The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  Troy lifts his hands. “Aw, Cherry, don’t cr—”

  Lana smacks his shoulder. “Don’t tell people not to cry. Only dumbass men are afraid to show their feelings, you Texas yahoo. Anyway, he’s probably crying because you’re coming.”

  My tears turn to laughter that mingles with the others’ laughs. Even if we die on this journey, I’ll be entertained along the way.

  It makes sense to visit the Safe Zone. Maybe stay for the night, mooch some food, and glean what information we can. But we don’t get a half-mile before we have to stop. Whatever the Safe Zone once was, it’s safe no longer. The two-lane road is packed with bodies, and dozens lurch in the field opposite the sign for the farm. It’s possible, though doubtful, there are people inside, but we can’t get close enough to find out.

  We stick to the trees and walk slowly until we’re out of sight around a curve. The rain that’s been a drizzle turns to a shower, and we retrace our steps to one of the houses up the hill—a blue manufactured home that has a stovepipe and a view that will allow us to see anything on the road.

  The inside is as chilly as outside, though drier, and Francis goes straight to the woodstove in the corner. The rest of us locate mattresses and blankets, bringing them to the living room where we’ll sleep in warmth. As I’m straightening blankets, the long high-pitched beep of an emergency broadcast sounds from the kitchen. The kind that has always been followed by the words: This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test.

  Those days are over.

  We’re in the kitchen seconds later. A radio sits on the counter. Every radio we’ve tried has been nothing but static, but now a computerized male voice speaks under squealing feedback and static:

  “This is an emergency broadcast for the state of California. Based on documents found in a Safe Zone, which state the infected will remain active for years, it is unclear when this emergency will end. Initial reports of thirty to ninety days are not accurate. To repeat: the infected will remain active for years, instead of the ninety days previously stated. Bornavirus LX has spread to the Eastern Seaboard and to all points in Canada, Mexico, and South America. California residents are advised not to travel to any location previously named as a Safe Zone. There are no known Safe Zones in the state of California. The following Safe Zones are known to be operational as of three weeks ago.

  “In western Oregon: Crater Lake National Park, Lane County Fairgrounds in Eugene, Oregon, the Moda Center in Portland, Oregon, Timberline Lodge at Mount Hood. In Central Oregon: Pine Mountain Observatory…”

  The list continues, but I’ve heard the most important one—Eugene. I’ll go to Rose’s house first, then the fairgrounds if she isn’t there. I have a goal. I have a chance. I just have to get there before it disappears the way California’s Safe Zones have.

  After listing places in Washington and a few in Idaho and Nevada, the robotic voice says, “This will be the final broadcast on this frequency for the state of California due to lack of functional generators. God bless you and keep you safe.”

  There’s a final beep before the radio goes silent. The only sound is the scratch of Francis’ pencil on a pad he holds, where he writes down Safe Zone locations. He dots a final i and then sets the pad and pencil on the counter, looking troubled.

  “Years?” Lana asks, her normally pink cheeks bleached of color. “How is that possible?”

  I shiver with a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. In my excitement about Eugene, I kind of glossed over that part. Years of running for my life and trying to stay alive. Of the stench and the fear. Of death literally waiting around corners. I shake myself out of that thought spiral. One thing at a time. I’ll get to Eugene first, and then I’ll freak out about the rest of it.

  “Why didn’t we hear anything like this before?” Daisy asks. “They said it was the final broadcast.”

  “It’s a weather alert radio,” Troy says. “An emergency alert automatically turns on the receiver, as long as it has working batteries.”

  Someone, somewhere, is trying to spread the word. Unfortunately, the word sucks. We stand in a loose circle for a few more minutes, analyzing what the radio said while I fidget. If Rose and Mitch get this news, they might leave for somewhere they think safer. Somewhere I might never know to look. I need to reach them before I lose them forever.

  I follow the others into the living room, breathing deep. If they aren’t at Rose’s, they’re likely at the fairgrounds. It would make no sense to go trotting off into the unknown when there’s somewhere safe nearby. I’m almost sure of it, though I would give anything to tell them I’m on my way.

