Until the End of the World Box Set

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  Tara and Philip follow when Peter and I leap to the floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they ran all the way back to Talkeetna without a glance behind them, but they halt at the loading bay and call the Lexers along with us. When we have a large following, we race to the pickup’s bed while the first drop off the ledge. I grip the roof of the cab to steady myself. Every cough is a sharp spasm. Phlegm fills my throat.

  “You okay?” Peter asks.

  I nod and point in the direction of the zombies that are only feet away. I help when I can breathe again, but my arm is weaker and it takes several strikes to finish each one. Thuds and yells ring out of the warehouse. It isn’t long before the truck sits in the middle of a mound of zombies and Nelly and James appear at the loading bay with tired but triumphant faces. I try to find my second—or maybe fourth—wind, but Peter has to help me out of the truck and up into the building. I throw my arms around them both and watch the others move toward us.

  “We’re all okay,” Nelly says. Everyone except Mikayla and Ben, that is, but I don’t say it and neither does he.

  Another door rattles up, and I look around in amazement that any of us is okay. Bodies are everywhere. What look to be entrails are stuck to the floor along with other unknown and revolting substances. I might have run through it, crawled through it, and I’m glad I didn’t know at the time. Nelly surveys the room and then peers at the sole of his boot before wiping it on a blanket that doesn’t look much better. “I don’t want to hear shit about having to take short showers when we get back.”

  “Hey, sugar,” Zeke says from behind me. I fall into his arms. “Thought you got rid of me, did you?”

  “Oh, well. Next time.”

  He releases me with a laugh. “Liz kicked some righteous ass back there, but there may be a few more in the back. Let’s finish this.”

  I give Liz’s arm a weak punch. She punches me back, eyes aglow. “Ready to kick some more ass?” she asks. I nod, although I don’t think I could kick at the air right now.

  “You look like shit,” Nelly says. “You sure nothing bit you?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I say. If I weren’t already sick I’d be terrified that I’m infected.

  Peter takes my arm and says, “Sit this one out.”

  I want to refuse, but I feel worse with each passing second. There’s not a scrap of adrenaline left. My two-pound axe feels like it weighs fifty. Peter strips off a glove and presses his hand to my forehead, then leads me to the receiving office and rolls out a chair from the corner.

  “Sit,” he says. “Please. I’ll have Rich come look at you.”

  I use my feet to roll it to the window and press my forehead against the cool glass. “Keep the door open?”

  He nods, hands me a water bottle, and leaves down the ramp. There are still pills in my pocket but standing to reach them and then uncapping the bottle is too Herculean a task. I’m done for, as Zeke would say.

  Rich walks into the office a few minutes later. “Not feeling well?”

  “Not really.”

  “Peter says you’re playing it down.” He sets a first aid kit on a desk and rubs antibacterial gel on his hands. His cheeks are ruddy from all the exertion, but he wears a gentle smile. Peter’s told me how Rich had to kill his daughter and wife, and that he’s been a man of few words ever since.

  I shrug. “He’s overprotective.”

  “He took great care of Nat. It’s a good thing.” I open my mouth for the thermometer and Rich raises his eyebrows at the display when it beeps. He has me remove my jacket for the stethoscope. I start to shiver the moment it’s off. “Just a minute and you can put your coat on. Take a deep breath.”

  I choke when I do, and he makes me choke several more times before he pulls the stethoscope from his ears. “You have a lot of congestion. High fever. Bits had this?”

  “Yeah. We gave her antibiotics in case it wasn’t viral.”

  “Good call. We’ll get you on some when we’re back. For now, I want you to rest.” I shake my head and point to all the boxes that need to be moved into the trucks. “Nurse’s orders. We should have you on a nebulizer and in bed.”

  Rich has me take a few of my pills and suggests I lie down. I take in the rubbish-strewn floor. “I’ll sit.”

  Rich chuckles. “Don’t blame you. I’m going to help out. I’ll stay close in case you need me.”

