Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  There’s banana bread for dessert, made from the bananas we rescued. John gave me today’s eggs from his chickens to bake it, now that he’s got enough in his homemade incubator. He has eight chickens; he wouldn’t get rid of any of Caroline’s “girls” after she died, even though come summer he’s swimming in eggs.

  “Tomorrow we’re taking a ride,” John says. “Target practice for everyone. We shouldn’t do it here. Noise seems to attract them.”

  “Sam was shot,” I say. “That means the infected may not be the only thing we have to worry about.”

  Everyone’s confused by the scene we found in town. There were Lexers, but obviously there’s someone else out there, too. Someone who killed Sam. Sam, who wanted nothing more than to protect everyone. I can’t imagine who would want him dead.

  “I want you all to know how to use a firearm safely and accurately,” John says. “So, bright and early tomorrow I’ll drive over, and we’ll head out in the two trucks. I might have a surprise, too.”

  61

  We’ve driven through the surrounding state forest to a clearing. If anyone follows the noise they won’t know where we live. Ana complained that we were overreacting, but Penny didn’t deign to answer her.

  “Okay,” John says, his eyes stern. “Rule Number One: Never, ever point a gun at something you don’t intend to shoot. Loaded, unloaded, it doesn’t matter. Got it?”

  He stands in front of Penny, Ana, James and Peter, hands laced behind his back like a drill instructor. The four of them nod and hold their guns gingerly.

  “Rule Number Two: Treat every gun like it’s loaded.

  “Number three: Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re firing your weapon.

  “Number four: Always clean your gun after use. That way it’ll work when you need it. You’ll be cleaning your weapons later. Any questions?”

  “John, I was looking at my gun, and I didn’t see the safety,” Penny says.

  “Revolvers don’t have safeties, at least not the kind you’re thinking of.” He taps his head. “This, between your ears, is your most important safety. Use it properly, and you can’t go wrong.”

  They face the targets he’s strung up. Nelly and I stand behind to help with stances and sighting. On John’s word they fire, one by one.

  Penny holds the gun out by her side when she’s finished. “I just don’t like holding it. Or shooting it.”

  “Okay,” John says. He watches her reload. “You don’t have to like it. Just be able to aim and hit the target. You need to get comfortable with it. Keep going.”

  The biggest surprise is Peter. Every bullet hits the target.

  “That was great! You hit every one,” I say enthusiastically. “You’re a natural.”

  John eyes his target. “You say you’ve never shot a gun?”

  “Nope,” Peter says.

  John claps him on the shoulder and smiles under his bushy beard. “Well, you did great, son. Keep shooting like that and you’ll be a better shot than I am one day.”

  Peter tries hard to keep his face unmoving, but his eyes light up a little. I’m pleased he might have found something he’s good at and grin at him. His mouth turns down.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” he says, so only I can hear. “You line up the sights and pull the trigger. Anyone with half a brain could do it.”

  My smile falls as he moves away to reload. I know he was proud of himself. I saw it. It must be because I said something. I pick up a rifle and imagine pointing it at Peter. But that would break Rule Number One, unless I actually shoot him. It’s tempting, but instead I pretend the target is him and hit every time.

  John and Nelly take John’s truck and head to a nearby farm as the rest of us head home. John will only tell us where they’re going, but not what the surprise is, saying he doesn’t want us to be disappointed if he comes home empty-handed. Back at the house, James talks excitedly about shooting; he was a decent shot. Even Ana seemed to enjoy it. I think they’re feeling they’ve gained some control over all of this.

  And they’re not entirely wrong: guns saved our lives yesterday. Quiet weapons would have been better, though. There’s no sense in inviting more Lexers to the party if you can avoid it. And even though yesterday showed me that I can hold my own, I don’t feel brave or like this situation is any more manageable. I’m pretty sure that whoever said facing your fear makes you braver wasn’t facing the prospect of millions of walking dead.

