Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  “Sorry,” Peter whispered, and punched the machete into his left eye.

  The little guy landed on his side like he was sleeping, one hand up by his face and the other curled over his round tummy. Peter stood over the body for a moment and then closed the bedroom door behind him to check the rest of the house. The boy’s bedroom was painted a pale blue and full of toys, with the name Jonah spelled out in wooden letters on the wall. All the blinds in the kitchen and living room were lowered and the rooms empty. He wondered how Jonah had ended up alone. Had his parents left him for dead, not realizing what he’d become? Had they gone for help, only to be killed themselves? Had they known, but not been able to bring themselves to kill him? Peter could imagine any number of scenarios; he just hoped Jonah hadn’t been scared, that he hadn’t had to die alone.

  He bit down so hard this time he tasted iron, but the pain didn’t match the burning in his chest. So many people had died, alone and scared, crying for their parents, their husbands and wives, their children. Like Jane had probably cried as she sat in their parents’ car, surrounded by flames. Peter sank into a chair at the kitchen table, laid his head on his arms and let the tears go.

  Crying hadn’t been the best idea. He may have felt better emotionally, but he was thirstier than ever. His small bottle of water was two-thirds full and an exhaustive search of the kitchen turned up nothing except Kool-Aid mix, peanut butter and some boxes of crackers. Big fucking whoop, he already had crackers. Salty, thirst-inducing crackers.

  He peeked out the blinds and saw the park was full of Lexers. They must have broken through the first trailer and found nothing, and now they all stood or wandered aimlessly. One had his arm up on the side of a trailer, head lowered, like he was talking to a pretty girl at a party. Peter walked the house and examined every possible exit, but there wasn’t a single spot where there weren’t at least a few. It was likely he’d never make it to the far-off fence without a lot of trouble.

  The sip of water he allowed himself was delectable. He swished it around his dry mouth and swallowed. He’d wait them out. Surely they’d get distracted and amble off at some point; the pods seemed to like to move. He hoped it’d be before he was too thirsty. How long could you live without water? Two, three days? Longer, maybe, but he felt sure you weren’t going to be able to outrun Lexers when you were weakened from thirst.

  He sat on the living room’s leather couch. There were a few pictures of a family, with Jonah taking center stage. There had been a mom and dad, but obviously Mom had been in control of decorating. The living room was filled with prints of flowers in vases, accentuated by actual fake flowers in vases on both side tables, the coffee table, and the gold and wood entertainment center.

  He had to pee and was on his way to the bathroom when he realized he should probably save it. He poked around and came up with a Tupperware pitcher. It was clear plastic, and when he was done he looked at the yellow liquid inside with an unsettled stomach. He couldn’t imagine being thirsty enough to drink that. But you never knew how desperate you could get until you were there. Maybe he could add the Kool-Aid to it—he shook his head. He’d figure out how to do it when—and if—he had to, but he still had water and the other MRE, which might contain something that was liquid. He opened the outer packaging to reveal packets of beef brisket, biscuit, cookies, crackers and butter granules, among other items. They couldn’t have made a drier MRE if they’d tried. The universe was at it again. He hadn’t gone far today, but he was tired, so he grabbed the afghan off the back of the couch, rolled to his side and went to sleep.

  It was afternoon when he woke. He was still thirsty. Imagine that. He peed into the pitcher again, which already smelled terrible, and sipped at his water. The Lexers were still there. A way to distract them would be great. He went to the back, purposely not looking at Jonah, but there was no way to raise a window and throw something into the distance without being noticed. There went that plan.

  The bookshelf in the living room was full of romance novels. Either Dad had liked romance novels too, or he’d not been big on reading. Peter chose one that didn’t involve an heiress and sat down to read until dark. When the light through the blinds became too dim, he threw the book aside. His apocalyptic reading material had become bizarre. No wonder Cassie insisted on carrying her own books around; it was probably one of those survival strategies only she and John knew.

