Until the End of the World (Book 3): All the Stars in the Sky

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

I suppose I’ve just effectively killed any chance we have of living here, but I enjoyed seeing Frank blanch like I’d hexed him. I set Bits in the VW. She closes her eyes, pale and drawn. She needs to be warm and fed. I’m so angry I want to kill everyone here and take over the place myself. Hank follows, then Peter and Penny. Zeke opens the truck’s door and Liz hops in the bed. We should’ve gone to northern Canada, where we’d probably already be dead, but at least we would have died with people who gave a shit we were dying.

  The woman comes forward, hands fluttering. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down.” She has soft wrinkles around her eyes—true laugh lines—and short gray hair tucked behind her ears. “Let’s talk about this. We’re a Safe Zone, Frank. And we’re not a Safe Zone if we refuse to keep people safe.”

  “We don’t have—” Frank begins.

  “Shut up, Frank.” She stretches a hand through the open door of the VW. It takes me a second to realize she’s reaching for me. “My name’s Glory. Please come inside and talk.”

  CHAPTER 51

  It would’ve been stupid to refuse, which is how we’ve found ourselves inside what was once a brewing company and restaurant. The main room is full of booths and wooden dining tables, and the rooms beyond it look to be the same. It still smells of hops and something’s cooking somewhere. My stomach growls when I perch on a barstool.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Glory asks.

  “The kids would,” I say.

  I would too, more than she’d believe, but I’m not taking anything from these people. I guess the others feel the same because no one takes her up on her offer. If they say we can stay, I’ll have to for Bits’s and Hank’s sakes, but after Frank’s greeting it’s going to take quite a large gulp of my pride.

  Glory walks into the kitchen area and returns. “They’ll bring some food outside.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  She removes her coat, under which she wears a long tie-dyed tunic and jeans. Her earrings jingle when her head swivels around the six of us who’ve come inside. My mom would’ve loved her, and I feel myself soften a bit at the kindness on her face. She perches on one of the tables next to the bar and leans forward. Frank and the other man, an older guy with a white moustache and bushy white brows, seat themselves at a table farther back.

  “I just want to talk,” Glory says. “We three don’t make all the decisions, but we’re the counsel for Talkeetna. I’m sorry that we started off on the wrong foot. Frank’s our hotheaded one.” Frank mutters, and she flaps a hand behind her without looking back. “Oh, Frank, you know I’m right. I’m the soft-hearted hippie.” She points to the white mustachioed man. “And Bernie’s the voice of reason.” Bernie nods impassively and inspects us over his steepled hands.

  “So talk,” says Kyle, who looks more pissed than I am.

  Glory walks behind the bar and raises a pitcher. She fills glasses and pushes one in front of me, Peter, Kyle, Zeke, James and Liz, then moves around the bar to her table. “At least have some water. We don’t have enough food for the winter, but that’s something that can be worked out.”

  “How about hunting and fishing?” Zeke asks.

  Bernie speaks up. “We still get infected from Fairbanks and Anchorage. This summer we had several pods north and south of us. They scare away the game. We’re hoping they come back when the snow starts or that we can get to the herds, but we can’t count on it. The river was full of floaters and we’re just now catching up on our fishing. There hasn’t been a problem with eating the fish so far, but…”

  “We met people who ate zombies,” I say. Glory gasps and the men look sickened. “As long as they were cooked they didn’t infect them.”

  “But it might’ve made them crazy,” Kyle says with a glance at me. “They weren’t right in the head.”

  “Dinky-dau,” I say, to which Kyle snorts. He’s getting the hang of this humor thing.

  Zeke clears his throat. “Fish are fine as long as they’re cooked.”

  “Good to know,” Frank says, but he doesn’t get up to embrace us.

  “Let’s come up with a plan,” Glory says. “I know I won’t send anyone away. And I know that Frank won’t either. Right, Frank?” She rolls her eyes when he doesn’t answer.

