The Ending Series: The Complete Series

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  BANG! Instead of running away and hiding, I slowly moved toward the far end of the long building, where the sound seemed to originate. I wish Jason was here.

  BANG! Jack rushed forward, scratching at one of the large sliding corral doors.

  BANG! The German Shepherd whined, and his scratching became more enthusiastic, punctuated by brief moments of digging. He wants me to open it? What the hell is on the other side?

  “Jack? What—”

  BANG! My dog barked loudly, over and over again.

  “Okay, but if I get mauled, it’s your fault,” I told him.

  He backed away from the door, lying gracefully on the cement floor.

  BANG! Grumbling, I held the end of the flashlight in my mouth and grasped the enormous metal door’s handle with both hands. With heavy screeches and groans, it slowly slid open, and a huge Paint horse burst through the space. I stumbled back several steps and dropped my flashlight. Well, that solves the horse problem, I thought as I bent to retrieve my sole source of light.

  The majestic horse ceased its anxious prancing and turned to face me. I couldn’t believe that Jack was just lounging on the floor, oblivious to the potential danger posed by the larger animal. As the horse hesitantly approached me, I understood why. Every element of its body language screamed, Help me; I’ll help you. The sense of mutual need was so strong that I could feel it in my bones; it seemed to echo in my thoughts.

  The horse nudged my shoulder with its silken nose and raised its head to study me in the darkness.

  “Hello, beautiful,” I said, tentatively reaching out my free hand and stroking its neck. In the flashlight’s minimal light, I could tell very little about the horse’s appearance, only that its coat was composed of light and dark splotches and that its legs were caked in mud. I resolved to get it cleaned up at the first opportunity.

  “I have to get away. Will you come with me?” I asked the horse, staring into its unwavering gaze.

  Taking an easy step forward, it rested the side of its face against mine. It definitely didn’t mind me, and leaving it behind would mean it would die a slow death of starvation. There was only one option—the horse was coming with me.

  With a renewed purpose, I searched the storage room near the middle of the stable for the items I needed. Luckily, everything was neatly organized and had been kept in good shape.

  After an hour of packing and saddling, my small company of woman, horse, and dog was ready to ride off into the night. I started us slowly, allowing the horse and myself to grow accustomed to each other, but my urgent need to flee soon overwhelmed the steady walk. By the time we reached Highway 1 and were following the coastline, my new companion and faithful dog were cantering at a matched pace along the gravel shoulder.

  My consciousness seemed to fade in and out of awareness as the night flew by to the beat of hooves and the chorus of wind. I let the animals take charge, only caring that we stuck to the highway that would eventually lead us home. We took occasional walking breaks and a few brief stops, but for the most part, we moved constantly through the chilly night.

  When the sun finally peeked over the hills to the east, I decided it was time to for a well-earned rest. Aside from the exhaustion of all involved, we needed to get off the road in case some of my former group members came after me. Or worse, in case there were Crazies out on a road trip.

  My body swayed to the steady, slow rhythm of the horse’s movements. We passed a sign declaring, “Manchester, POP. 462,” and I knew exactly where to stop for the day. My crazy aunt, Janet O’Connor, owned a ranch less than a mile south of town. Will she be there? Will she be alive?

  But the health status of my extended family didn’t surpass my new group’s need for a suitable rest stop. I dismounted and led the final quarter mile to Aunt Janet’s property on foot. The poor horse had carried me an unbelievable distance and deserved a cooldown before stopping.

  By the time we reached the house, my insides were knotted with anxiety. I’d never been overly fond of my aunt; her animosity toward her younger sister—my deceased mother—had driven a wedge between us. She’d always sneered at the decisions my mother had made—the decisions that had led to my birth and my mother’s death.

