“What?” Tom asks. He chews a piece of a ration bar, which also looks a lot like a block of wood—a yellowish orange square with a textured surface. It probably tastes like one, too.
“Gender inequality and society’s unrealistic expectations,” I answer. At his lifted eyebrow, I add, “Nothing.”
We sit, checking the windows every so often. If anything, there are more outside. The radio produces only the same emergency broadcasts: Bornavirus is in your area and authorities are getting on it right quick. No worries, and please call 911 on your nonexistent phone for some nonexistent help. The endless loop hasn’t changed in a week.
The ration bars taste better than I anticipated, like a crumbly block of sugar cookie dough. I munch on a square while I leaf through magazines to pass the time. The glossy pictures, the pretty neighborhoods, and the running water are like reading a history book, studying what people were concerned with in the past: the perfect house, the perfect room, the right clothes, the nice stuff.
I’ve done my share of that, but I tried to find balance. My house is hardly the home of a realtor known for upscale listings, but I like it, just as I like my older car that runs and looks fine. Office manager Bonnie jokes that I seem more trustworthy this way, as if I want to ensure the clients money but don’t care about it myself. Whatever the case, it didn’t hurt business.
I wonder if Bonnie is okay. She’s a lovely older lady who knows far more than most about my issues. I broke down under the strain one night, thinking I was alone in the office, and she mothered the information out of me with tea, hugs, and gentle words. After that, she insisted on picking up some of Ethan’s slack in her quiet, efficient way. She lives in Springfield and cares for her elderly parents. If it’s as bad there as here, I’m not holding out for her survival.
“It all seems so frivolous now,” I say, waving the magazine before I set it on the coffee table. “Things might not ever be the same.”
“We don’t know that,” Pop says. “If they contained it to Oregon and California, the rest of the world could be going along same as ever. They said they’d come in thirty days. The people who got infected later will die off later, so I’m thinking more like forty-five or sixty days.”
“You saw Jesse’s video. Do you think they contained that?” I ask. Pop exhales through his nose, keeping his expression blank. He doesn’t believe they contained it, but he doesn’t want to upset me. The man would insist everything is going swimmingly while a zombie chomped my leg like a chicken drumstick. “It was in the Midwest, too. When the thirty days are up, it could be a different world.”
That coming world feels as foreign as the world in the magazine, but I won’t worry about that right now. All I want is to survive the next weeks. Maybe the seven of us can figure out whatever comes next together. The only thing more frightening than the unknown is facing the unknown alone.
“I’d give anything for some news,” I say.
“What we need is a shortwave radio,” Pop says. “Maybe a transceiver. If anyone’s out there, we’d hear them. It’s hard to believe there’s been nothing from the government.”
“I haven’t seen a plane or helicopter since this started,” Tom says. “Did you notice that?”
Pop nods, and his blank expression edges into worried territory. “Can’t be good,” is all he says, which means it’s bad. Very bad.
Even if there are no commercial flights to the West Coast, Army planes and helicopters should be in the air, if only to keep track of the infection’s spread. With the absolute quiet that surrounds us—current zombie groans notwithstanding—we would’ve heard the sound of engines or rotors. If the rest of the country were business as usual, there’d be some sort of contact with us.
All the realtors in the office, the few friends I invited to the anniversary party, have disappeared as if they never existed. I grew away from those friends in recent years, not that I had a ton to begin with. Rather than admit to Holly that Mitch and Craig were the only people with whom I kept in touch, I called the others to extend an invitation, saying my anniversary was only an excuse for a party, and I’d love to see them.
I felt pathetic, sure they’d blow me off the way I had their past invitations, but they’d sounded excited. Relieved, even. It made me wonder if they knew more than I thought. And though I hate to throw a party in my own honor and would’ve likely wanted to send everyone home at nine, I looked forward to reconnecting.
Lost friendships are another thing I chalked up to Ethan, but that’s not entirely fair. I’ve always been overwhelmed by too much contact with other humans. Ethan’s jealousy played a part, but people can only treat you how you let them, and I let him.
I sigh to myself. Here I am, thinking ill of the possibly dead. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Or maybe I’m as cold as he alleged.
“Sun’s going down,” Pop says.
So that we can use our newfound flashlights, we draw the shades and ready bedclothes to cover the windows once it’s dark; the office has some on hand in case we need a bedspread or sheets during an open house. I keep my focus on the cabinets as I pass through the kitchen, avoiding what might be all that’s left of Ethan on the floor.
Pop snores lightly on one couch. I sit on the other, and Tom has taken the first watch shift in a chair. I try to sleep, but I can’t relax when I can’t stop thinking of how Mitch and the kids might come looking for us. I go to the bathroom, where I pee into the toilet that won’t flush without more water. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that we get home before the kids do something stupid and heroic. Mitch is there to stop them, at least, and Mitch is bossy as hell.
I find my way back to the couch in the dark, then sit under a big old sweater to ward off the spring chill. After a few minutes of silent freak-out about the kids, I grab a magazine and hold it and a flashlight under the sweater.
