The cascadia series book.., p.7
The Cascadia Series | Book 2 | World Between, page 7
part #2 of The Cascadia Series Series
9
ROSE
Today’s breakfast was pancakes. Lots of pancakes. I adore bread products, including pancakes, but at this point I’d kill for food that doesn’t have to be removed from plastic packaging, rehydrated, or unsealed with a can opener. I’m aware this is a whiny thought when most of the world is dead or struggling to survive, so I keep it to myself and shovel in my final bite of just-add-water pancake doused with maple-flavored corn syrup.
“Ready?” Gabrielle asks, chewing the last of her breakfast on the other side of our food truck.
We wash down the griddle, then clean the mixing bowls and utensils, preparing the truck for our dinner shift later today. When Barry arrives at the serving window, I smile until Boone appears at his side with a brown shopping bag in his arms. He drops it on the serving counter with a heavy thud. His lips purse. “Mrs. Winter, I hear you’ve been baking bread.”
A scolding is imminent. Sweat instantly forms on my back, tickling its way down, and my heart begins to pound. I joke that I don’t like getting in trouble, but the truth is I hate it. I avoid being singled out as much as humanly possible. It’s nice and safe under my rock, and I only emerge when the coast is clear.
I swallow. “Sometimes,” I say, my voice high. “If I have extra flour.”
Gabrielle and I commandeered the food truck with an oven as our assigned workspace, and we save small amounts of ingredients from other meals when we can, using them to make things like bread and cake. Once the yeast was gone, I made sourdough starter. I give loaves of bread and other baked goods to the soldiers, and they bring me illicit bags of flour. Though I won’t give up my sources, I now wish they hadn’t broken the rules.
“This is more flour,” Boone says, his thick fingers patting the bag. “I had some of your bread the other day, and I’d like to order two loaves every other day.”
His lips spread to show teeth. I think he’s actually smiling. And though the result is slightly frightening, I remember what I said to Tom about honey and swipe my hand across my brow melodramatically. “Phew, I thought I was in trouble for a minute there.”
Barry, standing behind Boone, chuckles. Boone joins in, and for a moment he almost seems human. “Of course I’ll make you bread,” I say. “Is tomorrow okay? I’ll set it to rise today.”
He nods. “Is ten pounds of flour enough?”
Clearly, the man has no clue about baking bread. Ten pounds is enough for many loaves, but I’m not sharing that information if I don’t have to. “That should be fine. Thank you. It’ll be ready by dinner tomorrow, if not sooner.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Winter.”
“Call me Rose,” I say. “I’m not really a Mrs. anymore.”
His smile has faded, and he watches me with no expression. “I heard. Thank you, Rose.” He spins on his heel and walks toward the ice rink.
I tell Gabrielle to get going now that I have to mix dough for tomorrow. After she leaves, Barry leans an elbow on the counter. “Scared you, huh?”
“I was picturing myself tossed into the streets and eaten by zombies.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“My hero.” I bat my eyelashes and grab the large jar I use for my starter, along with a bowl. “Do you want some bread tomorrow?”
“I always want bread. Especially yours.”
I eye him, unable to hide my smile. “You, my friend, are a flirt.”
He grins amiably. Mitch is a moron. She has a smart, funny, good-looking man interested in her, and she acts like he’s an ogre. I shake my head while I measure out two cups of starter. It smells good—yeasty like fresh-baked bread and not too sour. I pull the ten-pound bag inside the truck and unroll the top, then scoop out a few cups to mix into the bowl along with water and salt. Once that’s done, I cover the bowl with a spare plate, refresh my starter with more flour and water, and wipe down the mess I’ve made.
“Done.” I stash the bag in a cabinet. Having this much flour at my disposal makes me feel rich, and I’m not giving anyone the opportunity to steal it.
“That’s it?” Barry asks.
“That’s the levain, some call it a sponge. Once it gets going, I’ll add the rest of the flour, let it rise, and then proof it overnight. You can get really fussy with sourdough, and I’m going to, because Boone will bring me more flour.”
I wish for my scale and Dutch oven, but this should be good enough. Barry’s eyes gleam. “You didn’t need anywhere near that much flour, did you?”
