The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  She pulls a balled-up gray mound from the kitchen garbage can and brings it near pinched between two fingers. The right side is drenched in dried brown and black fluids. Where the collar meets the hood, it’s shredded though not bitten through. She lifts the garbage can lid with the foot pedal and drops it in. “Thank God I put on my coat.”

  Rose stares at the can for a moment, then pulls out the mostly empty bag, knots it twice, and inserts a new bag. She washes her hands at the sink and returns to her spot across the breakfast counter.

  “You know if you get bitten…” I trail off when she nods. “That’s what happened to Shei—” I breathe deep, focusing on the counter rather than that memory. Beer sloshes uneasily in my gut. “Jeremy was sick.”

  She sets a hand on my arm again, and I remember that Rose is a toucher. Hugging Sheila, pushing my arm gently when she laughed, her arms around Clara when I’d pick her up after a sleepover. Even Jeremy got a hair tousle or a cheek pinch. It feels good. Reassuring. I have eight inches and close to a hundred pounds on her, and she seems twenty times stronger than I feel.

  “Another?” she asks, motioning to my beer.

  I shake my head. Another might get a buzz going, and though I want that buzz more than anything, I’m not stupid. This is no time to be drunk. “Thanks. What now?”

  She tells me about a video she saw on YouTube. About some kids on the radio and how other stations play an emergency broadcast. Stay indoors, the government has it under control. “You believe it?” I ask.

  The right side of her mouth lifts. A yeah, right smile that isn’t a smile at all. “I believe they want to. I also believe they wouldn’t have cut off internet and phones if they thought it was as simple as they say. A good friend of mine lives in Oakland, and I haven’t heard from him. He would’ve called if he could’ve.”

  A dog appears and sniffs my boots, then trots past me toward Rose. She bends below the counter to pet it. “It’s okay, Willa.”

  “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  She straightens. “We didn’t. She was an anniversary present.”

  Finally, I realize who’s missing. I should’ve asked before. “Where’s Ethan?”

  Rose gazes over my shoulder toward the living room. “He was supposed to be home early, but he never came,” she says quietly. She seems pensive, on the verge of saying more, but she doesn’t.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nods and takes in the kitchen. The counters hold food for the party and are likely a glaring reminder of Ethan’s absence, but it’s good. We have food—more than at my house.

  “How are you on water?” I ask. “If the power goes out, there won’t be any.”

  “My dad already had us fill containers and the bathtub. His RV’s tank is full, and that’s around sixty gallons. We have well water, and we can get it out somehow if we need to.”

  I have no doubt she’s scared—her eyes have dark rings and she hugs herself tight—but she’s in survival mode. She continues, “In the morning, we’ll make sure nothing got through the fence and then go to the shed. There’s old plywood in there. We’re going to board the sliding glass doors and bottoms of the windows. If there’s anything else you think we should do, please mention it.”

  I welcome the chance to think about anything other than Sheila and Jeremy. “It seems like you have it under control, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Do you want anything else? Coffee? Food?”

  I shake my head. It isn’t saying much, but this is the best I’ve felt all night. We have a plan. A focus.

  Rose rests her hand on mine. “I should check on Clara. Feel free to eat anything, use anything. I’m here if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good.” My voice breaks. I turn my face to the wall, gulping down tears I haven’t yet shed. Rose’s soft hand squeezes once more, and she leaves me sitting with the knowledge that I’m not good at all.

  11

  Rose

  I wake in a sleeping bag on Holly’s bedroom floor. Pop is on the living room couch, Mitch in the guest room, Jesse in his room, the girls in Holly’s room, and Tom in my bedroom. Tom tried to argue, but I insisted, saying I wanted to keep an eye on the girls anyway, which was true. He was barely standing at that point due to grief and sheer exhaustion, and he thanked me and walked inside. Five minutes later, as I was carrying spare pillows and blankets down the hall, I saw him through the open door, his face mashed into a pillow and sound asleep.

  My chest aches for him, for the crushing loss that has him reeling. I can barely believe Sheila and Jeremy are dead. Gone, just like that. Without a doubt, if I’d allowed Jesse into the driveway last night, he’d be counted among the dead this morning.