“Can’t sleep?” Tom asks quietly.
“No,” I whisper. He says something that’s lost in the outside groans. “I can’t hear you. Come sit.”
After a few seconds, a dark form makes its way over, and then he sits in the center of the couch. I face him and scoot my feet close to myself. “If the old man starts sawing wood too loudly, we’ll have to poke him.”
Tom nods before I shut off the light. There’s no reason to use it when it might give us away. We sit in a slightly awkward silence, though it offers more reassurance than sitting alone. After a few minutes, he says, “I’m sorry about Ethan. He might be okay.”
“I know.” I listen to the scuffing footsteps. Every time I looked outside, I searched for Ethan, afraid he’d be with them. “You must think I’m a total bitch. I…” I shrug, though he can’t see. “There’s the fact that I don’t know, and the fact that I’m angry with him. Maybe what he did before shouldn’t matter now, but it does. I was thinking of ending it after the party. I feel horrible saying that now. Just…horrible.”
I immediately regret telling Tom something I haven’t even told Mitch, and my regret only intensifies when he doesn’t answer. I resist the desire to check for his reaction with my flashlight and change the subject. “I keep thinking the kids will look for us. Either on foot or in a car. What if they do? They could be surrounded by zombies, and they probably wouldn’t have enough food and water. It’s not a stretch to imagine that happening.” I wave at the windows, though Tom can’t see that either. “We’d never find them.”
Another thought occurs to me, and it’s worse. “We shouldn’t have taken both guns. What if something happens at the house and they need one? What if people come? All they have are knives, and everyone knows you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.” There’s nothing from Tom, and I fiddle with the flashlight switch. “I do think Mitch will keep them home, at least. But Jesse was pretty pissed when we left. He might not listen. God, I really hope he listens.”
The words leave my mouth in a torrent and are met with the same silence. I can’t stand it any longer, and I switch on the flashlight to find Tom wi
th one arm extended along the back of the couch, staring in my direction with alarm.
“Are you always like this?” he asks. What could be the precursor to a smile carves a shallow C in one cheek, but his tone is flabbergasted.
“Like what?”
“So…worried?”
I sniff and shut off the light. He’s making me out to be a maniac. Like Tom is some bastion of sanity. “Not always, but once my brain latches on to something, it’s done for.”
“How often does it do that?”
“Sometimes once a day. Sometimes all day. Sometimes not for days. It’s not crazy to be worried right now, you know.”
“Maybe, but it was a lot to lay out there at once.” He sounds somewhat entertained, even if it is at my expense. “We haven’t seen a single live person, so I’m not too worried about that. And I think Jesse has enough sense to stay home. Mitch doesn’t hold with bullshit. She’ll lock him in the basement if she has to. Clara never listens to me, but she likes Mitch, so she’ll listen to her.”
I consider bringing up Clara, specifically him and Clara, but I keep my thoughts to myself. Tom takes a breath. “I think it’s normal to be angry. It sounds like Ethan put you through a lot.”
The image of Ethan, young and loving and funny, comes into my mind, and my chest grows heavy with the sadness of losing him to drugs, then losing him again. “It wasn’t always like that. We were best friends once. The other half of each other, you know?”
“I do,” Tom says.
I hear the longing in his voice and don’t know what to say, but I can’t leave it hanging out there. “Sheila was…I liked her a lot.”
“She liked you just as much.”
“She did? I figured she was just being nice. I wish I’d gotten to know her better.”
There were many phone conversations when the girls were in high school, along with coffee meetups. Clara ran her parents ragged, and I offered to step in. By the time the girls were sixteen, Ethan was using, and though I was always available for our chats, it never went further than that.
“The day—” Tom’s voice is strangled, and I need nothing more to know the day he means. “That day, she said she wished she were more like you.”
“Now that you’ve heard how my brain works, you know how wrong she was.”
“No, I know what she meant. She admired your spirit.”
It’s a compliment I’ll treasure, especially with as spiritless as I’ve felt recently. I squirm, and my foot hits Tom by accident. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He shifts in his seat. “Mind if I grab the flashlight for the bathroom?”
“Sure.”
I hand it over. He turns it on and covers it with his sleeve as he moves away. He’s a strange guy—almost genuine one minute and then aloof for the next year. I’ve always sensed a bit of humor under the stern façade, but getting it out is like mining for precious metal. The times he’s cracked an unrestrained smile in my presence can be counted on one hand.
Pop continues his light snoring. The noises outside have lessened. I chew at a hangnail and try not to picture Holly limping down a road with gray skin and filthy clothing, her hair tangled like Medusa. If the kids decide to go on the hunt, they’ll wait until daylight. They’re not stupid.
Tom creeps back, quiet for his size, and hesitates by the couch. “Sit, if you want,” I say, hoping he will. He settles down out of range of foot-kicking. “How was the bathroom? Exciting?”
The noise he makes might be amusement. “All I dreamed it would be and more.”
I snicker. Almost a week of mining and I got a half-joke. Next month, I might get a laugh.
“Actually, those tiles in the bathroom are interesting,” Tom says. “I saw them earlier today.”
