The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  Nora nods and moves a box while Jesse and I follow Holly through the doors. “Told you she was lonely,” I say.

  Holly shoves me. “Fuck off.”

  50

  Rose

  I stand in one of the food trucks, where I’ve spent the past few hours boiling water and cooking dinner. They’ve given a lot of thought to production, and cooking for five hundred people went more smoothly than I’d imagined. One truck—my truck—was pasta. Gabrielle and I boiled pot after pot on the big gas range inside, tossing the pasta with enough oil that it didn’t form a blob before the sauce truck got it covered.

  Gabrielle pushes her blond hair from her face. The youngest of her five kids clings to the fairy skirt she wears. I smile at the little blond girl, who jams her thumb in her mouth and closes her eyes. “If she can’t see you, you don’t exist,” Gabrielle says.

  The woman is a saint. I know my limits, and three kids would’ve done me in, forget five. “Watch out, Lucy,” I say. “The invisible lady’s about to dump another pot.”

  Lucy tucks herself deeper behind her mom. I’ve always had a terrible fear that one day I’ll drop a pot of boiling water on a small human. When the kids were little, I made them clear the kitchen entirely before I’d dump pasta into a colander. Tom would probably get a kick out of that if I told him. Or he’d think I’m crazier than he already does.

  I lift the pot of freshly boiled water and walk down the steps to the lot, where giant barrels hold drinking water. Most were taken from rainwater collection systems, which are popular enough in town that they only needed to look in backyards. The water inside is cool enough to pour the hot over top. That makes another full barrel, and that makes me happy. So do rows of food like the ones in the Auditorium, the lavender-scented bar of soap I managed to acquire, and the gallon containers Barry gave me when I asked, which I filled with water I boiled myself in the Kelly Kettle. It’s the little things, especially when the big things aren’t bringing me much joy: the fairgrounds, the people, Ethan.

  It’s fine, in that we’re alive. But the armed guards, the rules, and the lack of privacy are wearing on me. Even Willa has grown tired of the adoration. She’s under the food truck where she’s been hiding for the past hours, only slinking out when I gave her the last few bites of my dinner.

  Mitch rolls up with one of the metal dollies the fairgrounds has on hand. “I’ve come to collect pots before it starts pouring again.”

  “Does that mean we’re done?”

  “Yup. You don’t want to see the dishes. It’s fucking frightening.”

  I dig my hands into the dull ache in my lower back. “We’re too old for this shit.”

  “Word. I won’t be done for hours.”

  “But who’s going to sit with me in the Performance Hall?” Everyone is in there tonight. First to eat, and then to watch a movie. Word went out that there’s a last-minute meeting planned as well.

  Mitch tilts her head, finger under her chin like she’s pondering one of life’s great mysteries. “I don’t know, maybe sit with your husband?”

  I ignore the sarcasm. Things with Ethan are fine. He’s been on his best behavior, and I’ve softened a bit toward him. But only a bit—he’s held out longer in the past. It’s once he gets too comfortable that his old habits come to the forefront.

  Someone clears their throat behind us. A young boy stands in front of a woman our age with a severe blond bob and a colorful woven jacket made for hiking the Andes. “Do you have any organic pasta?” the woman asks.

  “I have no idea,” I say. “We cooked what they gave us. It’s all inside.”

  The woman sniffs. “I try to eat organic whenever possible. If I can’t, at least Hawk should.” She motions at the boy. “My son.”

  Of all the people to survive the zombie apocalypse, this woman had to be one. I know her type: demanding, entitled, and annoying as shit. Before I can think of a polite response, Mitch says, “Lady, there are zombies outside and you’re worried about organic food?”

  I put my hand to my mouth to cover my smile. A giggle comes from inside the food truck.

  “We’re not animals,” the woman hisses, and stomps off with her kid.

  “If we’re not animals, then why’d she name her kid Hawk?” I ask.

  Mitch chortles. “You know she has a basket. She probably has a basket collection.” I jut my chin toward the food truck and smack her. Mitch rubs her arm. “What’s your problem?”