  I wake from sleep, head against the window, when Terry says, “We can’t find Frank. Have you seen him?”

  I shield my eyes from the light—a few more doors have been raised. My head throbs unrelentingly, and through the haze I remember that Frank’s the reason Mikayla and Ben are dead. Something I’m trying not to think about. “No. Why did he come if he couldn’t be trusted? He almost got us all killed.”

  Terry opens his mouth, but Patricia comes out from behind him and says, “We came for ourselves, in case you couldn’t be trusted. Not to keep you alive.”

  She shakes off Terry’s hand when he shushes her, and he throws me an apologetic glance. I peer out the window. Tara and Philip move bodies while Rich works on dismantling the fence, but I don’t see Nelly or Peter or anyone else. “Where is everyone?” I ask Terry.

  “They’re in the back doing a sweep.” Terry points to the rear corner of the warehouse. “They’re almost done.”

  I want to lie down. I want someone to tuck me into a bed with cool, clean sheets. My body is numb and fuzzy. My ears are clogged. Terry smiles before he leaves and Patricia follows after she scowls. My hand tightens into a feeble fist; I’ll have to save punching Patricia for another day. The thought cheers me as I watch her head to the small office in the corner.

  She pulls on the door handle, and I think dazedly that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to open a door unless she was absolutely sure of what was behind it. I’m wrong. Once cracked, a Lexer with brown hair and a flannel shirt shoves its way out. Patricia turns, slips on flattened cardboard, and falls to the floor with the Lexer on top.

  There’s no one else nearby, and as much as I think she’s a bitch, she doesn’t deserve to die for it. I pick up the axe by my feet and run as fast as I can manage. Patricia, who doesn’t have the sense not to open mysterious doors but at least has the sense to wear gloves and leather, holds its snapping teeth inches from her throat. Frank appears from the office and races toward her. The Lexer is recently turned, his skin still plump by zombie standards, and probably good-looking before he began to rot away. I skid to a stop and raise my axe.

  “No!” Frank yells.

  I bring it down. It crunches into the Lexer’s skull and he lands on Patricia, who stares up at me with wide eyes. I hold out a hand. “Are you—”

  Frank’s palms slam into my chest. I’m barely standing as it is, and it doesn’t take much to send me down on my ass. He advances on me with a snarl when I scramble back, gasping at the knife-like pain in my lungs. I grab my gun, wondering how Frank turned so quickly.

  “You stupid bitch!” he says. He’s not turned—just turned on me. I struggle to my feet and feel the cold muzzle of his pistol on my temple. “Drop your gun.”

  I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m sick and tired of this. Of fighting zombies and having nowhere to live, of course, but most of all I’m tired of people who think they can call me a stupid bitch. I press my gun to his chest and raise my eyes to his. “Fuck you.”

  “Frank! What are you doing?” Rich yells from behind me.

  “She was bitten,” Frank says. I swear he’s smiling in a tight-lipped way.

  “No I wasn’t,” I try to yell, but the words are insubstantial.

  “She’s sick, Frank. That’s all.”

  “She was just bitten,” Frank says. “I saw it.” Terry, Tara and Philip have joined us, and now they back up. I must look infected, feverish and struggling for breath.

  “Frank, put the gun down,” Rich says.

  “She was bit!” Frank screams, face purple.

  I point to Patricia, who looks up from th
e body of the Lexer without expression. She’s letting this happen after I came out here to save her. I should’ve let the bitch die. “Tell them it’s not true,” I say hoarsely.

  Patricia motions to the Lexer. “She’s fine. She killed…it’s Corey. He didn’t bite her. Frank had him in the office.” Terry takes a closer look and moves toward Frank, but stops at Frank’s warning shout.

  “Frank,” Rich says quietly. He puts a hand on the arm that presses the gun to my temple, and I pray Frank’s finger isn’t resting on the trigger. “She saved Patricia, Frank.”

  “She killed him.” Frank’s voice cracks. “She killed Corey.”

  “She had to. Did you want Corey to kill Patricia?”