  62

  John’s surprise arrives in the back of his pickup. It’s a little mama goat and her kid, both a rich brown with white markings. She looks at us with liquid eyes, and the baby hides behind her between frantic nursings.

  John strokes the doe’s head. “I was set to buy her this spring. I missed goat milk, and since the grandkids were coming for most of the summer, I figured they’d like to milk her, too. The kid, a girl, was born a few weeks ago. I thought they’d live in your little barn.”

  I don’t know anything about goats, or even goat milk. But I imagine it’s got to be better than the milk that comes powdered in a can, which tastes exactly like dried out milk flavored with metal can. He unties and lifts them out of the truck.

  “So, is the farmer you got them from okay?” James asks.

  “Yeah, he and his wife and three kids, teenagers, are fine. Last name’s Franklin. You might remember him, Cassie. They had a petting zoo years ago. We’ve got a plan to meet up once a week to check in.”

  I do remember the petting zoo, how the goats used to crack us up. They would eat anything, including our shoelaces and the ends of my sleeves.

  “They’re so sweet.” I laugh as the kid bravely walks over and nibbles on my sleeve just as I remember. “You’d better show us how to take care of them. I don’t know the first thing about goats.”

  The mama goat is named Flora, and James suggests Fauna for the kid. John also brought back hay, and we put a layer in the little pen in the barn. A couple bags of food are included, but John says that goats will eat anything, and now that spring is here there’ll be plenty.

  And spring is here. Every day I check the strawberry plants out back, and today I saw a bud, which will turn into a strawberry in June. The fruit trees have exploded with blossoms. My mouth waters at the thought of fresh fruit. The apples from the store and John’s root cellar are long gone. It panics me to see how quickly the canned peaches are going; they’re the last ones my mom canned. I allow myself one small concession to my insanity and hide a jar in my closet.

  Seed trays cover every available window spot. Tiny sprouts poke out of the dark soil. I serenade them daily. I don’t know if it helps, but my mom used to sing the plants silly songs to make us laugh. She said it made them grow faster, and her plants were always big and healthy.

  John’s old farmhouse looks like a greenhouse exploded inside it too, and he fights a constant battle with Laddie’s enthusiastic tail toppling them. I keep asking John to move in with us, but he refuses. He says it would be too cramped or that his snoring would drive us all out, but I think he wants to be there in case Jenny arrives. Tom’s stationed in Germany, and John hopes he’s safe on a base somewhere.

  Tonight we’re going to run the generator and listen in using our new antenna. We’ve heard what sounded like a report from New Hampshire, but we keep losing them. James has written down any promising frequencies to try.

  We make the trip to John’s in the late afternoon. A green mist of new leaves has settled on the trees, and birds call as they swoop across the trail. We settle down in John’s big kitchen, where he’s set up the radio. There’s stew cooking on the cook stove, made with stored carrots and potatoes. It smells delicious.

  James turns knobs and dials. The handset doesn’t work, but we can still listen in. We lean toward the sound like compass needles pointing north. Ana may be most eager; she’s been talking about this all day, thinking it’ll prove it’s not as bad as we think. She helped me plant seeds under Penny’s orders, until I fina
lly told her to find something else to do. Instead of planting them carefully, she jabbed the seeds into the soil like they had done her a personal grievance.

  I’m doing my best to be civil to Ana and Peter. I try to talk to them like I do to everyone else, except it’s hard when it’s obvious they can barely tolerate anything I say. They do the bare minimum and talk incessantly about the first thing they’ll do when they get back to New York. They have a game they play, which Nelly and I have named Zombie Zagat. One of them names a restaurant or bar and the other lists the best food, the best drinks and all the annoying people they might know in common who frequented there.

  There’s some static and a voice, an American voice, leaps out.

  “Gotcha!” James yells.

