The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed

by Fleming, Sarah Lyons

  “He’s fine. Clara, I happen to know they’re all going to the Pavilion to do things they shouldn’t be doing. Jesse and Holly said for you to meet them there.”

  “Maybe later,” Clara says. She hasn’t left his side since they entered the gate.

  Tom pats her hand. “Go, Clare-Bear. I’m fine.”

  “I promise I’ll stay with him until he’s all better,” I say. “Go have fun.”

  “You’re sure?” Clara asks. Tom nods, and she jumps to her feet with an almost devious grin. “You guys have fun, too.”

  I watch her go, wondering if she knows something, if she sees something in my expression, because once I established Jesse was okay, it was all I could do not to rush here. I sit in Clara’s vacated chair. “They’re making you wait?”

  “Triage.” He turns to me, only his good side exposed, and lifts his eye to the ceiling. “I said I’d do it myself, but they want to make sure it’s done right. I’m giving them another five minutes and then I’m going against nurses’ orders.”

  “Hang on, Mr. Patience. Wait here.”

  I slip inside the infirmary. I’ve hung around enough to know the general whereabouts of supplies, and I head for one of the front cabinets to find what I need. Eva emerges from behind a curtain. I wink, lifting a finger to my lips, and receive a frown in response. When I hear Ethan’s voice behind a curtain, I grab the remainder of the required items and sneak out to where Tom sits. “Come on, quick.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Do you want to get out of here or get caught?” I whisper. “You know I don’t like to get in trouble.”

  He laughs, raising a hand to his swollen cheek, and follows me outside to the food trucks, where we find an unoccupied vehicle. I set my stolen goods on the griddle and pat a lower counter area. “Sit.”

  Once I’ve collected boiled water from outside and set some to heat on the stove, I inspect his face. Seven lacerations, a few of which are nasty-looking tears surrounded by purple, puffy flesh. The right shoulder of his coat is torn, and I peek in there to find dried blood. “It got you in the shoulder, too. Take off your coat.”

  He does, with the wince and jerk of someone hit by a rush of unexpected pain. “Your shoulder hurts?” I ask.

  “The other shoulder. I tweaked it on the fence when I was helping Ethan.”

  “When you were saving Ethan, you mean.” I rub antibacterial gel into my hands and feel the water with a finger.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Stop being modest. Jesse told me the whole story. Thank you for doing that.”

  Tom shrugs, gaze on the floor, and I drop the subject for the moment. Jesse explained how Tom went down instead of him and managed to pull Ethan to safety. I think Tom is Jesse’s new hero; I know he’s mine. Though I’m glad he rescued Ethan, I’d like to kill Ethan myself. They may need meds, but I can’t shake the idea that he wanted meds enough to make the trip. If he risked our son’s life for his habit, I’ll never forgive him.

  I dip gauze into the warmed water, then set to work cleaning Tom’s face until skin begins to show through coagulated blood. “Shouldn’t you have on gloves?” he asks.

  “I don’t think you have cooties.”

  “I did get my shot when I was six.”

  I push his hair aside to clean a nasty rip. “I’m a licensed cootie shot provider. It’s time for your booster.” I trace two circles on his arm, then put a dot in the center of each. “You’re good for another ten years.”

  Tom chuckles. “Thanks. Almost done?”

  He shifts restlessly and turns his face toward the door. I swivel it back. “You’re a terrible patient. I’m getting there. Relax and enjoy the food truck.” Maybe he doesn’t want to seem vulnerable, but it’s too late. There’s no convincing me he isn’t human. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches in any of these, but someone with more expertise should look later.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “Would you let me take care of you?” The words seem weighted with meaning. I pause for a moment, then continue cleaning as if I haven’t. “It’s the least I can do.”

  I cup the good side of his face with one hand while I dab his wounds with the other. His scruff is scratchy on my palm, the skin of his lower neck silky and warm on my fingertips. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand as a wave of lightheadedness hits. The harbinger of a hot flash. I try to ignore the tingle of heat that spreads from my core to my skin, but I’m a blast furnace within seconds. The neck sweat arrives. So much neck sweat.