  “I don’t fucking care!” Frank says. The gun shifts on my temple. “She’s not coming back with us. None of them are.”

  “I had to kill my daughter, Frank,” Rich says quietly. “My own daughter. You know it had to be done. Don’t take it out on her.”

  The pressure on my temple vanishes. Frank sinks to his hands and knees with a moan, but I still don’t trust him, even after Rich has eased the gun from his hand. I don’t trust any of them. I shouldn’t have given them the benefit of the doubt—they used us to get the supplies in hand, and now our usefulness has ended.

  I don’t know what to do next. I draw in air to clear my head, but I can’t get enough oxygen. I need to sit, to pass out. I need help. This is a time when I could use some protection. Patricia moves toward me, gun in hand. I pull Frank to kneeling by his hair and press my pistol to his head. He doesn’t fight. He hardly seems to notice. Patricia freezes and the others stand stock still.

  “I wasn’t…” Patricia sets her gun on the floor. “I was already holding it.”

  My friends are probably dead. Frank will find a way to kill me, too. He said as much. “Where…is everyone?” I ask in short breaths.

  “In the back,” Terry says.

  “I don’t…believe you. Get them.”

  “Chuck’s back there, Cassie,” Rich says. “He wouldn’t hurt them.”

  “You were going…to kill us.” My hands shake. Blackness encroaches. I focus on breathing and keeping the gun that weighs a thousand pounds to Frank’s head, where the back of his neck is scratched and bloody.

  “Cassie, I promise no one is going to hurt you,” Rich says.

  I stare at Frank’s neck. Deep gouges run below his shirt collar. The skin around them is raised and turning purple before my eyes. Beads of sweat race down from his hairline. He has nothing to lose. He’d be happy if I died along with him.

  “He’s infected,” I say. Five sets of eyes drop to Frank.

  “I got scratched, not bitten,” Frank says. He raises a hand and licks his lips. “If I am, let me come back and say goodbye.”

  He was going to kill me, and I can see by their sympathetic expressions they’re going to capitulate to his plea. What will stop him from killing me once he’s free? Footsteps sound. Nelly, Jamie and Peter halt at the end of the closest aisle and raise their guns before moving closer. My muscles weaken in relief, but I don’t let go of Frank.

  “What’s going on?” Peter asks. He circles around until he’s beside me, keeping his pistol on Terry.

  “It’s a misunderstanding,” Terry says.

  “Frank said…none of us were going back,” I say. Now that they’re here, I can give in to the cough that’s been trying to work itself out. My chest hurts more than I thought possible.

  “I swear that’s not happening,” Terry says. “Frank’s infected. He’s not thinking straight.” He points to the body. “That’s his son over there.”

  “Rich?” Peter asks.

  “No, Pete,” Rich says. “We all go back together.”

  “I don’t know what Frank’s talking about,” Tara says. “I want you to come back.”

  She looks honest enough, but so do most people who lie. “They’re not Canadian,” I mumble. “They said that so we’d trust them.”

  Tara and Philip glance at each other in bewilderment. Peter’s mouth works in a way that makes it clear he thinks I’ve gone round the bend. The moment I try to explain, I realize how insane it is to think that they would masquerade as Canadians so they could kill us. I shake my head to clear the half-formed and befuddled thoughts swimming around.

  “It’s all right.” Peter lowers his gun and puts his hand over mine. “We’re all right.”

  I’m sinking fast. I’m going to have to believe him—it hasn’t failed me so far. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  I don’t want to kill anyone else. Anything else. I just want to ensure the safety of the people I love. I want to give them what they need as well as all the little things they want. And this place is full of the little things they want.

  “We get the candy,” I gasp out. “And espresso beans. Tea. Pepsi.” Nelly chokes on a laugh from behind me.

  “It’s yours,” Terry says with a nod.

  I holster my gun. My chest groans with every inhalation and the edges of my vision grow dark. I manage to hold it together until my knees buckle in the parking lot. Peter and Rich carry me the rest of the way to the VW, where I willingly surrender to the blackness.

