After the Ending

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  I closed my eyes and nodded, holding back the worried tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. Zoe’s strong. She’s a fighter. She’s okay…she has to be.

  With our fingers intertwined, we headed back into the tasting room, to a corner where tables were arranged oddly on their sides. Combined with the walls, they created an isolated, tent-sized alcove with a narrow opening near the wall.

  “Jason!” I exclaimed, laughing. “You built a fort!”

  He watched me timidly, possibly a first for him. “I thought we could sleep here…together,” he said softly, and all his shyness disappeared. “I don’t want to share you…not with anyone. Not in any way.” Oh. Wow.

  It was my turn to play bashful as I took in two sleeping bags laid out side-by-side within the makeshift walls. “Can they be, you know, joined?” I asked, gazing up at him through my lashes.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “They already are.”

  Looking closer, I could see that the sleeping bags weren’t just next to each other, but were zipped together. Narrowing my eyes, I said, “A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

  Jason’s smile widened into a wicked grin, and he led me by the hand into our little haven. Watching me closely, he slipped into the forest green sleeping bags. I followed, and once we were both lying down, he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me closer against him.

  “I want you…and I will have you,” he whispered as his fingers trailed up and down my arm, giving me goose bumps. “Is that presumptuous?”

  I shook my head, smiling against his faded blue t-shirt.

  And I will have you. It was my last thought before falling asleep.

  42

  ZOE

  It was practically a miracle that we arrived at Sarah’s without a hitch. While the rest of us waited down the road under the skeletal branches of an Elm tree, Sanchez and Harper did a sweep of the house and grounds. Standing beside the van, Biggs and I gawked at the picture-perfect plantation home before us. It was ivory with black shutters, and a porch wrapped around both the first and second stories. Due to its grandeur, I half expected to see Rhett Butler walk out between the Ionic columns and greet us in the circular drive.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed, feeling completely inadequate in jeans and a Fort Knox sweatshirt.

  “I know, right?” Sarah said as she strolled up behind Biggs and me. Crossing her arms, she stood in the space between us.

  “I didn’t know there were plantations in Missouri,” I said.

  “Well…,” Sarah said, drawing out the word. “It’s not exactly old, per se, but it is original. Daddy designed it and had it built for my mom for their tenth anniversary.”

  My eyebrows shot up with surprise. “Wow, that’s a…nice gift.”

  Biggs whistled, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. “I know you said your parents were well-off, but I didn’t realize you meant capital R-I-C-H.”

  “Same thing.” Sarah shrugged, and I could tell she was starting to get self-conscious. “Good for us, right? We probably have everything we need in this place.”

  Sanchez and Harper finally exited through the front door, giving us a thumbs-up—the house was empty of both Crazies and rotting corpses, and we could proceed inside.

  Biggs and Sarah moved Dave’s truck up to the house while I followed in the van. As I drove through the gate and up the extended driveway, I had a better view of the grounds. They were sprawling, with hundreds of live oaks spreading over the hills beyond the house. It was obvious that the lawn and flower beds had once been perfectly manicured, but they had been neglected for weeks—the plants were withered, and the grass was overgrown.

  After unloading the vehicles, we made our way through the giant, black double doors and into the house. The foyer was bright and expansive, like Jay’s house in The Great Gatsby. Tiles of ivory marble with gray and black swirls stretched to pristine white walls, where hand-painted, smoke-gray vines twisted ornately above white wainscoting. Long, black runners climbed mahogany staircases that were flanked by intricate, wrought iron banisters—the twin staircases gently wound up opposite walls to meet at a landing directly above the main hall. Part of me expected the Von Trapp family to march out onto the landing. Pastoral paintings of rolling hills and golden plains hung on the walls leading to the second floor, and there were wilted palms on either side of the bottom steps. I could see a grand piano beside a fireplace in a sitting room to the right, and black leather couches and a wall of old-looking books—all different colors and sizes—in the room to the left. At least four mahogany doors were visible upstairs, presumably leading to bedrooms.

