Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  He knew there was good out there in the world, hidden in places like campgrounds and tiny lake islands. And even if he arrived at Kingdom Come to find they hadn’t made it there, he wouldn’t give up. The thought made the inside of his cheek bloody, but he had to entertain it. It was reality.

  Okay, that had been enough entertaining of reality. He concentrated on the road. It’d turned into one and a half lanes of rutted, dried mud. If Rich hadn’t assured him that it went through, he would have turned back by now. Finally, he came out onto a road that looked like it had been driven on by something other than logging trucks. He followed it north, branching onto smaller roads with the occasional tiny town center and groups of Lexers loitering around the general stores and empty intersections.

  He’d just passed the point of charted territory when he hit his first road blockage. How a traffic jam came to be in the middle of this stretch of dirt road was beyond him, but there were four cars and no way around. He looked into the woods to make sure they were empty and kept the scuffing of his boots to a minimum while he meandered around the scene. There was a one-armed body in a car, head leaning against the window.

  He pushed between it and the car alongside and almost lost his shit when the body moved. Its head slammed against the window, the leathery skin of its mummified face leaving flakes in its wake. It knelt on the seat, its red-veined eyes hungry. Peter breathed out and watched it struggle. Sometimes it felt as though this were a dream—a nightmare, really. That there was such a thing as zombies was unbelievable. Maybe Nat should hold out for that sparkly vampire.

  He walked to the lead car, a silver Prius angled across the road. The cars behind had slammed into it when it’d stopped short after hitting something. That something was under its front wheel, still alive. Or undead, take your pick. It reached its arms up and clacked its teeth, so eager that it almost separated from its legs pinned under the tire. Peter stabbed his machete through its eye.

  The Prius’s door was open, but the keys were gone. There was no other way to shift it into neutral that he knew of. He bet John could’ve done it. The most Peter knew about cars was how to change a tire, check the oil and things like that—he wasn’t a complete moron—but put him under a hood and he was lost. Feeling like an idiot for trying, he attempted to push the Prius out of the way. He might have been a superhero, according to Nat, but there was no way the car was moving.

  He passed the car with the zombie inside and gave it the finger when it went crazy again. Juvenile, maybe, but it made him feel better. It was time to backtrack. Four hours into the drive and he was only a third of the way. He’d known it wasn’t going to be a piece of cake, but this was more than a little discouraging. If all the roads were in similar shape, he was going to have to find a bike. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. He’d backtrack, look for a bike and throw it in the truck, just in case.

  There was a bike in the garage of a house somewhere south of Rutland. It was tall enough for his six feet, and the tires weren’t flat. It even had panniers and a small pump. He thought of going into the house, but after knocking and being answered by a series of thumps, he decided to play it safe. He had enough food for a few days. There was no sense in asking for trouble. Ana probably would’ve argued for going in, just for laughs. He shook his head and smiled. Banana—that was Penny and Cassie’s nickname for Ana, and it was an apt one.

  Lexers had passed while he was in the garage, and he checked carefully before he loaded the bike and drove away. Judging by how many he’d seen in this fairly isolated area, heading to a town the size of Rutland would be a very bad idea.

  He headed east and north along dirt roads and roads that might as well have been dirt, with all the patched asphalt, but at least they were passable. As long as the road twisted through farmland, there was a shoulder or grass on which to skirt the inevitable abandoned cars. It was when the road narrowed in the woods that it became an issue. Google Earth would’ve come in handy, since the map didn’t show the terrain a road traveled through. Good thing there weren’t a lot of trees in Vermont. He snorted at his own joke and realized he was improbably happy again. He’d been tapping the wheel and humming under his breath without being aware of it. Go figure.

  The sunshine that streamed into the truck was warm enough that he cracked a window. He didn’t dare take off his leather jacket in case he had to run. The weather had changed in the past few weeks. What had been hot and humid was now cool, and the trees were beginning to show their autumn colors. The drive should have been another 120 miles, but it was probably over 150 with the back roads. He was good on gas, even if he had to backtrack a few times.

