The House at the End of the World

by Madeleine Marsh

  Matt stirs next to him, strands of his hair falling across his face. It's lighter than Luke’s and he wears it longer, long enough to touch his shoulders. When they were kids they used to cut each other’s hair. They still do, but Luke likes to keep his short because, and this isn’t something he’ll ever say out loud, he likes Matt cutting it, likes the feel of fingers combing through it, nails scraping across his scalp. Matt tends to hand over the scissors only when his own is long enough to be pulled up into pigtails while he’s sleeping. Luke’s teased him about it mercilessly for years, particularly over the last couple of months when they’ve had to jerk each other's chains just to stay sane. It’s only when he reaches out to push the errant strands back behind Matt's ear to stop them tickling his face that he realises his hands are filthy; stained brown with dried blood, dirt under his fingernails. He stares at them in the dusty light. He doesn't want to think too hard about the battle on the hill, that last fight which was more a test of wills and in some ways more painful than the physical attacks they’re used to. The sickening sensation of being ripped into, of being opened up and laid bare, is still a sour taste at the back of his throat, a curl of nausea in his stomach. But he remembers looking over at the end, looking into Matt’s eyes, straight into his soul and letting him see his own. He'll never forget what he saw; a truth he's always known but never acknowledged, a truth that he knows, without a doubt, lies at the centre of him too.

  He needs a shower but he’s loathe to leave Matt to wake up alone, so he waits. Even if his face resembles something from a teenage slasher flick he knows it’s better to wake up to the sight of a battered face than no face at all. Besides, they’re used to it. If he could ever have called himself good looking, the scar across his right eye – courtesy of an overzealous blood sucker – ended that fantasy years ago. He has, on occasion, been told that it gives his face a certain character. Matt agrees, insists he looks like 'a crazy, cat-stroking James Bond villain' and laughs, then kisses the ugly mark just below Luke’s eye line before Luke can punch him. He does things like that, throws out an insult then follows it up with something so achingly sentimental Luke can’t retaliate. It's a defence mechanism from their childhood, one he's never grown out of.

  He closes his eyes again, the ends of Matt's stupid hair twisted loosely around his bloodied fingers, listening for any warning signs, any sounds of impending trouble. There's nothing for a long time and he starts to doze off but something jerks him back to consciousness and instinctively he slides his hand under the pillow where it would usually meet the cold metal of a fully loaded Colt 1911 A1, .45 calibre semi-automatic. But while it's always been there in the past, solid and reassuring, now there’s nothing.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Matt's voice, rough with its morning gravel, startles him and his head snaps round. Brown eyes look at him expectantly; Matt's fully awake and tensed, reacting to the tension in Luke's body. This is how they've survived, by reading one another, following each other's lead without questions, using their ability to communicate without a word. Just a glance between them can telegraph a warning or a command. Luke relaxes a little and Matt responds in kind.

  ‘Morning sleeping beauty.’ He shrugs as casually as he can manage. ‘I don't know where we are. But nothing's tried to get in so I don't think we're in any immediate danger.’

  Matt stretches his arms above the sheets and leans up on one elbow. ‘Last thing I remember is standing at the top of the hill with that guy.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  Luke watches as his brother mentally checks his torso and extremities for pain or numbness. Eventually he shakes his head. ‘No. But I was hurt. I'm sure I was.’

  ‘I thought I broke at least two ribs but they feel fine.’

  ‘We could be dead.’

  ‘So this is Heaven?’ Luke looks around. ‘Not what I'd imagined.’

  Matt laughs and flops onto his back, reaching out to press fingertips against Luke’s hip, keeping the physical contact. ‘Do you think we won?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I gotta pee.’

  ‘Thanks for sharing.’

  Waking up in a strange place isn’t anything new to them. They’re long over letting it worry them. Establishing where they are usually comes in as a lower priority to other important points, such as ‘is anyone threatening to kill us?’ or ‘have we killed anyone we shouldn't have?’ If the answer to preferably both those questions is no, next up is ‘are we still fully clothed?’ followed by a quick calculation of the amount of alcohol, and the type, consumed prior to them passing out. But top of the list of questions to ask upon waking in a strange place is, ‘where's the nearest john?’

