“I’m going,” Rich says. We wait for more, but that’s all we get.
“They won’t like that,” Chuck says. “Rich is the nurse here—we have a medic, nurse and midwife.”
“Too bad,” Rich replies.
“You’re taking a truck, I guess?” Chuck asks. We tell him about Zeke’s limited skills. “I’ll drive. I drove a truck years ago. That’s how we got out here.”
“How did you end up here?” Peter asks, looking relieved that we haven’t pressed Chuck for more details of his stay. He’s not getting off the hook so easily, but I’ll bother him about it later.
“We left the island just past midsummer,” Chuck says, “We were coming to your place, Pete. Nat insisted, not that she had to, but she said it would be like never getting to the end of a book if she didn’t know what had happened. ‘Like if Breaking Dawn had never been written,’ she kept saying.”
Peter snorts. Breaking Dawn is the last of the Twilight books. He’d said Nat was obsessed with them.
“Anyway, we set out in the G-class, which you should’ve taken when you had your chance. Rode like a dream.” Chuck winks. “We ended up south of Albany, between blocked roads and a pod of zombies, and bumped into a group from Mexico. They told us the giant pods really were coming. We’d listened to the radios and thought Alaska was the safest bet, so we took off straight from there. We thought if we waited, we might never get cross country. Found a tanker half-full of diesel and made it here three weeks later. We hitched up a trailer for supply runs once we got here.”
He makes it sound easy when it couldn’t have been. But either he doesn’t want to go into detail or is saving them for another day. Peter tells him a similar story of our travels and glances at his watch when he’s finished. “It’s ten. We should get some rest.”
Chuck gives a long whistle. Natalie pops her head out of the loft a moment later and rolls her eyes at us. “He thinks I’m a dog. Yes, master?”
“Time for your friends to go. We have an early start tomorrow. I’ll explain what’s going on later.”
She comes down, followed by the others. “We were listening. Ash and I think we should be able to help.”
“And just how were you planning to do that?” Chuck asks.
“Help kill zombies, Dad. How else?”
“Not happening.”
“When I’m eighteen, you won’t be able to stop me.”
“Too bad you’re not eighteen,” he says.
Ash doesn’t look disappointed. I think she’s had enough adventure for one year and knows we’d never let her go, anyway.
“You guys can help by babysitting the kids while we’re gone,” I say. Nat groans. “It’s not so bad. We’ll pay you in stuff we find. You can have first dibs.”
“Seriously?” Nat asks. “Okay.” She grabs Ash’s arm and her eyes widen at the thought of all the goodies that might be available this time tomorrow. It looks like Ash might have found a candidate for best friend.
“See you bright and early,” Chuck says. He holds the door while we file out and stops me with a hand on my arm. “Good thinking with that babysitting gig. Pete told Nat you were smart.”
“I’m afraid to know what else he said,” I say lightly, but I can feel the flames in my cheeks.
“It’s all good,” Chuck says. “Don’t worry.”
“Well, he said you were all great, and he was right. Thank you. I know you don’t have to do this.”
“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”
53
Peter takes my elbow when I stumble on the way back to our cabin. “You’re tired,” he says. “You should go to bed.”
He has no inkling of how tired I am. If I could sink down on the street and sleep, I would. I try to remember how long it took Bits before she was incapacitated; I should have at least a day. I flop on the couch when we reach the cabin. This one is much nicer than our cabin at Kingdom Come and would be even more improved with the cheesy moose paintings that decorate a few walls taken down. Or, better yet, painted over. Bits and Hank feed Sparky and Barnaby the tidbits of food they saved from dinner.
“Are we watching the stars?” Bits asks.
“Of course,” I say. I haul myself up for ibuprofen and then half-sleep, half-listen to their noises. Peter pokes around in the kitchen drawers and organizes things. I can’t imagine what it is he’s organizing since we have almost nothing, and I come to the conclusion that I’m doomed to forever be roommates with neat people.
“Do you want to put your stuff away?” he asks.
“Why bother?” I say without opening my eyes and am answered by a heavy sigh, but I’d rather he think I’m in a bad mood than sick.
We head into the night and lie on the grass. The stars are just as vibrant as the other night. I try not to think about Whit’s hands, the knife, the blood. I’ll add it to the list of terrible things I’ve had to see and do, acknowledge it, and let it go—my mom always said that the best way to move on was to go straight through. I won’t let it ruin my love for the night sky, especially for nights like this, when it looks as though there are more stars than space. There are so many suns, maybe so many worlds—worlds that might not be as fucked up as ours. I decide not to share that cheerful thought and say, “Tell me what you see.”
Bits points out the Big Dipper and moves around the sky. Whatever she falters on, Hank’s encyclopedic mind fills in.
“There’s Canis Major,” Bits says. “The good dog. We should call that constellation Barnaby, since he’s a good watchdog now.”
“Who’s a good boy?” Hank asks. Barnaby wags his butt and spins around.
“Who is a good boy?” Peter asks. “I heard there was a good boy around here.” Barnaby lets out an ear-splitting bark, races twenty feet away and then back, barking the whole time.