“Nope.” I raise a finger to my lips. “Have you spoken to Tom or my dad about what happened in the radio room?”
“Haven’t seen them. What about the radio room?”
I explain. Barry listens intently, then taps his fingers on the counter while he stares into the distance. “I haven’t heard anything, and I think I would’ve. Daniel was a good kid. I don’t know that I’d put anything past Boone, but I can’t think of why he’d hide something or have it in for him.”
It affirms what we were thinking: it was a terrible accident. “That poor kid. I can’t imagine.” For a moment, I do imagine, and I’m filled with sadness for him, for anyone who might be alive and praying for his survival. A bolt of fear isn’t far behind. It could’ve been one of the kids. “Maybe you shouldn’t let any of the younger ones go down the block.”
Barry smiles kindly, obviously restraining himself from saying what I already know—my request is completely ridiculous. Eighteen-year-olds were sent into battle all the time, and that isn’t changing anytime soon. “You remind me of my mom,” he says, “and it’s not just the hair. She was an elephant like you.”
“Forget what I said before. You’re a terrible flirt.”
His laugh lines deepen. “She used to say mama bears were great and all, but she was a mama elephant. They’re just as fierce, but they keep all the babies safe, not just theirs. I get the feeling you’re the same.”
“You redeemed yourself this time, Sergeant Wright,” I say, and he winks. “Don’t elephants have a matriarchal society? We probably wouldn’t be in this situation if women ruled the world.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
I exit the food truck. Barry waits outside, feet shuffling. I think he doesn’t want to leave, but he also doesn’t want to invite himself inside. “Come into our hall,” I say. “Unless you have to work?”
“I’m free. It gets a little lonely now that everyone’s inside all day.” He chuckles and pats my arm. “Don’t look at me like that. It sounded more morose than intended. If I don’t watch out, the mama elephant might try to adopt me.”
“I just might.”
Barry holds the door open, and we walk to the bustling living area of Hall Seven. Holly and Gabe soak the breakfast dishes in what I assume is fresh bleach water while Lance and Clara set them to dry on another table.
“Putting the kids to work, I see,” Barry says.
“It’s the number one reason to have kids.”
We take a seat at a grouping of couches with Mitch, Craig, Troy, and Tom. “Good breakfast,” Craig says.
“It wasn’t oatmeal for a change,” I say. “I asked, but Barry didn’t hear anything about a radio call.”
All eyes move to Barry, who says, “As you know, we hear stuff over the radios, but we haven’t had recent contact with anyone but the folks down in Grants Pass. Daniel knew how to communicate on the high frequency bands. With him gone…” Barry shrugs, hands lifted in a helpless fashion. “Sat phones are useless. Portland’s still offline, same with Timberline and Seattle. Nothing from Carver or anyone with him.”
When we arrived at the fairgrounds, First Sergeant Carver was in charge. A radio call from Portland, begging for assistance, led him and half his soldiers on a rescue mission one hundred miles north. No one held out hope for their survival, especially once the swarm of zombies traveled up I-5. Carver was a good leader—friendly and fair—and I’m not the only one who wishes Boone had gone instead.
“How are they in Grants Pass?” Craig asks.
“Good last we heard,” Barry says. “Plenty of food and water. Just hanging tight for now. Most of the Lexers have moved on.”
Craig nods, smiling. He and his friends stumbled into the facility on their way here. It was there that a science teacher gave them the black mold. It’s being propagated in the ice rink, and they’ve been tossing it on nearby zombies in the hope it will spread across our area, then the country, and then the world.
“Wish they’d move on from here.” Mitch pushes her hair behind her ear, then scratches at the nape of her neck. “Did they hear from the removal squad?”
Barry seems to shrink into the couch. He’s so cheerful that to see him even semi-despondent is disheartening. “Nothing.”
The soldiers who were sent to move the zombie swarm have disappeared as completely as Carver’s group. And though I’d like to head to the woods as we’ve discussed, the fact that everyone who leaves is never heard from again gives me pause. If heavily armed soldiers can’t make it, what are our chances?
