Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

Peter feels my forehead. “You are cool.”

  “What, did you think I was lying?”

  “Of course I did,” he says, his laugh a bit strained. In fact, all of him is strained, from his anxious expression to his rigid stance.

  I’m bordering on petrified, but I concentrate on that tiny kernel of faith from last night. I can still feel it—a glimmer of peace and quiet amidst the noisy fear. Of course, that could be the Vicodin. But, whatever the case, it looks like Peter needs a dose of faith—it was his to begin with, after all. I take his hand for a moment before letting him move toward the bathroom. “It’ll be all right, Petey.”

  Even rumpled and half-grouchy, the smile he flashes me before he closes the door is radiant—white teeth, black stubble, shining eyes. I pull on Ana’s leather pants, my boots and a black shirt. I load the extra magazines for the .22 and hang my axe off my belt. I’ve just finished winding up my hair when Nelly strolls in looking handsome and ready to kick ass in his work boots, leather coat and machete.

  “Glory brought breakfast to the big cabin,” he says. He opens the kitchenette drawers, inspects the pictures and flips through the Alaska tourism magazines on the coffee table. “Nice place. Tell me you’re ditching those moose paintings.”

  I take in the sarcastic curve of his lips. I’ve made it this far with him by my side. We might be dead later today, but I’ll always be thankful that we were together to the end. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

  “I just love you. I really, really love you, Nels.” I want to say all the things that need to be said. The only thing worse than dying is not saying what you should’ve said before doing so.

  Nelly purses his lips. “Oh, God, really? Don’t start with that shit.” I choke on my laugh and end up doubled over with the force of the contractions in my chest. Peter comes to stand beside me and shakes his head.

  “You okay, darlin’?” Nelly asks. “You sound like you’re dying.”

  “She’s sick,” Peter says, “but she won’t stay here.”

  “She’s even more stubborn when she’s sick. You really think that pain in the ass would stay here?” Nelly may be calling me names, but he’s on my side.

  “I can hear you,” I sputter between coughs.

  “We know,” they both say. I give them the finger and spit the coughed-up phlegm into the garbage can.

  “Attractive,” Nelly says.

  “Thanks,” I say. He’s jesting as usual, but he has circles under his eyes from worry and lack of sleep. “It’s all going to be fine.”

  Nelly opens his mouth just as Bits and Hank appear. We wait for them to wash up and head for breakfast. “Why are you so happy?” Nelly asks me on our way through the damp grass.

  “Nothing’s going to bother me today. Well, except zombies.”

  “Just that one small thing.”

  “An itty-bitty detail.”

  Nelly pulls me to his side with a chuckle. “I love you, too, Half-pint.”

  “I know.”

  Everyone is ready in order to leave after we’ve eaten. The mood isn’t as somber as I’d feared—we’re all trying to make the best of it. I force myself to eat eggs and a piece of jerky under Doctor Peter’s watchful gaze. What I’d like is buttered toast, but Glory has told us flour’s saved for special occasions. Unlike Vermont, they haven’t been able to grow wheat. There’s probably a ton in that warehouse, though.

  I motion Penny into one of the bedrooms and pull some things out of my pack. Penny stands by the window and watches a woman walk a dog with a baby in a carrier on her back. At Kingdom Come there was no escaping the feeling that it was a Safe Zone—no matter how much I loved the place—but this could be the same town it was before the apocalypse.

  “It’s nice here,” I say. “I’m sure everyone’s still in each others’ business, but at least there’s room to spread out.”

  She ekes out a pale-lipped smile. “I don’t care where we live. Just come back.”

  “We’ll do our best. We’d have to do this anyway, even if we weren’t here. Right?” She nods and wipes under her glasses.

  “I have some things for you,” I say, and open the jewelry box. “Earrings for Bits’s birthday. You’ll have to pierce her ears for her. Just don’t do what you did when we were fifteen.” She’d tried to give me a fourth hole in my ear, but she’d jammed the needle in at such an angle that it never came out the other side.

  “You’re going to bring that up now?” Penny shoves me and laughs through her tears.

