The World Without End [Box Set]

by Nazarea Andrews

  Finn has no such inhibitions. He strides in, ignoring the recruits completely as he walks to the first cage.

  "Oi! You can't be here," one of the recruits says, his voice sharply disbelieving.

  Finn doesn't bother to look at him, surveying the holding cells impatiently. Which means it's my job to make nice with the men with guns. I give the back of Finn's head a dirty look and fix a smile on my face as I stroll to the Walkers. The first one glares at me. "What the hell does he think he's doing?"

  "We're looking for my brother. He came this way a few days ago, and we thought Containment would be a good place to start."

  Amusement in their eyes. “If your brother is here, he’s as good as dead.”

  Fear seizes my chest, and I can’t breathe.

  “Containment isn’t a death sentence,” I choke out. The recruits relax—my fear makes me less of a threat, more someone they can victimize and control.

  They have no fucking clue.

  “In 9, that’s exactly what it is.”

  I hear Finn’s low curse then the solid beat of his boots as he stalks away from the barred cells. His presence is heavy at my back, throwing waves of anger and violence. I shudder, and only a concentrated force of will keeps me from stepping away.

  “I’ve been here now for almost twenty four hours,” he says, his voice low and even. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m pissed. Now, you aren’t responsible for the welcome we’ve received in 9—but you are here now, and you are responsible for Containment. Which is a fucking joke. So you get to answer my questions.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” one of the Walkers snaps.

  I shiver. It’s the wrong thing to say. I can feel it in the stillness of Finn, in the sudden spike of tension—a kind of waiting violence, just needing direction. I smile. “You idiot,” I breathe.

  There is a flicker of confusion, and then a gun resting on my shoulder, pointing past my face, unwavering on the recruits. “I could. Or I could shoot you and go ask someone else questions. You can answer, or you can bleed. I don’t particularly care which.”

  “I’m a Walker—shooting me is a federal offense.” Shooting a recruit probably won’t be as frowned upon as a full-fledged Walker, but the point is there.

  “Yep.”

  There’s a moment of hesitation before the click of the safety on Finn’s gun. The Walker’s eyes gets very big, and I sigh. “Just tell him. Have any refugees come to 9 in the past week?”

  “Three,” the recruit grits out. There is murder in his eyes, and only a strong sense of self-preservation is making him talk.

  I don’t frankly care—so long as he does.

  “When?”

  “Two days ago—three stumbled in. One hit the morgue a few hours later. I don’t know what happened to the others.”

  “They left,” one of the other says. “Serg said they were headed to The Stronghold.”

  Fear makes me move without thinking, twisting to give Finn a startled look.

  And that’s when the recruits act. I feel a sharp jerk, and Finn’s eyes widen a half second before I’m jerked backward, out of his space and into the grip of the other men.

  So stupid. So fucking stupid to forget for even a second that Finn wasn’t the only danger. I go limp in their grip, and the quiet one, the third I hadn’t been paying attention to because he hadn’t spoken—so fucking stupid—has moved, jerking me away from the safety of Finn’s orbit. I feel the metal of a knife pressed against my throat, and I go still.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Finn mutters.

  His gaze darts from the knife to me to the Walker behind me. Rage flares, darkening his gray eyes for a moment, and then he shifts, his gun dropping slightly. I have just a half second to brace myself before he shoots. The recruit to my left, the first one to challenge us, screams, almost hitting the ground. Bits of blood and bone spray me as the bullet flies out the back of his leg. I grimace, glancing at my tight white shirt.

  This is why you don’t wear white. Ever. Someone is bound to get themselves shot, and you end up wearing it.

  “You just signed her death sentence, man,” the recruit holding me says, fury rippling in his voice.

  “That’s a flesh wound. Let her go, and I won’t kill him,” Finn says, almost bored.

  I’m going to strangle him. When this is over and I don’t have a fucking machete held to my throat—I’ll strangle him. Antagonizing the people holding me by the throat...bastard.

  “Do you have any veterans from the war?”

  His grip on me loosens a little, curiosity piqued by the question. “Of course. Warden Ansliey. Every Haven has a few veterans. Why?”

  “Get him down here. Tell him you have someone who would like talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  Anger spasms across his face, and I think maybe he isn’t as bored and blasé about this as he appears. “Tell him to come. Tell him one of the Thrasher’s squad has a few questions.”

  There’s a beat of hesitation, and I feel the knife shift a little lower, then up, nicking into my skin. I hiss, and Finn tenses, impossibly. “Tell him that—if he refuses to see me, you can do whatever the hell you want to either of us. But you tell him that, and if he’ll see us, you let us go. And I won’t shoot all of you.”

  The Walker hesitates—I can tell that he doesn’t want to. He wants this settled now, with blood, for making him look bad. The one who was shot wheezes slightly at my left. The knife slides higher, and Finn hisses, watching it. My skin feels raw. Something tickles along it, and I realize belatedly that it’s blood—he cut me.

  “Don’t,” Finn murmurs. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  The knife tightens again, and I gasp as pain flares hot at my neck. And then he relaxes and it drops down, bloody, at his side. I sag forward, and Finn catches me, his hands hard and impersonal as he pulls me away from the Walkers. This isn’t about me, or that I’m bleeding. He shoves me behind him, without actually looking at me, and the Walker smirks, watching.

  I flush. Fuck. Can he make things any more obvious? He all but pissed on me to mark his territory. Which would be less fucking annoying if he weren’t Finn O’Malley.

