The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  You don’t need to be an expert in zombie lore to know what this means—they said it on the news. Contact with saliva, with the virus, makes you sick. It’s why you don’t care for the infected. You take them to the emergency room, where doctors can treat it. They said they could treat it, but they lied about zombies. I have no doubt they were lying about a treatment, too.

  “Rose! Sam!” Mitch calls from the house. She’s under orders to keep the kids inside, and I’m sure that’s grown near impossible after the commotion.

  “We’re fine!” Pop calls. “Stay inside!” He glances into the night, then turns to me. “One came at me at the back of the truck, but I think that’s it. I shot it. They must have come in earlier and we didn’t see. Let’s get up to the house.”

  My neck throbs. A pit opens in my stomach. I have to know now, not inside, where Jesse and Holly will see my fear. Because I’m terrified. Of dying, of knowing I’m dying.

  “Daddy, I—” His eyes drop to my hand at my throat. I whisper, “I think it bit me.”

  He throws open the truck’s door and leans to retrieve the Maglite he keeps under the driver’s seat, then flicks it on as he lifts my chin with a gentle hand. I can feel his fingers tremble, though, and I close my eyes against the light’s glare and the heartbroken expression I know will come. That’s almost worse than dying myself—my father’s face when he knows, too.

  Pop wipes at my neck. I wince as he scrubs the spot with the handkerchief he always carries in a pocket. “Your skin’s not broken,” he says. “Your jacket must have been in the way. It’s not your blood.”

  It doesn’t make sense at first, and then my knees give way with the relief that sweeps through me. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. But we’ll clean you up and check again.”

  Something rattles the gate on the other side of the truck. If lights draw them, surely noise does, and a gunshot, my screams, would’ve called more this way. We run up the driveway to the house. Pop pulls me into the kitchen, turns on the water, and grabs a wad of paper towels. I let my coat fall to the floor, ignoring the stares of Mitch and the kids. Warm water soaks my shirt while Pop cleans my skin.

  After he’s inspected closer, he grabs me in a hug. “You’re okay.” His breaths are short, and they tell me he wasn’t positive. He said that to get me inside. Of course he did.

  “What happened?” Mitch asks.

  “There were two more.” I sink onto a stool, too tired to stand, to think. Willa whines at my feet, and I lift her round little body into my lap rather than listen to it. “Pop got one with the gun. The other attacked me on the ground.”

  “She stabbed it right in the mouth.” Pop finally smiles. “Gave him hell.”

  I shake my head—Pop thinks everything I touch turns to gold. “I don’t think I quite gave him hell, but he’s dead.” I turn to the kids, who watch me with open mouths. “You were right about the head. I stabbed it in the neck and shoulder, and it didn’t flinch. Nothing.”

  “Exactly what the fuck is going on?” Mitch asks.

  She wasn’t here for the earlier discussion, nor in the room when Jesse told Pop. Jesse launches into a description, but Pop cuts him off with, “Rosie, go shower that off. We’ll try to find some news.”

  I set Willa down. The walk to the master bathroom seems longer than usual. Willa follows me in, watches me toss my clothes to the floor, and sits by the toilet while I step into the shower and let the hot water soak in. Every few seconds, I recall the panic, the weight of that man on me, and how his face came for mine only to be stopped by the knife. If I hadn’t gotten it there in time… I did get it there. That’s what counts.

  I dry off and stand at the mirror wrapped in my towel. The side of my neck is purple, the middle of the bruise speckled red with burst capillaries. Normally, I’d put on pajamas, but pajamas feel too flimsy, and I opt for jeans, tank top, and cozy sweatshirt instead. After applying the usual forty-two styling products to my hair to tame the beast, I return to the living room, where everyone stands near the stereo. Holly lifts a finger to her lips when I enter.

  A young-sounding voice comes from the speakers. I recognize it as the DJ of one of the college station’s indie rock shows, though I don’t know his name. “…virus is all over Eugene. I-5 is closed up to Albany. Route 99, too, and authorities say to stay in your home for now. I have Kevin Larson here, who knows more about what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy.” This voice is as young as the first, and both of the boys’ voices have an edge of bewildered excitement as they share this breaking news. “There are infected people wandering everywhere, and I know how this sounds, but they’re dead. Really dead. They die and then come back, like zombies, and you can only kill them by getting their brains.”