  Although the house was practically a piece of art itself, it was the paintings that held my attention. I took a step toward the nearest piece, barely able to contain my excitement. The landscape resembled Thomas Cole’s, The Fountain of Vaucluse, with its jutting mountain tops and a winding river that raged through a canyon, but something was different—the clouds seemed unfinished, and there was too little shading.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, my mouth gaping. It’s an earlier version…it’s an original Thomas Cole.

  “What’s wrong Baby Girl?” Harper asked absently as he carried some of the medical equipment for Jake into the library.

  “Nothing,” I said, knowing Harper wouldn’t share my astonishment. I peeled my eyes away from the painting and approached him, promising myself I would examine all of the artwork later. “What can I do to help?”

  Harper reassured me he didn’t need any help, so wanting to keep my mind off Jake’s recovery as much as possible, I busied myself with listless tasks.

  After taking inventory of the food in the kitchen and the enormous pantries, I added our reserves to the count. I checked one of the bathrooms for running water and found that the plumbing, like the electricity, wasn’t working. I hoped we’d remedy that once Biggs hooked up our generator to the well pump like he planned. I noticed little things, like the thick layer of dust that covered the shelves and furniture, and the stale smell in the air, leading me to believe the place hadn’t been inhabited for months. Where are you, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson?

  As I rummaged through various cupboards and drawers throughout the first floor, I heard Sarah’s voice coming from the room with the piano. Following the sound, I called ahead, “Sarah, do you have candles? Where…” I trailed off as I realized she was bickering with Biggs.

  “No one’s gonna get us,” Sarah said in exasperation as they entered the foyer. “The place hasn’t been ransacked or anything. Clearly no one knows this house is even here.”

  “This is a city, Sarah, foothills or not. There are Crazies around, I guarantee it. Do you want to take a chance that Clara followed us somehow and will try to kill us in our sleep?” Biggs asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Sarah blanched. “No need to be so severe, Babe.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not assuming anything anymore. I’m teaching you how to use a gun too. You see that psycho bitch, you shoot her until you know she’s dead,” he ordered and walked away.

  Sarah looked at me with alarm. “He’s losing his mind,” she mouthed. I smiled as she walked closer and grabbed my bag. “Come on, I picked out a special room for you,” she said. “Since we don’t know how long we’ll be here, you’ll need your own space. Trust me. This house brings out the crazy in people.” She looked back at me with an apologetic smile before leading me up the left staircase.

  I followed her to one of the doors visible from the bottom floor and stopped short as she looked over her shoulder, her face suddenly aglow with excitement. “This was actually my favorite room growing up,” she said, dropping my bag and opening the door to peek inside. She hesitated like she was expecting someone to jump out. Noticing my confusion, she smiled. “I can’t stop thinking about Clara now. Sorry.” She flung the door open, and I dragged my duffel bag and backpack into the room.

  Compared to any bedroom I’d ever lived in, it was humungous and
fit for an aristocrat. A huge, four-post bed was backed against the left wall, an antique writing desk was situated in the far right corner, and a plush, camel-colored fainting couch sat in front of drawn, brocade drapes.

  “Why do you like this room so much?” I asked. “It’s amazing, but what about your bedroom?”

  “Yeah, well, I was grounded a lot, so I got tired of my room.” She waved the idea away and grabbed a handful of the drapes. As she yanked them open, I was awed by what she revealed.

  “The best view in all of St. Louis…at least I think so.” She gestured to the giant picture window overlooking what I thought was a pond at first, but from my vantage point, I could see was actually a silvery lake extending between the hills. “My own little paradise growing up,” she explained.

  “It’s beautiful.” The sun was sinking into the horizon—a golden sphere seeming to set the withered forest ablaze.

  “Yeah, I know. I used to whine all the time about wanting this to be my room, but Mom said she spent too much money decorating mine to give in.”

  “Decorating?” I pictured pink and purple princess wallpaper and ballerina figurines cluttering her shelves. “Decorating how, exactly?”

