World without the cascad.., p.1
World Without (The Cascadia Series Book 3), page 1
WORLD WITHOUT
THE CASCADIA SERIES
BOOK 3
SARAH LYONS FLEMING
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Lyons Fleming
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Jessica Harrison-Poteet
That makes my little heart happy.
CONTENTS
1. Tom
2. Rose
3. Rose
4. Clara
5. Craig
6. Tom
7. Rose
8. Clara
9. Tom
10. Rose – September
11. Clara
12. Craig
13. Rose
14. Craig
15. Rose
16. Rose
17. Clara
18. Tom - October
19. Rose
20. Craig
21. Rose
22. Tom
23. Rose - November
24. Clara
25. Rose
26. Tom
27. Rose - December
28. Rose
29. Clara
30. Craig
31. Rose
32. Clara
33. Tom
34. Clara
35. Clara
36. Rose
37. Tom
38. Craig
39. Rose
40. Rose
41. Tom
42. Clara
43. Craig
44. Rose
45. Rose
46. Clara
47. Rose
Thanks for reading!
Acknowledgments
1
TOM
I stop the pickup well short of the highway overpass that will take us east to Barry’s house in the mountains. Like every route we’ve tried in the past few hours, zombies have gotten there first. Unlike those routes, which held hundreds of walking corpses, it would be possible to drive through the forty in our way—if they weren’t congregated around a roadblock we need to dismantle.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Rose mutters in the passenger’s seat.
It’s not surprise in her voice, only a sort of beleaguered exasperation that this awful day isn’t finished with us yet. Seeing as how the highlights of the past fifty-some hours included Holly almost dying of appendicitis, and most residents of the Fairgrounds Safe Zone turning into zombies, all culminating in Ethan’s self-sacrificial death early this morning, I’m inclined to agree with her. We deserve a damn break.
“You want to stay in the truck?” I ask Rose.
She shakes her head, then glances at Holly, Jesse, Nora, and Clara in the backseat. Having lost their father only hours ago, Holly and Jesse have red-rimmed eyes and dazed expressions. Despite this, Jesse is outside before Rose can order him to stay put.
The rest of us follow suit, stepping onto the two-lane road of Highway 99. It’s a beautiful late August day, and sunlight glints off the vehicles in our convoy. Ahead, Barry, Dalton, and Marquez step from the lead vehicle—a Class A RV that belonged to Rose’s neighbors. Behind us, Alan emerges from the minivan that holds his and Gabrielle’s family.
Two of the pickups that follow the minivan pull alongside our truck. Troy leans out the driver’s side window of one. He’s the worse for wear, with a haggard face and disheveled salt and pepper hair, but his eyes glint at the prospect of killing the undead. “Not much more civilization after this, right?” he drawls.
“We still have to cross the river by Jasper, but there wasn’t much town to speak of,” Barry says. “Shouldn’t be too bad from here on out.”
Sam, Craig, and Mitch exit Sam’s truck, which brings up the rear towing his fifth wheel. Lily stays behind, moving from the backseat to the steering wheel, in case a quick escape becomes necessary. Sam rests an arm on Jesse’s shoulders. “We’ll finish ‘em from the trucks, then clear the vehicles from the overpass?”
“Makes the most sense,” Francis says. He’s a big guy, and when he climbs into his pickup bed, it dips under his weight. Daisy jumps up after him, so slight the truck barely registers her presence.
Dismantling the roadblock shouldn’t be difficult, as long as nothing’s trying to eat us while we do it. Up the road, that zombie pack is on the move—forty-something bodies about three hundred feet away. We clamber into the pickup beds. Kneeling atop our tarped supplies is awkward, but I’ll take awkward when it means food that’ll keep us alive.
Earlier today, we made it to Always Ready, the prepper warehouse we visited last spring. Its loading door was mangled, its contents gone. Fortunately, we’d hidden a few pickup loads of food on that first trip, and those recovered items account for most of our supply. We barely escaped town with our spoils due to zombies moving in from the west. It reinforced our decision to take refuge at Barry’s house, although our food stores leave something to be desired.
“You good?” I ask Clara, who’s beside me in the truck bed. Every time I look at my daughter, I remember how close she came to death today, and a terrible fear seizes my chest, followed by a relief that takes my breath away.
Clara pushes a stray clump of brown hair from her face and grips her war hammer tighter. “Fine.”
She casts a glance toward Jesse, in a truck with Rose and Sam. He and Clara officially became an item yesterday. Bad timing, to say the least. Jesse’s jaw is tense, his breaths tightly controlled, and I’d think him angry if I didn’t stave off tears the same way. It’s likely why he’s barely spoken. One crack in the dam, and you flood with tears.
“You’ll be here when he needs you,” I say. “Give him time.”
Clara nods, and all further conversation is drowned out by the moans and hisses of the approaching pack. Alan, perched at the end of our truck bed with spike in hand, motions at the minivan. Inside, Gabrielle and their five kids duck from sight.
