I laugh to myself. We’ll figure it out somehow. The desire to find my friends—my family—sparks anxiety that compels me to hike, to climb, even on achy legs. If they aren’t in Eugene, I’ll do like Francis and try to go on anyway. I have new people with whom to figure it out.
That doesn’t change the fact that I want everyone. Maybe it’s too much to ask of this fucked-up world, but fuck it, I’m asking.
Breakfast is a half bag of crackers, a glob of peanut butter, a few over-processed raviolis, and hot coffee or tea. I wander off after my coffee and find I hate crapping in the woods as much as I did when young. I do it without too much trouble, though, which makes me thankful for previous experiences. Dad is coming through after all these years.
The BLM road we travel ends abruptly in what, according to the map, appears to be the middle of nowhere. But we’re leaving it beforehand and plunging into the forest, where we’ll walk northwest until we hit a creek we’ll follow to a road. In a fit of misplaced confidence I now wholeheartedly regret, I declared I can get us through the woods with the map and Gabe’s compass.
After the fifth turn on the gravel road, I orient the map by lining up the orienteering arrow with map north, then spinning it all until the magnetic needle is lined up, too. I hold the map in place, turn the compass until the edge is aligned from where we stand to our destination, then spin the dial until the orienting arrow and red magnetic needle meet, which gives me our direction of travel. Put red in the shed, as Dad used to say.
I stand and peer into the thick forest. With the continued rain striking branches and ground, it’ll be impossible to hear a creek less than a mile away until we’re on top of it. And though a mile isn’t long, it’s more than enough space in which to get irretrievably turned around. Especially when you consider declination. Depending on where you are on Earth, there’s an angle between true north and magnetic north, called magnetic declination—and it changes over time. In Oregon, it was 18 degrees east when I was a kid. Based on how Dad told us it was 20 degrees when he was younger, and with the number of years that have passed, I’ve decided 14 to 15 degrees east might be close. I adjusted Gabe’s compass to reflect that, but if I’m off, we could end up a quarter mile from our destination.
“That way?” Troy asks.
I nod as I step into dense underbrush, compass in hand and hoping to God I did it correctly. Worst case, we’ll run into a road at some point and have to figure out our location while not getting eaten alive. Actually, worst case is we’re lost in the wilderness and starve to death.
The ache in my legs turns to wobbly uncertainty. Six pairs of feet follow me blindly, years of dropped pine needles and dead ferns crunching beneath their weight. Bright green ferns swish against my rain pants. I watch the compass and the trees. Dad’s voice whispers, Keep steady. Follow your reading, and you won’t get lost. Those sporadic gentle moments are the hardest to dredge up from the morass of bad memories: Dad’s smile, small but pleased. His hand light on my shoulder while he allowed himself to be led instead of roughly steering. A simple Good job, Craigy-boy.
The tightness in my chest eases. I know how to do this. Doubt comes from the part of my brain that second-guesses and criticizes, which at times feels like the only part there is. I step over a moss-covered downed tree, past brush developing its summer leaves. A heavy fog floats at the tops of the firs, but below the air is clear and redolent with the zing of pine and the earthy scent of forest humus. For the first time in decades, the woods feel close in a way that seems more protective than threatening.
At long last, a splashing sounds over the rain, coming from up ahead. I hold my breath as we near a lighter patch of forest—a clearing. I break through the brush onto a rock and watch the creek burble to wherever it’s going, calmly absorbing my companions’ accolades while inside I scream jubilantly.
The creek leads to a narrow gravel road that deposits us on asphalt. Forest turns to fields filled with lush, tall grass and dotted with trees. The first house we pass is empty of useful items, the second intact, with an old car out front and four junkers off to the side that were reclaimed by grass years ago.
A rap on the door produces a few thumps. Though no one particularly wants to deal with zombies, their presence makes it more likely there’ll be good stuff inside. Francis hits a locked window with his knife handle, shattering glass and drawing two Lexers. An old couple, one still in overalls like the farmer he once was. Lance rushes him, stabbing a knife into its eye before he gets the woman under the chin.