  There’s a pause. “It sounds crazy, but I swear it’s the truth. My dad’s a police officer, and he had us come to the KLCC studio and warn people. You can hear the emergency broadcasts right now.”

  I survey the living room. There are so many windows, so many ways in, though they turned off the outside light and drew the curtains while I was in the shower. At least we don’t have many neighbors the way houses up the road do. We have a fence. I wipe my damp hands on my pants. They’re sweating yet freezing.

  “My dad said they’re working on getting all the infected rounded up,” Kevin says. “After that, it’ll be safe to go out. But until then you should stay at home. Don’t let them scratch you or bite you. If they break the skin, you can get infected, and there’s no cure. Nothing. You die if you get it, and then you turn into a zombie.”

  My fingers go to my neck, where every pair of eyes in the room has come to rest. Holly takes my other hand, and I squeeze weakly.

  “Dude, it’s really the zombie apocalypse,” the first guy says, and Kevin grunts.

  We’re being brought this mind-boggling news by Beavis and Butthead. I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, and I shrug when Mitch inspects me like I’ve lost my marbles. I wouldn’t have believed it true—would’ve suspected a War of the Worlds type broadcast for the twenty-first century—but the distant sirens are still audible, and my bruised neck throbs with every beat of my heart.

  “So, stay inside,” the first boy says. “We’ll update you when Kevin’s dad gives us more news. And now here’s a song.”

  Pop twists the dial. Another voice sounds, this one crackly with static. “…Bornavirus LX has been found in your area. This virus causes serious aggression in infected individuals. A mandatory curfew has been issued for all counties in the state of Oregon until further notice. Failure to comply with this curfew could result in penalties, including arrest. Stay inside and avoid contact with anyone you believe may be infected. A bite from an infected person carries a high risk of transmission. All persons infected with Bornavirus should be brought to the hospital or law enforcement for treatment.”

  Mitch huffs in disbelief. “How do they plan to treat that?” Jesse makes a gun out of his fingers, puts it to his temple, and fires.

  “Please stay inside while authorities contain the spread of the virus. This broadcast will be updated as soon as possible. Attention. Bornavirus LX has been found in your area. This virus causes serious—”

  It’s a loop. I turn the radio down low enough that it isn’t in our faces but is loud enough to hear if the recording changes. “We should check the local TV stations, too. Does anyone know where the antenna is?”

  We canceled cable a while ago and now stream most everything, though we have an old-school antenna in case someone wants to watch the network stations live. “Maybe in the basement somewhere?” Jesse says. “I’ll find it.”

  “Thank you. Did you try Dad again?”

  The kids nod. Pop nods. Even Mitch nods. “Calls aren’t going through,” she says.

  I locate my phone in the kitchen. It’s down to one bar, and a call produces a fast busy signal. I type a text to Ethan: Where are you? Getting really worried. Kids here with Pop and Mitch. Parked truck
by gate and we’re okay for now. Please let us know you’re okay. Come home, but only if it’s safe.

  I hesitate a moment, then type: Love you. That I actually contemplate that addition makes me sure I’m a horrible person. There are zombies outside and I’m deliberating whether or not to tell my husband I love him.

  The text hangs in the ether for a moment, the green bar moving slowly across the top of the screen, and then goes through. I hold my phone to my chest and will Ethan to call or text or walk in the door.

  “Shit, Clara’s on her way down!” Holly lifts her phone to her ear. “It’s ringing.” After a moment, she says, “Hello? Clars? Hello?” She hangs up. Her fingers fly across her phone’s keyboard, and she watches the screen until she exhales. “I think the text went through.”

  “I sent one to Dad,” I say.

  Holly’s face is pale and eyes huge in the dark. “Do you think he’s okay?”

  “He’s probably at the office. He would’ve gone there if it wasn’t safe to come home.”

