Francis, Gabe, and I leap into the bed while the others enter the cab, and the first Lexer’s fingers brush the truck as we pull off. It isn’t a smooth ride, nor a quiet one, but even at a whopping ten miles per hour, it leaves our followers in the dust. I peer in the rear window. Lana, in the backseat, pokes Troy’s shoulder. Troy spins with his arms raised like Look Ma, no hands! He controls the accelerator and brake, but the steering wheel locks so that the rails steer the truck.
There are five more rail crossings before we leave town—five chances for something to go monumentally wrong—and I cross my fingers like I did when I was young and really, really, really wanted an Atari 2600 for Christmas. It worked then; it’s worth a shot.
The first crossing passes without incident, and the next two are clear. Gabe, sitting on the wide edge of the bed across from me, raises his own hands, fingers crossed.
The fourth crossing is in a downtown area. Lexers pour from the shopping plazas as the truck rattles along the tracks, but they’re no match for our brisk twenty miles-per-hour pace.
A minute later, Troy stops well before the two dozen bodies who block the fifth crossing. Thankfully, we don’t need to kill them, only move them off the tracks. I stand, bang my spike against the truck, and yell, “Hey fucknuggets, come and get us!”
Gabe laughs and lets out a yodel that’s both hilarious and extremely well-done. Francis curse-calls them over, chuckling the entire time.
They move for where we stand laughing in the truck’s bed. I recall the RV roof, only hours into meeting Francis and the others. I’d felt stupid cursing, and I didn’t understand how you could laugh or joke when zombies were afoot. I get it now—you have to, or you risk being overwhelmed by fear, by encroaching death, and by your slim odds of survival.
When the last one steps off the tracks, Troy steps on the gas, and though the bodies hobble after us, we lose sight of them quickly. Breaks in the trees provide glimpses of overgrown yards and lawns, of shattered houses and bodies left to rot, of simple, possibly happy, lives that ended in a horrible way. The houses disappear after a long curve, and then it’s only trees with small green mountains rising to our right. Though the truck is loud, the buzz from the highway has receded, and the birds swoop from tree to tree, calling out to each other. They were absent in town, and I assume any non-winged wildlife sprinted somewhere safer, too.
I let myself be lulled by the clack-clack of rail wheels on track. We’re cruising at thirty, which could have us in Eugene by nightfall. It won’t, of course, because we’re bound to run into problems, but I pray serendipity is still on our side.
We weave in and out of the woods, over crossings on quiet roads with abandoned cars. In one instance, we have to push two cars off the tracks, but we’re escaping the worst of it. The tracks veer west and then east again at Wolf Creek, where we travel alongside I-5 for a short distance. The lanes are mostly empty, and I hope the zombies don’t speed up when nothing impedes their flow.
The constant rattle-clack of the truck is joined by a new sound. Francis knocks on the rear window, and Troy slows to a stop. “What’s up?” he asks out his window.
“Listen,” Francis says.
A low hum comes under the nearer sound of wind in the trees. That legion is close and closing in. Nearly twenty miles of walking, and they’ve done it in less than fifteen hours, putting their speed around one-and-a-half miles per hour.
Troy throws the truck in gear. “Better get a move on.”
We pass through a Lexer-free tunnel, a Lexer-filled town, and then, in the forest once again, across a trestle bridge far above a river. A house and outbuildings sit below, bounded by water on three sides. On the fourth side, ten people work steadily, lifting logs into place like fort walls while four kids play in the grass behind them. They turn to stare at the truck. Gabe, Francis, and I wave. After a second, they lift their hands in return and watch until we’re out of sight.
Two hours later, after more woods and a few lonely crossings, Troy stops the truck. “Got to take a leak,” he says, and walks into the trees.
Everyone does the same, and when all have returned, Francis opens the atlas. “Almost sixty miles since Wolf Creek. Eighty miles total. Halfway there.”
We’ve done it in hours instead of days. After a few self-congratulatory murmurs, we decide to get through Roseburg, the next city, and then rest for the night. As much as I want to keep on, it’d be stupid to drive in the dark. Headlights are a beacon for Lexers.
