Mom remarried a few years later, when I was fifteen, to a nice-enough man I barely knew, and I suspected she was relieved when I spent most of my time at Mitch’s and Rose’s houses. I was the weird one, the oddball, and with Mike off in the Army, she could start a new life. I didn’t blame her, honestly, and I did the same—made a family from my two best friends.
Maybe the gun will get me to them. Maybe it will come full circle and not be the object that takes my family away, but the object that brings them back. I stare out the window, fingers grazing the black grip, before I set my hand in my lap.
Spirits in the truck are bright this morning. Francis’ curvimeter says it’s three hundred-eighty miles to Eugene, despite the winding route we mapped out and assuming that I-5 after Grants Pass is drivable. If it isn’t, we’ll be driving BLM and Forest Service roads, for which we’ll need a good Oregon road atlas.
The trees turn to farmland and five cows grazing without a care in the world. A farmhouse and barn have a gated driveway, though the gate hangs open. Troy, behind the wheel once again—he says he gets carsick otherwise—asks, “Should we stop and see?”
“Maybe we can find a car for Josh and them,” Francis says. “Or gas for us.”
Troy turns into the driveway and rolls up the rise. The house’s door is open as well, and there are signs of a scuffle out front: planters knocked over, a men’s slipper discarded on the bottom step of the front porch. Nothing comes through the door, and, judging by the peaceful cows, nothing has tried to eat them in recent memory.
Troy pulls to a stop. After a minute, we leave the truck, and Josh and Company hit the dirt. “What’s up?” Josh asks Troy.
“Thought maybe we’d find another vehicle, but doesn’t look like there’s one. We could check for food.”
Inside, the house is dim, quiet, and odorless. Everything seems in place until we reach the kitchen. Open cabinets, drawers pulled out, and the fridge a mess of condiment containers that appear to have been swept aside to reach real food. We purloin an unopened bottle of ranch dressing, as well as the ketchup, mustard, and lemon juice.
I take a last look out the window at the barn and make out the shape of a small tractor inside. Every so often when Dad took Mike and me camping, we stopped at his friend’s farm by the town of Sweet Home. The friend had a gravity-fed fuel tank to fill his farm equipment, in order to avoid driving his tractor to the gas station. In a place like this, with no stations nearby, these people likely had something similar.
I share my thoughts and finish with, “We could check by the barn.”
“Let’s a few of us do that,” Troy says.
Francis and Daisy volunteer, and we four take the back door into the long grass. When I spy something blue fifteen feet to my right, I cautiously make my way over. It’s a sneaker, attached to a woman wearing jeans and a flowered shirt. Her clothes are covered in dried blood and her face eaten away, likely by insects rather than zombies.
“Looks like people did it,” Francis says.
“Fuckers,” Daisy says.
We nod and continue on. Before the virus, the sight of a body would’ve haunted me for weeks. It would’ve become the story of The Time I Found a Dead Body, to be trotted out in party conversations. I probably would’ve puked, though I might’ve left that out of the story depending on my audience. Now it’s just another dead body—and a welcome one, if there can be such a thing, since it isn’t attempting to eat me.
The barn is empty of gas tanks, though we luck out in the lean-to behind a mound of unsplit firewood. “That’s a gas can on steroids,” Troy says.
The cylindrical red metal tank is close to four feet high, with wheels on the bottom for transport and an iron hand crank connected to a hose. A glass gauge on the top of the tank is three-quarters filled with pale gold liquid. The sticker on the side says GAS CADDY, leaving no doubt as to what it contains.
“Holds thirty gallons, which means we’ve got over twenty here,” Troy says, squatting to read the small print on another sticker. “You just got us to Eugene, Cherry.”
The tank is loaded into the bed with much grunting. It has to weigh over two hundred pounds, but it’s two hundred pounds no one minds lifting.
Once we turn onto our next road twenty minutes later, civilization appears in the form of ten houses within eyeshot of each other. Farther on, a town called Douglas City is more like Douglas Two Streets. Every stopped car is out of gas, and they grow more frequent with every mile.
