“So now it’s my fault you’re going to shoot yourself?” Holly steps out from under his arm, chewing her lip. “I didn’t ask you to get it, or to protect me. But thanks for the reminder of how inept I am.”
“C’mon, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” Jesse’s tone softens, as does Holly’s expression. She’s incapable of staying mad at him for long. “Marquez and Nora are the same age as us, and look at them while we’re…”
“Fobbits,” I say.
“Exactly. Fuck being a Fobbit. I’m not going to sit around and wait to die.”
I can’t help but agree with him there, too.
“Pretty soon we won’t have to worry about it,” Holly says.
“Hols,” I say carefully, “what if this doesn’t end? Barry said they heard it might not.”
She turns toward the gate, avoiding eye contact. “Why would they have said it if it wasn’t true? Besides, that was unconfirmed sources. Right, Jess?”
Jesse doesn’t seem to notice when his hand touches his jacket, as though ensuring his weapon hasn’t disappeared. “Nora said there was more chatter on their shortwave radio, saying it could take years. They don’t want to tell everyone because they’re afraid we’ll freak out. They’re giving it the ninety days just in case, but no one believes it’ll be over.”
I thought I was prepared to hear our suspicions pretty much confirmed, but Jesse’s words clutter my mind, raising more questions than I can speak aloud. “What does Nora know?” Holly asks.
“A lot more than us.”
Holly lifts her chin, which wavers slightly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
She’ll have to believe it, especially if a zombie is trying to eat her six months from now. After a glance my way that says maybe you can talk some sense into her, Jesse lets the matter drop and walks to the viewing platform. Holly’s right hand picks at her left before she catches herself and tucks them in her jacket pockets.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” Her throat moves with her swallow. “Why?”
“Aside from chicken hands,” I lift my hands in the air and peck them at each other, “you’re too quiet. I miss having to tell you to shut up all the time.”
Holly smiles at my joke, but her eyes are glassy, the color high on her cheeks. “It can’t last that much longer,” she whispers. “Can it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, though I think I do, and my answer isn’t what she wants to hear. “But no matter what, we’re all together. We can last as long as it takes.”
“Can we?”
“Yes.” My voice is forceful, surer than I feel. “It won’t be the same after it’s over, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be horrible. It might even be good.”
I have a feeling my version of good isn’t quite hers, since hers involves Rose and Ethan together. I tamp down the stab of guilt the thought brings. Anticipating the demise of her parents’ marriage isn’t exactly best friend material, even if I truly believe Rose would be happier.
“It just feels like everything’s falling apart.”
“Um, that’s because it has fallen apart.”
“Not like that. I thought, once we got here, it would be—” She stops speaking and faces the fence. “Forget it.”
“What?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “Hols, what’s falling apart?”
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
After a few more tries, it’s clear I’ve been shot down. I give up and spend the rest of the time wondering if she meant her parents. Wondering what we’ll do if there are years of this ahead. I have no good answer to either question.
We get ready for bed at the end of our shift, and I return from brushing my teeth before Holly. Whatever intimacy Jesse and I shared in Holly’s room is absent here. We’re roommates, just as he and Holly are. Jesse looks up as I come in, then pulls his improvised cardboard box dresser from under his cot and buries his gun inside. “Thanks for half-taking my side.”
I sit cross-legged on my cot. “I don’t want you to die, either, you know.” It’s the most I can say with only curtains to block our words. We have Dad and Sam on one side and Mitch on the other.
Jesse inspects his feet, then uses one to push his box under the cot. “There’s always a chance they’re wrong, Clary.”
“Not much of one. What do we do?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find somewhere safe.” He sees my expression, and his forehead furrows. “It’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you and Holly.”