  Sarah smiled at me and shrieked with glee. “Come see!” she said, running out of the room and down the hall.

  I dashed after her, laughing as I tried to keep up and fearing I’d get lost if I didn’t. “Wow, that’s enthusiasm,” I muttered.

  Pausing outside a door, Sarah turned to me. Her face was serious, and her finger poked my breastbone. “You have to promise you won’t judge me, Zoe. I went through a princess…fairy…phase…thing and my mom never let me live it down.”

  I tried to control the smile threatening to spread across my face as I promised, “Scout’s honor.” I was barely able to contain my anticipation.

  “Alright,” she said and threw open the door, revealing her fairy forest hideaway.

  A mural covered the walls—mossy tree trunks reached from floor to ceiling, ferns sprouting at their bases and leafy branches stretching overhead. The canopy bed was pink and white with feathers hanging from the bed posts. Pixie clothes made from feathers, twigs, and flower petals hung between the trees on the walls, and a round mirror framed with metal twigs took residence by the desk. Silk ivy weaved around the doors and windows, and the closet was like another world—a layer of tulle separated it from the living space, and I could only imagine what I might find inside.

  “Wow,” was all I could think to say.

  Sarah turned to me slowly, barely able to contain her building gaiety. “I know!” she squealed. Grabbing my hands, she started jumping up and down, screeching and giggling. I couldn’t help but join her.

  “Why are we so excited?” I asked breathlessly as we hopped in place.

  After a moment, Sarah dragged me over to the bed and pulled me up onto it. “Come on, Zoe, you know you want to,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes, unsure why I was indulging her, but I couldn’t resist. We bounced up and down, squealing like twelve-year-olds. When we finally fell back on the mattress, winded and elated, it felt like we were best friends who’d just been asked to the prom by the cutest boys in school.

  Our ridiculousness made me think of Dani, and I wished she was with me. She would’ve praised me for my silliness and then chided me for not letting go more frequently. I wondered how she was doing. I wanted to tell her about Jake and Clara, about Dave…but I hadn’t been able to before we’d left. She’s probably freaking out…wondering if I’m dead.

  “What are you thinking about?” Sarah asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  Chest still heaving from the exertion, I rolled onto my side to face her. “I was just missing my computer.”

  “Once we hook up the generators, you can use the one in the study,” she offered. “If it works, I mean.”

  A relieved, grateful smile stretched across my face. “That would be great.”

  “Well,” Sarah said, sitting up on her knees and straightening her bubblegum pink Fort Knox t-shirt. “I know it’s moronic, but thanks for humoring me in a frolic. It’s sort of nice to be home, even if it’s under such shitty circumstances.”

  The clearing of a throat startled us, and we both looked at the doorway. Biggs walked in, an exaggerated expression of horror on his face. “Are you expecting me to sleep in this room?” he asked fearfully.

  Sarah grinned. “Yep.”

  “Right. I figured as much.” Biggs plastered a counterfeit smile on his face as he looked at me with a “please kill me now” expression. “Harper asked about you, Zoe. I think Jake might be—”

  Before Biggs could finish speaking, I was up and out of the room. I ran down the hall and stairs, careful not to stumble down the staircase, and flung myself into the library.

  “Is he awake?” I panted, hurrying over to the bed situated in the corner between two walls of books. Jake lay there, still bandaged and motionless.

  Harper eyed me curiously, appraising my appearance. “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said, smoothing my clothes self-consciously. “Why?”

  “Your hair is all crazy and…stuff.”

  “Oh, whatever, H. Did he wake up?” I looked back at Jake’s body. It doesn’t look like he’s moved at all.

  “He was moaning a minute ago, but he hasn’t moved at all. I upped his morphine dose, but I need you to tell me if he needs more.”

  “Is moaning bad or good?” I asked, walking around the bed. I placed my hand on Jake’s bandaged arm, opening my mind to him and waiting for one of his brief moments of semi-consciousness.