  I sigh as Gabrielle pops out the door. “That was Adele. She’s a piece of work. What about baskets? I have a basket.”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Gabrielle disappears inside. Mitch whispers, “How was I supposed to know she has a basket?”

  “Because half of Eugene has baskets, dumbass. She’s nice. I know it may be asking for the impossible, but could you try not to alienate everyone within the first week?”

  “No promises.”

  I whack her arm. “Be quiet and take our pots.”

  Once the cart is full, Mitch salutes before she rolls off. Twenty feet away, Barry appears and tries to take the cart. Mitch shakes her head and continues on.

  I’ve heard that Barry has barely dated in the years since his wife died, though he’s not unwilling. There’s a lot of gossip, and all you have to do is stand in the same spot long enough to hear it. The quieter you are, the more people tell you. I’ve always collected secrets without trying, and when people realize I don’t run my mouth, they tell me more.

  I return to the food truck. “Go. I’ll wipe up. I’m sure your other seventy kids are waiting for you.”

  Gabrielle laughs good-naturedly. I knew she would, which is why I like her. “Thankfully, I have an IUD. Alan was supposed to get snipped, but we weren’t sure we were done.”

  “Six kids? You’re out of your mind. I have an IUD, too. Someone out there must know how to remove them.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Gabrielle lifts Lucy into her arms. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. I’ll see you in there.”

  Gabrielle thanks me and leaves, her skirt swinging above her Birkenstocks and basket hanging from her elbow. She made the skirt herself, and she’s full of interesting knowledge about chickens and canning and gardening. I spent most of our hours together picking her brain and learned that she and her husband lived outside of Eugene on a small piece of land where they did many of those things. However, the appearance of zombies and the lack of a fence sent them scrambling into town. You can barely get crunchier than Gabrielle, yet you don’t see her demanding organic food like Adele. In other places, my kombucha, sourdough starter, and coconut sugar would mark me as crunchy; in Eugene, I’m middle ground.

  Once I’ve left the truck’s kitchen clean enough for the next shift, Willa and I take the long way around the Events Center and enter through the lobby rather than walk directly into the Performance Hall. I stop to use the bathroom and inspect myself in the mirror. Yesterday’s shower in the shower tent was every bit as underwhelming as Mitch predicted, and I already look as though I haven’t bathed in a week.

  I wasn’t thinking clearly when I packed to come here—not only did the thought of seeing Ethan have me agitated, but I also left most beauty supplies home in a well-meaning and now regrettable bid to avoid vanity. Maybe it’s vain, but I want a real shower, multiple hair products, and a tube of mascara; I’m tired of looking tired and frizzy. I wet my hands and smooth my hair, then make two braids. After a quick assessment, I decide I’m probably too old for braids until I’m old old.

  “Fuck it,” I say to Willa. “I’ve never claimed to be the height of maturity.”

  Willa wags her tail in agreement. We leave the bathroom and head toward voices at the end of the lobby corridor. Half the lights in the Performance Hall are out, and the large room is full of people milling around tables of diners. Suddenly, the dinner I scarfed down in the food truck doesn’t seem so bad, since I didn’t have to eat it in here.

  I ca
n’t find anyone I know. There are familiar faces, but only because I’ve seen the same people for days. Someone bumps me from behind, then apologizes as he goes past. I leave the doorway and stick to the edge of the room, working my way to the far right corner, by the stage, with Willa at my heels.

  I hate this part, where I feel out of place and certain the whole world is staring. Where my entire body floods with tension that precludes normal movement and facial expressions. After forty-two years of life, I should be inured to it, but I still fervently wish for an invisibility cloak. Or to close my eyes like Lucy did, thereby rendering myself invisible.

  As I near the corner, I raise my eyes to find Tom there, scanning the room with his arms folded like he doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of him. My stomach unclenches, my shoulders lower, and a pleasant warmth lights in my chest. It feels the same as the rows of food, the Kelly Kettle, the little things. Except Tom isn’t little, either in real life or in my mind.

  He spots me and cocks his head like get over here. By the time I arrive, he wears a welcoming smile. “Fancy meeting you in the corner,” I say.

