Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  “Water?” she whispers. I hold the bottle to her mouth and she drinks, watching me with round eyes.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. She opens her mouth but thinks better of it and nods.

  “Feeling better, Freckles?” Peter asks.

  She nods again and her cracked lips rise. I want to shout my thanks, but I kiss her and go upstairs, where everyone’s listening to the havoc outside. I mime a spoon to the mouth and whisper, “Her fever’s gone.”

  I’m flashed sixteen silent but huge smiles, of which Hank’s is the largest. I squeeze his shoulder and open the can of chicken noodle soup Penny’s pointed out. It sits on the counter next to macaroni and cheese noodles soaking in a pot of cold water. I add water to some of the soup to create an unappetizing mixture of clumps of congealed broth and noodles.

  Back in the basement Bits is propped up, a tiny shadow with even darker shadows under her eyes. She takes a sip off the spoon I hold and grimaces. It may not be delicious, but the smell of the soup has reminded me of how hungry I am—hungry enough to want cold, not fully uncondensed soup. Peter relights the candle and holds the bowl over the flame until it’s a little warmer than ice. She finishes the bowl and is asleep in seconds. It’s a healing sleep, though, not the restless one of the past days. Peter and I watch her breathe, this time in relief.

  By nighttime, I’m starving. Two boxes of macaroni and cheese spread between nineteen people is little more than a tease. And macaroni soaked in cold water with powdered cheese on top is a chewy, disgusting tease. Baby formula has begun to seem appealing.

  The Lexers are still outside. We’ve lived in silence for so long that part of me wants to shout just to be sure I still can. I’ve strained my eyes reading a crime thriller and taken Barnaby for his walk to one of the bedrooms, where he guiltily pooped on the floor. I didn’t dare tell him he was a good boy, just gave him lots of quiet love when he was finished.

  Before dark, the pounding starts again. I hear glass shatter and run upstairs to find it was a garage door window, but it would take a lot more agility than Lexers possess to get through those high windows. Bits is asleep, still coughing but bouncing back quickly. Nelly sits with me and Peter now that Adam’s asleep. He’s not afraid of catching whatever it is Bits has; he says he’s immune to everything. And barring that infection last year, I’ve never seen him so much as sniffle. The only good thing—and I mean only good thing—about the pounding is that we can speak quietly in the basement where our voices are muffled. Nelly deals himself in on solitaire while Peter sits with his chin in his hand and a far-off look on his face.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” I ask.

  “Food,” Peter says. “And how much I want some.”

  Nelly groans. “Could we not talk about food?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s talk about other things we want.”

  “What could you possibly want besides food?” Peter asks.

  “A pair of comfy pajamas and—”

  “Like those ugly pajama pants you always wore?” Nelly asks, and slaps one card over another. “Those were sexy.”

  “The blue ones?” Peter asks.

  “God, they were hideous,” Nelly says.

  “Can you guys let me have my fantasy here?” I ask. “When it comes to pajama pants, comfort trumps sexy any day. Anyway, I want to get in my unsexy pajama pants and watch a movie. You can come if you don’t make fun of my pajamas.”

  Peter stretches and cracks his knuckles. “What movie?”

  “We’re watching Groundhog Day or The Big Lebowski. Or a romantic comedy.”

  “You’re incapable of watching a movie without eating.”

  “So make me some food. What’s it gonna be?” I ask. “We’ll hang out at your place with your big-ass TV.”

  Peter’s eyes light up. “I’ll grill steak on the terrace.”

  “Stop,” Nelly says.

  Peter cooked me a lot of food, steak included, and nothing he ever made was bad. “With those green beans?”

  “The sautéed ones?”

  I drop my head back in ecstasy. “Yes. And I’ll bake bread because my bread kicks your bread’s ass.”

  “True,” Peter says. “I’ll get that Irish butter with the sea salt.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Nelly asks. “Really, why?”

  Peter watches me with a half-smile. I wink and say, “Popcorn dripping with butter. Gummy worms.”

  “You’re pure evil,” Nelly says.

  “And Pepsi for you, Nels.” Nelly sighs. “And croissants for breakfast?”