  56

  I have fuzzy memories of the last few days: an all-encompassing heat, coughing until I puke, a hand on my hair and voices—Nelly, Rich and Jamie—but Peter’s voice was ever-present, so I’m not surprised to come to and find him on the other side of the king bed in our cabin. Even in sleep, he looks exhausted.

  He sits up when I do, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say, and try not to choke to death on the first word I’ve spoken in days. I lean back. I think someone’s stolen one of my lungs. “No, maybe I’m dying.”

  “Glad to have you back,” Peter says. He pushes my hair off my temple and says something more, but I close my eyes.

  I wake again what could be an hour or a day later. Peter’s still there, but now he’s engrossed in a book and shoveling something into his mouth. He hands me a glass of water and rests the back of his hand on my cheek. “Drink. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’m breathing underwater.”

  “You have pneumonia. Your lung collapsed.”

  “Seriously?”

  Peter shuts his book and points it at me. “I told you to stay here.”

  “You know what I like about you, Petey? You never say I told you so.”

  He gives me a half smile and frowns when I shiver. “There’s a fire in the living room. Are you hungry? You need to eat.”

  “What are you eating over there?” He holds up a package of Oreos. “You’re eating Oreos? Do you know what’s in them? High fructose corn syrup, for a start. They’ll kill you.”

  He closes his eyes while he chews. “Have another cigarette, why don’t you? I don’t care what’s in them. Oreos are delicious.”

  I laugh-cough. I like to see Peter scarf down Oreos with abandon, attempt giant drags of cigarettes even though he despises them and make snarky comments. Light floods in the two windows of the bedroom. Peter’s nightstand is cluttered with pill bottles, while mine holds Dan’s box and my repaired phone. I reach for it and scroll through the last of the pictures: The mountains. Miss Vera by the side of the road, beaten to shit. Peter driving, knuckles raw from punching Oliver. It seems like a year ago. I lay it back on the nightstand, not ready to relive all the losses that got us here.

  “Thanks for fixing it,” I say.

  “James did it. He found a few phones and brought them back. Bits and Hank won’t stop playing Angry Birds.”

  “Is she better?”

  Peter swallows the last of his cookie. “Bits is fine, besides wanting to see you. They’re at Nel and Adam’s cabin. We didn’t want them to get sick. Penny, either. Everyone’s fine.”

  We’re here. If I didn’t think I’d collapse, I’d jump for joy. Instead, I celebrate by easing my feet to the floor and admiring my new fuzzy pajama pants. “So
, are you sharing those Oreos?”

  “I’ll share after you eat something real.”

  “And brush my teeth. And pee. It’s been—how long has it been?”

  “Three days.”

  “Have you slept in three days?”

  He rushes to take my arm when I stand and says, “Some.”

  “I like my pants. Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Rich took care of you.”

  I remember enough from the past few days to know that’s not true, but I don’t argue. He helps me with the first few wobbly steps until I stop at the bedroom door. “I think I’m okay to walk.”

  “Good, because you’re on your own when you pee.”

  I smile and follow him into the toasty living room. He tells me the toilet flushes, which I also remember, although I prefer not to recall whoever brought me to the bathroom. Thank God I didn’t have dysentery. I use the pitcher of water to brush my teeth and find that the toilet does indeed flush. A pail of water sits in the corner for filling the tank, but one try tells me I don’t have the strength to lift it.

  “Don’t lift that bucket!” Peter calls.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.

  I cast a longing look at the dry shower and avoid the mirror. Some things are better left unseen, and the knotted greasy strands of hair that hang around my head are enough for me. I let Peter lead me to the couch; brushing my teeth has taken the wind out of my sails. He stirs a pot on the woodstove, looking clean and shiny with only the usual trace of stubble.

  “You shaved,” I say.

  “Well, someone did tell me my beard looked meh.” He ladles soup into a bowl and sets it in my lap, then sits in a chair across from me.

  “I don’t know, I kind of liked traveling around with a bunch of fledgling Amish.”