  My mother, Ceara O’Connor, had been a wild child. She ran away with an unknown American boy when she was seventeen, found herself pregnant and alone at eighteen, and died in childbirth at nineteen. Only Grams and her unwavering love had saved me from the intermittent bursts of guilt and depression that plagued my childhood. Aunt Janet, on the other hand, had taken those opportunities to remind me of her opinion of my mother—that she’d been reckless and selfish, and that I was better off without her. I’d never believed my aunt, and had grown to resent her.

  Regardless, the idea of finding one of my family members dead was almost more than I could handle. But I had to check, just in case. Leading the horse to the empty pasture, I sucked in deep breaths and steadied my nerves. If she’s dead, she’s dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But if she’s alive and needs help…I’ll never forgive myself for abandoning her.

  The sweaty horse heaved relieved breaths at the removal of her tack. I hauled everything into the barn, and after neatly arranging it all, set out for the house with my dog. I really don’t want to do this.

  As soon as I opened the back door, the stench from inside waylaid me like a freight train, carrying death and sadness as its cargo. I searched the house’s interior quickly and found my aunt in her bathroom, her corpse barely recognizable with its gray mottled tones and misshapen parts. She must have passed early on, I thought numbly.

  “Let’s go, Jack,” I said trying not to gag. He followed as I rushed from the house, gasping for the fresh, frigid morning air.

  I returned to the barn in a daze, found some oats, and brought them out to reward my new equine companion. Aunt Janet’s dead. What about Grams? No! Stop it! I needed a distraction.

  “What’s your name, Pretty Girl?” I asked the horse as she ambled closer, eager for the treat I offered. I thought back on all she’d done for me, providing a means of escape from a desperate situation. Without hesitation she’d taken me away, flying through the night like Pegasus.

  “I think I’ll call you ‘Wings’. What do you think?”

  She nudged me with her nose and raised her head to study me with an intensely blue eye. I had the odd impression that she was accepting the name.

  “Alright, Wings. Let’s get you washed up so we can rest,” I said, stroking her graceful brow.

  She nudged me again, eagerly this time.

  As I washed her, I took note of her beautiful coloring—large, coffee-brown splotches colored parts of her coat and mane, contrasting with the snow-white around them. What I’d thought was mud caking her legs turned out to be dark, crusted blood. Wings, however, showed no signs of injury.

  “What happened, Wings?”

  She snorted softly and looked away.

  Was it that bad? Or am I going crazy and having an imaginary conversation with a horse?

  She snorted again, and I eyed her suspiciously.

  When she was finally clean, brushed, and happily munching on dewy grasses, I settled myself in the barn. With a sleeping bag, a bed of hay, and a roof over my head, I knew my life could have been much worse at that moment. Jason and Chris could’ve been dead. Jack could’ve been dead. Crap, I could’ve been dead.

  Even though I’d just found my dead aunt’s body and even though I was separated indefinitely from the few living people I loved, my mind remained unnaturally calm. The thought that I’d done the right thing by protecting my friends comforted me, and my exhausted body coasted toward sleep. With my dog cuddled next to me, I almost felt content. Almost.

  22

  ZOE

  The steam was like a blanket. It enveloped me in its protective warmth, shielding me from the chilly air that awaited outside the locker room. We’d only had access to cold water at the cabin, and a hot shower was something I ha
dn’t been sure I would ever have the luxury of enjoying again. It was better than I remembered—it was intoxicating. I savored the feeling of the nearly scalding water as it washed over my adulterated skin, lessening the tension that saturated my battered, weak body.

  Although my muscles protested nearly every movement, especially my shoulder, something about the physical pain was comforting. It was a declaration that I was a survivor; despite the insanity and danger of the last couple weeks, I was still alive. I may have been wincing in pain, but I was still breathing.

  Grudgingly, I shut off the water and reached for my favorite oversized towel—it had been among the few possessions I’d taken from my house in Salem. As I limped toward the locker where I’d stowed my clothes, my wet flip flops squeaked against the cement floor.

  The locker room was dimly lit; the single working light bulb leaving the room full of shadows. Why didn’t anyone fix the lights? I wondered, only to shake the question from my mind. There was, no doubt, some deplorable reason Jones and Taylor would’ve left people to wander in almost complete darkness, vulnerable and unaware.