“How big is Roseburg?” Daisy asks.
“About twenty-five thousand people,” I say, and examine the atlas, where the tracks travel straight through the middle of town. Or they look as if they do—I don’t know Roseburg well enough to be sure.
“We could go around here or here,” Daisy runs a finger along a road far out of the way, then another, “but if those are blocked, we’re fucked.”
“I say we Plan B it,” Troy says. “Worst case scenario, we reverse a few miles and get off the tracks. We’re talking ten miles of track to thirty miles of possible blockages.”
Heads nod, including my own. The faster the better. If we waste time and fail to find a way through, the Lexers might beat us to Eugene. Since I left my condo, I’ve felt rushed in the sense that I want to get to Rose and Mitch before anything worse happens. Now I know something worse is walking up I-5, and rushed is entirely too tame a word for the anxiety goading me north.
The tracks dump us in an industrial section of town. At thirty miles per hour, the buildings go by quickly. The few crossings are clear. Though scattered cars are abandoned on the streets, complete with their Lexer counterparts, none sits on the tracks. And then we’re clickety-clacking along the rails between the river and a large hill.
“Are we through?” I call to Francis, though I know it’s too good to be true. He shakes his head.
Houses appear on the right, larger buildings up ahead. Troy speeds up at the few Lexers, then slows before the next crossing, where a car blocks the rails. I see Francis curse rather than hear him, and we jump from the bed. Lana, Daisy, Lance, and Gabe are on the tracks a second later. Lance runs to the car with a screwdriver, yanks the dead body out of the driver’s seat, and leans in. Thirty seconds later, he’s popped it into neutral.
The Lexers close in. I leave the others to push the stranded car and meet a grandmotherly one at the landscaped median. Her gnarled hand snags my left arm as I slam the spike into her face with my right. Down she goes, and I get the next—a man dressed for the office—under the chin.
“Craig!” Lana shouts.
I leap into the truck bed. The tires squeal on rail before they catch, and the scent of burning rubber fills the air while we parallel a road filled with cars and walking corpses. On the other side, in the distance, I get a glimpse of I-5. Also packed.
The tracks veer into the trees behind houses. I-5 is alongside us now, rising to an overpass under which we’ll have to travel to cross the river. An overpass that teems with bodies. The truck rattles onward, announcing itself to everything above.
The first few fall as we near. Troy speeds up until the railgear whines in protest. Even with the wind whipping my hair and clothing, sweat rolls down my back. One might fall on my head. One will fall on my head, most likely. Francis crouches in the bed, pressing himself flat against the back of the cab, and motions for me to join him. Considering that Francis is wide, this is easier said than done, but the cab roof might partially protect us from a plummeting body.
A hoot comes out the driver’s side window, followed by, “Hang on, fellas!”
I raise my arms above my head and pray. Just before we enter the shade of the overpass, a man hits, rocking the chassis and showering us with stinking brown sludge. I fight my natural inclination to gag and help Francis shove it off the side of the truck as we come out into the sunshine.
Troy decelerates on the trestle bridge now that the highway is behind us. If I never see another overpass again, it’ll be too soon. I find the
towel in my pack and carefully wipe at my cheeks, then remove my glasses to clean off the brown spatter. Without them, everything a hundred feet away is a blurry mystery, but I can see up close, and Francis is soaked in Lexer fluid. A glob of something sticks to his cheek and a stream of brown liquid is headed for his lips.
He starts to speak. “Close your mouth!” I yell.
His lips smash shut. I fumble in my pockets for a clean tissue, find a raggedy one, and use it to wipe the stream up and away, cleaning off the glob in the process. Whether Francis could be infected that way, I don’t know, but I’m not about to chance it.
Francis roots around in his pack for antibacterial gel, then squirts a good-sized glob into his clean, ungloved hand before he hands me the bottle. I do the same, rubbing my hands together and spreading it onto my face the way he does. My glasses become a smear of brown fluid and gel, but, theoretically, they’re no longer contagious.
