Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  39

  Our three scouts radioed when they reached the other shore and then made their hourly check-in, but it’s been over an hour since then. One hour and eight minutes after the first check-in, which I keep track of by asking Peter for the time so often that he finally strips off his watch and hands it to me, they call again.

  “Plan We’re All Gonna Die is a go,” Nelly says, voice crackling. “Coming back now.”

  Our wafflecake lunch is made and supplies sit at the water’s edge by the time they step out of the boat looking tired, dirty and extremely satisfied. “We got ourselves a pickup,” Zeke says. “There wasn’t much to choose from, and it’s going to be a cold ride in the back. We’ll bring the batteries in case we find something else.”

  “We’ll use less gas this way,” Mark says brightly. He’s one of those people who thinks it’s refreshingly brisk when I’m curled in a ball, shivering.

  Most of us will be rowing because of the Lexers across the water; we can only use the speed boat once if we don’t want to be surrounded. I watch the men bring the truck as close to the boat as possible and then grunt and curse while they remove the in-bed gas tank. They follow it with the tank that Shawn took from the abandoned pickup. They must weigh hundreds of pounds.

  “Sometimes I like being a girl,” Jamie says. She’s trying extra hard to be normal, but whenever she’s silent her face loses all animation.

  “Except when it’s time to pee in the woods,” I say.

  “I got my period behind a tree the day before yesterday,” Jamie says. Penny and I groan. “Yep, pretty fun.”

  “That’s something I’m not missing about now,” Penny says. “Running faster than a snail, yes. Alcohol, yes.”

  “Yeah, too bad for you,” I say. “You’re missing all those wild alcohol parties we’ve been having after you go to sleep.”

  Nelly, James and Peter walk toward us. “Y’all going to do any work today?” Nelly asks.

  “We were just discussing how sexy you all look doing manly things,” Penny says. “We couldn’t tear ourselves away.”

  “Well, then, carry on.”

  We pile the food bins and extra bags on the tanks and set Sparky’s box in a safe spot. Zeke, Kyle, Nicki and Adam will cross in the motorboat once we’ve made it ashore. That way we’ll limit the amount of time we give anything over there to eat us, although there are far fewer on the east side. We assign spots in the other boats, leaving Peter, the kids, Barnaby and me in a rowboat.

  “Guess you’re rowing, huh?” I ask Peter.

  “You are the biggest,” Bits says.

  Peter looks at me. “I had nothing to do with that,” I say. “See? It’s just common sense.”

  Peter swings Bits and Hank into the boat. I’ve locked them in lifejackets and offered to tie them to the boat, but they weren’t keen on that idea. I sit in the stern and face Peter, keeping an eye on how far they lean over in the bow. The other rowboat needs a lookout so the motor doesn’t get tangled in Lexer hair and clothing, and they’ve insisted we need one as well.

  It should take about thirty minutes to reach the other side of the wide lake. It’s nearing late afternoon, but we won’t stop for night. What’s heading north on the highway is just as bad as or worse than anything we’d meet up with on a back road. The canoe skims across the water, leaving us in the dust, and the rowboat with the motor putts alongside for a moment before pulling ahead.

  “We should’ve gotten a head start,” I say. Peter nods and pulls the oars. “I will take a turn, you know.”

  “I’m fine,” Peter says. He stops and pulls off his coat and long-sleeved shirt. “Hold these?”

  I put them in my lap and watch the floating Lexers on the still water in the distance. We’re lucky today is a lovely fall day with almost no breeze to make rowing more difficult. The sun is warm, the trees colorful, and the lake a mirror reflecting the blue sky—where it’s not a mass of dead bodies. I’d trail my hand in the water if it wouldn’t get chewed off.

  “Cassie,” Hank says in a stage whisper and points. “Look.”

  A Lexer floats face up, mouth opening and closing. Barnaby, who sits in front of Hank and Bits, lets out a low growl. “Quiet,” Peter says in a firm voice. Barnaby stops.

  I look from Barn’s tilted head to Peter. “That’s impossible. Tell me that was just a fluke.”