  He lay back and closed his eyes, but all he could think about was the couple in the book. They’d met at a party, fallen instantly in love and had a whirlwind romance. The girl found out she was pregnant and didn’t tell the guy because it would ruin his bright future to be a father at twenty-four. So she raised the kid in some far-off town while he spent almost two years looking for her. Of course, instead of being happy when he found her—since all she’d done was dream of him and stare into the eyes of their son, which were so much like his father’s—she’d slammed the door in his face. It was maddening. It’s not like Peter had been the master of healthy relationships, but come on.

  Why the hell was he giving this so much thought? Maybe the thirst was already addling his brain. He allowed himself another swig and closed his eyes again. This time he thought of what he’d do when he saw Ana—as long as she didn’t slam the door in his face, like some fictional characters he could mention—and the look on Nel’s face when he handed him that can of Pepsi he was saving.

  Peter sat up and shook his head. How could he have forgotten about the Pepsi? He pulled it from where he’d buried it in the pack and placed it on the coffee table. He could see it shining in the dark, and it was beautiful. Too beautiful to leave on the table. He nestled it on his chest and fell asleep.

  The next morning was the same: Lexers outside, pee in the pitcher, eat some crackers with cheese spread, sip water. At least the couple in the book had finally gotten together. He started on another one and rolled his eyes as the series of misunderstandings began. But he could see why people read them—you knew they’d end all right. You couldn’t promise that in the real world, certainly not in this world. You could hope it would be all right, you could believe it’d be all right, but you couldn’t guarantee it. But Peter decided to believe it. He still had the Pepsi, a few ounces of water and all the crackers one guy could eat.

  The characters in the book were constantly drinking, and he began to suspect the author was trying to torment him. Wine, soda, glasses of ice water—they were all there for the taking. They didn’t even appreciate it. He rested the book on his lap and stared at the Pepsi. He would open it and take a sip, then transfer it to a container where it wouldn’t evaporate.

  Peter cracked the top and took two swallows. “Enough,” he said aloud, and forced himself to stop. Was it better to drink it all and then go without or slowly die of thirst while sipping? He decided on the latter. At least this way, sip by sip, his body might use it, instead of adding to his pee collection. He hoped the caffeine and sugar wouldn’t make his thirst worse.

  The Lexers still hadn’t moved by late afternoon and his third romance. By nightfall he was so thirsty he allowed himself to finish the water along with the beef brisket. It wasn’t winning any culinary awards, but it was much more liquid than he had imagined. That left most of a can of Pepsi and his third day of captivity to look forward to tomorrow.

  Another day, another romance. By noon Peter could think of almost nothing but beverages. He’d even drink prune juice, his nemesis, gladly. A couple of sips of Pepsi at one o’clock made him so thirsty that he allowed himself to dip his tongue into the container a few hours later. He was tired, more tired than a person who sat around reading romance novels all day should be, and when darkness fell so did his eyelids.

  The next morning his mouth was glued shut. He eyed the five remaining ounces of Pepsi on the counter next to the many ounces of piss. He could almost see how that would be appealing, when the Pepsi was gone. Well, not appealing, but better than nothing.

  Two ounces in the morning, one in the af
ternoon, one in the evening and one for tomorrow. It was amazing he could even pee into the pitcher still. Where was his body getting the liquid? Why wasn’t it using it? He wanted to punch his bladder, but instead he read his book in between naps, and then fell asleep for the night.

  Day five’s ounce of Pepsi was bittersweet. That was it. He ignored the pitcher on the counter and ate the packet of barbecue sauce that was in the MRE. It moistened his mouth, but the salt was probably going to make it worse. He sucked on a mint from his beef ravioli MRE and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know if it was his imagination or he really was weak and tired. He had no energy. Whether that was because he was dehydrated or because the Lexers outside were going to outlast him, he didn’t know.

  They were going to win.

  The thought made him sit up. No, they weren’t going to win. Fuck them. He was going to see Bits again. If they were still there tomorrow he’d drink some Kool-Aid pee and run. It would be all right. He lay back down and drifted into a sleep filled with dreams of running faucets and coolers full of ice cold beverages.