  “I knew you’d come if I stood here long enough, Red.” He bends to pat Willa’s head, then lifts a hand, stopping just short of my braids. “Though maybe I should call you Pippi.”

  “I’m practicing for when I’m an old lady. Have you seen my dad?”

  “He was here a few minutes ago. I’m sure he’ll be back.”

  I face the crowd along with him, comfortable enough to observe now that I’m not alone. “I was just thinking about you.”

  He turns my way briefly. “You were?”

  “Well, it was really about me. How I used to make the kids leave the kitchen when I was pouring out boiling pasta water, so I didn’t trip and dump it on their heads.”

  “The worst that could happen?”

  “In that situation.” I point at where the kids sit at a table with people their age. “Should we go say hi? Lick our fingers and wipe their faces?”

  Tom’s low, rumbly laugh washes over me. We listened to music before my dinner shift, shoulders almost touching, and though I lost count of how many times I made him laugh, it still gives me a sense of accomplishment.

  He digs in his coat pocket and holds out a cellophane package of chocolate-covered wafers. “Dessert,” he says. “You were going to miss it out on the tables.”

  I follow his arm up to his face. How I ever thought it incapable of friendliness or humor is beyond me, with the way his eyes crease at the corners and that C carved into one cheek. “Thank you. How did you know I love Nutty Buddies?”

  Tom’s eyes are dark, much darker than Ethan’s, and they take on a teasing silvery glint. “I took a wild guess, since you think peanut butter is the height of gourmet dining.”

  My laugh bubbles up, as much from his words as the lightness I feel in his presence. “Nutty Buddies are the perfect combination of peanut butter, wafer, and cheap waxy chocolate.”

  “Sounds almost as delicious as a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. That was sweet of you. Pun intended.”

  Tom surveys the room again. “Yup. Not a big deal.”

  His face is set like he never smiled in the first place. I won’t read more into this than I should, though the free-fall of my stomach at his reversal in manner tells me I already am thinking of it as more. Wishing it were more. Because I’m an idiot.

  Ethan appears on my left, and I stick the Nutty Buddy in my coat pocket. It’s better not to give him ammunition, the same way I didn’t mention a new client if it was a single man. I know how cowardly that is, that it’s the path of least resistance, but I don’t have it in me at the moment. Not with the way I felt a minute ago. This time the ammunition wouldn’t be entirely blanks, though I’ve done nothing for which to feel guilty. Or almost nothing. Nothing in reality.

  “Hey.” Ethan stops beside me. “Hey, Tom.”

  “How’s it going?” Tom asks.

  “It’s going.”

  I smile at Ethan. “Where were you?”

  “Nowhere special. I just saw Barry, and he said the meeting is before the movie. In a few minutes.”

  The room grows louder with the influx of families and older folks, as well as people of all ages who appear unrelated yet acquainted. The noise worries me. This whole place worries me. It’s almost better to feel unsafe, to be able to hear what’s outside. If you don’t, you forget. I forgot several times today, as if we’re all vacationing at some awful adult sleepaway camp.

  “How was dinner detail?” Ethan asks.

  “Fine. We cooked a shit-ton of pasta.” I motion to where Gabrielle sits with her kids and husband. She seems content, even with eighty-seven small people to tend to. “I’m on breakfast tomorrow.”

  Voices quiet down as Barry, Boone, and Carver make their way onto the stage. Once facing the crowd, Carver clears his throat. “We received a radio call from Portland just before dinner.” Murmurs rise again, and he patiently waits for them to stop. “They’re trapped inside the Moda Center with several thousand people, and they need assistance leading the Lexers away. Therefore, half our people will be leaving at first light tomorrow to lend a hand. We should return in five days to a week.”

  “What if you don’t?” someone shouts.

  “It’s a chance we’ll take.”

  “Let’s hope that amphibian’s going,” Tom mutters. I know he means Boone, and I cough-laugh into my fist. When a man in front looks over his shoulder, I thump my chest like I’m coming down with something. Once he turns away, I kick Tom’s foot. A moment later, he nudges mine, and I lower my head to hide my smile.

