Fred shakes his head. “Before they could, it turned up everywhere. Major cities on the West Coast and in the Midwest, as well as major cities in other countries. That’s when they knew for sure it was deliberate. With the way the virus is transmitted through direct contact, it should’ve stayed localized, and they would’ve had it under control quickly. Airborne would be a different story.” He taps a petri dish. “They suspected the infected would keep going for years, maybe decades, and this is what they thought might shorten that timespan. If anyone was still alive to see it.”
“Why do you have it?” Francis asks.
“When Dr. Sandri, the researcher who made it out of California, found out I was a science teacher, she put me to work propagating the mold. She’d brought what she could from their lab and planned to make as much of it as possible when they got where they were going. They were thinking they’d drop the spores on groups of the dead by plane. We can’t do that now, but I have our scouts put it on a few when they go out. They let those wander off to spread it to others.” Fred lifts his hands. “We hope.”
I stare at the table. A small dish of fuzzy black mold might eventually prove more dangerous to zombies than any knife or gun. At this moment, it’s the most precious substance on earth.
“We might be looking at the cure right here,” Lana whispers with the same awe I feel. “How long will it take?”
“There are a lot of factors involved. It has to spread, then it has to eat away at the bodies. Dr. Sandri thought it could take a year, or longer, for the fungus to finish off a body.”
“Where’s Dr. Sandri?” I ask.
“She didn’t make it out.” Fred moves the full petri dishes to the side, shoulders wilting. “I wish she had. I think I’m doing okay here, but I’d like an expert’s take. And we have no way to spread it the way they’d planned.”
“We’re heading up to Eugene. It’s not that much farther, but we could bring some with us and try to spread it.”
“Hell, yeah,” Troy says. “Anything we can do to pitch in.”
Fred smiles and clasps his hands over his ample belly. “I’ll take you up on that.”
I wake in the morning to gray light streaming through the gym windows and a buzzing hum that vibrates in my chest and tickles my eardrums. I sit up in my sleeping bag, rubbing my face in confusion, and slip on my glasses. The full-time residents sleep on cots and mattresses they brought over from the nearby county jail, and almost every one of them is awake, faces screwed up with anxiety. Whatever it is, it isn’t normal.
I step into my boots, since I’m already dressed, and watch the pajama-clad residents throw on sweaters and coats and pants. One plus of sleeping in your clothes is that you’re ready to bolt if necessary. Lana’s hair is stuck to the side of her head, and Daisy’s hangs in greasy strands. We’ve been promised showers this morning, and I’m not the only one looking forward to that.
Ignacio and Norman enter the gym doors. Norman climbs atop a table and waits for silence. “We have a big group of them coming up the highway. Everyone stays inside for now. We have no idea how many are heading north, but we don’t want to make any noise that’ll encourage them to come into town.”
The closest exits are only blocks away. A few mothers pull their young kids closer. The sleepy eyes of only minutes ago are now frightened and all too aware of what this could mean.
“Go about your normal business as much as possible,” Norman continues. “We have plenty of food in the buildings, and we’ll only go to the high school if necessary. Breakfast is available in the day rooms. Go help yourselves.”
People disperse, heading for the halls. Ignacio lifts his chin our way before he joins us in the back of the room. “I know you wanted to leave early today, but we can’t let you attract attention. It’s not a good idea, anyway. You don’t want to get stuck in that.”
“We’re locked up in juvie?” I joke to hide my disappointment. I don’t want to put them at risk, but it sucks.
“Sorry,” Ignacio says. “It’s happened a couple times so far. It usually takes an hour or two for them to pass, depending on how many there are. You’ll be out of here by lunchtime.”
Lunchtime comes and goes, and the zombies keep on coming. Ignacio lets me onto the roof, where I stay low and watch the visible curve of I-5. A solid stream of bodies swarms through and around the cars. The streets are full again, and the ones who’ve detoured off the highway wander the shopping plazas. We saw a few large groups on our way north, but this is a flood. A legion.