  After pulling on a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a white camisole, I reached into the locker for my long-sleeved shirt and hairbrush, only to find I’d forgotten them. Of course I did. I’d been scatterbrained all morning.

  I looked through the nearby lockers, hoping to find a misplaced sweatshirt or extra towel to wrap around my shoulders for the short trek back to my room. In my search, I caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror hanging inside one of the lockers. I was instantly thankful for the room’s dim lighting.

  Dark, wet hair framed my pale, battered face. My once delicate features were grossly altered. Normally, my lips were soft and pink, but now they were raw and split in several places. My eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, and the left side of my face was swollen and stained with deep purple and red bruises. At the sudden memory of Taylor’s breath on my neck, I looked away. I was glad the bulbs had burned out; I didn’t want to see the extent of how badly he’d hurt me. At least I could cover up the rest of my wounds with clothing.

  The heat of the shower was dispersing throughout the room, and I could hear the wind outside, whirling around the building. It seemed to be vacuuming out every last ounce of warmth. I shivered, eager to return to my room and the warmer clothes that awaited me there.

  Dipping my head down, I wrapped the towel around my wet hair and secured it with a twist. I gathered up my dirty clothes as quickly as I could before hobbling out of the locker room. As I passed through the heavy metal door, I grabbed the green hand towel I’d hung on the handle, signaling the showers were in use by a woman.

  Only six more doors, I noted as I shuffled down the hallway. Although the barracks were huge, our numbers were few, and we occupied only a portion of the dorm-like building’s first floor. The rooms were modest, each containing only a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, and a desk—though the number of boxes we’d filled while relocating the previous inhabitants’ belongings suggested otherwise.

  I had apparently wound my hair too tightly inside the towel—my already aching head was starting to feel like it was going to explode. The pressure was too painful to ignore, so I shifted my things into my left arm and attempted to pull the towel loose with my free hand. Abruptly, I tripped on my own flip flop and lost my balance, my ankle shrieking in pain.

  “Motherfu—” Thankfully, I caught myself before I fell onto the cold, unyielding cement floor. I straightened with an irritated grunt and yanked the towel once more. When it gave way, my hair fell over my eyes, blocking my vision.

  I took a step forward…and hit something solid and warm. “Shit!” I stumbled back, dropping my dirty clothes and damp towel. Strong hands grasped my upper arms just in time to keep me from crashing into the wall, making my bruised shoulder throb.

  “Are you okay?” a deep voice asked, low and tense.

  Peering through the tangled, black curtain of my hair, I saw Jake—he was frowning. As soon as our eyes met, he let go of my bare arms.

  I was surprised to see him, the man who had saved my life, and words escaped me. I’d wanted to talk to him all day, to thank him for helping me. However, before I could say a word, he strode down the hallway and disappeared around a corner. Only then did I note that he’d used both arms to prevent my clumsiness from adding more bruises to my battered body. He was shot in the shoulder…I saw it! Maybe it was just a flesh wound?

  I limped the rest of the way to my room, shaken by the encounter. I snatched a purple, long-sleeved shirt from the wardrobe, put it on, and began hobbling back and forth. Why couldn’t I just say “thank you”? It’s not that difficult!

  I stopped in front of the small window and peeked through the mini blinds, just as I’d done when I’d awakened. I could see the woods beyond the compound—the pines jutted up into the sky like arrowheads along a steep ridgeline. The window afforded me a safe view of the place that haunted me every time I closed my eyes. Chills pricked my skin as I remembered the horrors that had taken place in those woods the previous night. No matter how many showers I’d taken, I hadn’t been able to scrub away the memory of Taylor’s filthy fingers sliding along my flesh. I could almost feel his hot breath on my face.