  Luke smirks as he climbs out from under the sheets, noting the silk and glancing down at himself to see what he’s wearing. Torn and filthy black T-shirt, jeans stained with blood. Some of it's probably his. Most of it hopefully belongs to the hordes of things they were fighting. He casts a glance over to where he threw back the sheets. He can see Matt's white, bloodstained T-shirt.

  ‘Might wanna double-check for wounds,’ he suggests as he makes for the door that’s ajar, assuming it’s the en-suite. He's right, and he pulls the cord to turn on the light, but he doesn’t really see the detail of the room until he’s midstream and the pressure is off his bladder. Only then does he look around and his eyes widen at the dark, gleaming marble surfaces and floor tiles, the walk-in shower tiled in shining gold, the porcelain bowl on the marble cabinet with tall gold faucets, and the bidet that just for a moment makes him think he’s pissing in the wrong bowl.

  ‘What the fuck is this place?’ He mutters to himself, and gives a quick shake before he zips and flushes. He runs the cold water into the sink for a second before splashing it over his face, washing his arms and hands before cupping them and taking a drink. He thinks about sticking his face under the flow, but he isn’t sure it’ll fit and there was that embarrassing incident in Sugarloaf when he got his nose stuck in the end of the cold faucet and Matt had to use liquid soap to free him, once he’d picked himself up off the floor and managed to take a breath before he laughed his fucking face off. Dumbass. Still Luke grins at the memory, scoops several handfuls of water into his mouth then goes back into the room, climbs on to the bed and puts his wet, cold hands on Matt’s face.

  Matt screeches like a girl, grabs Luke’s wrists and pulls his hands away, wrestling him onto his back and using his long legs to clamber over him, trying to force Luke’s hands down onto his own skin where the play fight is causing his T-shirt to ride up his stomach. Luke’s suddenly very aware that Matt is definitely not a girl, sitting heavy across his thighs, looking at him steadily, neither of them backing down as quickly as they have done in the past.

  All Luke says is, ‘Matt,’ and he’s off him, rolling his eyes and clambering off the bed, heading for the bathroom. Just as Luke didn’t, he doesn’t close the door, but he wolf-whistles at the opulence.

  ‘What is this place?’ Matt calls back. Like Luke knows. ‘Hey, why are there two toilets?’

  The genuine confusion in Matt’s voice puts an evil smile on Luke's face. ‘For number ones and number twos, bro! Why’d you think?’

  There’s a pause, then, ‘Huh. Which is which?’ Luke can’t help the laughter that bubbles up. ‘Bastard!’

  ‘You could try the one with the flush.’

  Another pause. ‘Oh. Yeah. So what’s the other one?’

  Sitting up, Luke glances across at the open door and hears Matt start to pee. This easy intimacy between them is something that’s just happened over the years but sometimes, as far as Luke’s concerned, it can be a little too easy, a little too tempting to take advantage. He turns his head and stares at the window.

  ‘It’s called a bidet,’ he explains, voice raised. ‘It’s to wash your ass.’ There’s silence, except for the sound of Matt urinating and Luke knows he’s thinking about it, working out the logistics in his head. ‘Please don’t ask me.’

  Matt doesn’
t, thankfully.

  Getting off the bed, Luke pads over to the window and pushes aside the curtains. When he first woke and looked over he thought they were moth-eaten shreds of material hanging on determinedly to the iron pole. But they’re not; they’re just made of thin, light-coloured material. Not a single hole. He does have to rub some of the grime from the glass to look out but that’s okay, he’s got worse stuff under his fingernails. He can’t see much. It appears that they’re in a room at the top of an old house. There’s a gravel yard below, enclosed by the winter skeletons of trees. There’s a hedge some way off, then a road which looks like it has seen better days, the asphalt cracked, pot holes gaping. Not a road he’d like to drive the Mustang down, if the Mustang made it. He doesn’t want to think about that either. It’s just a car but it’s been good to them by not breaking down at critical moments over the years. He isn’t sure what’s on the other side of the road. The uniform brightness looks hot and cold at the same time, like a beautiful northern winter’s morning.