  I fan my face and dip a new piece of gauze into the warm water, doing my best not to faint. Every inch of me is coated with a film of sweat. I want to strip off my clothes and plunge into a tub of ice, gobble down a bowl of ice cream, and sit in front of an industrial strength air conditioner all at the same time. Maybe you can’t die from a hot flash, but I’m pretty sure I’m actually melting.

  “Hot flash?” Tom asks. “Why don’t you take a minute?”

  Instead of arguing, I drop my cheek against the cool steel serving counter. Tom rustles in a cabinet, and a moment later a breeze wafts past. I laugh when I open my eyes to find him using a baking sheet as a fan. “That’s a new one.”

  “Sheila hated hot flashes.”

  “They don’t have much to recommend them.” I prop my chin in my hand and savor the breeze until my sweat cools. “Thank you, I think I’m good now. I may be old, but I’m too young for this shit.”

  Tom slides the baking sheet into the cabinet. “Did you see a doctor?”

  “Yup. She said enjoy perimenopause, possibly for the next ten years. I don’t always get them, but when I do, they come in packs.”

  “Like zombies.”

  “Exactly.” I straighten, face cooler, though I’m sure it’s still pink. “All right, my medical emergency is over. Back to yours.”

  He sits with a grumble. Once his face is clean, and I’ve used an antiseptic wash and ointment, I say, “Now for the one on your arm.”

  I don’t want to tell him to take off his shirt. In truth, I do want to tell him to take off his shirt, but I wait as he pulls his arm from his sleeve, then lifts that side onto his shoulder. “Good?” he asks.

  I nod, mouth dry. It’s more than good; it’s fucking fantastic. I inspect the wound, pretending I don’t notice the way his abs flex when he twists so I’ll have better light. “You speared a fish,” I say. “Right in the eyeball.”

  Tom peers to view the upper part of his tattoo, where a koi fish bleeds from its eye in a gruesome way. “Poor little guy,” he says.

  I laugh as I clean, cooling down from the hot flash and Tom’s proximity to my apparently far too undersexed self. “Your tattoos are beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” Tom straightens out his arm, then lets it fall. “The color’s held up pretty well. I got them in L.A. I had a friend who was just starting out, and he did these for free as long as he got to put me in his portfolio.”

  “If this was him just starting out, he must have been amazing.”

  “He was. Got pretty famous until he OD’d.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  I consider asking Tom what pills they got today, if Ethan acted odd or suspicious, but I refuse to let myself go there. My mind never stops investigating, obsessing, and scrutinizing when it comes to this, and I dream of the day I won’t have to anymore.

  “I like your tattoo,” he says. “I didn’t see a rose in there, though.”

  “It seemed too obvious.” I finish cleaning the cut, then cover it with a bandage. “All done.”

  Tom puts his arm into his sleeve and pulls down his shirt. “You’re good at this.”

  “You pick up a few things when you’re married to a nurse for twenty years. Will you have someone look at that other shoulder?”

  He grabs it with his right hand and circles the joint a few times. “It’s just sore. It’s fine.”

  “How about this—will you not be an impossible man-baby and do what I ask?�
�

  Tom grins, then bends to the pack at his feet. He pulls out a rolled-up paper bag and hands it to me. “Payment for your nursing skills. They let us fill our bags at the store, and I got a few things I thought you’d like.”

  He brought me something from outside. A present. Hot flash number two threatens to arrive with my flushed cheeks, and I set the bag by the serving window where it’s cooler. I reach inside, feeling awkward until I see he’s watching the floor instead of me, and then I lift out the first thing I touch: a bar of lavender soap.

  “Lavender’s my favorite,” I say. The packaging is pretty, made of handmade paper. I sniff it while I wonder if he randomly chose lavender or if he’s noticed it’s what I use.

  “Are you going to take this long with everything in the bag?” he asks.

  I set down the soap to find his eyes glinting with amusement. If I have a hot flash now, I will die—of embarrassment. “How many things are there?” I ask.

  “Five more.”

