The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  I fill my lungs, which are tight with unshed tears. And though I nod, I can’t help but think there isn’t time for gentleness. Not now, not with what’s out there. Rose needs to understand that as much as I do.

  16

  Rose

  The last batch of hors d’oeuvres are in the oven, and the vegetarian potstickers and meatballs are frying and heating, respectively. Thankfully, Pop’s RV has two external propane tanks aside from the one built into the RV, since he likes to refill them as seldom as possible. The few things in the house freezer are still semi-frozen, and we moved the milk and other foods that will spoil to his refrigerator. Food is decreasing rapidly, though. Too rapidly. Six days of feeding seven people, even carefully, takes a lot of food.

  Mitch sucks down her coffee at the U-shaped dining area, Clara beside her. There’s only so much space to work in the fifth wheel’s kitchen, although it’s pretty spacious for an RV. Aside from a generous living area with couch and two recliners, there’s a bedroom up a short flight of stairs. And a bathroom, which we try not to use unless necessary.

  “Got my period,” Mitch says. “How many tampons do we have?”

  “Whatever’s in the box, plus a new one in the cabinet,” I reply. “Maybe the house across the street has some. They probably have food, too.” I don’t like to think of it as Michael and Kayla’s house, although their bodies are still out front. “I have a menstrual cup and a spare one that I didn’t like but didn’t throw out. You can all use them.”

  “Gross. I hate those things,” Mitch says. “What if it gets lost up there?”

  “It can’t get lost up there. How far up do you think it goes? Don’t make me break out a mirror and Our Bodies, Ourselves for an anatomy lesson.”

  “I know what we’re doing this evening,” Mitch says with a wink. “But it’s still gross. We don’t want your vagina germs.”

  “Yeah, we don’t want your vagerms,” Holly adds, and we crack up.

  “You can sterilize them,” I say. “Plus, little missy, don’t forget you came out of there. It’ll be like old times.”

  Holly giggles and groans simultaneously. “Sometimes I wish I had a mother who refused to talk about this stuff.”

  “Sex?” I ask. “Is that what you mean by this stuff? Sex?”

  Clara laughs. Holly continues stirring the veggie meatballs in their veggie gravy while she shakes her head. “Don’t encourage her, Clars.”

  “Remember in high school, when she’d sing the song?” Clara asks.

  “How could I forget?” Holly says, and they both sing, “Sex, sex. Sex, sex, sex.”

  Mitch and I laugh—back then, she’d sing it with me if she was around. I’d figured being silly might make everyone less embarrassed about the subject, though Holly’s never been open to discussing her sex life except to remind me that I don’t have to worry about an unexpected pregnancy. A red-faced Jesse took the condoms I gave him and practically ran from the room. I kept on regardless; though I’ve never regretted having kids, I didn’t want either of them following in my almost-a-teen-mother footsteps.

  “Anyway,” I say, “back to the original discussion. I might not need my cup anytime soon, so you all should use them. Between the IUD and perimenopause, my last cycle was ninety days.”

  “Lucky,” Clara says.

  “Only if you like hot flashes.” I fan myself. “And I can assure you that you don’t like hot flashes.”

  This new phase arrived quickly. One minute, my periods were lighter than ever, closer together, and then suddenly I was sweaty and cranky and skipping periods. The period-skipping part is cool, but the rest of it I can do without.

  “I can’t wait to be menopausal and mad,” Mitch says. “I feel like that’s when you just don’t have to give a fuck anymore.”

  “When did you ever give a fuck?” I ask, and Mitch dips her head like you got me. “I’m cartilage and you’re steel. Together we make…”

  “Startilage?”

  “Something awesome.” I pull the tray of perfectly browned puff pastries from the oven and say to Holly, “Party food, your favorite.”

  Holly nods and lowers her head. I’m a moron for bringing up anything that has to do with the party, I realize after the fact, and lean over the stove to view her face. She resembles me when she cries—or tries not to cry—all pink-rimmed nose and eyes, with puffy lips. They say pink doesn’t suit redheads, likely because you can hardly find skin pinker.