People likely drove as far as they could, watching the fuel gauge drop before the low fuel light came on, and then they coasted to a stop with their hearts sinking in their chests. Past the cars, belongings are discarded by the side of the road. A suitcase, a photo album, a matching pair of expensive high heels. Things they carried until the weight or inconvenience became heavier than the thought of leaving them behind.
Troy pulls the truck to the shoulder near a hybrid sedan, whose open door shows keys hanging from the ignition. “This should work for them.” He steps to the road, motioning Josh and Company to join him. “If you take that turn we just passed, you can make it to Redding. We can give you a jump and five gallons of gas. It should get you there and back twice.”
Josh nods, face pale. “We’re leaving now?” Tanner asks, then shoots his friends a worried sidelong glance. Even Lance, self-proclaimed badass, appears dazed at the thought.
“Wasn’t that the plan?” Troy asks.
“Well, um, yeah,” Josh says. “But I think, if it’s okay, we might want to come north with you?” His voice climbs on the last words, the declaration fading into a question.
Troy faces the truck where we wait, brows lifted in question, and I imagine them doing the same about me. Now I’m the one making the decision, and I can’t say no. I nod along with Francis and Lana.
Daisy sighs. “Of course.” I smile at her, and she whispers, “But I reserve the right to shoot Lance.”
“Not if I do it first,” Lana murmurs, and the four of us laugh.
“What are you waiting for?” Troy asks the guys. “Hop in. Let’s hit the road.”
After a few towns that look like tornadoes blew through, with Lexers that trail the truck until we’re out of sight, the road moves into the mountains of the Klamath National Forest. Snow-covered peaks and a sign that warns there’s no snow removal in winter remind us that only a month or so earlier, this way may have been impassable.
“If this had happened in the winter, we’d be better off,” Lana says. “The Lexers wouldn’t have been able to travel as far.”
“Maybe they freeze,” Troy says. “If so, the safest place to be right now is Barrow, Alaska.”
“Or Siberia,” Daisy adds.
There have to be places that are doing okay. Remote places not as far removed as Barrow or Siberia. But maybe not. Those who made it out would likely run for small towns and out-of-the-way places. All it takes is one bitten person to make a few more, who will then continue the hunt. After this long, it’s possible the majority of places are rife with infection. Those that aren’t would be the places food and people are scarce, like deep in these mountains.
That’s what we’ll do, I decide. When—not if—I find Rose and Mitch, we’ll head for the mountains. There are cabins, empty homes, tucked deep in the woods. There are fire lookouts that stand high above surrounding forests. With enough food for a couple of months, we could outlast the zombies. If all else fails, I’ll do my best to hunt with the revolver or a found rifle. I was shit at it when I was young, but maybe desperation is the impetus for success.
Occasionally, we pass a house or car but continue on. We have gas now, and there’s no sense in stopping unless necessary. That goes for the town we pass, which is accessed by a single road that’s been walled off by scrap wood and fencing ten feet high. The fencing continues into the forest—two by fours nailed from tree to tree in a way that won’t stop humans but will delay mindless bodies.
We climb higher, where the towering fir t
rees remind me of the deep-green forests of Oregon, and large patches of snow still linger in the shade. Green valleys stretch to our left, and a white-topped dark ridge of peaks looms directly ahead.
“It’s beautiful,” Lana says softly.
“It is,” I reply. I always thought so, even when I wanted nothing more than to go home, sit on the couch, and eat frozen Cool-Whip.
In a valley once again, farms and houses dot the road. Outside a town named Etna, we come to an intersection packed with cars in all three directions but our own. Dead Lexers lie in front of the vehicles, and a man steps to the hood of a car, rifle pointed our way. Four more men do the same at various points in the intersection, so that we’ll be sure to die from every angle if we get any big ideas.
The first man lowers his rifle and steps carefully from car to car until he’s on the road, walking toward Troy’s window. “Can’t come through,” he says. “Where’re you headed?”
“Oregon,” Troy replies. “We don’t need anything. We have gas.”
