Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  A bike would be faster. He outlined a route in his head and looked at his watch. It was two o’clock. He could get in a few hours, but he’d need to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Also, he hadn’t gone that far from the bridge. He didn’t know how long the Lexers would follow his trail, but he was running on the assumption that they’d be close to catching up if they walked at one mile per hour.

  He left through the front door, tried the unsurprisingly dead truck and jogged up the road. This road would lead him straight through Waterbury and get him past I-89; of course he’d managed to get waylaid in the one part of Vermont that didn’t have a thousand dirt roads crisscrossing through it.

  He walked as quickly and quietly as possible. At one point, a group of Lexers stood in the road ahead, and he edged through the yards of homes. He could probably outrun them, but he wasn’t eager to try that again. Finally, he reached the bridge over the river he’d been paralleling. He considered swimming across the river and walking through the woods until he hit I-89, but without a compass or better map he might get lost. Those were some famous last words right there: We’ll line up the trees and follow them north. It’s a straight shot. No, he was sticking to the road until he was closer.

  Peter sighed with relief at the empty bridge. At least something was going right today. He was sure he saw a figure being swept downstream in the river. Zombies couldn’t swim, at least. He would’ve scoured the area for a boat if the river ran north, but the map showed it went west.

  Peter crossed onto Main Street and headed toward a house to check for a bike. He’d only come across a couple of kids’ bikes so far. He’d laughed at the thought of pedaling through Vermont on the purple Tinkerbell bike in one of the sheds he’d passed, but he damn well would’ve taken it if it’d fit.

  This house looked promising, though. The Subaru out front had a Share the Road bumper sticker and a bike rack. He was debating how to get into the garage with the least amount of sound, when he caught sight of a dark mass under the trees in the backyard. He stopped short and held his breath. They hadn’t seen him yet. He walked backward, placing one foot lightly behind the other, stopping whenever one looked like it might turn his way.

  He was almost out of sight when one did. The growl it let out carried across the road, and it moved his way. He didn’t wait to see if the others followed; he was sure they would. He spun on his heel toward the road that branched off Main. It was a dead end—he’d checked earlier—but it was on the right side of the river.

  It was a narrow paved road, with houses that might have contained bikes and a gas station store with possible supplies. He ran with the railroad tracks on his left and river on his right, until he spotted a foot trail over the tracks and into the woods. He raced over gravel and through the dark of a pedestrian tunnel, where a Lexer waited, alerted by the pounding of his boots. Peter’s eyes adjusted just in time to see its outstretched arms. There was no time to stop, so he slammed it into the wall and kept going, too caught up in his escape to be frightened.

  The trail continued into the trees and gradually narrowed until Peter wasn’t sure he was still on a trail. Tree branches smacked his face, and he nearly fell face-first onto a boulder in his path. Calm down. He forced himself to stop and listen, although his legs shook with the desire for flight. But blindly running into the woods was a stupid idea. He was full of stupid ideas when it came to this kind of stuff. A rich kid raised in New York City didn’t have the answers to these kinds of predicaments. Cassie had been raised in the city, but she wasn’t rich, and she wasn’t your average city kid. She’d still had all her dog-eared and much-loved survival books proudly displayed on her bookshelves when he met her. She’d brought only one out of New York and had given it to the Washington kids. They’d asked her to sign it, like she’d written it herself. He’d found it annoying at the time, but that was because everything had irritated him, including himself. Now, he thought it was sweet. Hank and Corrine had been good kids, like Bits. He hated that all the Washingtons had ever seen of him was a selfish, complaining man who acted more like a kid than the kids did.

  It was quiet on the path behind him. Maybe the ones back in Waterbury hadn’t seen where he went, and the one in the overpass—which he should have killed but didn’t because he was an idiot—didn’t seem to have followed. Well, that was good, considering that now he’d lost the path and had no idea which way to go. Listen for the cars on the highway and follow the sound, he joked with himself. It was pretty lame, but the fact that he could joke at all showed how Nel and Cassie had rubbed off on him; those two never stopped.