  He was riding along one of the larger roads toward Northfield, allowing himself the vision of being at Kingdom Come by nightfall, when he hit a wall. And it wasn’t a figurative wall. It was a cinderblock, brick and stone wall built just north of a two-road intersection. It met a large building on one side and a house on the other before resuming in the distance.

  He pulled parallel to the wall and climbed to the roof of the pickup. The buildings of a small college sat on the left, residential houses to the right. The white buildings of the college were surrounded by trees just turning gold and orange. It was a pleasant, albeit deserted, scene. There wasn’t a living creature behind the wall, although an overturned thermos and a grouping of chairs made it look as though someone had defended it at some point. “Hello? Anyone here?”

  There was movement across the parking lot. A Lexer appeared, followed by a dozen more. He knew they didn’t sleep when they weren’t actively chasing people, but once they caught wind of you it was like they woke up. Peter was in the truck and southbound before they got close. It was back to the small roads and possible logjams for him.

  It all went wrong on Route 100. He’d had no choice but to take it; the twisting roads all deposited him on the main road for at least a few miles, and he had to pass under I-89. He was weaving his way through a maze of cars on the bridge that led to the overpass, when there was the pop of a gunshot and the front tire blew. His first thought was duck, and his second was fuck, and then the pickup veered left and came to rest on one of the cars that suddenly didn’t seem so randomly spaced. He’d been following a maze, all right, one that had been designed to slow a car down and give the people who’d created it plenty of time to take a shot. His head smacked the steering wheel, but he’d been going slow enough that he was fine.

  “Get out of the truck!” a man’s voice called from under the overpass. “Now!”

  Peter moved the driver’s seat back so he’d have more room to crouch while he swung open the door. “What do you want?” he yelled. It was hard to get his voice to carry; his mouth was a desert.

  “I want you out of the truck!”

  He held his pistol and debated what to do. Whatever they wanted, it wasn’t going to end well. They could have everything he had, which wasn’t much, but anyone who had put this much thought into staking out travelers probably wasn’t letting them go.

  He called again to pinpoint the direction of the voice. “Why?”

  The windshield cracked with the force of another bullet, and the voice came again. “Get out of the truck or we’ll shoot until you can’t get out.”

  The speaker was a hundred feet ahead, behind one of the concrete pillars. Peter reached to the passenger seat and grabbed his pack, then shoved the map in and slung it over one shoulder. He put his pistol in the crack of his open door and fired at the pillar. He waited as several shots were returned. They came in order—boom, boom, boom—like there was one shooter, not several. Maybe they didn’t want to waste ammo, but Peter thought there should have been more action than that one lone voice and gun. It seemed like someone desperate, which could go either way. Either they were desperate enough to let him go if he gave them his supplies, or so desperate they’d kill him on sight.

  “I don’t have much,” Peter called. He had to work hard at it, but he managed to sound unafraid. “But it’s yours if you le
t me walk away. I just want to get north.”

  There was a full minute of silence from the pillar. Then a bullet hit the door. He guessed that was his answer. It pissed him off. You could offer someone the shirt off your back and they would still kill you. So be it. He fired at the pillar again, waited for the answering shots, then again, more shots, and then there was a pause. Maybe they were reloading, or rethinking, but this was his chance. He pulled the keys out of the ignition—they’d have a tough time moving the truck without them—threw them off the bridge and ran around the back of the pickup. There was another road to the northwest that he could take under I-89. He lowered the tailgate and pulled the bike to the ground.

  He’d stay low and run the bike back through the maze of cars. The road turned at the end of the bridge, and he’d be long gone before they moved the truck and came after him. They might not even bother. He leaned out and fired again. This time there was no answering fire, but he heard soft thuds, like sneakers on concrete. They came again in a quick patter and then stopped, similar to the racing of his heart.

  He made sure his feet were behind the pickup’s tire and peered beneath the truck. The noise came again, along with the clink of metal. Then, two cars ahead to his left, he saw the tip of a sneaker come out from behind a car. There was a soft swishing noise and the foot extended into the road, as if its owner had slid to the ground. The ragged bottom of a denim-clad leg came into view.