  He woke up at dawn thinking about hot water heaters. If it had been a dream, he couldn’t remember it. His brain was fuzzy and begged for a few more minutes of rest. No sense in rushing into what was next on the menu; might as well rest for the big event.

  Hot water heaters.

  Peter jumped off the couch so fast that the large coffee table vase crashed and broke. He cursed and peeked through the blinds. At least the Lexers hadn’t heard.

  Cassie and John often had enthusiastic discussions about random survival tactics. Heating rocks in a fire and burying them under a thin layer of dirt in a makeshift shelter to stay warm, starting fires without matches, that kind of thing. They were both kind of crazy, if you thought about it. But he recalled a conversation about hot water heaters. Even after the main water ran dry, the water in the heater’s tank remained. Every house had gallons of potable water there for the taking. He moved down the hall on unsteady feet and found the tank in the closet that held the stackable washer and dryer. It wasn’t huge, but thirty gallons was a lot of water. He could outlast the Lexers with thirty gallons.

  There was the spigot on the bottom; now he needed a bowl from the kitchen. The hand that held the bowl shook as he turned the spigot and waited for that rush of cool, life-sustaining water. A trickle ran into the bowl and stopped. Peter drank the water before he did something ridiculous like spill it. It was so good that he groaned, but it was a tease. That couldn’t be all there was. If he hadn’t wanted to conserve every ounce of liquid in his body he would have cried in frustration. There should be water in there.

  Then he remembered—it was a vacuum. Sometimes you had to open a faucet or valve so the water would drain. He closed the spigot, turned the bathroom tap on, sat with his bowl at the ready, and turned the knob. Nothing. Now he was getting pissed. There was water in there, and it was his, damn it. He’d hack open the top if he had to.

  But he started with busting the hot water pipe on the top, since he couldn’t find some valve he thought John had mentioned. He said a silent prayer, turned the spigot and exhaled at the solid stream of water that flowed into the bowl. It wasn’t the cleanest-looking water on Earth, with tiny grains of sediment that settled in the bottom, but it wasn’t pee, and that was good enough for him. He guzzled the bowl and went for a refill. God, it was amazing stuff, that water. Later he’d drain part of the tank into containers to see how much he had in total, but for now all he wanted was another bowl. He’d known it would be all right. And he would never, ever make fun of Cassie and John again.

  By nightfall, he thought he saw fewer Lexers outside but couldn’t see far enough into the darkness to be sure. He readied his pack, just in case he could leave in the morning, and stuck the book he was reading inside. He knew it would work out all right, but he still wanted to finish it.

  In the morning he made Kool-Aid, something he’d never had as a kid. It was tantamount to poison, according to Mom. He enjoyed every drop of it along with some crackers. There really were fewer Lexers out there. Maybe a couple dozen left, all spread out. He could outrun them, especially if his bike was still on the road outside the entrance.

  He tapped his fingers on the kitchen counter and mixed up more Kool-Aid. He had to leave soon. It was almost a week here, which meant it was approaching October. He could get stuck like this again, it could snow, and then he might never make it. Although, if the Lexers froze before he did—and with no heat that was a crapshoot—he’d be able to walk there without worry. This might be his best chance. He made sure his bottles were full, dumped his pee down the kitchen drain, and filled a container with Kool-Aid. It was pretty good stuff, although he’d never feed it to Bits. He’d read the ingredients; Mom was right.

  Peter buckled his pack, slung the rifle over his shoulder and held his machete. Then he strode to the door, took a breath and ran onto the asphalt. He shoved one who got too close, dodged the others and pounded past the homes he’d passed on the way in. The bike lay on its side where he’d left it. He glanced behind him to be sure he had time and bent for the handlebars. He ran alongside it, swerving around the few Lexers in the road, before jumping on and pedaling like a madman, widening the gap with every rotation. The mirror on the handlebars had twisted when the bike fell, but now he straightened it out in time to see the Lexers from the park reach the road.