  “Sergeant Boone will be in charge while I’m gone,” Carver continues. “But nothing else will change. I have complete confidence that he and Sergeant Wright will do an excellent job.”

  I suppose it’s some sort of Army hierarchy thing, but I wish Barry had been put in charge. Whenever I see Boone nearby, I make sure to skedaddle in the opposite direction. The man picks on the soldiers in a show of power that reminds me of the bratty kid who takes his ball home if the game doesn’t go his way.

  “We’re short-staffed with this illness, but we’ll be okay.” Carver goes through a few more points, which add up to everything will be the same for now, at least for civilians. They leave the stage after thanking everyone for rolling with the punches.

  “How are the sick people?” I ask Ethan.

  “Five more sick today, but three of the first are improving.”

  “Thank God for that,” Pop says from behind me.

  I didn’t know he was there. I wonder if he saw the game of footsie between me and Tom, and what he might think about that. I attempt to cover it up with a cheerful, “Hey, Daddy. Did you eat?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was perfect, as always.”

  “It does take a lot of skill to boil pasta. Did you hear the whole thing just now?”

  “Did. And I think driving a hundred miles is a good way to die, but they’ve got to go, I guess.”

  The kids have risen from their table and now make their way over. Holly arrives first, and Ethan slings his arm over her shoulders. “How’s my girl?”

  “Good,” she says. “Glad I don’t have to go to Portland.”

  Clara appears a bit wan at the thought. “I can’t imagine being there. I’m glad someone forced me to come home.”

  Tom discharges a long breath. “I’m glad someone listened for once.”

  I tense, worrying a fight is imminent, until Tom winks. Clara’s answering smile is pure loveliness, all white teeth and sparkling eyes. Jesse, Nora, and the soldier named Juan—who they all call Marquez—join the group. Jesse’s attention goes to Clara, then leaves and returns in what might be more than brotherly consideration. On both Jesse’s and Marquez’s parts. There’s never been a shortage of guys interested in Clara.

  “We came to say bye,” Nora says. “They just told me and Marquez we’re leaving i
n the morning. Guess we’ll see you when we get back.”

  Their fear is evident under their attempts at stoicism. I’d volunteer before I’d allow Jesse to ride into that hundred-mile deathtrap, and I’m sure their mothers would do the same. Because that’s what it is—a deathtrap.

  “They’re sending you two?” I ask. They nod, and indignation flares to life in my belly. “But you’re babies. What are they thinking?” I search the room for Carver to no avail. Barry, however, is conversing with a man by the stage. “What if I talk to Barry?”

  “Nothing to do about it,” Marquez says. I would believe his indifference if it weren’t for the trembling hands he tucks in his pockets. “It’s the Army. You go where they tell you.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. You can’t drive a hundred miles in this! You’ll di—it’s not safe.” I touch Nora’s arm. “Aren’t you Reserve? Do you have to go?”

  Nora swallows. “It doesn’t matter. Army is Army.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say. “They must know that this is—”

  Ethan grasps my elbow. “Rose, they don’t have a choice. Don’t make it worse.”

  “Sorry.” I force a smile at the two. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “S’okay,” Marquez says. “It’s nice to know someone gives a shit.”

  I can think of nothing to say to that. Nothing that doesn’t involve cursing and storming around like a lunatic, at least. The heat of anger spreads, crawling up my neck to my face and drenching my back. I fan myself with a hand, angrier now that a hot flash has taken this opportunity to drop in. They’re like tears, showing up at inopportune moments to fuck with you.

  “Guess we’ll go pack,” Nora says. “See you when we get back?”

  I wipe the river of sweat off my neck with my sleeve—there’s no dignity in a hot flash, either—and watch Jesse shake their hands. Clara and Holly say goodbye. Tom, Pop, and Ethan wish them luck.

  “Can I hug you?” I ask, and they nod. I hug Nora, then Marquez, and they both hold me tight though they barely know me. “Sorry I’m sweaty. Hot flash.”