  North. As long as he went north, he’d be heading the right way. It was afternoon, so he kept the sun to his left and walked as straight as he could manage. According to his map, as long as he stayed due north and didn’t go up any mountains, he’d hit a road eventually. After what felt like just short of forever, he did. He was out of water, and he was saving that second Pepsi, so he filled his bottle at a man-made pond behind a huge, fancy house that boasted a huge, algae-filled pool to match. Whoever lived there had been loaded. He toyed with the idea of entering, but the Lexers, one of whom still had a dusting rag stuck in her apron pocket, rushed the window when they saw him. He strolled away. It used to be that the sight of any Lexer would terrify him, but now he saved his panicking for the ones who could reach him. You had to save your energy and adrenaline to put to good use.

  He passed more fancy houses, though none as big as the first. The iodine pills had to dissolve completely before he’d drink his water, and he was counting down the minutes. It would have been nice to have one of the hiking filters, since they worked faster and didn’t make the water taste awful like the iodine, but he was glad they’d thought to put the pills in each bag. Shitty-tasting water was better than water that killed you.

  They’d gotten sick on their way out of the city because he and Ana hadn’t filtered the water. It could have killed them all. Another thing to reminisce about and put in the Peter was a Jerk Book of Memories. He was heading for a lively bout of self-flagellation when he realized he had two choices—beat himself up about everything he’d ever done wrong or forgive himself and be who he was now. No one else held a grudge, so why was he doing it for them? He could make this his blank slate. If he made it to Kingdom Come, he would consider himself reborn.

  That was all great, but first he had to find his way to a main road because the roads these houses sat on were all loops. They weren’t on the map, so he followed one west until he reached one that headed north. Then another, which dead-ended. He needed to get closer to the main road, to roads he could plot on the map, even though it might not be safe.

  He came upon a cluster of average homes. He liked these houses better than the big ones. They were more likely to have bikes in their garages and canned food on their shelves, like the house in which he’d spent his first twelve years. His parents had been well-off, but not rich. They’d lived in Westchester, in a nice house with plenty of space and a huge yard, but there’d been bikes in the garage and food on the shelves.

  A peeling, green farmhouse had a truck and a sedan out front in spite of the two-car garage. He hoped that meant the garage was full of junk, and that one of those pieces of junk was a bike. He didn’t have to break in; the door creaked open and nothing plowed into his machete. There, behind the dusty workbench, stood a men’s bike that looked to be a good size. He filled the flat tires with the pump he found and strapped the pump to the back of the bike using one of the many bungee cords that lay in a tangle.

  Whoever had lived there had been a slob, but a slob who had almost everything Peter needed. This was his lucky house. Maybe he should try for some more supplies inside. The front doorknob turned easily. Using the tried and true zombie-calling method, he called, “Hello? Anyone here?”

  Slow and dragging footsteps sounded. Two Lexers walked across the faded living room carpet. One appeared at the top of the stairs and promptly came tumbling down in its excitement.
Peter didn’t wait to see it hit the foyer floor. There was nothing he needed badly enough, and by now his water was ready. He gulped a few swallows as the bodies hit the other side of the closed door. No panic, although he did jump. Then he got on the bike and moved on. It was nearing six o’clock, time to find somewhere to sleep. He didn’t want to get caught out in the dark.

  Peter found it when he neared the main road—a yellow, two-bedroom house that was unlocked. Once he’d verified its lack of occupants, he locked up and lay down on the green couch with his bag beside him. His stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t muster the energy to do anything but close his eyes. He kept his holster on and the machete by his side and thought of how he was only forty miles away from Bits, from Ana, even though it felt like a thousand. But, tomorrow, he’d be there. Forty miles on a bike was no problem.