  I move Holly aside and into my arms. Mitch takes over the stove with Clara. Thank God I have Pop here, I have Mitch. Even Tom, as exasperating as he can be. Without them to help, to know they’d protect the kids, this would be more terrifying by far.

  “It’s okay, sweets,” I say to Holly. “I mean, it’s not, but we’ll make it as okay as we can. We’re almost at a week, only three more to go.”

  She sniffles loudly and steps back. “How about Dad? He has three weeks to go, too. Why won’t anyone try to find him? You promised we would.”

  It was stupid to think she’d let the matter drop. Though I want Ethan safe, I can’t help but think things would be worse if he were home. Maybe that’s unfair and untrue—this situation is unprecedented, and I hope he’d step up to the plate. But even with zombies outside, I’m relieved I don’t have to watch my every move, which has brought with it the awareness of how much his moods affect me. It’s a sad state of affairs when you entertain the thought that zombies are preferable to your husband—and then push that thought deep down and pretend you never thought it at all.

  “What if he’s sick or trapped somewhere?” Holly asks, and the dam holding her tears breaks. “What if he needs help?”

  That he hasn’t come home could mean the worst has happened. He could be wandering a road, gray and empty-eyed. He might’ve died all alone. At the thought, my throat constricts and my eyes fill. It’s a relief to know I really do care, that maybe the wall I’ve built between my feelings for Ethan and myself isn’t completely impenetrable.

  Wall or not, I don’t want Holly to know how I feel, or don’t feel, about her dad. I touch her sleeve. “I’ll talk to Pop, okay?”

  Holly nods and sniffles, then mounts the stairs for the bathroom. Mitch wears a look of sympathy before she turns to the stove. Clara gives me a cautious smile and a light shrug. “She’s worried, that’s all.”

  As if there isn’t enough to worry about, now there’s this. But even if I don’t want to brave zombies for Ethan’s sake, I need to do something for the kids’ sakes. I peer out the window and see Pop and Tom on the patio. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Once I assess what I can see of the road and find it empty, I throw on my raincoat and make my way through the drizzle. Tom and Pop stop what they’re doing with the PVC pipe, where that black valve now extends from the capped end and is sealed into place with caulk.

  “Rosie-Posey,” Pop says. “How’re things in the RV?”

  “Fine. Looks like you’re almost done.”

  “We need to get a bolt through the top for a rope to lower it, then we’ll be good to go.”

  “Food’s hot if you’re hungry. But I have a question to ask first.”

  Pop sets down the rope he holds and comes to where I sit at the patio table. Rain patters the translucent roof above, which usually calms me, though today its quick tempo makes me jittery. “Holly wants to look for Ethan, and I said I would. But…”

  Tom joins us at the table. His dark brow is knitted. I don’t want him to know—I don’t want anyone to know—but we can’t have secrets this big right now.

  “But?” Pop prompts.

  “But I don’t know where he is. The last time I saw him, Thursday afternoon, he was leaving his drug dealer’s house.”

  Pop straightens, his face grim beneath his beard and not a spark of cheer in his eyes. “He’s at it again?”

  “Again and again. I don’t even know the number of times he’s relapsed over the past couple of years. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t wa
nt you to worry. I guess I hoped every time would be the last.” I watch my hands in my lap. They’re getting older, too, beginning to take on that thin-skinned old lady appearance. “And I felt stupid.”

  “Rosie, you’re not—”

  “I know.” I can’t have this conversation. Pop still doesn’t know the whole story and maybe he won’t ever have to. “That’s not the point. The point is I don’t know where he’d be besides the office.”

  “Maybe that dealer’s house?”

  “Maybe. But he knows people, and I don’t know who they are or where they live.” I look up. Tom watches with a vacillating mixture of concern, surprise, and vexation, as though he doesn’t know how to arrange his face at the news. “Sorry to drag you into my bullshit. He started having issues five years ago. It’s been fun.”