A mile out of town, Troy stops the truck in the trees and hops to the rails. “Hoo-boy, that was close! You guys all right?”
The others lean into the bed, noses wrinkling at the stench. “I was going to offer to trade seats,” Lana says, “but neither of you is getting in that cab if I have anything to say about it.”
Francis grins. “Thanks. Anyone have water to spare?”
Gabe produces a liter bottle, which does little to help the situation. I clean off my glasses and rinse my face as much as possible, though I give up on my leather jacket when the sludge becomes watery zombie juice.
“Next stream, we stop,” Troy promises.
Down the tracks, we come upon a pond beside a run-down modular home, which will serve as bathing and sleeping quarters for the night. Francis and I scoop cool water with found buckets, washing our faces and hair with soap while the others clean out the truck bed, then we scarf down dinner as the sun sets. Ignacio and Norman were generous with the food, and we eat until our stomachs distend.
“Fifty miles to Eugene,” Francis says.
Gabe holds up his crossed fingers, and everyone else follows suit. I do the same, just in case, though there has to be a point when you’re close enough that you don’t need luck.
67
Rose
Ethan has been busy tending to various patients for the past two days. That’s what he says when I see him in passing, usually with Eva in tow, but I think he’s avoiding me. Not that I mind if he sneaks in late at night and I’m cooking breakfast by the time he wakes. My stomach has double-knotted itself in anticipation of our next conversation, which I have no doubt will be a doozy.
On day three, Ethan arrives at dinner and takes the seat beside me with a conciliatory smile that I return in an effort to avoid that conversation. Everyone else is grumpy; Boone has just decreed we’ll now get showers only every fifth day. No one can fathom why he’s imposed the rule, except that he’s enjoying his power trip.
“Tell me you aren’t happy I talked you into laser hair removal,” Mitch says to me.
“I am very happy you talked me into it.” It was nice not to have to shave before, but now it’s a godsend. At Tom’s and Pop’s bewilderment, I explain, “Where they zap your hair and it doesn’t grow back.”
“That really works?” Tom asks. “I thought it was a scam.”
“You have to go six hundred times,” Mitch says, “but it works.”
Holly glances at her armpit. “I hate both of you.”
“Can they do it anywhere?” Clara asks.
“As long as the hair is dark enough, which, thankfully, mine was,” I say. “It doesn’t always work on redheads.”
Jesse makes a puking sound. “Can we please stop discussing my mother’s body hair? I’m eating.”
“I can’t believe you don’t want to discuss my armpit hair,” I say. “What kind of son are you?”
Jesse snorts as we dig into our food, which has improved thanks to Bi-Mart. It still isn’t fresh, or necessarily delicious, but it isn’t tuna. I saw the pallet of canned salmon they brought in, however, and I plan to be scrubbing toilets instead of cooking the day they pull that out.
I take a bite of beans. “Holly, don’t eat—”
It’s too late. Holly already chews her first bite with a look of horror. She spits it into her bowl and wipes her mouth. “What’s in this? Hot dogs?”
“I think it’s canned ham. They must have added it.” Holly’s lower lip trembles, and I reach to pat her hand. “Honey, I know, but you’ll have to eat meat at some point.”
She’s managed to avoid it thus far. If she can’t get an alternate meal, she picks the meat from dishes with an intensity bordering on obsessive. When she became a vegetarian at nine years old, I thought she’d stick with it for a few months, especially after she learned she couldn’t eat gummy candy, Jell-O, or marshmallows due to the gelatin. Twelve years later, she’s still at it, and though I know she’s practical enough to understand our reality, she hasn’t quite embraced it. Any of it.
“My first meat, and it’s canned ham?” Holly inspects her bowl, blinking rapidly. “That was disgusting when I did eat meat.”
“It’s just a little factory-farmed pig,” Jesse says. “He or she didn’t even have a name in their cramped cell before they were trucked to the slaughterhouse and brutally killed, which was the only time they ever saw the light of day.”