  “But wasn’t he already there? He should’ve been home hours ago.”

  Her voice is shrill with fright. This is not the time to tell her about Ethan. I trot out a convenient lie. “He might’ve gotten stuck at a property. Maybe people came in wanting to see something.”

  “Probably.” Holly’s hopeful smile trembles at the corners. “He’s probably waiting it out.”

  She seems even smaller at this moment, and I pull her near. “Definitely waiting it out. You heard the radio—they’re rounding up the infected and everyone should stay put until it’s safe.”

  I think of those San Francisco streets and hope it’s true, though I have a terrible feeling it isn’t.

  9

  Clara

  The rest of the ride down is highly uncomfortable, and I relax as we near Eugene. I have to detour west to drop off Nick instead of taking the exit closer to home, but at this point I don’t care as long as it means Nick is gone. I wish I’d been a little nicer, but it’s too late to salvage the situation. I’ve done it before, I can tell.

  My phone rings. Dad. I disconnect my phone from the stereo and lift it to my ear. “Hi. I’m almost there. Maybe thirty minutes because I—”

  “Don’t come home—” He speaks urgently, his voice sounding scared before it cuts out. “Clara, your mother—” there’s a long silence and then a garbled, “Go to Holly’s. I’ll come and…”

  “Dad? Are you there? I have no idea what you just said.”

  I hear what could be a cough, but sounds more like a sob, before his voice comes again. “…here. Your mother…she’s…sick and I don’t want you to…”

  Silence, followed by the three beeps of a lost call. I call back and get a busy signal, my body cold despite the blowing heat. Dad doesn’t cry. He just doesn’t.

  “Everything okay?” Nick asks.

  “I have to go to my house right now. I can drop you on the side of the highway if you want, but I can’t take you home.”

  Two police cars race past, sirens blaring and lights flashing, and they add to my distress. My hands ache with the way they grip the steering wheel. Mom takes medication for a minor heart condition, but I still worry about her. I’m not going to Holly’s to wait for bad news.

  “What’s going on?” Nick asks. He actually sounds like he cares.

  “My dad said something about my mother being sick and then we got disconnected.”

  “What was it?” he asks. I don’t answer. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know!” I swerve to the shoulder of the highway. “Do you want to get out?”

  “No. No, I’ll come with you.”

  I’m trying hard not to lose it, but I don’t know what I’d do without my mom. I could take something happening to my dad, as awful as that sounds, but not Mom.

  He squeezes my shoulder. “Hey, I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

  I feel even worse about what I said earlier. Maybe Nick is a nice guy. Maybe he’s the nicest guy in the universe, and I didn’t give him any sort of chance. I’ll make it up to him by not treating him like a jerk when this is over.

  I take the exit too fast and race to the more rural part of town, where the houses have large lots, fewer neighbors, and winding roads. I spot a group of people walking up the road, which is uncommon, especially at this hour, and then turn into my driveway. The house is dark and the motion light off, though the moon is bright enough to make out the top of our two-story house and the fir trees that reach high above.

  I leave my headlights blazing, car chiming with the keys still in the ignition, to light our way to the porch. It’s helpful until it comes time to open the front door, which is locked. Dad never locks the door when he knows I’m coming.

  Nick and I turn at the rustle of bushes behind us. Jeremy stands on the path, listing slightly to the left like he’s drunk, but he isn’t a lush the way I was in high school. “Jeremy?” I ask. “You okay?”

  I start down the steps when he stumbles. Nick reaches Jeremy first, only to be tackled to the grass when my brother throws himself at him. I’ve always prided myself on acting quickly, maybe too quickly. I make decisions and stick by them even when I’m wrong. But standing here, heart racing and mouth dry while I watch my brother grapple in the dark with Nick, I’m at a complete loss.

  “Jeremy!” I scream. “Stop it!”

  I swear I hear him growl. He tears at Nick’s shirt and buries his face in Nick’s side while Nick struggles to push him away. My dad always pressures Jeremy to shake it off, to man up, but my sweet brother, who loves music and draws beautifully, isn’t that kind of guy. And he isn’t the kind of guy who attacks strangers like a rabid guard dog.