  Peter knew he was soft-hearted, but he didn’t want to kill living people if he didn’t have to. There were so few of them left. But he would. He lay down on the road behind the tire and lined up his sights on the fleshiest part of the man’s calf. He exhaled partway, just as John had taught him, and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion of denim and blood surprised Peter with its brutality. He’d pictured more of a puncture wound, like Nel had gotten, although that’d been near the edge of the meaty part of his calf. This .45 round had destroyed the man’s shin. He was zombie bait now. Peter found he didn’t care; his heart could be as hard as anyone’s.

  He reached for his bike but ducked when he heard footsteps between the agonized shrieks of the man he’d shot. Maybe there was more than one person under the overpass. But these footsteps weren’t racing to help their comrade, and they weren’t stealthy. They came from both ends of the bridge. The noise must have drawn Lexers.

  He stayed low, one hand gripping the bike frame, and waited. The footsteps on his side were closing in. They would have to walk past him to reach the cries of pain that had turned to grunts. The man was trying to stay quiet, but Peter imagined it was hard when your leg was almost blown off below the calf.

  Hiding was the only option. Peter didn’t know how many were coming and whether he’d be able to fight his way through. He slid under the truck, holding his backpack by the hand, and watched the Lexers approach. There were at least a dozen pairs of feet. Sneakers, bare feet with filthy, sore-covered toes and a lone men’s dress shoe walked past, intent on the man they could hear and smell.

  Peter reached into his pocket and fumbled with the bullets he’d put there, just in case. He fed them into his pistol, silently clicked the cylinder closed and watched as more Lexers followed the first. They fed by the rear of the truck, several tripping on the frame of his bike. The man began to make frightened animal noises. Peter spun so he could swivel his head in either direction. He could only see the back of the man’s legs as he pulled himself to his feet—or foot—and leaned on the cars to hop back the way he’d come. The hopping stopped, a few shots rang out, and two Lexers fell to the concrete. But Peter could see more feet coming, just like on his end of the bridge. The Lexers gained on the man. Four more shots came, and then he guessed the man was out because the hopping became wild and desperate. There was a high-pitched scream, so unlike the voice that had demanded Peter leave his truck.

  The man hit the ground, and Peter got a glimpse of his would-be assailant. Dark hair, thin face. A regular guy, maybe even a kind person. He dragged himself in Peter’s direction, mouth open, until a Lexer landed on him, and he howled as the teeth bit into his back. He caught sight of Peter under the truck, and his eyes went wide. “Help! Help me!”

  It was too late to help, but Peter wouldn’t have anyway. Some things were worth dying for, but this man who’d thought Peter’s life was worth less than nothing wasn’t one of them.

  Still, it was terrible to watch. They ate him alive, ripped him apart limb by limb, until one knelt by his head and blocked Peter’s view. Most of the Lexers passing him had reached the man. Now was his chance. He readied himself to run, but more feet rounded a car behind him. Maybe it was best to wait until they’d moved on. He could stay under the truck as long as he had to.

  And, with that thought, the universe decided to mess with him. A Lexer’s foot tangled in the bike frame, and it fell to the ground. Peter froze, but the black-rimmed, jaundiced eyes saw him. Its mouth opened, exposing chipped teeth, and it let out a moan that made the others stop in mid-stumble.

  There were no more screams from the man to cover this Lexer’s hisses, only the wet, quiet sounds of eating. The Lexer tried to drag himself toward Peter, but his feet were caught in the frame. Two Lexers fell to their bellies, and their faces, as pitted and rotted as the first, peered under the truck’s chassis.

  He had to run. He rolled into the v-shaped space between the pickup and the sedan he’d crashed into. The bike was a lost cause, but he clipped his pack firmly on his back. The sun half-blinded him, and he held his gun aloft until he could see. There were more than a dozen Lexers between him and the end of the bridge, all traveling along the space he’d driven through. He jumped onto the sedan, and then ran up the roof and down the trunk before he leapt to the next vehicle.