The man’s eyes rove around the pickup’s interior, then to Josh and Company, before he releases a breath. “Sorry, I can’t let you in. I would if I could. Turn back and take Eastside Road to Fort Jones, then get on Scott River. Don’t take Route 3. Bunch of our people been killed there, and not only by zombies. We had seven hundred people before this, now we have four hundred. That’s why no one else is coming through.”
“What’s in Fort Jones?” Troy asks.
“Nothing but zombies now,” the man says. “Don’t bother looking. Got yourselves a good map?” Francis holds up the atlas, and the man nods. “We heard I-5 in Oregon is pretty clear after Medford if you want to cut over.”
We travel the way instructed through a valley full of fields and barns, though there isn’t an animal to be seen. The lone gas station is burnt to a crisp, and the farmhouses are pillaged. Forest surrounds us once again, the road narrowing and turning to dirt at points. A river bubbles merrily on our left, and mountains climb on either side. We continue along, the river playing peek-a-boo through trees and brush before it reappears on our right.
We’ve been traveling all day—six hours and counting—but there are hours of light left. The odometer says we’ve gone 174 miles. We won’t make it to Eugene today, but if we get nearer to Grants Pass, it could be only another day’s drive. The thought of I-5 being drivable is almost too good to be true, and I refuse to believe it while I fervently wish it so.
Against all odds, we’re getting closer. I’ve added and subtracted three times to be sure my math is correct. Which is insane; my math is always correct. My math is the reason Rose didn’t fail math in high school, since she sucked at it and Mitch had zero patience when it came to tutoring. Schooling you on your shortcomings, now, is something Mitch does well, though I love her for it. She’ll be more surprised than I am if I make it to Eugene. Rose, on the other hand, will say she knew I could do it, which is why I love her.
A few miles later, we come to a rustic campground with a few metal carports, a small building that resembles something from the Old West, and porta-potties. Peeing outside is no big deal, but crapping, especially when you don’t want to stray too far from your traveling companions for fear of being eaten, is more difficult. Thankfully, I’ve avoided it thus far, and the porta-potties couldn’t have come at a better time.
Troy pulls in. A sign welcomes us to a mining camp and wishes the prospectors luck with their find. We exit into warm sun and air that smells of river and forest peat.
“How’re you holding up?” Francis asks Josh and Co., who stretch their legs and arms.
“A little stiff,” Josh says with a smile. “But it’s way better than walking.”
I explore after I use the facilities. A spigot labeled POTABLE H20 produces water, much to my surprise, and I fill the gallon containers we have in the truck, then wash up with the soap I took from that house a lifetime ago. It’s not a hot shower, but I might never take running water and lathered soap for granted again.
Once the men have washed up, Lana and Daisy send us away. We sit in the carport, listening to water splash and the two women’s quiet laughs. “That’s a good sound,” Francis says. Though he likely thinks of Lianne, he smiles. “Reminds me of being shooed out of the kitchen as a kid. I always wanted to know what they were laughing about.”
“Don’t even try to walk into your Texan Mama’s kitchen.” Troy leans back, unsmoked cigar in hand. He smoked one every day before zombies, but he saves his remaining ones for special occasions. “It is a good sound. Almost makes me miss wife number four.”
“Four?” I ask.
“I’m either unlucky in love, or very lucky, depending on how you look at it. Married four times, divorced four times, and not looking for number five.”
“You know you can have sex without being married, right?”
Troy laughs good and loud at that. “I go in with the best intentions. Forever and a day, and all that. Just never works out that way.”
“I miss my mom,” Josh says. Tanner and Lance nod, and all three stare into the woods past the river. Maybe it’s that their defenses have dropped some—or maybe mine have—but I like them. They’re just kids, really, and scared kids at that.
Troy sets his cigar on his leg, lips twisted sympathetically. “Me too, boys.”
The water shuts off and the women appear, wearing damp hair and smiles. “Holy shit, that was cold,” Daisy says. “But good.”