  I drag Jeremy off by his shirt. He hits the lawn on his back. “What the hell is your problem, Jeremy?”

  He turns, exposing the bloody side of his face. It takes me a moment to make out the hole in his temple. In his skull. I haven’t eaten dinner, but there’s enough lunch left to rise in my throat. Jeremy makes a hoarse, rasping noise and grabs my ankle, fingers digging through the denim of my jeans. I’ve never been afraid of him, but the way he looks at me—as if he doesn’t recognize me, as if he wants to hurt me—makes me tear from his grip.

  I spin toward motion in the corner of my eye. Five people move in the headlights’ glare, their larger-than-life shadows dancing on the garage door. They look as if they’ve been in a battle with their ragged clothes and bloody faces.

  They look like Jeremy.

  Jeremy is on his knees. My instinct to help him is overwhelmed by my instinct to escape, and I bolt up the porch steps where I stand breathless and frozen. Nick shakes me. “Open the door!”

  Jeremy closes in. I yelp when he trips on the first step and continues to haul himself up, one arm extended and fingers reaching. Maybe he’s confused by his head trauma—maybe he needs help—and I’m not helping. Before I can move, I’m yanked backward into the house. The door slams, and my father’s solid arms are around me, his gasps in my ear. Someone else pants in the dark. Nick.

  “Jeremy!” I screech and lunge for the door.

  Dad’s arms tighten. “Shhh. We can’t help him.”

  Jeremy is always a lost cause, in his opinion, and this time is no different. “We have—”

  Dad covers my mouth. I struggle in his grip and, when that produces no results, try to bite his hand. “Clara, please,” he whispers. “Please.”

  His chest heaves. His face is pressed to my hair, his hand clamped over my mouth. “I’d help him if I could, I swear,” he says so fervently that I stop fighting. He might give Jeremy a hard time, but he’d never, ever leave him to die.

  He lets his hand fall. We listen to Jeremy on the stairs: a slow dragging sound followed by a thump on wood. “What the fuck is going on?” Nick’s voice is soft, but I startle. I forgot all about him.

  Dad’s weight shifts toward Nick. “Come upstairs,” he says, stern but quiet. Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can make out the circular white
s of Nick’s eyes. “Clara, your mom is…upstairs. Jeremy attacked her. I got him outside but she…she’s not…okay.”

  “What?” I ask, but I know. I know by the flat tone of his voice. I know because if Mom were alive, she would be down here with me.

  Was it only a few hours ago that I worried something was wrong, that it would only take an instant for life as I knew it to end?

  The porch steps thump. “Come,” Dad says, more for Nick’s benefit than mine, since he has my arm.

  Dad guides us upstairs to the guest room at the end of the hall, away from the master bedroom. He lights a bedside lamp and checks to be sure the drapes are closed. I sink to the edge of the queen bed and stare at the white and aqua bedspread, white pillows, and furniture. Mom went for an ocean feel, and with the way waves of nausea rush through me, I feel like I’m in a rowboat on stormy seas.

  “Who are you?” Dad towers over Nick. He’s big at six-two, with straight shoulders and a muscled chest. Handsome with dark hair and defined features. Big smile when he’s happy, and when he’s pissed—which is more often than not—big frown.

  Nick glances my way, but I’m far beyond stepping up to the plate for him. “I’m Nick. I really need to get home, sir.”

  “I’m Tom, Clara’s dad. We’ll get you home.”

  Nick tugs at his hair. I’m sure he regrets his decision to come now that he’s trapped with a girl he barely knows and her overbearing father.

  “What happened to Mom?” I whisper. It takes all my courage to ask.

  Dad refuses to make eye contact. His mouth opens and closes, throat clicking, and he shakes his head. “We have to leave before this gets worse. It’s that virus.”

  “Is it contagious like they said?” Nick asks in a small voice.

  My dad nods once. “Blood and saliva.”

  Nick presses a hand to the torn shirt sleeve on his right arm. Blood drips from his fingertips to the white and aqua polka-dot area rug. A new pattern soaks in, this one dark crimson.