“Okay, okay. Quiet!” Peter says. Barnaby stops and pants happily when Peter puts an arm around his neck and points to Canis Major. “It’s really bright.”
“It’s Sirius,” I say. “They call it the Dog Star sometimes. It’s the brightest star in the sky. At least in our sky.”
“I wish I knew what I was looking at,” Peter says.
“Cassie knows almost all of them by heart now,” Bits says. “We’ll teach…” No one speaks when she trails off, and dread weighs down what was a light moment.
“Look, it’s the Arrow,” Hank says. “It must be a good omen. Like, for killing zombies.” It’s so unlike him to make something like that up that we agree emphatically.
We brush our teeth with the jug of water Glory left. Bits and Hank stand in the living room, dead on their feet, but they don’t attempt to climb to the loft. It feels so far away, and although I know they’re safe up there, I’m not ready to be in a separate bed from them, Peter included.
They eagerly agree to cram in the big bed. I give them both kisses and by the time I get in my spot between them, they’re sound asleep. Peter looks over the duplicate drawing I made of the warehouse. “See you in the morning,” I whisper.
He reaches across Bits to pat my head. “Goodnight.”
Sickness beats out worry, and I fall asleep quickly only to wake from a dream involving buildings with no escape. Hank throws an arm over me. Bits’s rear is jammed in my side. Peter still pores over the map. My throat is raw and every breath I take feels like a stab in the lungs. I guzzle half my water bottle and ask, “How long have I been asleep?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“That’s all?” I’m overcome by a rush of heat that forces me to struggle out of the blankets and stand at the side of the bed. Peter looks alarmed at my dramatic escape. “I was hot.”
“You don’t say.”
The heat turns to chills as only a fever can. I pretend I’m cold and rub my arms. “I’ll go upstairs.”
Peter sets the map on the nightstand and folds back the covers. “You don’t want to sleep up there.”
I don’t at all. He flaps the blankets. I climb in and close
my eyes, hoping to fall asleep as quickly as before, but I’m wide awake. Peter hasn’t yet shut off the lamp, and I roll over to find him staring at the ceiling. “What are you doing?”
“Staring,” he says.
“I got that part. You’ll never fall asleep with the light on.”
“I don’t want to be in the dark.”
“Literally or figuratively?” I ask.
“Both.”
I nod and tuck my hands under my cheek. Now I’m hot and dry like the desert. I stretch to relieve the ache that’s sprung up in my hips.
“I don’t want to die,” I whisper. My voice sounds so wretched that I want to take it back. But I don’t want to die, and if there’s anyone to whom I can admit how scared I am, it’s Peter.
He faces me, looking so miserable I would take his hand if I didn’t think he would feel my fever. “Me neither.”
“So let’s not die, then. Why didn’t we think of this before?” I clamp down my urge to giggle. Hysteria lurks underneath, vying for a chance to run free.
He forces a chuckle at my terrible joke. “Don’t leave my side tomorrow.”
“I’ll stick like glue, Elmer.”
“Good.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about Nat?” I ask, since neither of us appears to be going to sleep.
“It wasn’t important.”
“What? You saved someone’s life in a heroic manner. You should be screaming it from the rooftops and trying to work it into every conversation.”
“Like, ‘Oh, mashed potatoes for dinner? That reminds me of the time I saved Nat’s life.’ ”
“How about ‘That shirt reminds me of the time I saved your asses in Bennington?’ ” I say. “You go around saving people’s lives, don’t you?”
“You saved mine.”
“With the water heater? I was just being silly.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Peter says.
“The mouthwash? You can’t forget that one.”
His lips twitch. “I wish I could.”
“Ha ha. So how did I save your life? I need to know so I can work it into a conversation.”
“Nothing, it’s stupid.” Peter rolls to the nightstand to check his watch. “It’s late. We need to get some sleep.”
“No way. You can’t say something like that and then tell me to forget it.” I poke his back until he faces me again, head propped on a hand and eyes on the wall. “What did you mean?”
“If I hadn’t been with you when this all started, I’d be dead. And I have you to thank for it.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says softly.
“Oh.” It’s all I can think to say. I once thought that Peter was the only good thing to come out of the end of the world. That he thinks I had something to do with it makes a non-feverish warmth spread to my toes and the tips of my fingers. I draw a shaky breath and try to hold back the subsequent cough, but it’s impossible. I try not to suffocate on the crap in my lungs while Peter looks on suspiciously and puts a hand to my forehead.
“You have a fever!” he says, and cuts off any response with a glare that manages to convey concern. His fingers graze my cheek while he assesses my temperature. I close my eyes at the painful chills they leave in their wake. No wonder Bits couldn’t stand it. “And when were you planning to say something?”
“I think I’m getting what Bits had. But I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not fine.” I don’t have to see his face to know he’s furious. “How long has it been?”
“Just before.”
He huffs and leaves for the living room. “Take these,” he says upon his return.
I open my eyes and dutifully swallow the pills he hands me with water. “Thanks.”
“Let me take your temperature.” He holds out a thermometer and practically growls when I shake my head. “Really? You’re not going to let me?”
“It’s just a number,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I know how I feel. I’m fine.”