  We crowd around him and listen to a man’s voice reporting our first live news in weeks. “…157th Air Refueling Wing, which is now located at the Mount Washington Regional Airport in Whitefield, New Hampshire. We ask all citizens to disregard pre-recorded broadcasts that offer Pease Air National Guard Base at Portsmouth International Airport in Portsmouth, New Hampshire as an official Safe Zone. The base was abandoned due to uncontrollable levels of Bornavirus infection.

  “The remaining National Guard has removed itself to the Mount Washington Regional Airport and established a Safe Zone in this area. All uninfected citizens are asked to make their way to this location if they are in need of a Safe Zone. We have been in contact with several other locations that are also listing themselves as Safe Zones in the northeast. These are civilian Safe Zones and are not affiliated with the United States government. We know of no other governmental Safe Zones within a five-hundred-mile radius.”

  That means every other one has fallen. I grab Nelly’s hand when I realize that means almost everyone in the northeast is dead. Maybe some are holed up like us, but how many have enough food that they won’t have to leave?

  “The following locations have been declared Safe Zones in the northeastern United States: The sister towns of Moose River and Jackman, Maine. These towns are serviced by the Newton Field Airport, if you have access to light aircraft.

  “Tolland, Massachusetts has room for three hundred people and can help relocate others to another Safe Zone. Follow signs on Route 57 to barricaded area.

  “Kingdom Come Farm in Vermont. Located fifteen miles north of Lowell, Vermont on Kingdom Road. Take 105 north, right at Trunk Road, left onto Kingdom Road.”

  Nelly’s grip tightens like a vise. I look at him, and he shakes his head, but something’s going on. The broadcaster lists a couple more Safe Zones and continues.

  “There may be other safe areas, but at this time we are in communication with these five Safe Zones. Please make your way to one if you are in need of assistance. Note that all persons will be checked for signs of infection and will be barred from entry if they are infected. All obviously infected will be shot on sight.

  “The last contact we had with the United States government was a week ago. They assured us that they expected the situation to last only another few weeks.”

  Up until now the man’s voice has been carefully modulated, but now I hear a crack in it.

  “However, we have received reports that infected may remain active for a number of years before finally succumbing. We urge you all to remain vigilant as you make your way to a Safe Zone. This broadcast will be repeated every hour and updated every day at seven p.m. Eastern Standard Time.”

  There’s a pause and then an addition in a soft voice. “Be careful out there. Don’t take any chances. Travel armed and light. Move quietly. God bless you all, and God bless America.”

  The radio goes quiet, and we listen to the hiss that’s left behind.

  Nelly pulls me by the hand that holds his. “Come with me.”

  I follow him to the porch. He looks excited; his hair is standing up all over the place, and he runs a hand down his cheeks.

  “That farm they named? Kingdom Come.” He looks down at me as I nod. “I think, well, I’m pretty sure that it’s the name of Adrian’s farm. I’m not positive, Cass. I know it was in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, but it had a name that had Kingdom in it, too. I could swear it.”

  There’s a rush of air in my ears, and I don’t hear what he says next. Of course Adrian is running a Safe Zone. Nelly’s work boots shuffle on the wood slats of the porch.

  “—don’t want you to get too excited. I might be wrong,” he finishes.

  “Okay,” I say, but I’m beaming because I know it’s true.

  It’s just how I pictured. I can see Adrian right now, the way his face looks so stern when he’s serious, although his eyes are always warm. He would have seen this all coming; he would have started planning even before we did. And if the farm is anything like how he always dreamed, it’s close to self-sufficient.

  “You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?”

  Nelly snaps his fingers by my face, but I’m too far gone. I can feel him out there, just like they say. Adrian is alive.

  63

  The mood around the table is much more somber. At first I’m riding on a wave of happiness but soon the excitement fades. Knowing—okay, suspecting—Adrian’s safe is enough to make me satisfied for now. But the hope that I can reach him dissipates as we figure out how high the infection rates must be.