  “Ahhh!” I yelled as I spun away from the window, too frustrated to mute my outrage. It was infuriating that I’d put myself in that position. Knowing how close I’d come to being that insatiable pervert’s next course made me want to kick my own ass. I wanted a do-over. I wanted to show the bastard that I could hurt him the way he’d hurt me. I wanted to see fear in his eyes. But I knew that was impossible. Besides, if I was being honest with myself, I never wanted to revisit that terrifying moment—ever. I’d do whatever it took to make sure I never felt that hopeless or powerless again.

  Gathering my wet hair into a ponytail, I thought about Mr. Jake Vaughn. Why’d he push me away in the woods? Even in the hallway, he’d fled as fast as he could. Was he embarrassed that he was wounded? And who was that blood-covered woman? I couldn’t figure out why he’d been avoiding me after saving my life. Not that I expected him to comfort me with words or to wrap his arms around me—although my face felt flush thinking about the latter. I flung the thought away. I can’t believe he even had to save my life! I was pissed at my ineptitude, feeling both disappointment and regret.

  I tried not to be offended by Jake’s rejection, but my efforts failed, and I clenched my trembling hands.

  You know, it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile, Dani would have told me. You really shouldn’t do that, Zo…I know you don’t want those wrinkles. I couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the words she’d said to me so many times.

  Dani’s imaginary voice added, Look on the bright side, reminding me to keep my pessimism in check. I was lucky to be not only alive, but relatively unscathed after my close call with the spawns of Satan.

  I’ll talk to Jake tomorrow, I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I focused on relaxing the tension that had seeped back into my body. I pictured towering redwood trees, seagulls swooping over the ocean, and a puppy-aged Jack chasing floating seaweed at the edge of the surf. And then I thought of Sammy…and Dave. I saw flashes of red, hating him for the pain he’d caused me. Worse, I hated myself for ever giving him the opportunity to be such a douchebag.

  “Son of a bitch!” I sat down on the bed, working up to a really good scream, when knuckles rapped on the door.

  Sarah bounced in with a stack of clothes. “Hey, stranger. How’re you feeling?” She busied herself by placing my clean laundry in the wardrobe.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said sarcastically, feeling completely useless.

  She faced me, wearing a sympathetic smile. Her eyes were prettier than I remembered—chocolate-brown with long, dark lashes fanning around her eyes. With her elegant angles and bubbly personality, it was no wonder Biggs liked her so much.

  Her features twisted as she took in my appearance. “Your swelling’s gone down
a little, but your bruising’s gotten a lot worse.”

  “Great…” I sighed, making my sides ache, and flung myself back onto the bed. I instantly regretted it.

  “You don’t look like you’ve been resting,” Sarah said, and I could feel her eyes on me.

  “Of course I have. I’ve been doing absolutely nothing all day.”

  “Pacing and brooding isn’t resting, Zoe. And you really shouldn’t be walking around on your ankle. Why don’t you sit and sketch or something? It might help clear your mind.”

  “How do you know I’ve been pacing?” I asked defensively.

  Sarah grinned and picked up my hairbrush off the desk. “Cooper’s been watching your shadow under the door all morning.” She motioned for me to sit up, pulled my hair out of its elastic band, and began brushing. “You need to rest. You’ve been through a lot and—”

  “I can’t stand being useless,” I complained. “I feel like I should be doing something. I hate being coddled.” Her final stroke through my tangled locks jerked my head back. “That isn’t helping my mood either. I can brush my own hair,” I snipped.

  “Then do it, because you look horrible.” She relented and tossed the brush onto the bed, ignoring my glare. “I’ll leave you alone, but you’re just being—”

  “Zoe,” Sanchez said, finishing Sarah’s sentence as she strode into the room.

  “Yeah, sure, that’s what I was gonna say.” Sarah studied me appraisingly. “Not that you will, but let me know if you need anything.” Shaking her head, she walked out of the room, shutting the heavy metal door behind her.

  Sanchez stared at me, her eyes narrow slits of contempt and judgment. “You don’t look like you’ve been resting.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” I muttered, straightening the wool blanket beneath me.