  Nelly looks up from his cards, light flickering on his leer. “Oh, are you staying the night?”

  Nelly should know better than to allude to things like that, and his grin says he’s getting a kick out of it. I stare at him until he gives me an innocent shrug and continues his game. Thankfully, Peter looks untroubled by Nelly’s remark.

  I sink back, stomach growling. “My stomach is eating itself. Nelly’s right. Game over.”

  After I’ve yawned twenty times, Nelly stacks his cards. “Are you trying to tell me something? Okay kids, I’m heading to bed.”

  Once he’s climbed the stairs and we’re in bed, I ask Peter, “Do you think they’ll ever stop out there?”

  “Oh, they’ll stop at some point. Maybe when they freeze and we’re long dead, but they’ll stop.” I elbow him. He reaches across me to rest a hand on Bits. “You’re shivering.”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but it is late autumn in Alaska, which is probably more like early winter everywhere else.”

  Peter turns on his side so I can fit into him. After a minute he says, “I’m eating your hair.”

  I choose to ignore the fact that my hair must smell vile and say, “Well, it’s better than that macaroni and cheese. Want me to tie it back?”

  He twists my hair loosely and tucks it between us, then brushes it back from my temple. “No, it’s fine. Leave it down.”

  Peter used to like my hair. He’d curl a wave around his finger and let it pop back into place, tug on it when I walked ahead of him, and stroke it as we fell asleep like he’s doing now. Maybe it’s Nelly’s comment, or the fact that Ana should be here instead of me, that makes me feel a bit guilty for finding his touch so soothing, for wanting Peter close by. I close my eyes and think about how I slept with Nelly almost all of last spring and summer. This is no different. Our past doesn’t mean we can’t take comfort from each other.

  49

  “There are fewer Lexers outside,” Peter says in my ear. I wake with a start and headbutt him.

  “Jesus!” he whispers, hand to his forehead while Bits giggles quietly.

  “Shit, sorry. Have you not learned your lesson about waking me yet?”

  “I’m using a pole next time. Kyle wants to scout out the road. I said I’d go, but only if you did. Liz is going.”

  “I’ll go,” I say. I don’t see any other choice. We need to eat. We need to get to Talkeetna before it snows. Bits needs warmth and food to recover for good. I turn to her. “How’s my sweetie-pie?”

  “Good,” she says. “But the water tastes like spiders.”

  Peter raises his hands. “I asked her how that’s possible. It’s old, but other than that it tastes fine to me. Taste it.”

  I swish around a sip from my bottle. It’s not terrible, but it definitely has a musty aftertaste. “It tastes like basements and old ladies. I totally see what she means.”

  “Of course you do,” Peter says. “Why did I even bother asking?”

  I giggle along with Bits and bring her bathroom bucket upstairs to dump in the toilet tank. The two toilets stink, even with the bathroom doors closed. Another reason to get out of here—we’re using pee to flush down what’s in the bowl. I leave as quickly as possible, but there’s no way to feel clean after that experience. I give everyone an update on Bits and find out that today’s menu is just as lacking as the previous.

  My stomach growls to the point of nausea when I think of
the wafflecake mix and little boxes of Frosted Flakes that sit twenty feet from the door. Penny bustles around like she does when nervous, except that the cute little pregnant lady is lining up sharp knives and guns instead of knitting baby booties.

  “Can I see Bits?” Hank whispers.

  “I don’t want you getting sick,” I whisper. It’s likely she was most contagious a few days ago, but having to watch another kid struggle to breathe would be more than I can take. “She can’t wait, believe me.” He wraps his arms around my waist. It may be the first real hug he’s ever initiated with me, and I don’t let go until he does.

  I peek out the window. The light makes my eyes water after days of semi-darkness. Fifty or so Lexers are scattered around the house, with trees blocking our view of who knows how many on the road. I let the sheet fall and sit on the couch with Kyle. He’d had a befuddled look in his eyes for a while, but his gaze is sharp once again.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I ask.

  “We’ll go through the woods to that dirt road,” Kyle says. “James says there’s train tracks on the map that go right alongside. Maybe we can get out that way.” He watches Nicki cut pictures from an old catalog with her good arm and rubs his face.

