best part of my day is terrible food.” Mitch checks her watch. “Twenty minutes and counting.”

  “Where are the boys?”

  “Jess went somewhere with Nora, and Tom’s walking Willa. Your dad’s asleep.”

  He’s been sleeping a lot. I eye his curtain as Pop’s voice comes through. “I’m just resting, Rosie. Yes, I’m alive.”

  I roll my eyes at Mitch, who calls, “Papa, your daughter’s rolling her eyes at you.” Pop’s laugh sounds.

  “I’m finding me a new best friend,” I say.

  “Good luck with that.” Mitch flips a hand toward the front of our building. “They all come nowher
e near my magnificence.”

  “True. Though I’d gladly kill you for some caffeine.”

  The fairgrounds went through their limited coffee supply quickly, and we’ve been in withdrawal since we arrived. I’d drink black tea instead, but some sadist decided coffee and tea are low on the list of things one needs to survive, and they don’t devote any of their precious cargo space to caffeine on their food-finding expeditions. Kombucha is a distant dream, though I’m probably the only one who misses it.

  Mitch moans. “I’d even drink some of that instant International Coffee right now.”

  I raise an invisible mug and saucer, then take a pretend sip. “Remember Paris?” I ask Mitch in an overly chipper voice. “What was that waiter’s name again?”

  “Jean Luc!” we both exclaim, cracking ourselves up in the process.

  Clara and Holly watch us in bewilderment. “It’s from a commercial back in the day,” Mitch tells them. “You had to be there.”

  I drop into a chair, amused but, sadly, no more caffeinated than I was. “There are sick people in the ice rink, so don’t go inside.”

  “What kind of sick?”

  “Not sure, but it’s not zombie. Ethan just went to check it out.”

  Holly chews her cheek. “I hope he doesn’t catch it.”

  “Or give it to us,” Mitch adds.

  The tick-tack of nails on concrete arrives before Willa rounds the corner curtain with Tom just behind. The tiny dog and big human are an entertaining spectacle, both emphasizing the other’s size. “Willa, heel,” Tom says. Willa stops short and waits for him to catch up.

  “Impressive,” I say. “Did you just teach her that?”

  “I started yesterday.” Tom crouches to pat Willa’s head. “She’s the smartest dog I’ve ever met. Where’d she come from?”

  “You know, I have no idea. Ethan said a rescue. Someone returned her because they couldn’t take care of her.” He’d also said that he knew I didn’t want a puppy but wouldn’t be able to resist a pathetic adult dog face.

  “Watch what else she can do. Willa, stay.” Tom drops a few pieces of kibble on the floor nearby, then sits on a chair and ignores her.

  Willa’s bottom hits the floor. Her gaze flicks from Tom to the food, then back again, until she stares at the kibble with a desperation that’s hilarious and pitiful at the same time.

  “I think she’s trying to move it with telekinesis,” I say.

  Clara and Holly giggle. “Dad, you’re torturing her,” Clara says.

  Tom smiles and holds up a finger. “Okay, Willa.”

  Willa scrambles, legs slipping every which way, and gobbles down the food. Tom fishes in his pocket for more and lowers it to pug level. She rushes forward for the rest, then licks at his hand while he holds her down with his palm and rubs her belly.

  “I think you’re her new favorite person,” I say. “I was wondering where she went late at night. Is she in your bed?”

  Tom’s teeth flash. “She comes in after you’re asleep, jumps on my cot, and licks my face.”

  “She makes me pet her for ten minutes and then comes to you for more? You can kick her out.”

  Tom shrugs one shoulder and scratches Willa’s chest. I’ve been virtuous for the past days, not once imagining Tom and myself as anything other than friends. Which means I now strike down the image of Tom in his cot while I absolutely do not swoon at his fondness for my dog. Ethan has all but ignored Willa since we arrived. “She’s working us both. Aren’t you, Willa?”

  At her name, she grabs her stuffed mouse from under a chair and leaps into my lap, then spins around once and collapses into a ball. I stroke her short fur while she chews her toy. Ethan was right about me feeling bad for Willa, though I wouldn’t have been at the rescue in the first place. There’s no way to ask why he thought this gift suitable without insulting him. Since we’re on good terms at the moment, that’s the last thing I want. Besides, Willa has grown on me. She’s a comforting presence on my legs at night, she listens to me with all-consuming interest, and it isn’t as though she ties me down the way I feared, since zombies have me locked behind fences for the foreseeable future.

  Mitch gets to her feet, tapping her watch. “Lunchtime. Let’s move, otherwise we’ll get the worst of an already bad situation.”

  Pop exits his curtains, combing his fingers through his short beard. He looks okay, which sets my mind at ease some, though he still doesn’t look himself. In reality, none of us does. Everyone is tired, spaced-out at times. The magnitude of this hits you on and off. One minute you’re making it through the day okay, and the next you feel as though you’ve been dropped into an alternate universe.