  Tom’s expression settles on concerned. It unstiffens his jaw and the ever-present tension in his features. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. Holly doesn’t know about the relapses. Jesse knows about some of them, but not the most recent. He suspects, though. I’ve been trying to keep it from him.” I give Pop a contrite smile. “I learned that from the best.”

  Pop’s chuckle comes as quickly as it goes. “What do you want to do?”

  I want to do exactly what we have been doing: waiting. “I have to go to the office, at least. Maybe he’s there, or he left a note. I’m pissed off at him, but I know he’d come home if he could. I don’t want Holly to think I didn’t try.”

  “How about I go, and you stay here?”

  “Daddy, I’m not letting you go alone. Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’ll go with him,” Tom says. “We should see what’s happening out there, anyway. Check the fairgrounds if we can.”

  “Thank you, but this isn’t your problem. Clara needs you here with her.”

  “Clara needs you more than me. I’ll go.” His eyes shift to Pop. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Fine by me,” Pop says. Tom nods once and walks across the patio to the pipe.

  I narrow my eyes at Pop. “Why do I feel like I had no part in that decision?”

  He pats my arm. “Because you didn’t, baby doll, that’s why.”

  My guilt wars with my relief. I’m terrified of town, of the zombies. Running at them the other day didn’t make me brave as I’d hoped. If anything, I’ve gained a healthier appreciation of how easily they can end my life and those of everyone I love. If Ethan weren’t getting high, he would’ve been home the way he’d promised. That anyone has to risk their life to find him is unfair, and I can’t make them do it alone.

  “Nice try, Daddy. But I’m going.”

  17

  Tom

  Sam and I debated the merits of a vehicle on our trip—the safety of being inside a steel pod versus the noise of the engine—until Rose mentioned the neighbors across the way have a virtually silent electric car. Bicycles would be smarter, but the hills on our end of town are challenging even when there aren’t zombies chasing you.

  A quick visit to the neighbors’ garage, with a stop at the dead man to retrieve the keys, shows it’s charged enough for our purposes. She also remembered the neighbor’s RV has a washing machine that will run on the RV’s generator, and we have plans to see if we can muffle its noise upon our return. It’ll require moving those two little boys—a job I’m not eagerly anticipating—but washing clothes in the sink as we’ve been doing is no one’s idea of a good time, either.

  “Rosie’s a smart cookie,” Sam says as we cross the road back to the house. “It’s the artistic mind. It’s all over the place, but it makes connections my mind doesn’t. She remembers almost everything you tell her.” He tuts fondly. “Though she can’t remember anything at the grocery store without a list.”

  Rose is turning out to be less flighty than I thought. She’s still a flake and acts far too silly for the predicament we’re in, but she isn’t carefree or coasting along on dumb luck. What she dealt with the past five years—a husband on drugs and two kids—she managed to do with a smile while keeping up a successful business. When she told her father what Ethan was up to, she flushed with shame, and I was forced to admit I’d pegged Rose wrong.

  Up at the house, we walk in on Rose and Jesse in the middle of a heated discussion. Rose is dressed for our trip in a slim canvas coat with leather gloves—she’s said two instances of zombie blood on her hands were more than enough. Jesse wears leather work gloves, a coat, and an angry frown. “Mom, this way if we split up, each person will have a buddy.”

  “We aren’t splitting up.” Rose draws herself to her full height—still half a foot shorter than Jesse. “And you’re not going.”

  Mitch and the girls watch from the couch, eyes moving back and forth tennis match style. “What’s the problem here?” Sam asks.

  Jesse glares at him over Rose’s shoulder. “Pop, will you tell her I should come?”

  Rose spins around, eyes flashing in a way that says Sam will be taking his life into his hands if he does. “We need room in the car in case your dad is there,” Sam says. “But next time, if there is a next time, we’ll talk about it.”

  “No, we wo—” Rose stops at Sam’s raised hand.

  “We’ll talk about it,” he repeats.

  “We all know that’s the kiss of death,” Holly says. “Sorry, Jess.”