Lana scrunches the ends of her hair with her small towel. Rose has taught me more than I ever needed to know about scrunching. “How much more will we do today?” she asks.
“Three hours?” Troy says. “Maybe four. Let’s see if we can hit the Oregon border.”
“I say we go as far as we can. You have to when you get a good day.”
“My thoughts exactly. Milk it for all it’s worth.”
“Lana and Troy agree?” Francis asks. “The stars must be aligned or some shit.”
We laugh and pile into the truck, our spirits raised. It’s amazing how feeling the tiniest bit more human does that. On the next road, the occasional abandoned house pops up here and there. Abandoned cars come next. Once again, we seem to be following in the footsteps of the exodus from California.
The houses grow more frequent until we’re in the town of Seiad Valley, where a sign boasts a population of just over three hundred. Cars have been pushed to the shoulders, some into ditches, and bodies lie here and there, all finished off by head wounds. We near a white wooden building on the roadside—a store with a few cars parked out front. An SUV sits crosswise on the road, blocking travel in a way that seems more than coincidence.
“Careful,” Lana says.
Everyone pulls their weapons. I reach for mine, hand quivering, and I’m sure Daisy can feel the rest of me shaking, too. This could be it, the part where I’ll have to prove myself. I can already tell I’ll fail.
A man bursts out of a sedan and runs into the road waving his arms. He’s thin and dirty, though he wears nice clothes under the grime. He pushes back his greasy blond hair. “Hi! Hello! I don’t have a weapon. We need some help.”
Troy stops but makes no move to open his door. The man squints through the windshield. “Sorry. I’ll move the truck. We put it here so we didn’t miss anyone, but I won’t keep you. Let me just get my wife to help.”
He motions at his car. A woman leaves the vehicle holding a preschool-aged kid in her arms, then sets the kid on the passenger’s seat and joins her husband on the road. She flashes our pickup a puny smile and climbs into the SUV.
“You have it in neutral?” the man asks the woman.
She nods, and he pushes at the hood until the SUV rolls into one of the parking spots. Once the wife exits, the man waves us along. Troy sighs, foot still on the brake. “What do you say? Stop or go?”
“Stop,” Francis says. “They have a kid.”
I nod along with Lana and Daisy. “I’m inclined to agree,” Troy says, “but
let’s be cautious. Lana, you do the talking. Everyone but me and Francis put your guns away.”
When we step from the truck, the man’s mouth drops. “Thank you! Thank God! The last three people just sped past. Thank you.”
It’s almost pathetic. It reminds me of myself, and I feel sorry for the man. The woman goes back to the car to retrieve their kid, who has the same blond hair as her dad. She clings to her mom’s leg with round eyes, and when I smile at her, she furrows her golden brow in return.
Lana introduces herself and then the rest of us. “I’m Carl,” the man says once she’s done. “My wife is Lily, and my daughter is Bailey.”
“Nice to meet you,” Lana says. “What’s going on? Are you stuck?”
“We ran out of gas a few miles down. We’ve been here five days now.” Carl wipes at his forehead. “Good thing there’ve only been a few eaters. Where are you guys going?”
“North, to Oregon.” Lana’s smile is kind. “We can fit you in.”
Carl’s shoulders droop. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you to offer, but we’re heading east and south. Lily’s family is in Yreka, and last we heard they were doing okay on their land. We have to go there.”
“How far is it from here?” Troy asks.
“About fifty miles. We’d walk it,” Carl glances at his daughter, “but there are some stretches where I’d be worried about making it past.”
“Hold on.” Lana waves all of us, including Josh and Company, to the other side of the pickup. “What should we do?”
“Give them some gas,” Daisy says. “Just a few gallons. It’ll get them fifty miles, and we have enough, right?”
We survey the family. Carl’s arm is around Lily, and his other hand on their daughter’s blond hair. They stare up the road, tension apparent in the set of their shoulders, as though awaiting a life or death judgment. Which I suppose isn’t too far from the truth.
“Let’s do it,” Troy says. “You cool with that, Cherry? You did find the gas.”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 44