  “Really? You didn’t have to get—”

  “They’re small. Which you’d know if you’d actually take them out of the bag.”

  “Fine. You want me to do it kid-on-Christmas-morning style?”

  “Yup. Get it over with.”

  He nods as though eager, and, with the way his fingers tap the counter, possibly nervous that I’ll like what he chose. Considering I was bowled over by a peanut butter sandwich and a Nutty Buddy, he doesn’t have much to worry about.

  I pull out a bottle of water purifying tablets and hug them to my chest while Tom grins. “I have more for when those run out,” he says.

  Next are two bottles of styling products. Brands I use and regretted leaving at home. It could be he’s trying to tell me my hair looks terrible, but it’s more likely he heard me bitching to Mitch about my frizz. “How’d you know I use these?”

  “I’ve seen them in the RV bathroom. We wouldn’t want the veal of hair not being treated in the style to which it’s become accustomed.”

  I laugh. “My hair is such a jerk. They’re perfect, thank you.”

  I squeal at the bag of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs, then immediately shove one into my mouth and force Tom to eat one, too. They’re my favorite, and something I missed when Easter was ruined by zombies.

  “Okay,” I say, reaching into the bag for the last time. “Here goes number five.”

  It’s a green plastic rectangle, about six by four inches, with a solar panel on one side and a USB port on the end—a power bank to charge my phone. It means unlimited access to my music, to my books, to my sanity, and I need that now more than ever. I set it on the counter with the other items. Every single one was carefully chosen not just for me, but for me. For my crazy hair and my anxieties and my favorite things. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel cared for, to feel known. It’s possible the thought that went into this is better than the gifts, and the gifts are absolutely perfect.

  Tom clears his throat in the silence. “You won’t have to wait for a plug anymore.”

  I realize I’ve been staring at it in wonder instead of thanking him as I should. “I love everything, but this is the best of all. Thank you so much.” I run my fingers over the charger and hope he hears the sincerity in my voice. “You’re a good present giver.”

  “I am.”

  I turn to find him wearing his half-smile. “And clearly as modest about it as your mix tape skills. So, if you ever made a mix tape as a present…”

  “Your head might explode.”

  “Well, isn’t someone full of himself? I was also well-renowned for my mix tape abilities. Did you make cassette case inserts with original art?”

  “I didn’t need that. The music was its own art.” He arches a brow at my snort. “Are you challenging me to a mix tape battle?”

  “I’d whip your ass,” I say, to which he laughs. “Too bad it’s not 1987, so we’ll never know for sure. Thank you. I really do love everything.”

  Tom studies his boots, shrugging as if it’s nothing, but I refuse to let him brush off my thanks again. When he starts to rise, I move to the counter and set my hand over his. “You can run away in a minute, but I want to say thank you. For this, and for keeping Jesse safe. You wanted to get home to Clara, and then you almost didn’t.” What was supposed to be heartfelt turns weepy, and I blink to hold back tears. “I appreciate it more than I can say.”

  “I promised I’d get him home.” Tom’s voice is hoarse. “If it were Jeremy…”

  A tear makes its way down his good cheek. I use my free hand to brush it away before I can overthink the impulse, and when Tom looks up with bloodshot eyes and a sad smile, I barely restrain myself from touching his cheek again. He flips the hand I cover so we’re palm against palm. It’s soothing, as if words of solace flow between our fingers, and it speaks more eloquently than I could.

  The moment isn’t charged like last night—it’s tender and honest. Everything about him is real. No lies, no defenses. Just Tom, a man who made mistakes and has regrets, but who’s trying so hard to make it right. Trying, and succeeding.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He starts to shrug, then simply says, “You’re welcome, Red.”

  63

  Craig

  Arduous trek is spot-on. We hike five miles up a constant grade of paved road, rain pelting our bodies. The temperature drops with the altitude, while the wind grows stronger and blows the raindrops off the trees onto us. Double the rain for the same price. Somewhere around mile four, at what Gabe’s fancy watch says is an altitude of four thousand feet, the fir trees give way to sparser vegetation and tree stumps littering the landscape.