“Hey, over here!” Gabe calls from the truck bed he shares with Lance, Amber, Marquez, and Dalton.
The zombies move toward them. At yells from the other trucks, they spread in all directions. A young woman comes for me, mouth gaping to reveal crusted brown teeth. She wears the remains of a bra with one breast chewed down to bone, filthy jeans, and a single sneaker. She could be Clara’s age. She could be Clara, if we hadn’t been lucky thus far. If Ethan hadn’t died so we could live.
I ram my spike into her eye. She drops to the road, limbs twisted. I take a man next, and he lands on top of the first. Clara slams a man’s head with the blunt side of her war hammer before she flips it and sends the spike side through shattered skull. I’m proud of how she’s learned to handle her unwieldy weapon of choice. What once irked me—the stubbornness Clara inherited from yours truly—now gives me faith she can handle anything.
After three minutes of blunt force trauma, the asphalt is covered with oozing bodies. The stench of rotted flesh is worsening by the second. Rose sprays everyone with a virus-killing cleaner, and we get to work on the roadblock. In the absence of zombies, the stalled vehicles are easy to move from our path.
Once the last car has been pushed aside, Barry says, “There’s a road down to Jasper from Springfield. If it’s not blocked, we might be able to get up to the Albertsons shopping plaza in Thurston. See if anything’s left.”
Though it’s a long shot, everyone agrees. Craig takes Rose’s arm. “How are you, Pipsqueak?”
Rose shrugs and sinks into the hug he offers, then walks for our truck. Craig observes her progress worriedly, pushing his black-framed glasses up his nose. “She’ll be okay.”
“I have no doubt,” I say.
He manages a smile before we part for our respective vehicles. On the way to mine, I wonder if I’m doing this right. I want to be here for Rose without intruding on her grief for Ethan. I saw the look that passed between them before he left the roof. It was plain he loved her still, and she him. I’d never begrudge her that love, nor was I surprised by it; Rose’s capacity to love makes her who she is.
When I open the truck door, Willa places her tiny front paws on my chest, tail spinning enthusiastically. She’s already forgotten our rough night and is ready for an adventure. She’s the only one, though her cheer lightens the mood. I give her a scratch behind the ears, then scoot her inside and sit behind the wheel. Greeting accomplished, Willa prances across the center console to Rose’s lap.
We take back roads to Jasper, passing overgrown fields and houses stripped clean by looters months ago. Maybe the day is turning in our favor; the steel truss bridge over the river has already been cleared of its roadblock. Barry stops the RV on the other side, but instead of turning left toward Springfield, his right blinker flips on.
After we pull into the intersection, the reason for this becomes clear: the northern stretch of the two-lane road is crawling with bodies. They mill around three police cruisers, trampling the remains of a portable chain-link fence. The setup seems less like a roadblock than a last stand, likely against the good people of Springfield who turned zombie and shambled south.
That throng of bodies is heading for us. We turn south just as a nightgowned woman bounces off the side of the RV and hits the front corner of our truck with a loud, meaty thump. I ignore my inclination to stop—my first in
Barry taps his brakes three times, then repeats. I do the same, as will the minivan, followed by all vehicles down the line. In the absence of radios, we have a code. Three taps, repeated twice, is the signal to drive nose-to-tail. I keep a three-foot space between my truck and the RV. Behind us, Gabrielle steers the minivan nearer to our rear bumper.
Vehicles close in, leaving little space for zombies to cut us off from each other. Barry moves at a steady three miles per hour. A dozen zombies bang on the RV’s solid sides as it rolls past, then lunge for our truck. The RV’s windows are above eye level, whereas our truck is like the glass case at a chocolate shop—every delectable morsel is on display.
I jump when a fist hits my window, then lean away as a mouth smears black grime across the glass. Judging by the quiet yelps and curses from my passengers, I’m not the only one who reacts this way, though I can’t spare a glance to check. Hands pound a staccato beat on the truck’s sides. Three dozen surround us now, with more appearing as we roll past. We’re moving fast enough that most are glancing blows, unable to do more than scare the bejesus out of everyone.
Willa has learned to be silent around zombies, but the hissing faces and slapping hands prove too much to bear. She yaps and growls, paws scrabbling at window glass. For a little pug-mutt, she’s got a great set of lungs and a lot of chutzpah. Rose’s efforts to soothe her are unsuccessful, so she sets Willa on the floor by her feet, then places her small pack over her lap, effectively locking the dog below.
I bump over zombie feet and crunch over a leg, thankful the road isn’t as packed with bodies as it was to the north. This zombie gauntlet would be inescapable if they numbered in the thousands. Lana’s told tales of vehicles beached on mounds of the undead, tires unable to find purchase on solid ground, the same way a car’s undercarriage might get stuck when trying to gun it over a snowbank.