  Peter and Ana sit, dejected, while they listen to the rest of us crunch numbers and shudder at the thought of what’s only miles away. I know Penny is trying not to show it, but Maria weighs heavily on her right now. I just hope she can hold out for as long as it takes.

  And it’s pretty clear now that that will be longer than any of us thought, which supports what John’s buddy said. I don’t know how it’s possible. People decompose. If they’re dead it seems impossible they’re not rotting away.

  “That’s the one thing no one could ever explain in all the zombie stories. And I feel stupid even bringing pop culture up as a frame of reference,” James says. “But it was always some theory like the microbes that advance decomposition avoid infected flesh. Every Lexer we’ve seen looks like they’re decomposing, just not fast. So maybe some will last six months. Maybe it also depends on climate. It’s possible that in the winter they’ll freeze and their muscles won’t work in the spring.”

  “Like meat in the freezer,” Nelly says. He holds up a piece of beef he’s skewered on his fork. “This beef is muscle, just like us. The cells burst open when it’s frozen, right? If that happens, then come spring maybe they wouldn’t be able to move. Plus, we could kill them while they’re frozen.”

  Ana lets out a little moan at this and runs into John’s living room. Penny goes after her.

  “Sorry,” James says. “I forget not everyone can take talking about it.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to,” I say. I studiously avoid looking at Peter. “You have to know things will never be the same if you listened to what that man said.”

  John’s been silent, leaning back in his chair. Now he gets up to clear the table, but not before I see that his eyes are red. I jump up to help and stand by the sink, where he pretends to be involved in washing dishes.

  “I’d bet good money on Jenny,” I say.

  He squeezes my hand with his soapy one and nods. I would’ve bet good money on Eric too. But he’s not here, and he should have been by now. I try to feel him out there, the way I think I can with Adrian, but all I get is a knot in my stomach.

  64

  Everyone loves Flora and Fauna. Their antics as they frolic around never fail to make me smile. I once read that before television people would watch their chickens for entertainment. John’s talking about bringing half the chickens to live in our coop, plus some of the ones that will hatch soon. Then we’ll have two channels.

  We’ve got no refrigerator, except for what the generator keeps cold at John’s, so we store the milk there. The milk is great; it’s the getting the milk out that’s hard. It takes John five to ten minutes to milk Flora, but it takes us
thirty.

  It’s the third week of May, but the actual date means less than it used to. Our calendar is set to strawberry time, so it’s a few weeks until strawberries, and we’re counting down the days. We’ve planted the spinach and other greens. The pea plants have grabbed hold of the trellis with their curly tendrils. I found my mom’s garden plans from previous years, complete with her doodles and little asides about each plant. It feels like she stands over my shoulder, directing me in her gentle way.

  We’ve all been assigned chores. The only people who actually need assigning are Peter and Ana, who’ve been walking around like robots since the first broadcast. We’ve listened every night since. Kingdom Come Farm is always listed, which means they’re still okay. A few more Safe Zones have been added as well. Every night I wait, while my heart pounds, until I hear them say those three words: Kingdom Come Farm. Then I say goodnight to Adrian and congratulate us both on another day survived.

  We have no way to communicate out. James says the cord may have a short in it. But we listen. We’ve picked up other broadcasts. There’s a group down in Virginia who say that D.C. is completely destroyed. It was bombed in a final failed attempt to stop the spread.

  Every day we hear something new from survivors who have figured out access to radios and antennas. People who want to make sure that they aren’t the only ones. There’s a man in Kansas who says it’s not so bad where he is, now that he’s killed most of his neighbors, and that he’d welcome some company. Then he plays the guitar and cries before signing off.

  Peter knows that we suspect Adrian is in Vermont, and these last few weeks have convinced me that my happiness conversely affects his. The cheerier I am, the angrier he is. He scowls at me and mutters at everyone except Ana. I know that Peter and Ana never hoped to be living on a farm shoveling goat crap, but it sure as shit beats being dead. And, frankly, I’m so sick of them I could scream.