  “Just putting it out there,” I say, and have to stop for a few deep breaths when I imagine not being here for Bits’s ninth birthday. No, I will be here. “The constellation book is for Hank. I don’t want to give it to him before I go because it seems…I know he wants it.” I pull the unicorn from my pocket. “This is for Bits, too.”

  I set them all on the windowsill and lay the tissue-wrapped baby dress in her hands. “This is for the baby. From Ana. She found it in Stowe.”

  She folds the edge of the tissue then smoothes it back into place, whispering, “I’ll wait.”

  I hold her as close as possible with the baby in the way and then rest my hand on her belly. I’m going to meet this baby, too. I’ll be here for its birth day, and all the birthdays thereafter. But, just in case, I say, “Don’t take shit from them. You don’t either, baby.”

  “Don’t worry. No one’s giving me shit. I’ll cut those bitches.” I can see she means it, but I laugh anyway. It’s so much better than crying.

  “I’ll take care of Bits and Hank,” Penny says, eyes fierce. I nod. Of that I have no doubt, but a tear still works its way out as we hug one last time.

  The tension mounts as plates are cleared, and my symptoms return with a vengeance. I pull a handful of pills from my pocket and take a few on the short walk to the first gate, where we pulled our vehicles once they’d been unpacked.

  I hug Adam gingerly. “I’ll see you in a while,” he says.

  “Yes, you will.”

  “I wish I were coming.”

  “I know,” I say, and think that Adam’s hunched shoulders and obvious distress are another reason why I don’t want to stay behind.

  I hug the others, including Nat, who’s chewed her nails down to the quick. Her expression lightens when Chuck speaks softly in her ear. She may be seventeen, but she still thinks her dad is invincible. I know I did. I hope he is this time, too.

  I almost fall from the force of Bits’s hug. I’m not going to drag this out. If I don’t do it quick, I’ll never let her go, and I don’t want her to see my worry. “I love you so much, Bitsy. More than anything, ever. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  She nods and steps back with a swallow. “I love you. And I’ll see you later.”

  I expected tears and pleading but other than her bloodshot eyes, her face is set. Maybe she believes we’ll always come back, that Peter and I are invincible. I can see she’ll be all right if we don’t, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to prove her wrong.

  When I whisper the same words in Hank’s ear so as not to embarrass him, he clings before he lets me go. The kids wave as James pulls the VW through the gate between the pickup and semi. There’s a roar over the sound of Chuck’s engine and another semi pulls across the railroad tracks.

  Terry jumps out and makes his way to us. “We’re coming. We can bring back more that way. Frank, Patricia, Tara and Philip are in the truck. We’ll lead you down there. We know a better way to go.” He grins and ambles back to the truck.

  “Well, look at that,” Nelly says from the passenger’s seat.

  I cross my arms. “So the two people who most don’t want us here—Frank and Patricia—are coming to help? I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither,” Jamie says. “It’s like they want to be sure they get their shit no matter what.”

  “Maybe they felt bad,” Peter says from beside me on the bench seat. “And Tara and Philip are Canadian. I thought that was enough for you. Why don’t we
give them the benefit of the doubt?”

  “Okay, you do that, and I’ll be ready to shoot them.” It’s going to be a long ride and I already need a nap. I close my eyes, but the zinging in my gut won’t let it happen. I open them again to find Peter eyeing me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I promised I wouldn’t ask, but—”

  “So don’t ask. I’m fine.”

  “She’s sick,” Peter explains to Jamie, “and she won’t stay home.”

  “We don’t have a home,” I remind him.

  “I wouldn’t,” Jamie says.

  I give her a Girl Power thumbs up and hold back a cough. The old medicine is wearing off, but the new should be here shortly. Peter sighs. He sighs at me a lot.

  “You have control issues,” I say to him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re constantly sighing at me when I don’t do things your way.”

  His eyebrows come down. “I have control issues? The person who has a fever and should be in bed but refuses to do so because she’s going to change the entire day’s outcome by herself thinks I have control issues?”

  “Well, you do.” My red shoelace is undone and I bend to double-knot it. “It doesn’t mean I don’t.”