  Which dead? my mind whispers. The ones that walk or the truly dead? It still seems unreal. A horror movie come to life. Whether they’re sort of dead or actually dead doesn’t matter—if they bite you, you’re just as dead as they are.

  We stayed up half the night listening for news, for Ethan’s arrival, for anything. All we heard were gunshots, and, frighteningly, screams from closer houses. The two boys came back on KLCC to report that they were still fighting the zombies—the word said with no small amount of excitement—and that Kevin’s dad was making progress. All other stations were repeats of emergency broadcasts. Phones were gone. Jesse found the old antenna in the basement, but every television station was the same—a screen of rolling text accompanying a voice similar to the radio: This is an emergency broadcast. Bornavirus LX has been found in your area. The virus is deadly and causes victims to become aggressive. Do not attempt contact with these individuals. Call 911 and stay inside your home while authorities contain the infection. Check this station for updates and further instructions.

  How you can call 911 when they’ve shut off the phones is anyone’s guess, and I assume they did the same thing in California. Craig has likely tried to call me as I tried to call him. I imagine him in his condo, panicked and alone. And hungry; Craig never has much food in his house. Maybe he doesn’t go with the flow, but this situation could send anyone off the deep end. If only we could speak, I’d tell him to hang in there. Help will come soon. It has to.

  I picture California as a kind of epicenter, with the virus spreading north and east. It probably spread in all directions from the Midwest. Panic will spread, too, once people figure out the truth. Once they believe the videos. Maybe someone will, possibly on the East Coast. They might have time to prepare.

  My body hurts, even with a sleeping pad beneath me. Little aches and pains have cropped up in recent years. A knee twinge here, a hip pain there, a day lying on the floor due to a back spasm. Forty began the long downward spiral, and forty-two isn’t looking much better. I stand up, release my hair from its ponytail atop my head and let it fall, then roll my shoulders and wince when my bruised neck protests.

  Holly and Clara sleep in Holly’s full-size bed. Holly is on her back, peaceful but for the worried groove carved in her brow. Clara is on her side, blankets in a heap across her middle, legs bent and hands fisted in the sheet, as though she and sleep are duking it out. The two girls even sleep like their personalities.

  Clara is olive-skinned like her dad, with wavy brown hair and, often, a stubborn expression on her pretty face. Not around Holly, though. Clara and Holly pair each other beautifully, tempering the other’s weaker points. I’m glad they’re together; they need each other now.

  I leave the room, shutting the door quietly behind me, and move for my bedroom. I tiptoe past Tom—still in the same position—and grab my toothpaste and toothbrush from my bathroom, then creep by Pop on the living room couch to peek out a front window. The day is gray, overcast. The road in front of our house is empty, the house across the road quiet and dark. My neighbors don’t have fences—most houses in the area don’t fence their large lots.

  Figures move farther down. Two men, both stumbling toward town, where a distant car alarm blares. The only zombies on my lawn lie by Pop’s picku
p down the rise. That seems like a dream—crushed under a zombie, fighting for my life—but for the ache in my neck. If nothing else, I know I can kill one if I have to, though the thought of doing so is as horrifying as ever.

  “No change I can see,” Pop says from behind me. He sits up on the couch and rubs at the soft, loose skin around his eyes, then motions at the TV. “Nothing’s changed on there, either.”

  “Sorry I woke you, Daddy.”

  “You didn’t. I didn’t get much sleep.”

  Knowing him, he didn’t sleep at all. “Coffee?” I ask.

  “That’d hit the spot.”

  In the kitchen, I get the coffee going and brush my teeth at the sink. Pop sits at the counter. “Sugar and milk?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. I pour him a mug and hand it over. He either likes it black or so sweet it’s crunchy. There’s no middle ground. He’s an all or nothing kind of guy, though he’s always generous with me.

  Willa trots into the kitchen and sniffs her bowl, then rests on her haunches and stares at me. Her ears flop down beside her homely little face and her tail bangs against the floor. I’ve forgotten about the damn dog, and I pat Willa’s head as I fill the bowl with kibble, feeling very much ungrateful for this pain in the ass gift. That thought is followed by guilt; it isn’t Willa’s fault she arrived somewhere she isn’t wanted. I give her an extra pat to make up for it. “She’ll have to go out. Maybe in back on a leash?”