  “We’ll get her somewhere safe,” I say. His jaw bulges when he nods. “You’re such a good dad.”

  “She’s my light,” he says with a shrug, as if there’s no other way to be. But not every father is like him. Mine was. Peter is. Not everyone is as lucky.

  There’s a thump from outside and then what sounds like a door rattling along with zombie noises. “We’ve got to get out of here,” Kyle says. “Or else I’m gonna go dinky dau.”

  “You’re gonna go what?”

  “My dad was in ‘Nam. Dinky dau is what they called crazy over there. If I have to hear that sound,” he gestures to the window, “for another twenty-four hours, I’m going to go crazy.”

  “I like that,” I say. It even sounds crazy. “I don’t blame you. It’s not as bad in the basement.”

  Kyle crosses his arms over his wide chest. “They don’t fucking stop.”

  “Well, you know what they say: Ain’t no party like a zombie party, ‘cause a zombie party—”

  “Don’t stop,” Kyle finishes. His laugh is quiet, but it still catches Nicki’s attention.

  Nicki climbs on his lap. “What’s funny, Daddy?”

  “Oh, just something Cassie said, baby.” He returns the kiss she bestows upon him with a smack of his lips.

  “Cassie’s funny,” Nicki says.

  “Cassie’s dinky dau,” Kyle says. I punch him in his rock-hard side, which hurts my knuckles but doesn’t make him flinch.

  “Dinky dau,” Nicki repeats under her breath. “Cassie’s Dinky dau.”

  “Thanks,” I say to Kyle.

  “If the shoe fits,” he says. I’d punch him again, but I’m going to need my hands later.

  The clouds threaten rain, which would help to cover our noises in the woods. As long as it’s not snow. We know from last year that snow alone isn’t enough to freeze Lexers—you need days of temperatures where it consistently dips below freezing before they fully succumb. Snow and warmer temperatures will only make driving difficult or impossible.

  I put on Ana’s leather pants for warmth and protection, then layer as much as possible without restricting my movement. It’s a delicate balance, which is why I spend half my life freezing my ass off. I give Nelly medication instructions and tell him to take care of Bits.

  “Always,” he says, and tweaks her nose. He’d tried to volunteer, but he’s not quiet in the woods the way we are.

  I hug Bits. “Be back soon, honey. Love you.”

  Bits nods and tightens her lips. I want to stay, but I’m sure-footed in the woods, if nowhere else. If the Lexers discover we’re here, their moans will call back any who’ve left.

  “Love you,” Bits says.

  “More than all the poop in the toilet?” I ask.

  Peter heaves a sigh. But you’ve got to play to your audience, and my audience is amused by potty words. It sends her into a coughing spell, but she’s smiling. I wanted that to be the last thing I saw.

  “There’s a whole lot of it,” Nelly says. “If you’re good, I’ll take you up to see it later.”

  “Gross,” she chokes out.

  Peter says goodbye without being vulgar and we head upstairs to a side window close to the trees. Kyle cuts the screen rather than pop it out and attract attention. Liz does a quick check before saying, “Lexers to our left down the driveway. Stay low and head straight.”

  Liz drops to the crunchy grass and hurries into the trees. Kyle soundlessly follows, more agile than one would think. I check for any new threats before I meet them at the base of a tree. The leaves on the forest floor would be crunchy but for a recent rain that’s made them a softer covering of mulch.

  Peter moves to my side, takes my arm and moves his finger between us. I nod that I’ll stay close. I roll my feet as we inch through the trees. Short, fast moves are sometimes better because they mimic animals, but animals don’t hang around with zombies, so we use slow shuffles, although it’s hard to go slow when your body is yearning to run. And although I’m worn-out and ravenous from the past couple of days, that’s exactly what my feet want to do.

  We avoid a few who linger by a tree to our right. Everyone freezes when a twig cracks under someone’s foot and continues when there’s no reaction. The moans are louder out here, more so as we near the road. Another twig cracks and a Lexer appears. I sink behind some brush and wait for it to pass, Peter’s hand on my back.