  6

  He’d meant to eat but didn’t wake until it was almost dawn. The windowless bathroom made for a safe place to use his flashlight to survey his food. Definitely the big packet of slop; he was starving. It said Beef Ravioli, and maybe it was, in an alternate universe. It could have been worse, though; he’d seen the stew and was glad not to have firsthand experience. He swallowed it down and ripped open the packet marked Toaster Pastry. Now that was good. Too bad the whole thing wasn’t Pop-Tarts.

  He used the dry toilet. It’s not like anyone was going to complain, and by the time he’d left the bathroom it was light enough to leave. The kitchen cabinets were empty. That was fine; he had enough food for a few days. What he needed was water; the liter bottle in his pack was pretty low. He grabbed an empty bottle to fill when he next came across water, to replace the one he’d stupidly left in the pickup.

  The air was thick with fog, which might help to obscure him from Lexers. It went both ways, though, so he pedaled slowly enough that he could stop if necessary, while still making decent time. The two-lane road passed farmhouses and fields that had grown into wildflower meadows. There was a pileup that looked like it had been moved to allow for a vehicle and assorted Lexers, but the bike made all the difference. He would whiz past, and by the time they’d figured out breakfast had arrived, he was already gone.

  The fog burned off and the sky was a clear blue with puffy clouds. A gas station sign loomed ahead. He decided to look for water. Really, any beverage would do. He was almost at the turnoff for the smaller road he planned to take north, and there were probably no stores along it.

  The doors to the station’s store were locked, which would have necessitated breaking the glass had someone not already done it. It was good he wouldn’t have to make noise, but that likely meant it was empty of anything worthwhile. Still, he stepped through the opening and crunched over the glass, past shelves barren of all food, to the coolers that lined the back. Rotten milk and orange juice were the only things on offer. Peter sighed. He’d just guzzled the rest of his water and was still thirsty. He bent down to scan the lower shelves and let out a quiet whoop of joy. There it was, on its side in the back: one small, lonely bottle of water.

  He twisted the cap and allowed himself a quarter of the bottle, then stuck it in his pack’s side pocket before heading to the door. There was a Lexer sniffing around his bike just outside. It really was sniffing, like a dog. It turned its head in small, jerky movements and grunted at the sight of him. It was almost a greeting. Hey, how you doing? I’m thinking of eating you. The machete rasped out of its sheath, and he walked to meet his new buddy halfway. He brought it sideways into the Lexer’s neck and pulled it out again.

  You had to get the head, but if you got just under the jaw and angled up it did the job with a little less effort. There was enough lower brain there to kill them once and for all, he guessed. He wiped his blade on the grass and threw a leg over the bike. The breeze was nice; it kept him from becoming unbearably hot in all his layers, even with the solid barrier of sweat that had formed between his back and pack.

  The turn was just ahead. He was getting closer, and it was morning, with the whole day ahead of him. There was a state park with a lake nine miles north where he’d replenish his water supply. He would’ve whistled, if he could’ve done it silently.

  Halfway to the state park, he thought he heard noises in the woods. He straddled his bike and stood in the center of the road, straining his ears. A crash came from behind, and he spun around to see Lexers spilling onto the road. Dozens of Lexers. He put his feet to the pedals and picked up speed around the bend, only to find another group. They seemed to be part of the first; he was in the middle of one of those traveling pods Zeke had warned them about. He’d ridden into the calm eye of a Lexer hurricane.

  They were too dense to make it through on his bike. He could leave his bike and run into the woods, but it sounded like there were more in there. The breeze wasn’t cooling him down any longer. He was a shaky, sweaty bundle of nerves. This was what you saved your adrenaline for. A trailer park ahead on the right, which went by the name Elmore Estates, was his only other option. It meant heading toward the limping, growling group coming for him, but he had to try.

  He pedaled furiously into the first few Lexers. A set of grimy hands locked on his handlebars, and the bike skittered out from under him. He managed to avoid going down with it and made for the park entrance. Elmore Estates consisted of a loop with park trailers on either side of each lane. The whole place was surrounded by a chain-link fence threaded with green privacy strips. It looked to have been well-kept, but now the flowers in the planters were dead, a few doors hung on their hinges and garbage was scattered throughout.