  “At least I know how to tie my shoes like a grownup.”

  I look up open-mouthed. “That was a low blow, Petey.”

  Peter laughs. We hit the highway and turn south. I watch the scenery and only realize I’ve been drumming my fingers on my leg when Peter stills my hand with his. He laces his gloved fingers through mine and stares out the window. Forested highway becomes occasional houses and businesses. I close my eyes, even though I know sleep is a lost cause, and practically leap through the roof in fright when James stops the VW with a holler. Terry screeches to a halt ahead, as does everyone behind.

  James grins while he points at a grouping of fireworks stands. “John was always on the lookout for fireworks to use if we were trapped. They might come in handy.”

  “He said, ‘Light ‘em, throw ‘em, then take off the other way.’ We have to check,” I say, and send John silent thanks for still looking after us. Now if only there’s something left inside.

  We step into the gravel parking lot and explain the plan to the others, all of whom agree it’s worth a shot.

  “Good old John,” Zeke says. He kicks in a door, not bothering to use his cat burglar skills, and our flashlights illuminate shelves that have enough inventory for a whole lot of distraction.

  Back in the VW, we rip open boxes and choose the fireworks that look least likely to trap us in a blazing inferno. “Look at this,” Jamie says. She holds up one called Death’s Door. “Fitting.”

  Nelly calls out names as he separates them. “Mother Lode, Civil War, Blown Away.”

  Peter opens a box labeled Zombie Zingers and a few green paper balls spill into his hand. “I’m kind of partial to these.”

  “Lemme get some of those,” James says.

  We avoid the main highway until we’re forced to pick it up thirty minutes later in order to reach Anchorage. The foliage is a frosty brown and the mountains are tipped with solid white, as if winter’s come overnight. We eventually turn onto the city streets due to stopped traffic, where taller buildings are interspersed between fast food chains and strip malls. Following the Talkeetnans’ semi, we drive a network of side streets to easily avoid blockages. Lexers hit the empty sidewalks as we pass; the engines call out everything within shouting distance. I’m not sure how far we would’ve gotten without Terry’s help. Maybe I should give them the benefit of the doubt, like Peter said.

  We pass warehouses, including a beer warehouse that makes Nelly drool, until we come upon a concrete building the length of a city block. It’s flat and squat, with at least a dozen loading bay doors along the street side. Rows of trailers line the back of the lot in which a few zombies ramble.

  “Dude, this place is gigantic,” James says after he’s pulled to a stop. He tucks his hair behind his ear and his legs pump up and down.

  “No wonder no one wanted to come back,” Jamie mutters.

  I can imagine the nooks and crannies hiding Lexers in a building this large. We’ll only venture into half of it; the food on the cold storage side is definitely past its sell-by date. Terry pulls past the guard house and around the building. There are the standard-issue Lexers who lay on the concrete, finally dead, and those who begin the excruciatingly slow task of coming to devour us.

  “Sometimes I wish they were just a mite faster,” I say. Everyone but Peter laughs, and I nudge him. “Joking.”

  He nudges me back. “Oh, was that what that was?”

  “Let’s meet them halfway,” Nelly says. “We don’t have all day to wait for ten dumbass zombies.”

  It feels good to stretch my legs; every muscle has tightened upon seeing this place. The Lexers’ groans are louder than our footfalls in the quiet. I’m used to the silence by now, especially in the woods, but sometimes it’s still strange in places with dead machinery, trucks and buildings that used to have such noisy purpose.

  Once the Lexers are down, we inspect the lot. Whoever said a storm is coming must be right; the temperature has dropped in the past hour. Frank rubs his eyes. He stayed behind to examine the bodies we dropped, maybe looking for his son, and I grow more sympathetic toward him even though he hasn’t become any nicer to us. “The others are all in there?” he asks.

  Terry nods. Tara and Philip shift on their feet, and I wonder how many times they’ve done something like this. By the way she holds her knife, as if she’s going to slice carrots instead of stab through bone, I’m thinking not many. But I like Tara, so I sidle close. “You should hold your knife like Psycho,” I say.