  Everyone but Jesse laughs. He ducks when Rose tries to push his hair from his face. “Let us see what it’s like first,” she says.

  “Mom, you know I’m twenty-two and don’t have to listen to you, right?”

  “Yes, but I’m hoping you will anyway.” Jesse gazes at the wall, teeth gritted. In the end, he nods, though he doesn’t look at his mom. She pushes his brown hair to the side, and this time he lets her. “Thank you. I promise we’ll really talk about it, not do the Sam McGann talk about it, okay?”

  Jesse mutters, “Be careful.”

  “Take care of my kids,” Rose says to Mitch. “All three of them.”

  Mitch throws her arms around the girls. “You know I will.”

  I should say something to Clara, but she’s barely spoken to me since yesterday. “Be good,” I say, going for a joking tone at which I fail.

  She grimaces. “Bye, Dad.”

  I nod. After a last farewell, we head to the road, hop the fence, and make for the electric car. Sam is behind the wheel. I sit shotgun, and Rose sits in the backseat. We drive to where the road ends in a three-way intersection and turn left. My house is right, just down the road, where Sheila still lies in our bed. Once the thirty days are up, I’ll summon the strength to see what’s happened to her body in that time and bury her. I’ll bury Jeremy beside her. If that thirty-day mark is truly coming—something I’m beginning to doubt.

  The car rolls silently past the first of the houses set on large treed lots. Many have broken windows and open doors. The screaming we heard that first night might have come from here, where unfenced lots mean an uncovered light, an accidental noise, likely brought zombies near. These houses could have been me and Clara. We have a buffer in Rose’s fence, and I’m grateful for it.

  Two zombies lurk outside a Tudor at the base of a short rise. One big, one small enough to be a kindergartener. “Not many so far,” Sam murmurs, almost as quiet as the car.

  I figure that won’t last. Gravity makes it likely they won’t climb hills, or that they’ll head downhill if they’re wandering without a purpose. And though South Eugene is hilly, there will be many where the terrain flattens.

  Sam takes a left at the fork and heads down an incline. “On your right!” Rose shouts.

  A body bursts through bushes and drops where the car would’ve been had Sam not swerved. I turn in my seat for a view out the back window. It’s a woman in jeans and a bra, though she wears a shirt of dried blood. She stumbles after us, one arm lifted like she’s flagging a ride.

  A newer two-story house has five out front, and all five follow. They reach the road as the car rounds a curve, and Rose says,
“We might have a crew by the time we get down there.”

  Sam speeds up some, passing houses that have no cars out front. Maybe the people left, though there was nowhere to go. Or maybe the radio was wrong. Those people could be cooling their heels somewhere to the east or north while suckers like us are trapped.

  The next few houses are trashed. Broken windows, open doors, and one with several dead bodies on its lawn. Up ahead, two cars sit in the road. They collided at their front corners, forcing both sideways. There’s no way past due to trees on either side. “Go up and down another way?” I ask.

  “Let me see something first,” Sam says. He reverses to the last driveway we passed, which leads to a giant house in a sea of grass that’s still manicured, though it won’t be for long. The car bumps around the house, then down a steep grassy incline toward the neighboring house. Branches scrape the car’s sides as Sam maneuvers through the landscaping that delineates the lots. We take the next house’s driveway and exit onto the road just beyond the collision.

  Rose claps where she leans on the center console between me and Sam. “That was some fancy driving.”

  “Glad it wasn’t my paint job.” Sam bends for a better view out the windshield. “Think we should head down Friendly Street or somewhere else?”

  “Maybe stay on this, then down and over to Washington,” I suggest. “The office is on Fourteenth, right?”

  It means close to fifteen avenues to travel. I make certain my knife is on my belt, then slip my hand into my jacket pocket and finger my pistol. My insides are wound tight like a spring, ready to pounce.

  Sam nods. “We’ll do that. Okay with you, Rosie?”

  “Far be it from me to question our route. Tom, are you like my dad with directions? I could be halfway to my destination before he’s finished discussing the best way to get there.”