“Where are they going, do you think?” I ask Ignacio once we’re inside.
“No idea,” Ignacio says. “The population of California was around forty million. I guess if a few decide to walk, some will follow.”
Half of California would be twenty million Lexers. Twenty million who could stroll up this way. If the people at the Eugene fairgrounds don’t know this group is incoming, it could spell the end of their Safe Zone.
Hiking fast, I might be able to beat the bodies to Eugene and warn them in time. Unlike zombies, I have to rest, but if all daylight hours are spent switching between cars, bicycles, and feet, it’s within the realm of possibility. Ignacio clocked their pace at one to two miles per hour, and it’s just under one hundred forty miles to Eugene.
Ignacio excuses himself at the day room entrance, and I walk to where my traveling companions sit at a table. “How’d it look?” Troy asks when I get close.
“Pretty much how we thought. They might make it there before us.” I drop next to Daisy on one of the table’s built-in benches, feeling heavier than I have in days. “If we leave right after they pass and haul ass, we might be able to beat them. But it’s going to be a lot. I understand if it’s too much for you guys.”
Troy frowns beneath his beard. “You’re starting to piss me off with that martyr bullshit, Cherry.”
“Yeah, stop trying to ditch us,” Daisy says. “You guys are the only family I have left. You can’t ditch family. At least not family you like.”
Daisy’s smile wavers. She hasn’t offered up any information about her past, but the brave face she normally wears brims with tears. I can’t take crying I’ve caused on top of everything else. “I’m sorry,” I say. “From now on I’ll just assume you all want to die with me, no matter what idiotic plan I may have.”
Daisy laughs and dabs at her eyes while Francis sets the atlas on the table. “All right, let’s figure out how we’re gonna die.”
A few minutes later, while we’re discussing the likelihood of finding bicycles and the merits of the train tracks, I notice a man at the next table leaning in our direction as though listening. Our plans aren’t secret, or very interesting, and I figure he’s bored until he leans closer and asks, “How about a hi-rail truck?”
“How ‘bout a what now?” Troy asks.
“Hi-rail truck.” The man crosses his burly arms and nods his block head. He’s big, with sandy hair and chapped cheeks. “A road-rail vehicle. It’s a truck that can drive on the tracks and on the road. It has railway wheels you lower down.”
“I’ve seen those,” Lana says. “That would be perfect. But where do we get one?”
The man spins around on his bench as if he’s been waiting to answer this question his entire life. “You wouldn’t have a problem finding one in White City or Medford, but I doubt you want to backtrack. I’d look at the timber company down the way first. They load freight onto the trains. The railroad contracted for some of its maintenance work, and I’ve seen a hi-rail every time I’ve gone there.”
“The one just down the tracks?” Troy taps the map. “I saw it yesterday coming in.”
“Yup. Hop the fence out back and walk west. It’s less than a quarter mile.”
My pulse speeds up at the thought of a truck so close by. It probably won’t be that easy, but we could use some magic. We deserve some magic. Rose believes wholeheartedly in moments of serendipity, and I pray to Saint Rose for one to come our way.
“How do they work?” Francis asks.
“Depends on the truck.” The man scratches his belly and sticks out his hand. “Name’s Bruce. Let’s find us a piece of paper and pen, and I’ll show you.”
66
Craig
Because the tracks are just behind the correctional facility, we receive a special dispensation to leave though the Lexers are still on the move. Some math-obsessed resident stood counting the bodies in an average period of time, then multiplied that number by the amount of time the long line has passed, and came up with a quarter of a million zombies so far. So far, and they haven’t slowed.
It’s helpful information, in that it’s more precise than a fuck of a lot, but it’s stressing me out. That many would be unimaginable but for the steady buzz in my head from their noises the past hours. The first of the legion are somewhere between ten to twenty miles closer to Eugene than they were this morning, and we have to get a move on.
Ignacio and Norman walk us to a rear service door. Bruce and that kid Nathan, who, it turns out, is Bruce’s son, have volunteered to come along and get us started with the truck. If there is a truck.