  I sink onto the couch beside Gabe, wincing at the feel of cold, wet jeans on my thighs. Lana rests a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get there.”

  “We will,” Troy says. “Once we figure out how we’re gettin’.”

  “How detailed is that atlas?” I ask.

  Francis hands it to me, then squats at the stove where a small fire has caught. It takes me a minute to find the correct map page. When I do, it’s clear how wonderfully detailed the atlas is. Regular roads, Forest Service roads, Bureau of Land Management roads, and hiking trails are all in evidence.

  I like maps. Dad taught me orienteering, and it was the one thing at which I didn’t fail. I trace a route with my finger that follows trails and what the map refers to as unimproved roads north toward Grants Pass. Gabe peers over my shoulder. “We could totally piece that together,” he says.

  “It’s a lot of walking,” I say.

  “How much?” Lana asks. She holds her hands over the stove to catch the beginnings of heat.

  “Not sure. Francis, can I use your curvimeter?”

  A few minutes later, curvimeter in hand, I say, “With all the curves in the trails, sixty miles to get near Grants Pass.”

  No one looks especially pleased by this news, except maybe for Gabe. Our other choice is backtracking into California on the chance other roads are passable. Unlikely, but within the realm of possibility. After discussion, Troy says, “I’d rather be heading into the unknown than going where we know there’s nothing.”

  Lana nods. “We’ll be hungry either way. At least this way we’ll be hungry while traveling in the right direction.”

  “You guys need better clothes,” Gabe says. “It’s going to be cold in the mountains. We’ll have to camp.”

  The room has already warmed a few degrees, and the thought of spending cold nights on mountaintops is truly awful. But the thought of reaching Eugene warms me by contrast, and I’m going to focus on that as much as I can.

  56

  Craig

  The surrounding houses supplied clothes for everyone. I wear long johns under my jeans, and I have rain pants to go over it all. Francis and Troy have insulated camo hunting pants. Lana and Daisy wear fleece-lined leggings under their rain gear. We found fleece jackets, vests, and hats. Gloves. Wool socks. Sleeping bags that Gabe says suck but are better than nothing. Tarps. Rope. Stove fuel. Tea bags, coffee, and hot cocoa packets found in someone’s camping gear in a basement.

  We went to sleep last night in front of a roaring fire, and now we say goodbye to that fire before we march into the rain. It’s three miles down to the Forest Service road, and then another two miles along gravel to the trailhead. We enter the trail at the wooden sign and travel alongside a creek, where we refill our water and zap it with Gabe’s UV filter. The uphill path through the trees is pleasant until we reach a steeper section, complete with switchbacks, and my leg muscles groan when they discover the plan for the day.

  The trail cuts through green meadow with flowers that haven’t yet bloomed. Fir trees are dark green against the spring green of the grasses. It’s likely beautiful when not cold and raining, but all I see are trees and fog. All I feel are my boots hitting the ground and the cold rush of air into my lungs with every trudging step. My hiking companions say nothing as we make our way higher. The trail turns to another, then another into den
ser fog at a higher altitude.

  My stomach growls. We stop to eat at a pile of boulders when the day hits peak lightness—a lighter gray—and continue on. My pack, with added sleeping bag and tarp, cuts into my hips and shoulders, even after adjusting the straps again. My legs are dry, but when the wind picks up, it sends the rain into my face, batters my rain pants, and throws my pack off-balance. I give up on cleaning my glasses and resign myself to viewing the world through raindrops. We have to be nearing the top of the mountain, as evidenced by patches of snow that grow larger and larger until they cover the ground entirely. The rain hits the packed, granular snow to form a slick sheet of ice. I slip, then slip again, catching myself before I fall, though my back seizes each time.

  Not only did I have a bike, but I also had a gym membership that I used about as often as said bike. Why the hell do people hike, anyway? It’s torture. Pure torture. My thighs burn. My brain has shut down. There’s nothing but the next step. Endless steps.

  The wind buffets me, slapping at my hood and whipping the drawstring across my face until it gets caught in my glasses and pokes me in the eye. I slap it out of the way. “Fuck. You.”

  Behind me, Lana asks, “Who are you cursing at?”