  “There’s a grocery store distribution center in Anchorage,” Bernie says. “People lived in there last year, but a month or two later they were attacked by a pod. Most of them turned. It’s full of food. We’ve been trying to get some more volunteers to go down before the snow—”

  “The last group didn’t make it back, except Terry and Patricia,” Frank says. “It’s impossible. No one’s voluntee—”

  “We lost a lot of good people,” Bernie says. “And we don’t want a repeat of that. We have the food divvied up, but we could factor you in for the next two months. If hunting doesn’t pick up and food runs low enough that we don’t think we can feed you through the winter, we might have to ask you to leave.”

  “I’d never ask you to leave,” Glory says.

  “It’s only fair,” Frank says.

  “Why not wait until they freeze?” Zeke asks.

  “It took a long time for them to freeze last year,” Bernie says. “And once they did, we had too much snow on the ground. What we would have done was snowmachined down and killed them frozen, then hit the place in the spring, but we didn’t know about it ‘til this summer.”

  “And if we volunteered to go down there?” Zeke asks. “Would that give us some stake here?”

  I’m not the only one who glances at Zeke in surprise. If we’re going to do it, we should keep it all for ourselves. But we still wouldn’t have a doctor or a safe place for the winter and, more importantly, spring.

  “With that, we’d have enough through the winter and more,” Bernie says with a nod. “No matter what, we’d take in your kids and the pregnant woman for good. But give it a lot of thought. It might be less risky to see what happens with the hunting.” He stands. “I’m going to call Terry up from the guard house. He can fill you in.”

  In the ten minutes that we wait, a platter of bowls leaves through the front door—enough to feed everyone out there, I’m pleased to see.

  “When is your friend due?” Glory asks.

  “December,” James says.

  “I’m a midwife. I’d love to speak with her.”

  James sags against the bar, and I know this has clinched it—he’s on board with whatever we’ll have to do as long as it means Penny’s safe. “We heard there was a midwife. The baby’s moving fine, but we want to make sure everything’s okay. She hasn’t had much to eat in a couple of weeks.”

  “Are you Dad?” she asks, and gives a warm smile when he nods. “Well, she looks healthy. I’ll take you both to my office after you get settled in?”

  “That’d be great,” James says.

  Terry steps into the restaurant, hands in his pockets. “What’s up? They said you wanted me.”

  Terry nods after Glory explains. “I was in the second group that went, and I knew one of the guys who’d lived there and managed to get out. I can tell you what to expect.”

  “Can you draw a map of what you remember?” James asks.

  “Sure. I don’t think it’ll help much, but sure.”

  “We’d need gas,” Zeke says.

  “You’ll need a truck, too,” Terry says. “We have tractor-trailers, you have anyone that can drive one?”

  “I can if you refresh my memory,” Zeke says. “I used to spend a lot of time in one. Never drove it but once.”

  “No problem.”

  “How do we know you’ll take care of the kids?” I ask Glory.

  “I can only give you my word. We’ll take care of your children, I promise. We’d never let them go hungry.”

  Frank strides to the restaurant door and slams it behind him. The three Talkeetna residents watch him go before Glory turns to us. “His son was in the second group.”

  “People are scared,” Terry says. “Not even t
he food shortage scares them enough to volunteer.”

  Bernie strokes his mustache. “This would create some goodwill. Some residents won’t be happy to find out you’ve arrived.”

  “But a lot of people will,” Glory says. “Even if they won’t join you, they’ll be glad you’re here. We want you here. Don’t let Frank put you off.”

  Bernie nods. “When would you want to leave? We got a radio call from one of the islands that a storm is coming in. Either you should go tomorrow or wait a few days, up to you.”

  Kyle stands, hand on his machete, and faces us. “Tomorrow? I say we get it over and done.”

  I nod along with the others. Anticipation isn’t going to make it any easier. Plus, my sore throat seems like it may be here to stay. If I’m getting sick, I won’t be in any condition to help in a few days.

  “Glory will show you the empty cabins,” Bernie says. “I’ll make sure everyone knows you’ve volunteered. You can still back out, no hard feelings.”

  There’s silence while we look to each other. Liz shrugs. “Do we have a choice?” she asks us. “I mean, really?”