  She bites her lip. “What?”

  “You know, Ee-ee-ee.” I hold up a fist and pretend to stab what’s-her-name in the shower.

  “Right.” She turns it in her hand and says, “Thanks.”

  Patricia rolls her eyes and swings her machete. Tara throws her a dirty look. Now I’m certain that I love Tara.

  “So, let’s get the first ones out,” Zeke says. “Then we’ll go in and get the loading doors up.”

  After a futile attempt to raise the loading bay doors from outside, some of us wait in the pickup’s bed while Nelly opens the employee door and comes running. Over a dozen Lexers emerge from the gloom, shuffling along until they fall headfirst down the stairs. They rise up, answer our calls with hisses and walk our way. I lift my axe and spike one before pushing it as far away as possible to leave room for the next.

  A woman with the remnants of tattoos under her rotten skin throws herself against the pickup. I bury the spike in her forehead and she slides to the ground before I can move her. Peter shoves his machete under the chin of a tall one and then uses the blade to toss him away.

  “Impressive,” I say. He glances at me in amusement and tosses another.

  “Now you’re just showing off,” I say, which elicits a real laugh.

  We wait for the stragglers to make their way across the lot. The last one is moldy, with a single tuft of hair and exposed ribs, but it gets back on its feet every time it trips. It’s the epitome of zombies—no matter how dead they should be, somehow they keep going. I guess you could say the same about us. It lands face-first into another body on the ground, rises covered in brown gore, and then slips again.

  All the others are dead and, as Nelly said, we don’t have all day, so I jump to the ground and cover the five feet. Its hand scrabbles for my ankle as I bury the axe blade. I spin around, slam into Peter and squeak in surprise.

  “Glue,” he says, and steadies me by my shoulders. “You sure you can do this? You look awful.”

  I don’t argue; I made the mistake of looking in the mirror before we left. “Yeah, I can.”

  Nelly grimaces at the gray sky. “Today is a shitty day to die.”

  “We’ve already decided we’re not dying,” I say. “Right, Peter?” Pe
ter nods, jaw tight.

  Jamie’s flushed face is surrounded by a halo of black frizz that’s escaped from her bun. She looks like the Jamie of two weeks ago, small and bursting with energy instead of tired and beaten down. “I’m not dying.”

  Nelly gives a firm nod. “Let’s do it.”

  An orchestra of groans filters through the open door. A far-off clatter comes from somewhere inside. I can’t tell if it’s as bad as it sounds or if the vast space amplifies the noises, but even with that factored in, it sounds like somewhere I don’t want to be.

  I put extra magazines in one coat pocket and fireworks in the other. I have my axe in my hand, a spare knife on my belt and the reality that I might be about to die hanging over my head. I take a deep breath and immediately regret it when my lungs seize. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  55

  We enter through the door marked Receiving Office on the far end of the long building. This is one of what I’m sure will be many tricky parts—how to see without being seen for as long as possible. Zeke and Liz enter first, followed by me and Peter. Zeke’s flashlight illuminates the remains of what were once beds and are now twisted piles of blankets, sleeping bags and cardboard. There’s a rudimentary woodstove made out of a metal barrel, daylight seeping in around the stovepipe that feeds through a hacked-out hole in the wall. The air smells strongly of zombies and faintly of burnt plastic and shit and spoiled food.

  Zeke covers the flashlight beam with his hand and motions us to the windows that face the warehouse’s main floor. The few skylights make what could be pitch black a shadowy gray. The light is brightest at the top of the shelves, which run in long rows to the rear of the building. There are empty spaces on the shelving, but the majority is pallets of plastic-wrapped boxes as far as the eye can see. We suck in our breath. No matter what they’d said, I don’t think any of us believed there could still be this much stuff left anywhere in the world, much less a city. It’s akin to finding the dragon’s treasure, but there’s still the dragon to contend with.

  Lexers move in the light that filters to the floor. More Lexers than we bargained for. They don’t know we’re here, but they will soon enough. The plan is to raise the loading doors, both to let in light and let out the zombies, and then kill them in relative safety from the vehicles outside.