He hasn’t even shot his gun yet, but I believe him. Maybe it’s the determined set of his jaw, or the fact that he can put his mind to something and not let up until he’s mastered it. Back in high school, the girls fell into his lap because of his ever-present guitar, but he always had a guitar because he was always practicing. I met him when he could play pretty well, and then I saw him spend hours mastering finger work others could only dream of. He played until his fingers were sore and blistered, until they became callused and tough and more than proficient. He makes it look effortless, but I saw firsthand how much effort it took, and I have no doubt this will be the same.
My hammer is tucked under my cot, my knife always on my belt, but they might not be enough. “Maybe you can show me how that gun works. When you have time.”
“Anytime,” he says. “I’m all yours.”
I want that to be true with a longing that’s physical—cheeks warming, fingers tingling, heart panging. It only worsens when he smiles his super shiny smile, and his clear blue eyes stay on mine until I look down. I’ve spent years telling myself that this is only a crush, that it’ll pass one day, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Jesse Winter.
54
Craig
After we bury Josh and Tanner, we head out on foot in the early morning light. The other bodies are left to the elements. Carl, the man who stopped us yesterday, is one of those bodies, and it all clicked once we saw his face and bloody blond hair. The group wanted our gas, most likely, and now they have twenty gallons of it along with the quarter tank in the truck. Carl probably sent us toward the stalled vehicles on purpose, with the intention of ambushing us when we returned to town. When we didn’t return, they came looking.
Lance wanted to go after them, lone-wolf style, and it took a lot of convincing to get him moving north. For one thing, our attackers are almost certainly long gone, cruising down a road somewhere thanks to their newfound gasoline. For another, Lance is on foot, with no working vehicle in sight, which doesn’t exactly give him the upper hand.
Fortunately, we brought our packs inside with our weapons, though our extra food and water were in the truck. We split Josh’s and Tanner’s supplies among ourselves, and I now wear Josh’s backpack, since it’s far larger than my own. I found a strip of condoms down at the bottom, which both amused me and broke my heart, and I left them there when Troy mentioned they’re useful for things other than pregnancy and STD prevention.
After the first couple of miles walked at a brisk pace—aside from stopping at the few houses to search in vain for a vehicle—we come upon a sign that informs us county road maintenance ends from here on out. I feel pretty good so far. My blister is gone, though I wear another bandage from Lana just in case, and Oregon is in view. Not actually in view, since all I can see are trees, trees, and more trees, but I can feel it coming. The air is cool, and though the creek that runs alongside the road won’t allow us to hear zombies in the woods until they’re close, the sound of bubbling water is peaceful.
Beside me, Daisy sips from her water bottle and coughs up as much as she swallows. “You okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” she spits out.
I don’t take it personally. Daisy’s throat is sore and bruised, and her pride is bruised worse. One of the men who went into the house held her by the throat in the crook of his arm, gun to her head, while he demanded the truck keys. Francis and Lana complied. Everyone insists it could’ve been any of us—I assume the honor would’ve been mine had
I been inside—but that doesn’t cheer Daisy in the slightest. She feels weak, and she’s making up for that by retreating into her shell and growling at anyone who happens by.
Lance walks behind her, head down. Every once in a while, he takes in the scenery as though surprised by his surroundings before his shoulders hunch once again. His bravado is gone, and his round, dazed eyes make him appear childlike, as though he lost years along with his best friends.
Josh and Tanner rushed the men who entered the house. Lance stayed in the hall, as any sane person would’ve done, and it saved his life. As someone who has frozen many times, I know it makes no difference to Lance that his friends were reckless. He remembers his fear and failure to act, and it’s eating him up inside.
And maybe that’s why I feel good. I thawed in time. I still spent the morning mentally picking apart the things I did wrong, the ways I was a coward. But, ultimately, I faced my fear, and I didn’t blow it for once in my life. And I think I could do it again if I had to. That does not mean I want to. No, thank you. If that was my first and last altercation with marauders, it’s more than fine by me. But I have a kernel of faith that next time (God forbid there is one) I won’t freeze at all.