When he finishes, he wears a semi-cocky smile. Gabe, leaning against the porch rail, claps slowly, then leans to pinch Lance’s bicep. “Nice, dude. All that working out’s paying off.”
Lance colors pink and mumbles something before he crawls through the window. Gabe grins at the rest of us and follows. “Did he really blush?” Lana asks. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it.”
The front door opens to a mess inside. Whatever happened, it wasn’t pretty. Two dogs, golden retrievers by the looks of the long golden fur attached to scraps of dried skin, were almost fully consumed. One in the kitchen, one in the living room. Clumps of dried muscle and sinew have dried to the floor and walls. It stinks of death.
But we score the keys to the car, cans of stew, packets of tuna that make me gag, two half-pints of what appear to be home-canned strawberry jam, two Hershey’s Bars, and some canned vegetables. The full garbage can is proof they were well long enough to eat some of their food, though everything in the fridge has gone bad. I do a final inspection, trying not to note the floral plates that remind me of my own grandma’s or the chicken scratch handwriting on the notepad by the wall phone. Janet’s birthday Thursday, it says. Call AB Auto in a.m., is written just beneath.
“Some old people have the worst houses to loot,” Daisy says from where she sits on the only chair not covered with gore. “Because they don’t eat that much, maybe? You’d know why, Troy.”
Troy laughs, though he pats his holster. “One of these days, Daisy.”
She hops to her feet at the rumble of a motor. Outside, Francis sits behind the wheel of the old white Ford LTD, and he revs the engine when we appear. We pile in and settle on the plush red interior. With seating for three on the front bench seat, four fit in the wide backseat without too much squishing, though I wouldn’t care if I had to sit on a lap. Sitting is an oft-undervalued state of being, especially sitting in a big old American car that feels indestructible.
“A quarter tank might not get us far in this gas guzzler,” Troy says as he puts the car in gear. “Enjoy it while you can.”
The enjoyment—minus the smell of seven unwashed bodies—lasts five miles, until the road fills with cars. Dozens of vehicles struck out across fields when they hit the blockage and then were abandoned in the grass at various points. Unlike everywhere else, this traffic was heading south. Away from somewhere. Maybe the center of town, maybe Grants Pass to the north.
More like away from somethings, plural, that emerge from the trees at the sound of the LTD’s engine. We watch the zombies approach, our own disappointed groans mingling with those of the undead. We’d hoped to bypass the arduous trek we’ve plotted on the map, and this was our only option.
Troy reverses until we face south, muttering curses, and guns the way we came. The car bucks several times then smooths out while Francis directs him onto the next road, which starts off as a two-lane and becomes a narrower paved track on a steep incline.
Heat blasts from the vents. Glorious heat. Though it isn’t horribly cold, the rain makes it feel colder. Life was warm once, and I went from one heat-filled place to another, taking it for granted most of the time. Not anymore.
After five miles, the car bucks again, then stutters for twenty feet. Troy curses, mashing the gas as the LTD gives a final rattle—a death rattle—and then stills. He plays with the gears, turns the car on and off, and then throws up his hands. We sit in confounded silence, the windshield wipers thumping back and
forth, until I say, “Call AB Auto.”
“What’s that?” Troy asks.
“They had a notepad by the phone. It said Call AB Auto. I’m guessing it was their mechanic.”
Lana sighs and opens her door. “Pop the trunk. Looks like we’re walking.”
We retrieve our bags, shouldering them as we start uphill.
57
Rose
After six days, there’s been no word from the soldiers who left for Portland. The notion that Carver and his people are dead has been passed around in whispers. Even if they didn’t expect to return for a week, they haven’t made radio contact. Barry insisted he’s not worried, but his laugh lines dragged as he did, and he walked away rubbing his face.
I’ve cooked more meals and stood at the fence with various people, waiting for something to happen while hoping nothing will. There’s an announcement scheduled for after dinner, and Ethan catches up to me as I enter the Performance Hall.