  We do, but as usual the other option sucks. Zeke sticks out a hand and Bernie rises to grasp it.

  ***

  Glory gives us a short tour of the village and then directs us to where honey-colored log cabins sit in a grassy lot bordered by trees, with a sign that says Denali Vacation Cabins. “A few of these aren’t occupied. They don’t have running water, but you can use well or river water to flush to the septic.” She laughs. “Most of the time. Otherwise, we have outhouses and composting toilets.”

  Bits and Hank scamper to the door of a small cabin that will hold the four of us, a dog and a cat. The decor is hotel rustic and has a comfortable couch, two easy chairs and a four-person table. A kitchenette sits to the right, with a downstairs bedroom to the left and a loft above.

  “We could put ice in this in the winter, right? Like they used to?” Bits says of the little refrigerator. She dismisses the electric stove and microwave out of hand and points to the small woodstove. “And we can cook on there.”

  She’s so thrilled that she’s forgotten she’s sick. It’s what she’d envisioned, but she doesn’t know what we have to do to keep it. She and Hank run through the door off the living room, where a king-size bed is covered with a colorful quilt.

  “Big bed!” Hank yells. They emerge and climb a ladder to the loft. Bits hangs her head over the rails and coughs up a storm before saying, “Two beds! This is where I want to sleep.”

  Hank bends over, finger on his glasses so they don’t drop. “Me, too. This is cool.”

  I climb the ladder. Two twin beds are tucked under the eaves, each with nightstand and dresser. “We’ll work it out,” I say, and wish I could take pleasure in their excitement. “Let’s talk for a minute.”

  They flop on the couch. Peter sits heavily in one of the chairs and leans forward, elbows on knees. “We have to go back to Anchorage for food because there isn’t enough for winter. We leave tomorrow morning, and you two will stay here with Penny and Adam until we get back.”

  Hank’s feet halt their tapping on the floor. “You mean they won’t let us stay unless we get more food?”

  “They will, but we’ll have to leave if the food runs out,” I say. “Whether or not we’re here, we’ll need that food to get through the winter.” And I’ve been assured of the kids’ survival. That alone makes it worth it.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Bits says. The whites of her eyes are already pink. “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

  “There’s nowhere else,” Peter says. “We’re almost out of gas. They’re giving us enough to get to Anchorage and back.”

  “But you might not come b—” Bits begins before she starts to cry.

  Hank lays a hand on her shoulder. “They’ll be back. Don’t worry, Bits.”

  “It’ll be okay, Bitsy.” I take her in my arms and try to think of something that won’t be a lie. “Hey, we get a real dinner tonight. And we’ll watch the stars—” I bite my lip; I almost said one last time.

  ***

  The last few hours have been spent mapping the route to the warehouse in the living room of one of the larger cabins. Under Terry’s direction, I’ve sketched as much of the inside as he’s seen or heard about from the man who had lived there and died on the first attempt at entry.

  There’s a row of loading bay doors that stretches the length of the building and approximately twenty aisles of shelves with a few skylights above. The residents moved pallets around to make private rooms in the open space between the doors and shelving, where the grocery stores’ orders were assembled before being loaded onto trucks, back when there were things like orders and grocery stores. A fence of dismantled metal shelving was erected between the living quarters and shelves to keep the supplies from being pilfered. Apparently, the people who controlled the distribution center ruled with guns and demanded favors for extra food. When I think of what life must have been like in a dark, cavernous space filled with food and supposed safety, but where one was still in danger of death and starvation, I know I’d rather take my chances on the outside.

  Terry picks up the drawing. “This is really good.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Cassie’s a painter,” Nelly says.

  “Yeah?” Terry asks. “There were a bunch of artists here. I know there are a lot of art supplies around. I could find some for you.”

  “That’d be great,” I say. “If I’m alive to use them.” Terry grimaces and looks away. I’d apologize, but I don’t feel like apologizing. The only thing I feel like doing is going to sleep.