  A hazy mountain view is visible through the clouds, if you’re able to keep your eyes open long enough to see it. Mainly, we walk with our heads down against the barrage of raindrops, moving up until my quads are on fire.

  Then we’re in thick forest again, though the trees are shorter due to altitude. Where the road flattens in a wide gravel clearing, we sit under two trees to eat and read the map. Everything feels damp, including the food I shove into my mouth: peanuts, crackers, and three spoonfuls of jam. A deconstructed PB and J. Once we’ve filled our water bottles at a tiny stream, Francis leads the way along a dirt road that continues upward and levels out after a quarter mile.

  Every now and again, I see a white-topped mountain behind a cloud, but I don’t give a shit. Even with gloves, my hands are numb. It’s a struggle to open my water bottle, and I wouldn’t bother except Gabe hounds us to do so, going as far as to stage water stops.

  At one such stop, he peers at everyone from under his rain hood, eyes bright above his thick beard. “You guys are amazing. We climbed thousands of feet in a few miles, that’s no joke, man. The first few days kill you on the trail.”

  I do my best to nod, hating the woods and zombies and Gabe’s relentless optimism. He throws an arm over Lance’s shoulders. “You could’ve thru-hiked with me, no doubt.”

  Lance slides out from under Gabe’s arm, wiping his wet face with his equally wet hand while he turns away. “Should we walk?”

  Gabe watches Lance hit the gravel road, brows drawn in puzzlement, then follows. The rest of us do the same, with markedly less enthusiasm. Road and rain, road and rain. That’s all there is as we march miserably onward. And wind. Fucking wind.

  Miles later, after a pause to tape both Francis’ and Lana’s feet, the sky has changed to a dark gray that signals evening. We stop beneath a thick stand of firs where the rain barely makes its way through and begin to set up camp in silence. At the LTD house, we covered our sleeping bags with garbage bags, and mine is the only dry thing I own. Where the rain didn’t wet me, my sweat did, and the body heat generated by walking quickly dissipates and leaves me shivering.

  Gabe wanders off and tromps back from wherever he went with an armful of semi-dry wood, then proceeds to clear a circle of dirt in the pine needles with the heel of his boot. “Campfire,” he says. “We’ll all fee
l better afterward.”

  He removes a few small white ball-shaped objects from a plastic container and drops them on the dirt, then pulls dry needles and leaves from under the top layer of forest floor and arranges them over top. With damp wood to burn, we’ll need a hot fire, and I circle our camp, collecting a mix of small twigs and thicker branches. When I deposit my finds by the fire pit, Gabe smiles broadly. I smile back, partly because I’m anticipating warmth with much delight and partly because Gabe’s good cheer is real enough. No need to shoot him down for not being an asshole.

  The roof tarp is strung up, the other tarp laid on the ground beneath. Troy, Lana, Francis, and Daisy unpack the food while I help with the fire. Lance stands at the edge of camp, hands fisted at his sides.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask quietly. Gabe shrugs while he adds more kindling to the flames. “What were those white things you put in there?”

  “Cotton balls soaked in petroleum jelly. They light easy, even in rain.”

  “My dad used to make firestarters from sawdust and paraffin wax. We used them all the time when we went camping.”

  “Yeah, that works, too.” Gabe hacks at the firewood with his knife, exposing dry interior, then places it on the larger sticks I found. “Camping, huh? I got the feeling you didn’t like the outdoors.”

  “I didn’t,” I say, sinking to the dirt. “And I don’t right now, either. But I guess sometimes it’s all right.”

  “I love it, man. It’s, like, my church.” He spreads his arms wide. “I believe in this, right here.”

  “My father always said the woods were where you could find your true self.” After I say it, I wonder if that’s what Dad was doing during those camping trips—looking for himself, for his heart. Maybe trying to share what was left of himself with Mike and me.

  “I believe it.” Gabe spreads his dirty hands above the flames. The bigger log catches, and he nods happily when the fire crackles and throws up sparks, as though he expected nothing but success while building a fire in the midst of a rainstorm. He probably didn’t.

  “Believer,” I say. “That’s you.”