“Hey, sexy lady,” he says, giving my backside a pat.
He’s in a good mood, and I do my best not to be annoyed at something that never annoyed me in the past. He’s been somewhat irritated the past days, which means that when he disappears for hours, I’m happy. Wondering what he’s up to, but happy. “Hey, yourself,” I say. “How is everyone?”
“Most are on the upswing. Three more people are sick, though.”
“Even with moving the others?” They brought the sick people to the rooms in the livestock arena and disinfected the ice rink.
“It’s fewer than there were. I think it’s winding down.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I’m going out tomorrow,” Ethan says as we head toward Pop, who’s in the corner with Tom and Mitch. “We’re heading to those places you told Barry about. Plus, we could use some more medication. Rhonda and I are throwing everything we’ve got at this, and we’re running low.”
I slow to study him. My disconnect is still in place, and my concern is nowhere near what it should be. What it once was. “Is it safe?”
Ethan shrugs, then rests his arm on my shoulders when we join the others. “Looks like we’re getting started.”
Voices quiet down. Boone stays off to the side while Barry walks to the center of the stage. “Can everyone hear me?” It’s silent except for our murmurs and the shrill squeal of a toddler. “The reason I’m here is that we need volunteers to go out for food tomorrow. With half our people gone, and some of the rest sick, it’s all we can do to watch the boundaries.”
There are muttered complaints about that. Those people are morons. I would be more worried if Barry promised they could handle it all no problem. When he shrugs at the complainers, I like him more than I did. “It is what it is,” he says, “but we all need to eat.”
Ethan’s weight grows heavy on my shoulders. I turn my head, and he straightens. “What?” he asks.
Slack eyelids, an unfocused iris. There are many indications he might be using, and I know them all. I step away with my heart in my throat, but when Ethan cocks his head, gaze clear, I doubt what I saw. It’s one of the myriad ways I’m slowly being driven insane.
“So, say, five groups of six,” Barry continues. “That’s thirty people. I have ten already, and I’m looking for volunteers. The only things we ask are that you be able to finish off a Lexer and that no parents of young children go unless there’s another parent here.”
Tom’s hand shoots up, as do many others. Barry points to him, and the worry I should’ve felt for Ethan settles in my chest. I don’t want a single one of our group out there—if we were home, we’d still have plenty of food to eat. Food they took from us. We risked ourselves to get it, and now they want us to risk ourselves again.
I don’t want to leave, but I’m able-bodied enough to do so, and I get my hand halfway up before Pop yanks it down with the hand he’s not holding in the air. “No,” he says, jaw set.
It’s bad enough Ethan and Tom are going. Pop would be too much to take on top of that. “I have another hand,” I whisper. “And it’s going up unless you put yours down.”
Pop glares. I glare back until he sighs and lowers it. Barry skips over Mitch’s hand, for reasons I can probably guess, and points to people in the crowd, counting as he goes. When he reaches nineteen, he gestures near the table where the kids sit and counts off the final two people. I stand on my tiptoes. I can’t see who it is, but I have a bad feeling.
Barry smiles at the crowd. “Easier than I expected. Thank you. Okay, last thing. Tom—where’s Tom?” Tom raises his hand again, and the entire room turns our way. “Tom used to teach self-defense. Mainly to women, but anyone is welcome to join. He’s going to start classes in the next day or two. We’ll put up a note about times in the rec room. I’ll be at the tables to answer questions and assign groups for those of you going. That’s it, folks. Thanks.”
“We have to get to dishes,” Mitch says. She links her arm in Pop’s, who winks on the way out. Willa follows, as she never misses a chance to lick the food left behind on plates.
I watch Barry step from the stage, my anxiety mounting. It was Jesse. I know it. “Was it Jess?” I ask Ethan.
“Was what Jess?”
Ethan’s answer is slightly befuddled, and my familiar annoyance rises. “Did Jesse volunteer to go?” I say slowly. “I couldn’t see.”