Holly raises her head, face pink and a tear rolling down her cheek. “Fuck off, Jess.” She throws her chair back, then stalks past the other diners and out of the tent.
I start to rise, but Clara jumps up. “I’ll go. I can’t eat it now, anyway.” She glares at Jesse and leaves in search of Holly.
“Really, Jesse?” I ask.
“I was kidding.” He crosses his arms, eyes defiant. “I don’t want it, either. It’s not like we ate this crap before, but she has to join the real world, where we do eat this crap.”
“I understand that. But you knew she was upset and made it worse. This situation sucks for everyone, and we all have our things that will upset us more than others. Maybe be more understanding of her thing.”
Jesse huffs, trying to stay in the right, and rolls his eyes when he loses the battle. “Fine. Sorry.”
“I’m not the one you need to say sorry to.”
I smile to lessen the scolding and take a bite of my dinner, which is pretty gross, while I listen to the others talk. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Jesse take a few more bites, chewing slowly and swallowing with effort. He stands abruptly. “All right, stop staring at me. I’m going.”
“I wasn’t staring at you.”
“You don’t have to be looking to do your mom stare. Just so you know, you’re evil.”
I smile. “Love you, baby.”
“Yeah, yeah. You, too.” He pushes his hair off his face and follows the path of the girls.
“Nice work,” Ethan says.
“Thanks.” I turn to the rest of the table and pump a fist. “I’ve still got it.”
Pop laughs. “You learned from the best.”
I blow him a kiss as Barry appears with his bowl. “These seats taken?”
“Help yourself,” Pop says. “Rose just chased away the last kid.”
Barry sits. Now I’ll be overly conscious of every word I say, every glance his way, so that Ethan won’t find something to harp on later. The thought pisses me off, and I give Barry my biggest smile. “I was mothering with moderate guilt. You don’t want to clobber them over the head with it, so their conscience does most of the work.”
“It’s a good skill. Works on the young ones.” Barry gestures at a nearby table of soldiers. “Speaking of which, a few have asked about Jesse training with them. Not like he’d join up, but he’d go out to guard the boundaries, learn the weapons, that sort of thing.”
My heart seizes. I feel everyone at the table watching, but I keep my gaze on Barry. “What did Jesse say?”
“I’m asking you first. My mom just about murdered me when I signed up and didn’t tell her beforehand.
I’m making it up to her.”
“Still have some moderate guilt?”
He winks. “I just might.”
I consider saying no, but I want Jesse to learn. Next time he goes out, and I have no doubt there’ll be a next time, I’ll worry less—or at least know I should worry less. I still want to be dangerous and kickass, but I want him to be more so. “It’s Jesse’s decision. Ask him.”
“All right, I will.” Barry takes a bite of his beans and chews slowly. “This is terrible. Did they add something?”
The entire table bursts into laughter. “Long story,” Mitch says in answer to Barry’s puzzlement.
Tom asks him a question about the water, and the conversation carries on from there. I turn to ask Ethan about his knee and find him holding his spoon in midair, eyelids hanging low, before he jerks into consciousness and brings the spoon to his mouth. I look away, heart pounding in my throat. He’s on something. I’m sure of it.
No one else has noticed. Ethan eats a few more bites and puts his arm around me as if he isn’t high, as if our last real conversation wasn’t a fight. “You did the right thing about Jess,” he says into my ear.
I lower my head. “Glad you think so.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” It comes out automatically, but I’ve sworn I won’t do this again. I won’t brush it under the rug. I won’t live the lie. After two false starts, I say, “Something. But I’m not discussing it here.”
He goes very still, then removes his arm and shovels food into his mouth. I watch my tablemates talk without hearing a word they say, as if they’re on the other side of a pane of glass. A window to normalcy.
I’m tired of wishing I could join the normal world. Tired of being lonely when my partner is sitting beside me. Tired of holding on to something that no longer exists, either in me or in reality. I push aside my bowl. “I’m done. I’ll see you all later.”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 66