  Pop watches Willa with a bemused expression. He needs no words—we can speak through a glance. “Don’t ask,” I say, “because I have no fucking clue.”

  He chuckles and swigs his coffee. “I once bought your mother a fancy vacuum for our anniversary. She’d said she wanted the damn thing, but she didn’t really. She was not happy, though a run to the jewelry store fixed that.”

  Jewelry would have been better, and I don’t care much for fancy jewelry. “I’ve never once mentioned wanting to pick up the poop of an alien life form for the next decade, I promise.”

  Pop chuckles again. “You think he’s at the office?”

  I sip my sweet and light coffee. I use coconut sugar and organic milk, and I lie to myself that it’s healthy because fuck total deprivation. “I think that’s where he’d go. Otherwise, I have no idea. I—”

  Jesse walks in, his shiny brown hair hiding one half-closed eye. “Morning.” He goes straight to the coffee pot. “What are they saying?”

  “Same thing as last night,” Pop says.

  Jesse fixes his coffee, then slurps from his mug and leans against the counter. “We should see if we can get to the office and find Dad.”

  If Jesse thinks he’s going anywhere, he’s living in a dream world. I’m not willing to risk anyone’s life to save Ethan’s, which is shitty but the truth. And though I’m pissed at Ethan for putting us in this position, I have no doubt he’d agree the kids come first. The problem is how to say this without seeming cold.

  “Back up, there,” Pop says. “No one’s leaving. We sit tight until we know something. Your dad would say the same thing.”

  Jesse’s finger taps his mug, but he nods. I shoot Pop an appreciative glance and sit in a dining room chair. After a minute of nervous energy coursing through me, I get to my feet. “Cheesy eggs? Bacon?”

  “I wouldn’t say no,” Pop says, and Jesse agrees.

  I open the fridge and pull out eggs and bacon, then plug in the big griddle. When in doubt, feed people. That’s why I ordered enough food for fifty when only twenty-something were expected at the party. Unfortunately, over half of that was meant to be picked up today and tomorrow, which isn’t happening. But it still leaves us with more than usual.

  I whisk all dozen eggs in a bowl, then add shredded cheddar. The bacon on the griddle soon sizzles and pops in its grease. For toast, I cut slices of the bread I bought and froze for the party in case we ran out of fresh-baked bread, which I intended to buy the day of. I used to bake my own bread, but with no kids at home and my recent diet, I haven’t in a while.

  As people emerge from their rooms, I make their eggs and toast, slap some bacon—vegetarian sausage for Holly—on their plate, and serve them at the table. Mitch eats hers with gusto. Holly and Clara eat silently, without their usual giggles. I throw Tom’s eggs into the pan when he enters, after I point him to the coffee.

  He sits at the table with his mug, saying good morning but not speaking after that. Clara looks his way often, each time with hope that’s dashed when he doesn’t register her presence. She needs him to check in, to acknowledge their grief. I’m not surprised, necessarily, but my heart goes out to her.

  When I slip Tom’s plate in front of him, he says, “Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Give it to someone else.”

  Last night, he looked like a man on his last legs. This morning, he’s lost the bent frame and empty stare. His gruffness has returned, and though I’m not a fan of gruffness, it could mean he’s a little better. “Just try,” I insist. He has to be hungry, even if he doesn’t know it. “I won’t be offended if you can’t eat.”

  “Rosie can cook,” Pop announces. “It’s the pinch of love she adds.”

  “Ethan says it’s the hair,” I say, then explain, “I manage to leave a strand in everything, even if it’s tied—” I stop and focus on the griddle. I’m trying not to mention Ethan in front of the kids. And clearly doing a bang-up job of it so far.

  “Mom?” Holly asks. “How are we going to find him?”

  “Pop says we’re not,” Jesse says.

  “Why?”

  “Because your dad wouldn’t want us to,” Pop says firmly. “End of story.”