“He had his hand up,” Tom says apologetically. “He was counted.”
I take a breath that doesn’t calm me at all, then stomp to the kids’ table through people leaving the room. As I near, Jesse pales a bit, though he sits tall. “I need to talk to you,” I say. “Outside.”
Fury builds in my chest until I’m certain I’ll smack Jesse when I face him, and I slam out the door into the night. It’s dark, though light spills through the glass doors and reflects on the wet asphalt of the side lot. The food trucks are quiet, waiting to be moved to the main lot for breakfast if the weather is good. Waiting to feed everyone—the children and old people and even me.
My confidence, my anger, falters. That’s what they’re doing here: protecting people who need protection against something unbelievable and downright terrifying. That’s why they need the ones who can protect themselves to head through the fences. It’s not fair to Jesse, to everyone, to insist my family not be put in harm’s way, no matter how much I would like to do just that.
Jesse steps out, slightly cowed but looking me in the eye. “Mom, I—”
“Be quiet,” I say, and his mouth closes with an audible snap.
My heart rebels against saying my next words, but I force them out. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid tomorrow. There are two things in this world I love more than anything—you and Holly. I don’t know what I’d do if you two were gone. I’d want to die, honestly.” Tears come to my eyes, and the rock in my throat threatens to cut off my voice. “And I don’t care if that makes you feel guilty, because maybe you’ll feel guilty enough to not do anything stupid. Promise me.”
Jesse’s set expression turns to a smile. It’s his father’s smile, and it’s so damn handsome. “I promise.”
My plan was to forbid it, to go in his place, but I have to let him be the man he is, even as I want to fight it tooth and nail. It isn’t fair that this is the world in which he has to do it, but his raised hand means he’ll do it anyway. I want him to go with my blessing, and, maybe, with a little guilt. The life-saving kind of guilt.
“Caution is good,” I say. “It keeps you alive. I know you’re brimming with testosterone and bravado, but remember when you were little and wanted to get school lunch for the first time?”
He begged for a specific school lunch and chose the day carefully—corn dogs—but, when the morning arrived, he cried and cried, worried he wouldn’t know how to line up and get his tray. Both he and Holly were careful children, too much like me at times, but it will serve them well in moderation.
“Yes, Mom,” Jesse says with a laugh. “But I got it, and it was fine.”
“Scared but not scared shitless. Got it.”
I smile and tuck his hair behind his ear. “I love you, sweet boy. You have no idea how much. All right, you can go back to your friends now.”
My attention is drawn by two figures inside the glass doors. I wave them out, and Holly and Clara walk into the night. “You’re still alive,” Holly says to Jesse. “We were taking bets.”
“Funny girl,” I say. “Did you raise your hand, too, and I don’t know it yet?”
“Definitely not.”
I pull Holly to my side. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. Though I wish she weren’t so scared, I can be sure she won’t go bounding into the streets to prove herself. “Where’s Dad?”
“Inside. Waiting for you.”
“Why didn’t he come out here?”
Holly shrugs. “I’ll get him.”
Before I can refuse, Holly does bound inside. She always jumps for Ethan in her quest to make sure he doesn’t ever feel hurt, as though she can prevent his drug use through sheer buoyancy.
“How about you?” I ask Clara. “Were you tempted to go?”
“I’m not crazy,” she says. “My dad would kill me.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Jesse says. Clara shoves him. He pushes her back lightly, then grabs her hands when she retaliates. “Say uncle.”
“No.” Clara struggles in his grip, though she doesn’t seem to mind all that much. Neither does Jesse, for that matter. He watches Clara with amusement and more fondness than I remember seeing before.
“I could do this all night.” Jesse gazes up at the sky like he’s bored. “Or until someone says uncle.”
“Were you paying attention in there?” Clara asks sweetly. “My father taught self-defense, so I know the two best places to hit a man are the eyes and the nuts. I can’t reach your eyes, but…”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 55