  I look over my shoulder and get another lash with the drawstring. I bat at it so heatedly that I punch my own cheek. “Not who. What. I’m cursing at the wind.”

  Lana answers with a breathless laugh. We’ve spread out some on the ascent, and Troy lags behind, with Francis and Daisy between him and Lana. Gabe and Lance are bounding ahead, and I have an irrational urge to beat them up.

  “Stupid youth,” I mutter, slipping for the tenth time.

  Lana laughs again, which relieves some of my outright fury at the motherfucking wind that doesn’t ever stop. When the light fades to a deeper gray, we reach a snowy point where the trail descends. At first, I think it’s messing with me—a subtle dip before more uphill climbing, like earlier, but there’s no mistaking the slope. The beautiful, wondrous slope.

  I slip and slide down the icy trail. It turns to mud, then to muddy grass. I know I have feet because I’m moving, but they’ve gone numb. Up and down, up and down again, though never up quite as high, and then we’re at the trailhead, stumbling from a grassy clearing toward a gravel road. I have the feeling I got when I was young and we were exiting one of Dad’s forced forays into the wilderness: Civilization! Amenities!

  Except there’s no civilization. We’re not going to pull into a drive-thru and stuff our faces with burgers, fries, and root beer. My stomach gurgles, eating itself. Troy is last out of the trees, and he drops onto a boulder under giant firs by the trailhead sign, bent over so that he looks like a backpack with legs sitting on a rock.

  “I am done for,” he announces. “How many miles was that?”

  “Sixteen,” I answer immediately, having spent the last hour adding the miles in my head. I say it as breezily as I can, as if I’m ready to keep going and not dying inside.

  Lana sets her pack in the grass. “Maybe we should stop for the night.”

  At her words, Daisy falls flat on her back with a joyful groan. A chorus of agreement comes from everyone but Gabe, who, insanely, looks disappointed but proceeds to throw his limitless energy into readying our camp. The ground is wet but not soaked under the firs. We string up a large tarp between trees and lay the second tarp beneath. Onto this go sleeping bags for five of us, since Lance and Gabe plan to squeeze into Gabe’s small pop-up shelter.

  Two cooking stoves are lit, and three cans of soup heat between them, with Minute Rice added for calories. I hold out Josh’s hiking cup to receive my distressingly small amount of hot soup, then sip at it while I tear open my bag of honey roasted peanuts.

  It’s ambrosia. Salty chicken broth, too-soft noodles, and mushy carrots have never tasted so good. I crunch peanuts in between sips, forcing myself to go slow. I want it all. I want a burger loaded with cheese and bacon and French fries—the real kind, the pommes frites kind—dipped in that European mayonnaise. I want an egg sandwich and diner food and the vegan soul food across the street from my apartment. And a salad. And panang curry. And candy bars and cake and pie with a browned flaky crust.

  I stop chewing at a moan. Daisy has her cup to her face and her head back so as not to miss a drop. Then she stares into the empty receptacle as though more will magically appear, the way my cat Murray used to do with his food bowl. And though I’ve missed Murray in the two years since he died, I’m glad he isn’t here for this. Watching him die of starvation would’ve killed me, too. Better he was put to sleep in my arms than suffer that way.

  I eat my last five peanuts, crunching through the sweet honey-roasted outer shell into the fatty nutmeat. They’re delicious, and then they’re gone. I wiggle my tingling toes in my boots. The burn is unpleasant but welcome. It means I still have working toes.

  We laid out our food while cooking, and now I look it over. Four MREs. Fifteen mini bags of crackers. Eight mini bags of cookies. Sixteen small bags of nuts. A can of beans. A can of diced tomatoes. A half-jar of peanut butter. Ramen soup. Two cans of generic Chef Boyardee. A half-dozen protein bars. The scant remainder of the Ziploc bag of Minute Rice. And seven people to eat it, all of whom have finished this meal and are ogling what remains.