  Holly starts to argue, but Clara cuts her off. “Hols, you don’t want to go,” she says in a quiet, trembling voice. “We’d be dead before we got close, if it’s like they said on the radio.”

  If Clara is preaching restraint, Holly has to know it’s bad. “I promise we’ll go as soon as we can,” I say.

  Holly nods, eyes welling. I cross the kitchen and take her in my arms. It’s scary to think of what Ethan is facing, but the thought of the kids out there is scarier. I anticipate all the horrors, even when there aren’t any. Now there are real horrors, in the form of dead people who will rip us limb from limb. I can easily picture Jesse hand-less, like that one zombie. Holly with no abdomen to speak of like the other. Nope, they aren’t going anywhere.

  “Who wants to help me check out the backyard?” Pop asks. Jesse and Mitch stand, as does Tom. “Finish your breakfast,” Pop says to him, “we’re only looking for now.”

  Tom sits while they leave. His breakfast is half gone, and he sets to work on the rest.

  “How’d you sleep, Dad?” Clara asks.

  “Okay, I guess. You?” Tom nods at her, then goes back to his plate.

  Though Clara doesn’t let out an audible breath, her shoulders fall. “Fine,” she says, and Tom grunts.

  I reach out and stroke her hair. I can’t imagine his emotions after yesterday’s events, but I also can’t imagine leaving either of my children to suffer the aftermath alone. After Mom died, Pop was there for me whenever I needed him.

  “Why don’t you and Clara get out the camping stuff?” I ask Holly. “It’s in the back of the basement. I want to have lanterns ready in case the power goes.”

  I smile in thanks. Clara does her best to return it and then walks with Holly to the basement door in the hall. I pop a piece of bread into the toaster, then spread it with peanut butter and honey. A minute later, Tom comes to where I stand eating and sets his empty plate in the sink. “No eggs for you?”

  I push at the hair that’s escaped my clip and break every rule of good manners by saying through a mouthful, “Eggs kind of gross me out sometimes. I like peanut butter.” Why I felt the need to share that is a mystery, and I stop myself from going any further.

  “Well, the eggs were good,” Tom says. “Thanks.”

  He gazes out the kitchen window, lost in thought. I’m sure they’re the worst kind of thoug
hts. “Are you okay?” I ask softly. I don’t want to make him feel worse, but I have to acknowledge his loss somehow.

  “Fine.”

  It isn’t true. It can’t be. But Tom has a right to grieve however he grieves. He pulls up his sleeves and moves to the sink. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “The dishes. Unless you have a dishwasher?”

  “I don’t, but you don’t have to do them. I was going to.”

  “Chef doesn’t clean. I don’t mind dishes.” Tom squirts soap onto a sponge, turns on the water, and starts scrubbing a plate, then lifts his chin at two canning jars on the counter. “What’s in those?”

  “Homemade kombucha.” I tap the half-gallon jar filled with dark liquid, then the smaller jar filled with an off-white substance. “Sourdough starter. To make bread.”

  “Kombucha? That stuff tastes like sweat socks.”

  I smile. “It does sometimes, but mine is good. I add juice and use fruity tea.”

  Tom’s grunt is close to but not entirely outright dissent. I’m not mortally offended, though I almost expect him to announce I’m failing his class. “Why no dishwasher?” he asks.

  “Because I’d rather do all the dishes than empty a dishwasher. I’d go to the ends of the Earth to avoid it. They dry just fine in the dish rack, and you can wash more without emptying it.”

  He shoots me a sideways glance, obviously thinking me peculiar. It’s the Tom I’ve come to know through the years. At every school function, every party, the more I speak, the more of those glances I receive. Tom isn’t much older than me, but he and Sheila always seemed of a different generation. I know people fifteen years older who act younger than them. Sheila was lovely, though more formal than me by far, and nothing like the overbearing father I’ve heard about through Clara.

  I shrug. “I don’t miss it.”

  Tom humphs as he soaps up silverware. I am not going to do what I usually do, which is to fill the silence with endless prattling in the hope he’ll loosen up. I finish my toast, wipe down the counters and table with the extra sponge, then sweep the floor.