The tiles wind their way around the bottom wall like a baseboard, their raised surfaces depicting local leaves and plants in minute detail, all stained a natural brown to fit the Craftsman theme of the rest of the house. “Interesting how?” I ask. “Hideous interesting or nice interesting?”
“Nice. They’re very intricate.”
“I made them.”
His coat rustles as he turns to me in the dark. “And you waited to hear if I liked them before you told me that.”
I laugh quietly. “I wanted an unvarnished opinion. I used to make decorative concrete tiles. It was a little business I had for a while.”
“How’d you make them?”
“I sculpted the designs from clay, made rubber molds of the designs, and then poured the concrete into the molds. I even have a concrete vibrator.”
There’s a long pause before he says, “Huh.”
“You use it to vibrate wet concrete and remove air bubbles. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Tom chuckles. I’ve stretched out my feet some, and I feel the far cushion plump up as his body loosens. It didn’t take a year to make him laugh, only a slightly dirty joke. “You’re talented.”
“Thank you.” I sigh dramatically. “It was one of my frivolous escapades that didn’t make enough money to leave real estate. There’ve been plenty.”
“Real estate seems to work.”
“It does. But I always wanted to do something with my hands or my imagination, you know?”
Tom shifts in his seat. “I wanted to play guitar. If that didn’t work out, maybe run the soundboard at a studio or on the road with a band.”
I sit open-mouthed. I would’ve sworn Tom was born shouting commands at subordinates. “Really?”
“Yeah. I guess we give up dreams in the name of security.”
It’s true. In the name of the familiar, too. And for fear of failure. “I don’t like it,” I say.
“Me neither.”
Resignation makes his voice tired. I’ve never heard a whisper from any of the Jensens about Tom playing music. “You know Jess plays guitar?” I ask, and Tom grunts something close to a yes. “He has a thousand guitars, and he’d love to play with someone. If you’re ever feeling the urge to tickle the strings or whatever.”
He grunts again, though it’s more of a dismissive humph. A very clear Game Over that I recognize from the Tom of the past decade. Maybe it was the mention of Sheila, of dreams dashed, but the guy who was infinitely more interesting than Tom has gone back into hiding, and I don’t have the energy to draw him out again. “You should try to sleep,” he says.
“There’s no way I’m sleeping now. Why don’t I take first watch shift? You can have the couch.”
“I’m fine in the chair.” Tom gets to his feet. “Wake me when it’s my turn.”
“Okay.” I listen to him settle into the easy chair, and then I stare at the dark ceiling, imagining all the horrible things that could happen, until it turns gray with the rising sun.
19
Tom
Morning brings the thundering of gunshots, and I sit upright in my chair. Screaming follows. High-pitched and far-off, maybe a few blocks away, but terror is evident in the raw sound even from that distance. Rose didn’t wake me for watch, and judging by Sam’s heavy-eyed bewilderment, she didn’t wake him, either. Her couch is empty. Sam turns to me, now wide awake, and leaps to his feet. I’m up first, running into the foyer, where the door is still locked. She has keys, though. She could’ve left. I turn and rush through the waiting area to the kitchen. No Rose.
My heart pounds as I retrace my steps to Sam, who’s making his way upstairs. The offices are empty. We return at breakneck speed to the couches, where Rose stands by the coffee table, head cocked. “Those were gunshots,” she says with no inkling that she’s scared the shit out of us.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“Where were you?” Sam asks. His chest moves with short breaths and his face is red.
Rose points toward the back. “In the storage room.”
“I looked in there.” I try, but I can’t keep the accusation from my voice.
“I was behind the boxes. Why didn’t you call me?”
I scowl at her. Obviously, I didn’t want to alert the zombies, not knowing how close they are now, since I awoke to the sound of gunshots and was immediately forced into searching for flaky people who can’t stay in a room like they’re supposed to. Maybe it isn’t a hard and fast rule, but it is common sense.
Rose crosses her arms and glowers, mirroring my stance. “Sorry if I scared you guys.”
“It’s all right,” Sam says. “Why don’t we have a look out the windows?”
Rose and Sam walk for the foyer while I seethe. We were in the storage room yesterday, and while there’s no reason I can name that she shouldn’t go in there again, I still want to throttle her.
They return quickly. “Zombies are gone,” Sam says. “Probably followed the gunshots. You ready to go?”
“Do I have time for the bathroom?”
Sam nods. I stomp there, where I use the facilities and take a last look at those tiles. They could be in one of those magazines on the coffee table, and that annoys me, too. When I return, Rose and Sam stand in the foyer with the duffel bags and bucket.
“Count of three, we go,” Sam says. “I’ll drive, unless you want to.”
I shake my head—this is their show. We open the door, take in the empty street, and then rush to the car. Rose slides into the backseat with the bucket, and I throw the duffels in after her while Sam goes around. Once Sam is in, I duck inside the car, and we pull off the curb to the street.
“Still want to see about the fairgrounds?” Sam asks. I nod.
“Maybe we should just head home,” Rose says, her voice low.
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 14