Hands hit, heads thud. More bodies join the fray by the Jasper town store. I ignore them as best I can, gripping the wheel with sweaty hands and keeping an eye on the RV in case it stops. The last thing we need is a fender bender. A few hundred feet later, Barry’s left blinker flashes. Luckily, I can still see out the windshield. The side windows are another story, smeared as they are with dirt, black fluid, and shreds of gray flesh. We turn onto a narrower two-lane road, bump over train tracks, and roll past a church teeming with zombies. Alerted by the ruckus farther back, they’re already on their way.
Five hundred feet later, the zombie deluge ebbs from a hundred to a dozen bodies. The last one—a hairless, tattered creature—gives a final thwack to the side of the truck, and we continue along empty road past farmhouses and dry fields. When we hit forest four miles down, Barry pulls over. I scan the weary faces when our group meets on the blacktop once again. Everyone—Troy included—has now had more than enough of today’s bullshit.
“That was fun,” Mitch jokes, though her darting eyes mark her as unsettled. She broke her collarbone days ago during our hospital run, and with her fighting arm in a sling, being surrounded by zombies is that much more disconcerting.
“Must be at least a thousand behind us, possibly two,” Sam says. As the last vehicle in the convoy, he’d know best. “Came south from Springfield, I expect. We’re not getting back into town this way.”
We peer down the empty road. It’ll take the pack a few hours to get this far, by which time we’ll be long gone. Most likely, they’ll linger here until spurred into action by the next unsuspecting travelers, who may not be as lucky as we were.
Our party, youngest kids excluded, walks the convoy for a quick inspection. The vehicles are filthy and dented, but the window glass held. For now, we spray all door handles with disinfectant and use the Class A’s outdoor shower to rinse the windows; they’ll get a proper scrubbing at Barry’s. I suspect the little kids, who spent the summer mostly shielded from the reality outside our fences, will have a few rough nights after this experience. Hell, I might have a few rough nights. If I ever get decent sleep, that is.
“I know I said it before,” Barry says, “but aside from some rough Forest Service roads, it shouldn’t be too bad from here on—”
“You already jinxed us once.” Rose dredges up a smile. “Are you trying for a second time?”
Barry chuckles tiredly. “Good point.”
We continue on. The blacktop becomes dirt roads that snake through dense second-growth forest and logged expanses of land. Pockmarked by time and weather, and at times barely more than a single lane wide, they don’t make for smooth sailing. But they’re the only route toward the mountains. Toward what we hope will be safety.
Rose grips Willa to her chest while I attempt to avoid a giant pothole without success. Willa wriggles free and rests her front paws on the door, panting happily at the view out the smeared window, until another bump sends her tumbling back into Rose’s lap. Ahead, Barry negotiates the RV around tight turns. After another rough stretch of road, where our truck rattles on the washboard surface and scrambles our brains, Rose glances behind us. “I hope Pop’s okay back there.”
“He’s doing great,” I say. Between evading giant packs on our first trip into town and crashing a pickup through hospital windows to rescue us days ago, this road is small potatoes for Sam, even towing his fifth wheel.
The sun is low when we hit paved road by the power station I visited earlier in the summer. This far east, Highway 126 is clear but for a few zombies, and the kids watch the trees go past in silence. Jesse’s jaw is still clenched. I catch Holly wiping away a tear in the rearview mirror. Rose leans to caress her cheek, then hugs Willa to her chest and brushes at her own eyes. I reach for her, remember the kids might be watching, and bring my hand back to the wheel.
I check the rearview. Holly’s contemplative gaze moves between me and her mother, then she leans on Nora’s shoulder and closes her eyes. Though she doesn’t appear upset, it was only this morning that their lives changed irreparably. Holly and Jesse deserve time to mourn their dad without a reminder of my relationship with their mom.
The two-lane highway winds through forest along the McKenzie River. Douglas fir and Western red cedar climb ridges set back from the highway. The woods thicken as we near the Cascade Range, and the buttes close in, at times creating a canyon of forest green. Houses, not plentiful to begin with, become scarce. Short residential roads branch off the highway every so often. If those homes are anything like the ones we’ve passed, they’re empty of both residents and supplies.
When the shit first hit the fan, people drove east to escape the virus. Impeded by roadblocks, they continued on foot and looted most everything in their path. If they found Barry’s house, it could be destroyed. Or set alight the way a few homes were, whether accidentally or purposely.
Barry turns onto yet another gravel road. By now, the sun is behind the trees and the eastern sky is darkening. We wanted to reach the house with a few hours of daylight left, but preparations and our circuitous route took longer than anticipated.
After five miles of jostling, we turn onto a smoother gravel surface, where we pass trees and a few obviously abandoned houses until, finally, Barry stops at the road’s end. To the west, orange sky is topped with violet. The surrounding woods are black in their depths. In the swiftly deepening twilight, idling behind Barry’s RV, I see that the road doesn’t end as I thought but sharply branches east. I exit the truck and meet Barry on the start of an asphalt driveway, under tall firs that flank an iron gate meant to keep out unwanted vehicles. A person—or zombie—could easily walk through the surrounding forest.