The dirt road rises to a curve that’s more like a switchback, and the next portion of road is an even steeper angle to another curve. It continues this way with no reprieve in sight. Seeing as how we’re in a place called Seiad Valley, it makes sense we need to move up to move on, but I’m beginning to harbor a dislike of mountains, at least when I have to climb them.
Two-and-a-half miles in, the grade steepens. We left the creek below, and everyone sips their water rather than guzzles. Lana and Francis both have a water filter, Troy and Daisy bottles of water purification tablets, and I’m now the proud owner of tablets of my own, courtesy of Josh and Tanner. However, one needs water if one wants to purify it, and we don’t know when our next source will appear.
Troy and I walk behind Daisy and Lance because neither seems worried enough about a zombie coming their way. Lana, up ahead with Francis, swings her spike as we crunch over dirt and gravel. She said she hiked often with her dogs, and it’s apparent by the spring in her step. I’ve ridden Uber often, and it’s apparent in my aching leg muscles.
“You know what really burns my ass?” Troy asks quietly.
“This walk?” I reply.
Troy chuffs. “Yeah, but also that we gave that asshole food. We insisted he take it. No good deed goes unpunished.”
“It feels that way sometimes. But you guys saved my life more than once, and—”
“We got you out of your apartment. No big deal.”
“I wasn’t going to leave. I was too afraid.” I recall my utter despondency in detail, so much so that it briefly washes over me before I shake it off. “I had a plan to take all my pills with a tequila chaser once my water was gone. And then I heard you outside.”
Troy frowns, though it’s more sympathetic than condemnatory. I shrug. “I can’t ever make it up to you, but I appreciate everything you’ve done. My point is that your good deed wasn’t punished. Your good deeds, plural, though being stuck with me might be its own punishment.”
“Cherry, you’re an idiot,” Troy says with a wide grin. “You saved my life last night, no question. Can’t say I enjoyed going facedown in the mud, but it’s better than bleeding out from a bullet wound. So, let’s call it even.” Troy extends a hand for me to shake, which I do. “Glad we met you, Craig. You’re all right, and a damn sight better with a gun than I thought you’d be.”
“Thanks. Does this mean you’re not calling me Cherry anymore?”
“Hell, no. You’re Cherry until the end of time, far as I’m concerned. If you don’t mind.”
I smile. I don’t mind at all.
Two hours later, even Lana’s steps have slowed. There was a forest fire at some point, and we’ve trudged through long stretches of burnt tree trunks slowly being reclaimed by stunted greenery that does nothing to shade the road. I have a perpetual squint due to sunlight reflecting off patchy snow on the roadside, and I vacillate between sweating from exertion and shivering from my sweat drying in the wind. The snow has partially melted on the ridges above us, exposing brown rock that turns to fir trees lower down. A distant mountain, blanketed by white, is visible over the smaller peaks.
“That’s Mount Shasta,” I say to no one in particular. It’s a landmark I recognize, and it reassures me that, though far, I’m nearing home.
After an eternity, the road flattens at the summit, and the shoulder widens into a dirt parking area. We head for a shady copse of trees, drop our packs, and collapse on a bed of soft, dry pine needles. A sign marks the area as part of the Pacific Crest Trail, which cuts across the road and continues northeast into Oregon. Dad talked about thru-hiking it one day, walking straight from the Mexican border into British Columbia, and I always nodded enthusiastically while praying he didn’t expect me to come along.
We passed a small waterfall partway up where we refilled our empty bottles, and I drink half of mine before I can stop myself. Lana throws herself on her pack and stares up at the trees. “Please tell me we’re two miles from Oregon.”
“You wish.” Francis opens the atlas. After a minute with his curvimeter, he says, “We went seven miles. That’s not bad.”
“Which means we have how many left?”
Francis grimaces, scratching at the beard he’s sprouted since he last shaved. “Ten miles to the border.”
Lana groans. “That’s just the border,” Troy adds, his glee at Lana’s misery plain. “Who knows what’s there? Could be more of this.”