  He hears the toilet flush and Matt’s footfall muffled by the rug as he crosses the room and stops close behind him. Big hands drop to his shoulders, skate down his back and settle at his waist. ‘This can't be Heaven.’

  Luke’s hyperaware of the touch, Matt’s fingertips hot on his skin below the seam of his T-shirt.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dirty windows for one. Plus nothing's growing out there, it's all dead.’

  ‘Kinda looks like Kansas.’

  Matt’s chin settles on his shoulder and it’s too irresistible not to tilt his head, stubble against stubble, to get closer. ‘I guess the question is how did we get here and what are we doing here?’

  ‘That’s two questions. And I have absolutely no idea. But it’s not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us and so far it’s okay.’

  ‘Unless there are things waiting to eat us on the other side of that door.’

  ‘Oh, you’re cheery.’ He feels Matt take a deep breath. ‘I think we won, though. That last fight... that was something special.’ The memory makes him feel sick but he adds, ‘We kicked ass.’

  ‘We kicked the biggest ass there is.’ Matt moves around him, perches on the low sill and looks out across at the bright horizon.

  ‘What do you remember?’ Luke asks him, tracing the wooden window frame with one hand, putting his other onto Matt's shoulder.

  ‘About the battle?’ Matt leans into Luke's touch. ‘I remember wiping out the first wave of un-dead and thinking maybe we were the only ones still left alive. I remember hacking through that pack of Hellhounds, one of the bastard things getting its teeth into my wrist before I smashed it's skull against a tree trunk.’ His voice is calm, almost devoid of emotion as he lifts his wrist for Luke to see that there’s no injury, not even a bite mark. Luke understands his detachment. If he relaxes, even just a little bit, cracks might finally begin to appear in the walls they’ve both constructed over the years. ‘I remember reaching the top of that hill with you next to me, and coming face to face with the guy in the suit.’ Luke remembers him too; the guy in black with a red tie and a smile that looked too big for his mouth. ‘Then... all the terrible things we've done, flashing through my head, being forced to watch it all back like the worst movie ever made; Catherine Chambers in Cambridge, that family in Oregon, those kids – Alan and Joanne – in Maine. Terry Banks, Adam in New Orleans, Lawrence, Bodie, Arrowhead... all of it coming back, wave after wave, until you took my hand.’

  Then everything changed.

  Matt looks up at him.

  Luke saw the movie too, a replay of his whole life, even stuff he didn't know; the inhuman thing that appeared in the middle of the road the night his parents died, the tracker who came from nowhere to kill it and keep him safe until the cops arrived, the unpleasant way that guy died only two months later.

  But when he took Matt's hand something happened. The horrors of their lives stopped instantly to be replaced by a different montage.

  Matt continues quietly. ‘Every victory, every time we made it out alive. Every private joke and shared smile....’

  Luke felt it too, like the best acid trip ever, his heart singing, the giddy feeling of happiness spreading through him, expanding his lungs, settling his stomach, seeping into his muscles until he felt invincible, that with Matt at his side he could triumph in every battle, win every fight.

  ‘I felt like we could rule the world,’ Matt tells him, shaking his head. ‘No fear, no pain.’

  And then, from nowhere, a blinding light like the blast from a nuclear explosion, rushing outwards, cutting through the man in the suit, and the trees, rushing out to the horizon until there was only light. After that, nothing.

  But Luke remembers something before that moment. He remembers looking around and seeing the devastation. The scorched earth, the shards sticking out from the bellies of felled trees, the body parts of the faithful to the wrong side all around them and their little band of desperadoes still standing amongst the carnage; Joe and Gabe, Emilie. Rick.

  ‘Wonder where the others are.’ It speaks volumes that it’s the first time either of them have mentioned the four. They’ve only had company for the last two months. Joe joining them first, Gabe two weeks later. They picked Emilie up four weeks or so ago, somewhere north of Reno – he can’t remember where – and Rick was last, south of Sacramento. After a while all the towns, even the states start to merge into one. They’ve crossed the country more times than Luke can count, but recently all the action's been centred around the South West: Nevada and California particularly. Time’s started to blur too and sometimes the only way they’ve known what day it is has been the clocks on their cell phones or glancing up at CNN in bars. Of course, neither has been possible lately, what with there being no television, mobile coverage or Internet.