“If there’s no way to charge batteries, no solar, or no generator, there’s no way to keep in touch,” Troy says. “They might be waiting for an opening in the swarm.”
After a moment of silence where we all doubt the veracity of this idea, Mitch says, “I’m glad my shower is tomorrow. I need some dandruff shampoo.”
Clara, on a couch nearby, groans in commiseration. “So do I. My head won’t stop itching.”
“You, too?” Lana asks.
She scratches her head as Holly does the same. Watching Holly dig into her scalp rekindles memories of the hours I spent wielding a fine-tooth comb on her curls when she was young. “Shit,” I say. “Maybe we should check you all for lice.”
Mitch turns to me, aghast. “I do not have lice. I’ve never had lice in my life.” Craig, sitting beside her, edges away on the couch cushions. She whacks his arm. “Really?”
“I’m not sitting next to you if you have cooties,” he replies.
“I do not have cooties!”
A tickle skitters across the back of my head. Another itch springs to life above my ear. One mention of lice and I get itchy, though my head was fine five seconds ago. I remind myself of this fact, get to my feet, and crook a finger at Mitch. “Come.”
She crosses her arms, muttering, and then follows. A table against the wall holds books, paper, and drawing supplies. I grab two pencils and a folding chair, then set the chair in the sunshine at the rear rolling door. “Sit.”
Mitch does, still grumbling. I use the pencils to part her hair, checking the nape of her neck, along her ears, and the crown of her head. Right away, I spot what look like nits—tiny dots, a lighter brown against Mitch’s dark strands—and pull at a few. They’re stuck tight.
“Well?” she asks.
I sigh, picturing all the heads in the fairgrounds. All the bugs leaping from person to person. This is going to be a huge pain in the ass. “I regret to inform you that you have cooties.”
Once Mitch conceded that she did, indeed, have cooties, I began checking the heads of everyone in our hall. Gabrielle’s five kids have more than acquainted her with the scourge of lice, and she’s set up her own lice reconnaissance station beside me. Thankfully, her kids are lice-free, as is Jesse. Mitch, Lana, Lance, Troy, and Barry have lice so far. I’ve already been pronounced cootie-free, after which my hair went into a bun, where it will remain until this is over. I’m doing my best to ignore the phantom itching all over my scalp.
“Of course,” Holly says when Gabrielle spots nits in her hair.
“Holly’s a lice magnet,” I say. “If there’s a louse within a mile radius, it finds its way to her head. I can’t tell you how many times we treated for lice when she was young.”
“Remember when you had lice in high school from babysitting?” Clara asks Holly.
“That’s why I want to work with animals,” Holly says. “Humans don’t catch fleas.”
“If any human catches fleas, it’ll be you,” I say.
Holly grins, and for a moment it feels like it used to between us. Clara takes the seat in front of me. “I know I have them. The itching is driving me crazy.”
I barely need to check. Nits line the nape of her neck, as though they’ve been working double-time to set up a colony. “Sorry, hon. You have a small city back here.”
“Great.” Clara laugh-sighs and rises to her feet.
Tom is next in my chair. He smells good. I wonder how that’s possible, since no one in our hall has showered in four days, and decide my hormones are stupid. He shivers lightly when I part his dark hair with the pencils. “Gives you chills, right?” I ask. “I used to love when they did lice checks in elementary school. Until they said I had lice.”
Tom chuckles. His eyes are closed, and I have an urge to run my fingernails down the soft tan skin of his neck. I’m pretty sure he’d like it. I force myself to stop thinking about Tom shuddering in ecstasy and actually do my job.
“Uh-oh,” I say when I spot the first nit. Tom groans, not at all in ecstasy, as I check further. “You don’t have a ton, but you definitely have cooties.”
“How is that possible? You gave me a cooties booster shot.”
I hear the smile in his voice and laugh, remembering that day in the food truck after he brought Jesse home safely. “Looks like I suck at giving cooties shots. Sorry.”
Tom stands. He lifts a hand as though to run it through his hair, then lowers it. “Now what?”