  “So long, lollipops,” he called. Then he turned his gaze north and didn’t look back.

  By noon he was less than ten miles away. There had been more than a few pit stops due to all the water and Kool-Aid, but he’d made good time. The thirty miles he’d biked had been a cakewalk in comparison to the rest of his journey, since he’d only run into a few Lexers here and there, but his thighs burned from the long, relentless hills. The cars had been pushed aside in a few places, and now, so close to the farm, the roads were completely clear. He hoped that everyone had come the same way, that the pickup had gotten them there.

  Just outside the tiny town before the farm, his bike tire blew with a loud pop. Peter used his feet to swerve to a stop, narrowly avoiding a nasty fall, and looked at the clouds that floated in the sky.

  “Really?” he asked them.

  The tube was torn beyond repair, not that he had a repair kit anyway. He tried riding on the busted wheel, but he could walk faster. His backpack wasn’t too unwieldy when he was going fast, but he looked like Cassie learning how to ride a bike with all the wobbling he did riding on the wheel’s rim. He smiled at the mental image. She was such a dork; who couldn’t ride a bike? But she could, now that he and Bits had taught her.

  Cassie had gained some grace this summer, though, like she’d finally gotten the hang of bike riding. She still managed to step on someone’s toes or spill something at least once a week—that would never change—but she could fight. Her eyes glowed light green when there was a threat, and the set of her mouth left no doubt that she’d kill if she had to. Maybe it was shooting Neil that had changed her, along with Ana’s constant nagging for a sparring partner. When you watched her and Ana practice together, Ana’s dark, gold-flecked eyes even deadlier than Cassie’s, you were very glad to be on their side.

  Picturing the two of them made Peter more confident that they were safe. They would kill anything in their way, alive or dead. He put his boots to the concrete and walked. The road was clear, the sun was bright, and the trees were more colorful than in southern Vermont. The weeds that should have been fields of corn or wheat or whatever they grew up here were turning brown. A flock of geese flew overhead in a messy V. It was a gorgeous fall day, the kind that people used to pay a good bit of money to visit.

  At the outskirts of the tiny town, he kept as close to the shadows as he dared. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the Lexers that were surely lurking. But he was astounded to find the village green empty. It was like a ghost town, in a good way. The general store up ahead had a sign out front that offered gas and food inside, as we
ll as lodging at Kingdom Come. He continued up dirt roads and past a farmhouse with a serious-looking fence, and then took a left onto Kingdom Road. He’d listened to the directions so many times on the radio that he could recite them verbatim.

  There was a cabin up on legs at the side of the road. A guy, no more than twenty, sporting a platinum ponytail and rifle, came down to greet him. “Hey, I’m Caleb.”

  He shook the kid’s hand. “Peter.”

  “You coming to stay?”

  “I think so.” Peter glanced up at the woman with short, dark hair who stood on the cabin’s platform, leveling a rifle at his head. Her mouth twitched in greeting at his smile. “It was a long trip.”

  “It looks it, man,” Caleb said with a laugh.

  The jeans Peter had washed at Chuck’s for his one-day drive had been clean. Now they were brown, and the button-down under his coat wasn’t in much better shape.

  “You want a ride to the gate?” Caleb asked, and pointed at a pickup. “It’s about a quarter mile.”

  Two minutes later, Caleb left him at the metal gate with a guy named Dan, who let him in a side door. Dan shook his hand and introduced him to a woman and a man who sat at a folding table. Peter was so preoccupied with his next question that he didn’t catch their names.

  “We usually have a truck down here,” Dan said, “but they drove it up today. I’ll walk you if you want. It’s not far.”

  Peter nodded. They all looked so tranquil, but he couldn’t relax until he knew. He pulled off his jacket and threaded it through a strap of his pack, sweating more than he had during the bike ride. “Did someone named Cassie Forrest come here with a group of people? They know Adrian.”