“Thanks for your hospitality,” Troy says. “Sorry again about the door.”
“No problem.” Ignacio shakes hands down the line. “Good luck. We’ll get a radio going here soon. You can tell them what frequencies to check.”
We nod, shaking hands with Norman, then slip into the late afternoon and through the trees alongside the tracks. Our packs are heavy, and mine has already formed a sheet of sweat on my filthy back. With the school being off limits, we didn’t get our showers, and our bird baths in cold water didn’t do much to combat our stink. But we’re moving, and that’s all that matters.
The one set of rails splits into six. A few tracks hold long rows of train cars, the kind made up of a network of metal trusses. I’ve seen them running through Oregon all my life, loaded with lumber taken from surrounding forests.
“Those are centerbeam flatcars,” Bruce says. “If you don’t load ‘em evenly, you’re in big trouble.”
He’s one of those railroad enthusiasts, the type who watch YouTube videos of trains leaving stations and switching tracks. I’ve always thought it the most boring hobby ever, but now I love Bruce for it. Bruce is the goddamn man.
A Lexer in a torn three-piece suit stumbles from between the flatcars. I have my spike in hand—we promised Ignacio and Norman no guns unless death is imminent—but Lance lopes to meet it and shoves his knife under its chin.
He wipes his blade on the dead man’s suit coat, then grins as Gabe helps him upright. “Maybe not all Lances are bad,” I say to Lana.
She laughs under her breath. “Fine. But my ex was a Lance, and he was an asshole.”
“Anyone who did you wrong is an asshole.”
“You’re a sweetie. With the way a few ladies in the prison were looking at you, you could have your pick.” My grunt is skeptical, and she takes my arm. “You don’t even notice.”
I shrug. Rose and Mitch say the same thing, not that it happens often. I’m sure Lana is exaggerating. “If it’s blatant, I do.”
“Can I ask you something personal? You don’t have to answer. I was just wondering what it’s like…how you knew. I’m saying this all wrong, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s fine.” I don’t mind answering when it’s simple curiosity, especially from a friend. I only mind when I’m deemed the curiosity. “I kind of knew when I was small. It was like everyone else was speaking a language I didn’t understand. I understood love, but not the kind that makes you want to stare into someone’s eyes or rip off their clothes.” I accidentally kick a rock and wince when it clacks on a rail. “When everyone started to like girls—or boys—I thought I was defective. It’s hard for anyone who isn’t ace to understand because sex and romance are such huge parts of their life. They act as if I should be sad I’m missing something. But I don’t miss what I don’t want. I like having close friends, and I also like being alone.”
Lana squeezes my arm. “Actually, I think that sounds nice. Romance is a pain in the ass.”
“So I hear. I also hear it’s pretty cool when it isn’t a pain, though it does make you all act like idiots sometimes.”
“Truer words were never spoken.”
I have nothing against romance. In fact, I like discussing Rose’s and Mitch’s trials and tribulations on that front. But I’m happy not to have to deal myself, and I’m lucky to have two friends who love me the way they do. Not many people, ace or otherwise, have that.
The leftmost set of tracks splits, one veering into the timber company’s lot before it disappears into a giant building. The lot is full of trucks and silo-looking things whose purpose is unknown, at least to me. Troy, walking ahead, points in that direction.
Before I can help with what I’ve anticipated will be an exhaustive search, Bruce leads us to a white pickup parked by a few other trucks. Troy knocks on the hood. “Thank you, Jesus.”
“Oh, she’s a beaut,” Bruce says. He runs his fingers along the truck’s side, then crouches to inspect what he told us is called the railgear. He also described the ride he once took in a hi-rail vehicle with such reverence that I thought he might invite himself to Eugene for a repeat experience. “Isn’t she a beaut?”
Aside from the railgear under the bumpers, it looks like every other work truck in existence. It has a light on the roof of the cab, and instead of a regular bed, this one has thicker sides that house storage compartments. I nod anyway. It’s beautiful if it gets me to Eugene ahead of the zombies.