“We should check the rest of the fairgrounds. Otherwise we’ll keep reinfecting each other. Starting with us, we should put all bedding through a cycle in the clothes dryer. Or maybe we could stick it inside some of the vehicles. It might get hot enough in there with the sun beating down.” I turn to where Barry sits with the other infected. “I don’t suppose there’s lice killing stuff anywhere?”
“Not that I know of,” he says. “No one even considered this as a possibility.”
“It doesn’t work half the time, anyway,” I say. “Oregon has super lice that are immune to the poison. The last time Holly had them, we used a dimethicone treatment. I’ve heard you can use mineral oil.”
Gabrielle nods. “You can use food oil, too. You leave it on overnight and then comb it out.”
“We have plenty of oil,” Barry says.
“But we need lice combs,” I say. “It won’t work unless we can comb out the nits. We could try picking them out by hand, but a comb would be easier and work better.”
“We can check the houses around us. How likely is it that one of them has one?”
“If they had kids, pretty likely. Most lice treatments come with a comb, and I always kept them.”
Barry nods. “Tell me what I’m looking for.”
I describe the various types of fine-tooth combs, including flea combs, which I assume will work on lice. When I begin to wax on about where people might store the combs, and where baby oil, mineral oil, and lice treatments might be, Barry holds up a hand. “I think it’d be easier if you came.”
“Am I allowed?”
“I’m guessing we’re not the only ones with lice, and you’re the expert. We’re going to need everything we can find.”
I’ve been given a gun, which is amusing—I’d accidentally shoot myself before I hit a zombie head. But it makes me feel safer. Not that there’s a chance of feeling unsafe, since Pop, Tom, and Jesse all came in what I assume is a chivalrous bid to protect me. Barry is a small giant and would be protection enough, but I don’t argue. They’ll be useful for carrying back any interesting things we find.
Once we’re standing on the empty street, my heart accelerates as much from excitement as nerves. I haven’t been outside the fairgrounds in over a month, and I swear I breathe easier on the other side of the gate. It’s as though the tedium, and Ethan, suck away my sense of freedom inside.
Multi-story senior apartments sit past a parking lot to our left. Single-family homes with overgrown lawns sit to our right. Two blocks west are vehicles we moved to keep the swarm at bay. Bodies wander somewhere past there, though we can’t see them from where we stand.
Pop takes my elbow and scans the street. “I’m capable of walking,” I say. “I have killed a few zombies, you know.”
I wriggle in his grasp, and his grip tightens. “Baby doll, if you think I’m letting you go after that stunt you pulled at the house, you’re dead wrong.”
“Are you ever going to forget about that?” I ask. “I jumped over the fence one time.”
Pop steers me toward the houses like I’m four instead of forty-two. “Nope.”
“Stop being so overprotective.”
Jesse huffs at my other side. “You’re exactly like him.”
“Do I have you in an iron grip? I let you go outside the gates.”
“You let me?” Jesse smirks. “Mom, let me remind you that I’m twenty-two.”
“You think you’re old, but you’re still my baby. I, on the other hand—”
“Are still my baby,” Pop says.
I smile. Pop has always been my fiercest protector, my safe place, my cheerleader. He doesn’t grip me because he doubts my abilities; he only wants me alive. And we all know I’d have Jesse on a leash if I could get away with it.
The houses have an X spray-painted by their front doors, meaning they’ve been cleared of both living and undead. Unfortunately, as evidenced by the odor in the first house we enter, that doesn’t mean they were cleaned. We may smell due to sporadic showers and bird baths in cold water, but we don’t smell like death.
I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt, then head to the bathroom. Nothing in the cabinets or under the sink, or anywhere else I can think to look. I return to the living room, where the others wait. “Let’s try to find houses where kids lived. And the senior apartments might be a good place for mineral oil. Don’t you old folks use that for stuff?”
I direct the last part at Pop, who laughs and says, “Never too old for a spanking, baby doll.”
The next house is empty of bodies, and the two children’s bedrooms prove me right: under the bathroom sink, I find a half-full bottle of lice treatment and a fine-tooth comb. I take a bottle of baby oil covered in sticky dust, likely left over from when the kids were younger.