  The gray light grows murkier. The air chillier, with a wetness that seeps into my bones. After a brief washing up, we lie in our sleeping bags, too exhausted to speak. Gabe takes first watch while Lance sleeps in his tent, and I get the middle of the tarp between Lana and Daisy, with Troy and Francis like bookends on the sides. I don’t care where I am as long as I don’t have the first watch shift. I close my eyes, the ground lumpy under me, and tumble into sleep.

  I wake in the dark, legs aching from the soles of my feet to my lower back. Tiny muscles and tendons demand to know why I’m treating them this way. Lana’s butt is jammed into my hip, and Daisy has snuggled up to my other side. I’m warm and cozy, like sleeping between Rose and Mitch. Rose jokingly calls me a cuddle slut, though she’s just as bad, and I miss her head on my shoulder, her arm around my waist. I soak in the comfort for a minute, until the glow of a muted lantern is apparent at the edge of the tarp.

  I carefully extricate my arm from under Daisy and out of my sleeping bag to check my new watch. Four in the morning, and I’m on watch duty at four-thirty. For ten minutes, I attempt the meditation trick of relaxing every muscle in my body, starting at my feet, until I’m a puddle of Zen calm. Eventually, I give up. I sucked at it before a sixteen-mile hike through a zombie-filled world, so it’s not surprising I still do; Xanax was my Zen calm. Xanax. I haven’t taken one since the morning I tried to leave on my own. It hasn’t occurred to me, which is strange. Good, but strange.

  After a minute of careful shifting so as not to wake the ladies or cause me to yelp in pain, I slither out of my sleeping bag and then rearrange it over Lana and Daisy. Francis sits in the dim light, just under the edge of our tarp roof and out of the soft rain. I retrieve my water bottle from my pack and drink, wishing for something—anything—food-like to put in my stomach.

  Francis nods when I settle beside him. It would’ve been smart to use my sleeping bag like a cape, as Francis does, but the night wind has died down, and I don’t want Lana and Daisy to freeze. It’s a generalization, I know, but women seem cold more often than men. Besides, I like the two, and when I like people, I like to take care of them.

  “Hungry?” I ask Francis quietly.

  “Starving.” Francis looks out into the night, arms crossed and hands under his armpits. “Legs hurt?”

  “Like fuckers.”

  “Same here. Gabe says we’ll get used to it.”

  A soft snore comes from the sleeping bags, and I’m filled with gratitude. It would be very different to stare into the night alone, with hundreds of miles and little food in my future. “Thanks for coming all this way with me. I appreciate it.”

  “You know what Lana said to me, at the Walmart?” Franc
is asks. “She saw how close I was to walking out the doors because I didn’t care anymore, not with Lianne gone. She and Daisy stayed with me for twenty-four hours straight. They’d take breaks, like a tag team. Pretending they couldn’t get enough of my company. They even waited outside the bathroom.”

  I laugh quietly when Francis smiles. “Finally, I got pissed. I asked them why they cared so damn much. And then Lana said, ‘You’ve seen what’s out there. If we can’t help other humans now, what kind of world do we have left?’ ”

  “It’s true,” I say softly. It sounds like Lana. It sounds like all of them, actually.

  Francis nods. “She put it in perspective. Everyone there was the same as me. They’d lost everyone and everything they loved, and they were still trying. I figured I could, too. See how it played out. So I did.”

  “I’m glad you’re still here,” I say.

  “When I don’t want to be, I tell myself to try one more day. Maybe I’ll get the chance to comfort someone who’s lost everyone, the way Lana and Daisy did for me. But the chance to help someone find everyone? I’m here for that.”

  I can’t speak without tears. Francis punches my arm lightly. “And now you can freeze your nuts off while I get some rest. See you at dawn.”

  Francis picks up himself and his sleeping bag, then settles down away from the light on Daisy’s other side. After a few minutes, his deep breaths are added to the other sleeping sounds.

  I ruminate on my hunger while listening to the rain. This is likely how life will be from now on. Constant hunger and a constant search for food. With zombies around for the foreseeable future, we’ll be on the hunt for undiscovered caches, places that are safe to enter. If we find somewhere secure to settle down, we’ll have to make our own food. Between Rose’s black thumb, my subpar hunting skills, and Mitch’s inability to cook anything that isn’t takeout, we have it made.