  Peter took the right-hand lane. A trailer with a busted door would be useless, and if he had to bust down the door it would be rendered useless. He ran for the open window of the fourth trailer down on the left and sliced his machete through the screen just as the pod came into eyeshot. They could see him. He followed his bag in and slammed the window down.

  He was in an empty living room that had a wide entrance into a kitchen, also empty. The dim hallway had three doors, all closed. That was good enough for him at the moment, so he crouched and moved to the window by which he’d entered. He put a hand on the arm of the floral couch and raised his eyes to the windowsill. He was greeted by yellow teeth filled with black gunk and lidless eyeballs, and he fell back when the Lexer slammed a skeletal hand to the glass. They knew he was inside. They knew, and that meant they wouldn’t stop until they were inside, too. As if in answer to that thought, the bottom half of the other window darkened with hands and the front door rattled.

  He crawled out of the room, dragging his bag behind him, and then rose to make his way down the hall. The room at the end was his best bet. Maybe he could get out a window and into another trailer. Maybe, through some miracle, he could make it over the fence. Into what, he didn’t know, but it had to be better than waiting inside a trailer-shaped coffin to die.

  He turned the knob and swung the door open with his machete at the ready. There was a bed with a cheap quilt, and under it lay what looked to be an elderly woman and man. They’d shriveled and shrunk in death, but he could still see the lines etched into their skin from the years they’d been alive. A Ruger Scout rifle—Peter recognized it because John had one—leaned against the bed, a box of ammo beside it. Another gun wouldn’t hurt. He shoved the box of ammo in his pack, slung the rifle’s strap over his shoulder and moved to the window.

  A stretch of overgrown grass ran between the back ends of the trailers. The grass was still clear, but he could see Lexers on the asphalt of the other side of the loop. If he could get into one of the other trailers from the backyard, they could break down this one’s door all they wanted. And they were going to; he could hear the wood door splintering from the other end of the house.

  He raised the window and shoved out the screen. A quick glance confirmed it was safe to run, and he set his sights on a window two trailers down. There was no reflection behind the screen, which made him think it was open. If it wasn’t, and he had to break the glass, he
might end up dead. But he was dead if he stayed and dead if he tried for the fence.

  His boot hit the sill and then he was out, running in a crouch between the backs of the trailers. The screen tore under his machete. He threw his pack in and followed it to the floor with a thud. He lay there for a moment, trying to hear over his pounding heart, but the sounds of the Lexers didn’t draw closer. The window made a squeak that seemed to echo for miles when he closed it. Then he lowered the blind a millimeter at a time. He’d made it. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.

  They snapped open at the creaking noise down the hall. This trailer was the same layout as the first. He’d entered in the back, into the same end bedroom by which he’d left the other one. His machete lay on the floor; he was so relieved to be safe he’d forgotten that inside could be just as dangerous. Another stupid move brought to you by Peter. Well, he was learning these things the hard way—it seemed to be the way a lesson stuck.

  Another creak of floorboards. Better to see what was coming and have a place to retreat than to be trapped in the corner of this bedroom that looked like an eyelet factory had exploded inside it. Peter walked to the doorway. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. A little boy, no more than five and dressed in rocket ship pajamas, stumbled down the hall. He wasn’t cute any longer, but you could tell he once was by the pudgy cheeks and curly, dark hair that framed his face.

  Peter considered pushing him into the room and locking it to avoid having to kill him, but you couldn’t be sentimental when it came to zombies. People, even ones like that guy under the bridge, maybe, but not zombies. Peter backed into the bedroom. The boy came into the light, baby teeth grinding and eyes wild. His pajama shirt said One Giant Leap for Bedtime. He’d probably loved the shit out of those pajamas. Peter would’ve when he was a kid.