Lana attempts to kick him with her eyes closed. When she misses, and he laughs, she points in his direction. “I’ll get you when I’m standing. Sometime next week.”
Lunch is a bag of tortilla chips, over which we dump a surprisingly delicious cheese sauce and salsa mixture warmed on a stove. Daisy and Lance eat their share, though neither says much.
Once the food is gone, we haul ourselves to our feet. Ten miles with heavy packs is nothing to an experienced hiker with good equipment. For people who spent their night fighting armed attackers, buried two young men at dawn, and carry heavy packs in semi-inappropriate footwear, it’s going to be a slog. The road curves here, disappears from view and reappears on the mountain beside ours, and then on two mountains after that, before it winds out of sight. I’m not sure if seeing it before us makes it better or worse.
I step onto the road with the others. A shout comes from somewhere in the trees by the trail, and every last one of us jumps before going for a weapon. I still have those two bullets, and I did not just walk up a mountain to die. Last night was a wake-up call. An epiphany, maybe. This world is harsh and brutal, and though I’m neither of those things, I’ll have to fake it. Remembering how my shovelfuls of dirt landed on the blanket-wrapped bodies of Josh and Tanner—with a soft thump of finality, a door closing on lives that had, against all odds, lasted this long—I think that maybe I won’t always have to fake it. My anger is real enough.
A guy appears at the trailhead on the southbound side, jogging toward us and waving his hiking poles in the air. A Nalgene water bottle hangs from his pack and slams his leg with every step. “Hey!” he calls. “Hey, wait up!”
He grins as he approaches, his teeth white under a bushy brown beard, and then he lifts his sunglasses to rest on his winter hat. We’re unintentional hikers, and we look the part with our mishmash of gear, but this guy is decked out in hiking pants and boots, with a thin down coat under an outer shell. All filthy at this point, but professional gear nonetheless.
The guy stops a few feet away. He’s in his early twenties, with hazel eyes that are striking against his windburned cheeks, and brown dreadlocks that come past his shoulders. “God, I’m glad to see you guys. I wasn’t sure there was anyone left. What the hell, man? What’s going on out there now?”
“The zombie apocalypse,” Troy says.
“Du
de, I know that much. Got on the trail in late March, earlier than most because it was a light snow year and I wanted to beat the crowds. I like some peace and quiet, you know? Got my first resupply boxes fine, and then the next time I got off the trail, shit was crazy.” His eyes widen and his jaw drops as they likely did when he saw what the world had become. “I needed to get home. So this trail angel says he’ll get me north, and we head up the east side of the range, but Nevada’s no better and we get stuck. And then he gets eaten right in front of me, and I’m like, I’m getting back on the trail because fuck this shit.
“So I just walked, man. I’ve been getting off at towns and breaking into the post offices where my resupply boxes are. No one thinks to look in there. At least not yet. I scored a few boxes that weren’t mine. But now there aren’t any left because my friend was supposed to mail them later. I guess she couldn’t. I can’t get through to anyone.”
He watches us expectantly. I understood the gist of his monologue—the kid is a hiker on the Pacific Crest Trail—but the talk of boxes and angels makes me think he’s losing it after so much time alone.
“I’m Troy.” Troy sticks out a hand. “And I have no idea what the hell you just said, but I think it was English.”
The kid laughs, moves his hiking poles to his left hand, and clasps Troy’s. “Gabriel. Gabe.”
After introductions, Gabe explains that he set out to thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail in March, a journey of over 2,600 miles and many months. Resupply boxes are food and gear you mail in advance to general delivery at post offices along the way, then leave the trail to pick up and resupply yourself. Trail angels are people who offer things like rides, food, and lodging to hikers on the trail. Gabe lives in Maryland, and he knows he isn’t getting home anytime soon, but he figured he might be better off north for a while.
“I’m worried about my mom,” he says. “Have you guys heard anything about the East Coast?” The six of us are silent; no one wants to be the one to break the news. Gabe ducks his head. “For real?”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 52