  Now that there are fewer trees between us and the road, we can see a few dozen Lexers near the base of the driveway about a hundred feet down. We could drive through those no problem. But it’s a different story farther down the road, where it’s packed with zombies in varying stages of decay—from riddled with mold to freshly-turned this summer. They haven’t moved the way pods do, unless this isn’t really a pod.

  The days we’ve spent trapped have given us plenty of time to ponder why the road was blocked in Wasilla. The highway could have been cleared by survivors from Whitehorse, which would’ve attracted all the lone zombies to the area. For all the time I’ve spent around them, Lexers are still a mystery. Why some form into moving pods and some don’t, how long the mold will take to kill them, and how the hell they exist in the first place are questions no one knows the answer to. No one I know, anyway.

  Liz raises her eyebrows and points to the end of the road. The walk may be 500 feet, but it takes us twenty minutes of tiptoeing and skirting around Lexers to make it to where the gravel road begins. We saw the dead end the other day, but in our haste to turn around we hadn’t seen the clearing that provides access to the train tracks but for a lone tree. The trunk is four inches in diameter, thick enough to damage a vehicle if it isn’t cut down. But before we tackle the tree we need to take out the few Lexers between us and the tracks. And the only way to do that is to cross the road in plain sight.

  It doesn’t take them long to notice us once we leave the safety of the trees, and their noises seem to echo for miles. I bring the spike of my axe into one still wearing a coat and one thin glove and get the next with a side swing through its ear. When they’re down, we sink into the trees along the tracks. Peter drops and creeps forward until he’s resting on a railroad tie. He looks one way and then the other before crawling back.

  He points east with a shake of his head and then says, “But west isn’t bad. Maybe twenty. Spread out.”

  Kyle’s head bobs. “Now how about that tree?”

  We stare at the tree as if it might just suddenly up and move of its own accord. I hold up my axe in answer, but the impossible part is going to be chopping down a tree without bringing everything in a mile this way.

  “Distraction,” Liz says, and points to the woods that separate us from the highway. If someone made noise in there it would cover up the chopping. My axe is sharp; it shou
ldn’t take that many blows to get the tree down, especially if Peter or Kyle wields it.

  I point east. “It’ll get them off the road, too.”

  “And surround whoever’s in there,” Kyle says.

  “I’ll go,” Peter offers.

  “Chop it fast and they won’t have time to surround us,” I say because I’m going with him. I hand Kyle my axe and stare Peter down. He’s the one who volunteered for the job after telling me to stick close. Besides, if I stayed to chop down the tree, I’d probably cut off my own fingers. “We’ll give you a few minutes before we circle north to the house.”

  Kyle passes me his machete. It weighs a ton and I’m more likely to drop it on my foot than lift it into a zombie’s head. I hand it back and pull the knife from my belt. It’ll have to do.

  “Ready?” I ask Peter in a voice that sounds a lot less scared than I am. I’ve never purposely walked into the middle of a pod. Unless you count the quarry, which was in an ambulance and a completely insane idea.

  Peter nods. “When you hear the first shot, start cutting.”

  We cross for the woods. Fifty feet in, Lexers stand singly and in groups. Some cross the forest floor while others sway with limp arms, waiting for something to interest them. They’ll get it soon enough.

  This side of the woods is noisier—leaves rustle underfoot and moans filter through the air—so we don’t have to be as quiet. Still, we scurry from tree to tree and make a wide arc around a few dozen who wander in circles. I try not to count them, but I can’t help it. We want to draw as many as possible our way, but every one we pass is one more we’ll have to fight through to get back to the house.

  It reminds me of being trapped in the woods with Adrian and Marcus, and I don’t want to be the only one who makes it out this time. We crouch at a wide trunk and Peter points to a clump of trees on a small rise 400 feet east. We’ll have to skirt around a lot of Lexers to get there, but it’s far enough in that Kyle should have the time he needs.

  Footsteps near. We press ourselves against the bark, barely breathing. Tattered jeans and the back of a head of matted, blond hair come into view. It stops for a moment and raises its head before continuing on.