  “It didn’t take that long. He figured it out the other night.”

  I shake my head when he shrugs. “This is a big deal. You taught our dumb old dog a new trick. I never thought I’d see the day anyone would teach him anything.”

  I want to hug Peter for taking the time to save Barnaby. Not that I didn’t love Barn before, but he’ll forever have my gratitude and any extra food I can scrounge up in Alaska.

  Bits scratches his neck. “You’re a good boy.”

  Barn spins around, nails sliding on the metal, and the rowboat rocks until Hank tackles him. Barnaby may try to save lives, but he also tries to kill us on a daily basis.

  “Barn, sit,” I say. He plants his butt on the boat and I raise my eyebrows at Peter, who grins.

  “Good boy,” I say, and he resumes his prancing. “I think the problem lies with good boy. Whenever you say good boy, he totally freaks out.”

  “Well, who doesn’t like to be told he’s a good boy?” Peter asks. He’s hauling ass across this lake. The muscles in his arms ripple with every stroke and his t-shirt is already soaked. I’d be bitching up a storm, but like I’ve said, Peter does what’s necessary and never complains about it.

  I pat Peter’s head. “You’re a good boy. Who’s a good boy? Huh?”

  Peter doesn’t stop rowing as he barks out a laugh. A few minutes pass in silence, then Bits says, “Cassie, look.”

  The canoe and rowboat have just reached the two islands of Lexers we’ll have to pass between. As they weave their way through, the gentle splashing becomes a wild thrashing that reminds me of a school of piranhas eating their prey.

  Peter watches me for instructions. “You’re good,” I say. “Keep straight.”

  The water gets choppier. Twenty feet away, a tangle of clothing and bodies and hair moves. It’s impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins. The rowboat dips in a way that would make me seasick if I weren’t so anxious. Drops of water spray through the air. I keep my mouth closed against the onslaught while Peter rows like a madman. Bits grabs Hank when one rises from the water, peeling hands gripping an oar. I raise my axe, but Peter shakes it off and it sinks into the darkness of the lake, fingers flexing.

  I grip the bench with one hand and order the kids to hold on. Tiny waves break on the sides of the boat. The smell of dead things mixed with the wet decay of lake weeds is everywhere. Peter keeps his eyes on me, trusting me to tell him which way to go, which makes me terrified I’ll fuck it up somehow.

  “To your right,” I say. Peter dips an oar until I say, “Straight!”

  The Lexers’ movement has narrowed the channel we have to pass through. I order Bits and Hank to the bottom of the boat as we near the entrance, and Barnaby begins a chorus of barks that echoes over the water.

  “Quiet!” I scream.

  Barn drops and looks at me with wounded eyes. I’ll feel bad about that later. I pull my poncho from my pack and call for Hank to catch it. He spreads it over himself and Bits like a fort. Peter must be worn out, but he pulls faster when the splashing becomes a downpour. I throw his jacket over his head and use the hand not holding my axe to cup over my eyes. Water streams down my face and over my lips. The boat rocks at a perilous angle when a hand grips the edge, and Peter leans to the opposite side so I can kill the Lexer without sinking us.

  A few more strokes and we’re through. Peter’s jacket has fallen to the bottom of the boat and he pulls like he was captain of the rowing team at Harvard. Who knows, maybe he was. Now that we’re in calm water, I can hear his breaths with every stroke of the oars. Water soaks my hair and runs under my jacket into every spot that wa
s clean an hour ago. Peter’s as drenched as me, but the kids are dry.

  I panic at the thought of what’s running down my back into my underwear, what has probably hit the mucous membranes of my eyes and lips. I snatch my mouthwash from my bag and gargle a small mouthful. The alcohol will kill any germs. I pour it in my gloved hands and rub them together and then pour more onto my bare hands to smooth over my face, neck and hair.

  Between fifty-degree temperatures, water and now Refreshing Mint, I’m freezing. I dump out more and rub Peter’s face. I rake some through his hair and then get his bare arms.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, screwing an eye shut. “That shit stings!”