  Peter was three cars down before the ones eating noticed him. The maze that had gotten him into this mess was the only thing saving him now. He jumped from car to car, and then stood on the hood of a Taurus at the end of the maze, where a group of six Lexers waited. Head shots weren’t easy on moving targets, especially ones that moved so randomly, and only when they closed in did he hit three. A glance behind him confirmed about fifteen more would be there in minutes, so he moved his pistol to his left hand, pulled his machete with his right, and jumped into the three standing before him.

  The initial leap knocked one to the ground. He jammed his gun left-handed under of the chin of the one who’d grabbed his arm and sent brown gore rocketing into the air. A push on the other Lexer’s chest gave him enough clearance to drive the machete blade into its mouth.

  He tried to run but was dragged backward by the one he’d knocked to the ground, who’d snuck an arm through his backpack’s lower strap and now hung on, teeth snapping. Peter kicked like a horse, but this one wasn’t letting go. It was dead weight—dead weight with teeth. The other Lexers were twenty feet away; he was losing his head start.

  Peter unclasped the chest and waist straps in order to drop his pack. He might be okay without his supplies, although the odds got slimmer as he lost one thing after another on his way north. But all the supplies in the world wouldn’t do him any good if he were dead. In a last ditch effort, he gripped his machete, spun to swing the Lexer out to his side, and then brought the machete down and back in an arc. There was a crunch, the dead weight got even deader, and its grip loosened enough to yank away. The fingertips of the first of the approaching group of Lexers, covered in dried, crackled blood, grazed his arm. Peter barreled to the end of the bridge and ran west on the two-lane road. He was sweaty and terrified, but alive. Alive.

  After more than a mile, Peter stopped in the middle of the road and gulped water. His ankle felt okay, which made him thankful to have heeded Rich’s advice. He pushed his dripping hair off his forehead and walked to a nearby house. It had an SUV out front and a two-car garage that could have a bike inside. It might be too much to hope that the SUV would start. When he and John had gotten the van that they’d used to leave the cabin, the battery had been
so dead that even with a jumpstart the engine would only click. It had taken a new battery to get it going. After five months it was likely a lot of car batteries were dead. He would have tried anyway, except for the problem of having nothing with which to jumpstart. Still, he’d look for the keys and hope for the best.

  He cracked a window on the side door of the garage with the hilt of his machete and turned the lock. There wasn’t a bike, but there was an ATV. A useless one, he found out, when he tried the key. A quad would’ve been perfect. Sometimes it was maddening to be surrounded by so many items that could save your life, if only they would just goddamn work.

  The connecting door into the house was unlocked, and it was still and quiet inside. Random items of clothing lay on the floor and a small cooler sat by the entrance to the country kitchen. Whoever had been here, a family by the looks of the pictures, had left in a hurry. Peter was down to the last of his water. The fridge was empty, so he checked the cooler.

  The stench under the lid was horrendous. The lack of oxygen hadn’t allowed for the decayed food to dry out, but it hadn’t stopped it from liquefying into mush that smelled like rotten teeth and death. It smelled like Lexers. There were a couple of cans of Pepsi on top of the cesspool of lunchmeat and fruit. He grabbed one, flipped it open, and took a swallow. The fizzy sweetness cut through the sour taste in his mouth. It might have been the best beverage he’d ever tasted. He wanted to savor it, but he was down to the last dribble before he took another breath. Nel would’ve killed for a can; he’d finished the last of the Pepsi in the nearby Wal-Mart and then gone into withdrawal, like James had from his dearly loved nicotine.

  Peter stashed the other can in his bag and took a few packets of soup mix from the cupboards. There was some canned food too, but he left it—he had enough food, and it was heavy. Why hadn’t the man under the overpass checked the empty houses? It didn’t make any sense. But nothing made sense if you thought by the old rules. Maybe the man had been crazy. Living alone for months would do that to you. Peter sat on the couch, map opened on his lap. He figured he was about sixty to seventy miles away from Kingdom Come. Maybe a two or three days’ walk, depending, of course, on what was in his way.