He stares like I’m from another planet. “I can’t believe y—You know, I wondered why all you ate was soup. You never say no to cornbread. You didn’t just get sick, Cassandra. You’re staying here tomorrow.”
I sit up and cross my arms. “Don’t even try it. I’m going.”
“You can’t go with a fever.”
“Why? Do the zombies have a rule that you have to be fever-free for twenty-four hours before you can visit?”
“Jesus Christ, make a fucking joke about it. If you’re sick, you might get hurt. I’m not fighting about this. You’re staying with the kids.”
A large part of me wants to acquiesce, to not leave Bits and Hank behind. Glory said she wouldn’t kick us out mid-winter, but I don’t know how much say she has in the matter. A town full of hungry people wouldn’t hesitate to send me packing, and possibly the kids, too, no matter what they’ve promised. We’ve seen what hunger can do to people firsthand. This is the only way to ensure that Bits and Hank will be safe and fed for the foreseeable future.
“At least you’d be here if we don’t come—” Peter begins.
“You don’t know that! They’ll kick me out if they run low on food, even if they let the kids stay. I’d rather die trying than freeze to death by myself.”
“You’re one person. They won’t kick you out.”
“Can you guarantee me that?” I ask. Peter doesn’t answer. He knows he can’t guarantee me anything. “Frank would probably murder me in my sleep. You think everyone’s going to want to give us the food out of their kids’ mouths? They’re not.”
Peter crosses his arms. I wish I could stay, but he’s going and so is Kyle. It wouldn’t be fair—they have just as much to lose as I do. The only legitimate reason would be if I was at death’s door, and I’m not. One extra person could be the difference between coming back fully-stocked and not coming back at all.
“I’m not sitting here when I could be helping,” I say. “You might need me.”
Peter’s eyes flash. “Right, maybe you can cough the zombies to death. Obviously, you are going to fight. If that’s the way you want it, then—”
“I’m not fighting.” I try a placating smile and wonder what his ultimatum was going to be. “I just need sleep. If I’m worse in the morning, I’ll stay here.”
Peter studies my face. He doesn’t believe me, and rightly so, because there’s no way in hell I’m staying here when one of the most important patrols we’ve ever done goes on without me.
“Promise?” he asks.
I stare at him, working up the nerve to lie, and finally answer, “No.”
He breathes through his nose. “You know what? Fine.”
“Fine.”
I turn on my side and stare at Bits’s peaceful features. The thought of not being the person who raises her makes my chest heavier. I don’t want to fight with Peter on top of this. He must feel the same because he turns off the light and puts his arm around me. I hug it to me like a teddy bear.
“I just want you safe,” he whispers.
“We’re safest together,” I whisper into the dark. “Please don’t ask me to stay.” The thought of never knowing what’s happened to him and the others is agonizing. The thought of never knowing if the kids are okay is devastating. The only option is to get that food and come back. If there was ever a time to believe it’ll be all right, it’d be now—and I’m going to believe.
Peter is silent until our breathing has slowed, then he finally says, “Okay.”
54
Something wakes me before the sun is up. It could be the achiness, the fever that may be a degree or two warmer, or the tight burning in my lungs that makes breathing a chore. It could be nerves, but I’m almost as nervous that Peter will try to make me stay as I am about heading to Anchorage.
I rummage through the medicine bag. I take cold and cough capsules, followed by ibuprofen and Tylenol, and top it off with a Vicodin for my throat. It’s a cocktail that ha
s to get me through the day and then I swear I’ll heed any and all sickbed advice this afternoon. I put extras in my pockets and pop another Sudafed because it says you can take two. Of course, they probably weren’t taking into consideration that the cough syrup has some in it.
“Fooled ya,” I say to the directions on the box and then realize how crazy it is that I’m talking to a box of medicine. Crazier than usual, at any rate.
Maybe it’s the fever, which should go down soon. But today’s agenda would make anyone loony, so I blame it on that and wait for the meds to kick in on the couch. Sparky climbs on my chest and Barnaby stares woefully until I invite him up. Once the sky has lightened, I feel somewhat better. There’s the low-level buzz of pseudoephedrine, the pain-relieving cushion of Vicodin and the fever-reducing effect of ibuprofen. I give a tentative cough. The rumble in my chest sounds no better than it did, but the pressure has lessened. I’m good to go—or at least as good as I’m gonna get.
Peter stumbles out of the bedroom and stops when he sees me. “Oh, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He runs a hand through his hair and scratches his scruffy cheek absently, then hitches up the wrinkled jeans he threw on.
“You’re very rumpled this morning,” I say.
“Have you seen your hair?”
I can feel the frizz before my hand is two inches from my scalp. Sweaty, fevered sleeping has not improved my morning look. I didn’t glance at myself when I brushed my teeth; I was too concerned with taking medicine before Peter caught me. I would smooth it down if I had the energy to care.
“How do you feel?” Peter asks.
“Dirty,” I say. I’d like to die clean, but no one offered us a shower or whatever it is they have here.
“You know what I mean.”
“Better.” I may be sicker, but I feel better thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, so it’s not a total lie.
Until the End of the World Box Set Page 104