  “Sting or die,” I say.

  He stops mid-row and stares at me in wonder. And not the good kind of wonder, either. “You are out of your mind,” he says, enunciating each word.

  I’m hit with the absurdity of the moment. I’m kneeling in zombie water in a rowboat in British Columbia rubbing mouthwash on Peter. I’m minty and burning and sweating and freezing all at the same time. I collapse to the bottom of the boat and laugh until my stomach hurts.

  “I really am,” I gasp. “Holy crap, I really am.”

  40

  I change into Ana’s leather pants and spare bra, underwear and shirt, but only after rubbing myself down with the antibacterial gel that was in the speed boat. This is it—my final outfit. And the most uncomfortable of the bunch.

  Nelly smirks when I walk outside. “Why are you walking like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you have something up your butt.”

  “Well, you would know.”

  Nelly chortles and wraps an arm around me. “Good one, darlin’. You should’ve taken those mom jeans while you had the chance.”

  “I’d rather be dead than have you see me in those.”

  “And I’d gladly die for a chance to see you in them.” He takes a long sniff of my head. “You and Peter are minty fresh.”

  “Don’t ever do that. There’s mint in my bones. I’ll never be warm again.”

  “Maybe you should ride up front first.”

  The kids, Kyle and Adam will ride in the truck’s cab while the rest of us switch between the bed and cab. We’re down to twenty-some hours to reach our intersection point. Mileage-wise, it’s four hours of driving, but we know how little that means. It’s evening by the time we leave. Peter drives and I cram in with Kyle, Penny, the kids and Jamie, while Ash shares Adam’s front seat at his insistence.

  “You don’t need to take a turn in the back,” I say to Penny, as James has said repeatedly in the past hour.

  “I’m hot and pregnant. I’ll be fine. Stop talking about it or I’ll kick you.”

  “Geez. Sorry for caring about the welfare of your unborn child and stuff.”

  Penny laughs and wrinkles her nose. “You guys stink.”

  Peter runs a hand through his crunchy hair while he sighs for the millionth time. Dried mouthwash acts like hair gel, we’ve recently found, but I don’t care that I’m sticky and crispy. We’d probably be feeling sick by now if we were infected, so I’m going to pretend that mouthwash saved the day.

  The road starts out paved but quickly turns to dirt. Hank is on my lap and there’s not a centimeter in which to shift with the bags under my feet, but when I look out the back window at Nelly and the rest bundled in blankets and squished among our supplies, I’m okay with the lack of space.

  Hank rests his head on my shoulder and murmurs, “I think you smell good. I wish we had gum.”

  For all his maturity, he’s also a little kid who longs for gum, and I want so desperately to shield him from the hurt so he can stay that way. I hold him close and wake up when the truck stops at what could be the same road and trees of an hour ago. Hank is so used to sleeping in strange places that he remains in a seated position with his head hanging when I slide out from under him.

  “I’ll be in the back,” I say to Bits, who nods sleepily.

  They’ve cleared out a space by tying things down and stacking bins. I climb into the truck’s bed with the others and James, who refuses to take his turn in the cab without Penny. “Besides,” he says, “Nelly and Kyle are big dudes. Margaret’ll be squashed enough.”

  “I like it out here,” Mark says, which only solidifies my belief that he’s off his rocker in some harmless way.

  At first I think it won’t be so bad—I’ll fall asleep wrapped in my blanket and ride out the cold. It starts slowly, like when you think a breeze is a bit chilly, and then builds until I’m not sure I’m still wearing my gloves and wool socks. The leather pants are better than wet jeans, but now that my sweater is soaked, all I have is the hoodie and my leather coat. I brought a wooden box and baby dress and earrings instead of an extra pair of jeans, but I still don’t regret it, even an hour into the ride when my limbs have frozen into the fetal position. An hour after that, when I’m about to die of full-body frostbite, the pickup slows.

  Nelly steps out. “We’ve got a tree up ahead.”