  I tuck my arm in Pop’s while we stroll for the doors. “You hungry, Daddy?”

  “I am a bit peckish,” he says. “Did they say when we’re getting something to do?”

  “I saw Barry while I was out with Willa,” Tom says. “He said he’d meet up with us at lunch to talk about it.”

  “Good,” Mitch says. “If I have to sit and stare at a wall for much longer, I’m going to start biting people.” The lunch line stretches out of the tent and down a few parking spaces. Mitch groans. “Lunch is going to suck.”

  “When does it not?” I ask. We take our place at the end of the line, and I peer at the clouds forming above. “It might be wet, too.”

  With this line, finding a table in the tent will be difficult. If it isn’t too cold or raining miserably, we eat outside, covered or uncovered. Five hundred people make a god-awful mess when they eat inside the building, and the unwillingness of a portion of the residents to clean up after themselves leads to ant infestations.

  “If some people didn’t ruin it for everyone, we could eat wherever we wanted,” I say. “But people suck.”

  “As will lunch, I hear,” Pop says.

  I rest my head on his shoulder. “It’s bad enough people don’t wipe their pee off the toilet seats or flush their poop. All it takes is one little lever. You press it and the poop goes away.”

  “Maybe that can be our job,” Mitch says. “Toilet-using lessons. Consideration of Other Human Beings 101.”

  “The men’s room is just as bad,” Tom says. “Their aim leaves something to be desired.”

  I grimace. “You’re in charge of that one. Let’s hope they have better aim when they’re shooting zombies.”

  The line moves steadily, and we’ve reached the inside of the tent when Barry shows. His short ponytail is threaded with gray, as is his beard, and his squinty-lined eyes make him an appealing combination of hippie and Marlboro Man.

  “We were discussing jobs,” I say. “Mitch and I want to teach people how to actually flush the toilets. Tom’s in charge of aim.”

  “That’s been attempted.” Barry shakes his head to convey the cause is lost. “Thankfully, their aim with a rifle is better.”

  I push his shoulder. “That’s what I said!”

  Barry’s smile is extra bright when it faces Mitch’s direction. Mitch pretends not to notice and inspects the white tent while he lifts his clipboard. “We’ve got cleaning of restrooms, general cleaning, cooking, serving and cleanup, washing dishes, fence patching, inventory and stocking.” He looks to Pop. “You’re excused due to age, unless you want a job.”

  “You trying to say I’m an old geezer?” Pop asks with a wink. “I’m not old enough to sit around watching daytime TV. What about helping watch the fence?”

  “Only adults between the ages of eighteen to sixty-five, and those are all filled. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

  “Face it, Daddy, you’re old,” I say.

  “Not that old,” Pop grumbles. “I’ll do any of the above. But how about we put me down as sixty-five?”

  Barry scrutinizes Pop with the good humor that seems to be as much a part of him as his laugh lines. “I can do that.”

  Holly leans to view the clipboard. “Clara and I will take anything where we can be together. You can put Jesse with us, too.”<
br />
  Holly and Clara have each other, but Jesse has none of his friends. He didn’t bring a guitar to the fairgrounds, which I didn’t notice until after the fact. That told me all I needed to know about his mental state, and I’m glad he and Nora have rekindled their friendship. The two already sit at a table, and they wave Clara and Holly over.

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” Tom says to Barry. “But I’d like to be on the fence when possible.”

  Barry lifts his brows my way. “Cooking,” I answer. “But I’ll do anything.”

  “Same for you?” he asks Mitch.

  “If cooking means ordering takeout, then yes. Otherwise, I’ll do anything but cooking.”

  Barry laughs heartily. There’s no doubt he finds her entertaining, at the very least. “Mind if I eat with you guys?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “Shouldn’t be that bad. I hear it’s tuna salad.”

  My suppressed groan comes out as a sigh. I’m hungry, but not hungry enough to eat tuna. Maybe if I were starving to death, or if I had to eat it to save Holly’s and Jesse’s lives, but those are the only two instances in which I can imagine willingly swallowing fish flesh.

  Pop pats my head. “Poor baby. She lives in Oregon and hates fish.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

  “You drink sweat socks, but you don’t like fish?” Tom asks.

  “She won’t even eat the seaweed,” Mitch says. “If I drag her out for sushi, she orders vegetables and rice wrapped in rice paper.”

  “The real shocker is that anyone likes fish,” I say. “It tastes like fish. I like everything about sushi but the fish and seaweed.”

  “Which is all of sushi,” Tom says.

  “Not true. I like soy sauce and pickled ginger and wasabi, and I like dipping things. Plus, the little bowls and fake grass are cute.” Tom eyes me with the barest trace of a cheek crease, and I glare at him while struggling not to smile. “Am I complaining about lunch? No. So can we not make it a thing?”

  Tom lifts his hands in surrender as we near the plate-covered serving tables, where each plate holds an ice cream scoop of creamy tuna salad with a pile of crackers on the side. “Zombies smell better than this lunch,” I murmur.