  “So, if that’s all you need from me, I’ll get going,” Terry says. “Dinner’s in a half hour. I’ll see you there.”

  We study the building for a few more minutes. We have no earth-shattering ideas. Basically, it’s get inside, open the loading doors and kill them as they come into the parking lot, then finish off the ones trapped behind the fence.

  The living room of this four-bedroom cabin is high-ceilinged, with comfy couches and a long dining table just off the full kitchen. One wall is made entirely of glass, but with its enormous area rug and muted colors it feels as cozy as my little cabin. I walk to a window. The grass courtyard between the houses isn’t mown, but it’s not overgrown, probably due to the goats I saw wandering when we came in. Talkeetna is the kind of town in which I’d want to live, full of cute, interesting houses tucked into the trees, but I don’t want to like it here. I know I already do, and it pisses me off that I want to be somewhere I may not be wanted.

  “If we can’t get in, we’ll figure out something else,” Peter says. “We’re not dying for these people.”

  “Fucking right,” Zeke says. “We’ll die for us, not them.”

  These are the people worth dying for. After four thousand miles, we’ve become an even larger family than I had before. I trust every single person here, and I know they trust me. And the faintest glimmer of faith pushes through the discouragement. We can do this.

  CHAPTER 52

  We head to the brewery for dinner. Terry told us that Talkeetna’s population is close to 300 with the refugees from Whitehorse, and they need an overflow restaurant to serve all the residents. People on the streets watch us go past. A few say hello, but many look away. I’m irritated until it dawns on me that they might feel guilty for not volunteering. After all, this food will feed them, too. I can’t blame them, as much as I want to be angry at somebody. I might not leave if I didn’t have to.

  Inside the brewery, the wood walls and festive atmosphere remind me of Kingdom Come, but the way the voices cease when we walk in doesn’t give off the same vibe. Glory rises from a bench near the door. “Let’s get you some food.”

  The food is set up on the bar and nearby tables. I take a plate and follow Bits and Hank, who chat happily, unaware of the stares or pretending they are. I slow at Patricia’s glare from a nearby table.

 
“Calm down,” Penny says from behind me, but she sucks her teeth in Patricia’s direction.

  “Hand me the Vaseline,” I say, and pretend to tie my hair in a ponytail. “I’m about to go Brooklyn on someone.” Penny shushes me while she laughs.

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Nelly asks.

  “The older girls in our neighborhood would rub Vaseline on their faces, take out their earrings and tie their hair back so it wouldn’t get pulled during a fight,” Penny says.

  “This I’ve got to see,” Nelly says. “Go challenge someone to a duel.”

  We swordfight with our forks until he gets me in the side and I’ve forgotten about the people staring, most of whom have gone back to their meals. I head straight for a pot of soup, anticipating how good it’ll feel on my throat, which is worsening by the second. Anytime after tomorrow is fine, but getting sick now would be the world’s worst timing.

  “Try the cornbread,” Glory says. “We still have some cornmeal left. We tried growing corn this summer, but it’s tricky up here. We saved seed for next year. Those greenhouses your friend mentioned would come in handy.”

  I want to tell her that we’d be happy to help out if we weren’t dying tomorrow, but I know she means well. And my mother always said I’m notoriously cranky when I’m sick. The only thing keeping me from crying or yelling is that I refuse to show anyone in here how scared I am.

  I grab a piece of cornbread and some butter. “You have cows?”

  “Four, and two bulls. They came from Homer Safe Zone last year.”

  “Homer’s still going?” My brain begins to hatch a plan of taking us all there in the gassed up vehicles tomorrow.

  “They’ve moved off the coast now. I’m sorry—we’re all that’s left besides some people out in the bush that we trade with. And the islands, but getting there is next to impossible.”

  “Where should we sit?” Bits asks, eyes scanning the room.

  “I saw some tables in the back room,” I say. “This place is nice, right? And look at all that food!”

  My tone sounds false to me, but she walks carefully past all the tables with a smile that most people return. Hank glances at me before we follow. “I’ll take care of Bits, Cassie. Don’t worry.”