“Where should we look for the keys?” Francis asks.
Bruce gestures to his son, who drops the small duffel bag he carries by his feet. “All I need’s a screwdriver,” Nathan says. “This is a fleet vehicle. They don’t have any of that fancy shit.”
“That’s why he was in juvie.” Bruce shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh. “Five years for stealing cars. I figured he’d come in handy.” He levels a pointed look at his son. “But only today. I can lock your ass in solitary if need be.”
“Promise, Pop.” Nathan pulls a long flathead screwdriver from his bag and pries the black plastic casing of the door handle away from the metal. A quick reach inside unlocks the door. He slides onto the bench seat. “Hand me the pliers?”
Bruce does, still shaking his head. Nathan pries off the black plastic ring that covers the ignition, does something with the pliers, then inserts the screwdriver into the slot and turns it. The engine roars to life. We cheer quietly, and Nathan slides along the seat onto the ground, where he bows low.
“Sorry,” I say to Bruce. “But he might have just saved some lives with that trick.”
Bruce knocks his son’s arm, a smile evident under his attempt at a frown. “He always did accomplish what he set his mind to, the little shit.”
Nathan grins. “We should get back.”
“Let me show them the railgear, then we will.” Bruce pushes a button on the truck’s dash labeled railgear pump, then shows us the railgear at the front and back of the truck. Two ten-inch steel train wheels attach to a thick metal axle that lowers or raises hydraulically with the pull of a red handle and the touch of a button on the attached control box. “Line it up with the tracks, then set it down. I wouldn’t go over forty miles per hour, but you should keep it well below that. You could derail.”
After a few more helpful tidbits and another caress of the truck, Bruce and Nathan refuse our offer of an escort back to the facility. “We’ll make it all right. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I say to Nathan. “You used your knowledge for good instead of evil.”
The two laugh, and then Bruce says, “Take care, now. Maybe we’ll see you again.”
They leave the timber lot, Bruce’s arm around his son’s shoulders. We watch them walk the tracks until they step into the trees. After they disappear, Troy rubs his hands together. “And we’re off.”
The truck can on
ly be mounted on rails that are flush with the ground, and we ride on regular tires beside the tracks until the first railroad crossing. Once we’ve checked to be sure the street is empty, Francis and I leave the pickup’s bed and guide Troy until he’s lined up the tires on the rails, then we head for the rear railgear.
Four Lexers stumble from a lot just past the crossing. Lana, Daisy, Lance, and Gabe hop to the street from the cab. “We’ve got it,” Lana says.
I hear the sounds of weapons hitting home while I pull the red handle and Francis pushes the down button. The hydraulic motor grinds, the metal wheels lower, and the truck chassis lifts an inch or two when they settle on the rails.
We motion Troy backward. The rail wheels glide along the track, their flanges inside the rail as Bruce mentioned, though he didn’t think to mention the loud, zombie-attracting beeps the truck would make while reversing. We run for the front gear, pull the red handle, and press the button. Five seconds later, nothing has happened.
“Damn it,” Francis mutters.
Lana shouts and points in the opposite direction. I turn. At least forty Lexers, a block away but gaining ground. Francis glances over his shoulder and then pulls the red handle. Pushes the button.
Nothing.
Troy leans out the window. “Put up the back ones and try again next crossing?”
I check the street. The group is half a block away. The other streets might be worse, and if we don’t get on at a crossing, we can’t get on the rails. It’ll be the same as driving any other car on the tracks: we’ll have to travel at a crawl and likely blow a tire anyway.
“Turn the pump off and on again!” I call.
Troy leans inside, then sticks a raised thumb out the window. Francis pulls the red handle. Pushes the button. Nothing. Lana, Daisy, Lance, and Gabe come to our side, weapons out, but they can’t take forty on their own.
Francis kicks the railgear with a curse, then pulls the handle and pushes the button one more time. The hydraulic engine whirs, and the railgear settles on the track. “Go, go!” he yells.
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 65