  Then again, there have been a couple of years when the only way they've known it’s Thanksgiving or Christmas is by the change in weather, the crap that fills the shops and the lights and decorations that spring up almost overnight in every town from coast to coast, crisscrossing the streets, building to building, adorning everything from dental surgeries to funeral parlours. Every year, Luke insists that they celebrate Christmas. So they hang stolen baubles on half-dead firs, secretly buy and wrap ridiculous gifts in gaudy paper; a new razor and a silver lighter one year, chocolate body paint and strawberry flavoured lube the next. They suck back eggnogs and watch James Bond movies on cheap motel televisions. On one day of every year they pretend they live normal lives. But they're glad they don't.

  For as long as it's counted, it's just been the two of them, so Gabe, Joe, Rick and Emilie joining them over the last eight weeks hasn’t meant all that much, not really. They didn’t need the company and when it became clear that Joe was with them for the long haul they picked up a second car so he didn't have to ride with them, something that wasn’t too difficult by then. Vehicles were being abandoned all over the place and they’re adept at stealing cars. Joe wasn’t too happy about the arrangement, that was obvious, but they’re used to it just being the two of them and that’s the way they like it. They know they're completely wrapped up in one another and they’re aware it's unhealthy but it's kept them alive. Luke just isn't sure it hasn't become an obsession on both sides.

  They’re both hoping that the other four are okay, and Luke thinks they were still standing at the end even if he can't remember seeing Rick, but Matt is Luke’s entire world and has been forever, a lifetime. He's going to be upset if anything has happened to any of their posse, but he will kill himself if he ever loses Matt. It's the one thing he knows for certain in a life that's been nothing but shocks, side swipes and underhanded blows by Fate herself.

  Luke feels Matt's warm fingers wrap around his wrist. He tries to pull his hand back but Matt doesn't let go. He slides their palms together and presses his fingers through Luke's.

  ‘I know what I felt at the end. I know what I saw when you looked at me.’

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah.’

  Luke knows it too, he can’t deny it now and he won’t. But they’ve avoided talking about it since Matt hit puberty. They’ve been a constant source of strength and comfort for one another. They’ve patched each other up countless times. They’ve been medic and nurse, the Easter bunny and Santa Claus. They’ve been everything to each other except for this. This has been the great big elephant in the room for the last few years.

  Matt's childhood ended at the same time as Luke's and he had to grow up too quickly, equal to his older brother from the beginning. From the start they fought side by side, together killing the werewolf that killed Mom and Dad, and so many more monsters since. Matt never cried, never whinged, never complained. He never asked to live a normal life, to stop the madness, to let someone find them a new family, a real home, even to go to school. Luke managed to connect up illegal cable so they could pick up whatever the Discovery Channel had to teach. He tried to give him space, didn't follow him to bars when he started going out, didn't give him a hard time when he came back to the Airstream in the early hours even though he wanted to, because Matt gave him the same freedoms.

  Eventually functional touches started to linger too long and meaning started to creep into the careful searches for hidden wounds, broken bones and internal injuries. They both stopped trying to hide it when they jerked off in the dark, awareness of one another slowly growing. It should have been impossible to deny something so obvious when they were together twenty-four-seven, but they succeeded, both of them denying the attraction neither of them wanted. Life was already difficult, unpredictable and fucked up enough, the idea of adding something so morally questionable and fraught with danger wasn’t one either was willing to contemplate.

  But maybe the state of their lives is the whole point. What’s another layer of insanity on top of a stratum of madness?

  Sex doesn’t seem like it would change anything either way. They’re as caught up in one another as it’s possible to be. There's no real reason to assume the fight is over, it’s just a feeling. Sure, last night – if it was last night – felt like a finale but it could just as easily have been the mother of all battles between two stronger-than-usual sides. Whatever it was, wherever they are now, they’re still together, whether they’re alive or dead. Why shouldn’t they celebrate? Why shouldn’t they finally have something for themselves?