  “I think it’s a good thing, Baby Girl.”

  Jake’s mind roused momentarily. I could feel his confusion and fear, but his panic and misery were almost nonexistent.

  “He’s okay for now,” I reassured Harper. “I think you need to take a breather, though. I’ll stay with him. It’ll make me feel better anyway.”

  Harper nodded, but before leaving, he winked. “Fix your locks, Croft. I don’t want you scaring him back into unconsciousness if he wakes up.”

  Rolling my eyes, I snatched a throw pillow off the nearest couch and tossed it at Harper just as the door closed behind him. Finding a mirror in the library wasn’t difficult—they were everywhere throughout the house, making all the rooms appear larger than they already were. I studied my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall behind the couch and snorted. Horrendous.

  Pulling my hair out of its braid, I combed my fingers through it before gathering it into a ponytail. I could see the muscles on my arms flex as my hands worked and was pleasantly surprised to know my training was paying off. I wasn’t a badass by a longshot, but I was different, stronger, better—what I needed to be if I would continue to survive.

  I remembered the Zoe who’d worked at the art gallery—the prim and proper, reserved professional who’d sold artwork, curated shows, and struggled as a starving artist. She would shake hands and smile demurely when all she wanted was to tell clients they had horrible taste in art.

  And then I remembered the Zoe who’d worked at Earl’s. The flirty, cocky, mysterious woman who would bat her eyelashes if it meant she’d get a better tip or skimp on putting alcohol in a drink if a customer was being an asshole.

  What Zoe am I now? Shaking the inconsequential question from my mind, I searched the shelves of books lining the walls. I studied the bindings, looking for stories that seemed interesting enough to read to Jake.

  How They Work: A guide to mechanical engines…Boring.

  The Ultimate Man’s Survival Guide: Recovering the Lost Art of Manhood…I’ll snag that one for later.

  Julius Caesar…Too difficult.

  Sense and Sensibility…Jake would kill me.

  Journey to the Center of the Earth…Hmmm…

  That’s when I found it—Alexander Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo, broken into two volumes, stood beside its classical companions. Removing the first volume from its restin
g place among other aged texts, I inspected its worn, navy-blue binding before opening its cover. I gently fingered the brittle, age-stained pages to find the date I was looking for—1846. Why am I not surprised they have a first edition?

  I pushed an oversized leather armchair to Jake’s bedside, settled in, and began reading aloud. The antique pages turned quickly, and the more I read, the more engrossed I became with Edmond’s story.

  Before I knew it, days had passed, and I’d read the entire book nearly three times. Every time Edmond escaped from Chateau d’If and reclaimed his freedom, I hoped Jake would break free from the mental purgatory his injuries had trapped him within. When he woke, would he tell me my translations of the French names had improved or that my commentary was rubbish? He would probably tell me I was horrible at reading aloud since I didn’t change my intonation for the different characters. But I continued reading anyway.

  When my voice grew hoarse from overuse, I sketched, trying to capture the sunsets that reached above the lake each day, and when I grew frustrated with drawing, I talked to Jake. I told him how strange it was sleeping in such a large house and that I felt like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind as I made my grand entrance down the staircase every morning. Except, instead of a hoop-skirted gown, I wore sweats or jeans. I told him that he didn’t have to make Cooper sleep outside my door anymore because the dog slept with me every night and followed me everywhere I went anyway.

  Some nights I drank too much and blubbered on about my dreams and my family. I told Jake about Dani and how she was the only person who’d ever cared enough to look out for me. I explained that she was more than a friend, more than a sister…that she was part of me. “That’s why I have to get to her,” I told him, desperately wanting him to understand.

  As the days passed and I ran out of activities to keep my mind occupied, panic resurfaced. On our fourth day at Sarah’s house, Harper decided to check the burns beneath Jake’s bandages. “I should’ve done it sooner, but I didn’t want to disturb any healing.” He sighed. “There was no bleed-through…I’m hoping that’s a good sign.”