  A tree over two feet in diameter stretches across the road. James asks Nelly for our mileage so far and shivers over the atlas with his flashlight. “Nope, there’s no other way around this now. We’re in the home stretch.”

  The tree sits ten feet into the woods on either side, and the only way past is to cut through in two spots and roll out a section wide enough for the truck. Zeke starts on one end with my tomahawk and Nelly on the other with our one axe. Hitting a tree repeatedly is not a quiet activity, and it’s only a few minutes before the first Lexer shows up. Jamie runs it through and we lean on the truck to wait for more while the axes pound. Penny stands with us, long knife in hand. We’re not going to let her kill anything, but it appears she was serious about helping out.

  “Ow,” she says. “Nice kick, baby.”

  “What’s she doing in there?” I ask. “That must feel so weird.”

  “How about when they kick your bladder?” Jamie asks. “I can’t tell you how many times I almost peed my—”

  She stops, and it all clicks into place in the stunned silence that follows. Why Jamie has said she wouldn’t have kids until this was over, never talks about her life before, and how last year could have possibly been worse than losing her husband.

  “Oh, Jamie, I’m so sorry,” I say. Penny says something equally as lame.

  “She was five, going to start kindergarten in the fall,” Jamie says in a tight voice. I put an arm around her and find her shoulders even tighter. “She was with my mom while I worked late. I made it home before they closed off the city, but when Shawn and I got there they were already gone. I didn’t want to tell anyone. Shawn agreed not to. Because I didn’t want this—this fucking silence. I really am happy for you, Pen. Don’t treat me weird now, please.”

  Penny sniffs. “I promise I won’t. What was her name?”

  “Holly, after my grandma. She had big brown eyes like Nicki’s.”

  I can only imagine losing Bits for a split second before I’m engulfed in despair and on the verge of tears. I wonder if when you lose a child you almost wish they’d never been born so as to have avoided the devastation. Not that you’d really wish it, but almost. I don’t ever want to find out for sure.

  I walk forward to stab another Lexer coming up the road. These monsters have taken so much from us—little girls with big brown eyes, brothers who could climb mountains, lovers who appreciated the little things about us. They left parents childless and children parentless. After the Lexer falls, I want to kick it. I want to beat the shit out of it until it’s nothing but a wet pile of bones and flesh. But it would be pointless; they have no idea what they’ve done. We might have been punished, but so were they.

  I walk back. I can’t see Jamie’s face, but her voice is even. “…two hours of pushing. I had the hugest hemorrhoid after. Shawn called it The Other Baby. He’d pinch my butt and say, ‘How’s it hanging?’ ”

  I can’t help it when I giggle. I miss S
hawn’s obnoxious but good-natured comments. The two of them join in, Jamie’s laugh the loudest.

  “I wanted to tell you both, but it got harder the more time passed,” Jamie says. “It started to feel like a dream. Then when you got pregnant I thought you’d be afraid to talk about it in front of me.”

  “No,” Penny says. “Believe me, any tips you want to share, I want to hear.”

  “I will,” Jamie says.

  “Good. All I’ve got is Cassie, and she doesn’t know shit about this.”

  “Hey!” I say. “I read those books you gave me. Birth is going to be orgasmic and wonderful. You’ll be a lotus flower opening to the sun or a river flowing to the mouth of the sea or something.”

  “I read those books,” Jamie says with a snort. “It’s amazing, but the only flower I felt like was one that was having its petals torn off.”

  “Oh, God,” Penny says, and rests her head on the truck.

  “It won’t seem so bad once it’s over. And I’m sure it won’t be as long as mine. Don’t worry.”

  This is why we need a Safe Zone. I’m sure we could figure out childbirth if all goes as it’s supposed to, but Jamie heard Doc talk of a midwife in Talkeetna, and we know for sure there’s a medic. We need to be safe in the spring, when the Lexers thaw and the baby cries.

  Peter comes bearing hot beverages and then leaves to relieve Nelly. Jamie takes a sip of her coffee and says, “He remembered how I like it. He’s awesome.”

  “He is. I have to pee again,” Penny says, and takes James into the dark with her.