  He’s a necessary evil, someone to help me find Collin. He is something I can’t avoid. But in moments like this, I want to—I want to stab him with his own stupid sword and walk away from him forever.

  How the hell did Collin ever put up with this asshat’s behavior for so long?

  The Walker is talking into the Haven comm, a radio that links the various wardens and important places in a Haven, his tone grumpy. He hangs up abruptly and glares at us, like we’ve done something specifically to annoy him while we stood waiting in silence.

  I suppose since Finn did shoot his friend, he might just be grumpy in general.

  “Ansliey is on his way,” he announces, his lips tightening.

  Finn doesn’t react, doesn’t do anything but lean farther away from them, into my space.

  “Who the fuck is this guy?” the recruit demands of his superior, and the other man looks up. I see his name, now. Emerson. The one who almost slit my throat is named Emerson.

  Why does that make my stomach twist, where his knife against my skin hadn’t?

  Finn ignores the question, but pulls a rag from the bag holding his spare ammo and tosses it to me. I stare at him darkly then wipe the blood away, wincing when the wound pulls unpleasantly. My stomach dips uneasily, and I swallow hard.

  I’m not sick. I can’t fucking afford to be sick right now. Not in a Haven like this, where Containment is a death sentence. This is nerves.

  I shove the rag into a pocket and look up. Into his eyes, which are too steady and intense on mine. I suppress a shudder and look away.

  Chapter 16.

  The Thrasher’s Reach

  Warden Ansliey is not what I expect. He’s wiry and in his mid-thirties, with a thick head of bushy hair, bright blue eyes, and no nonsense attitude. His gaze sweeps over the entire scene as he stands
in the doorway of Containment, ticking off the relevant details. Then he dismisses us entirely, focusing on the three recruits.

  “What the hell is this?” he snaps. They glance around uneasily. “Containment is a safe place to wait, you idiots. It is not supposed to be a live infection—this is a hazard to the whole damn Haven. Does your commander know this shit hole looks like this? You know what—don’t answer that. I’ll take care of your commander. You get some fucking repellant and get this place cleaned. I’ll be back with the Aldermen in two days—I’ve ignored this long enough. It’ll be clean, or you can take your chances in Q.”

  The Walkers are staring, eyes slightly glassed. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Serves them right, the arrogant little shitheads.

  “Sir,” Emerson starts, and Ansliey glares at him. Emerson pales and swallows hard. Goes quiet.

  “You two,” the Warden snaps, “with me.”

  “Sir!” Emerson interjects again, “he shot Halvers.”

  Ansliey glances at the Walker still on the ground. His gaze flicks over me, lingering on my throat, and then he shrugs. “You attacked his Thrasher. What the hell did you expect?”

  I don’t know what that means. From the confused looks on the Walker’s faces, they don’t either. But it does mean something.

  “Come on,” Ansliey grunts, turning away from the Walkers without bothering to speak to them again. He doesn’t wait to see if we follow, just strides out to his Jeep, an open top thing with no defenses built in.

  Either this man is a lot of talk who never wanders past the Walls, or he’s a crazy as he seems.

  I’m betting on the latter.

  Ansliey has the Jeep on, the roar of it drowning out all sound as we approach. Finn grips my wrist, gives it a sharp tug, and I look at him. There is worry in his eyes, and he leans into me, his lips feathering against my ear as he whispers, “No questions, Nurrin. I don’t know or trust him.”

  I smirk. “You don’t trust anyone, O’Malley. That’s half your problem.”

  Something flickers in his eyes, and he leans closer. “What’s the other half, little girl?”

  “You’re too uptight. You need to get laid.”

  His hands find my hips, his grip tight.

  It’s not the same as the grip Emerson had—there is nothing about it that is hostile. But it is there, a solid grip that pulls me against his body, and I hiss as he rocks his hips into me, his cock nudging my ass. Then he lifts me up, setting me into the truck, and I look back at him, see the laughter in his eyes. I can feel him, his touch on every inch of my skin, and I hate that I like it. I hate that some stupid female part of me wants more of it.

  I jerk away and settle into my seat. Ansliey is watching me in the rearview mirror, and my chin comes up, almost daring him to say something to me. His lips twitch and he shakes his head, but he keeps his comments to himself. Finn swings into the passenger seat, and Ansliey eyes him briefly. “You’re young to have fought for the Thrasher.”

  “Which should tell you something, if you think about it,” Finn says evenly.

  Ansliey grunts and shoves the Jeep into gear. I bite down on my questions—I won’t get answers, and if I push, Finn will shut me out completely. Better to pretend I don’t care and pick up what I can from listening.

  The Warden drives through the Haven without talking, and I take it in quietly. The typical Haven is ten square miles—they started smaller than that, of course. Prisons and schools that were barricaded. But as time and necessity demanded, the Walls were pushed out to make way for factories, shops, schools, and farms. Until a whole world could be coalesced into one small square of land.

  It feels familiar, while still being incredibly foreign. Like looking at home through a distorted lens. The orchards are replaced with crop fields, acres of wheat and corn and neat rows of soy and beans. A solitary track to the side, with an array of work-out machines in the center. Three Walkers jog around it.

  The apartment complex is squat and grey, not the tall building I lived in.

  This Haven is so similar to home, and yet so different. And it reminds me, painfully, that I don’t have a home anymore. That 8 belongs to the infects now. I’m alone and Havenless.

  Tears sting my eyes, and I turn my face into the wind, hoping to hide them there. The very last thing I want is for Finn to catch me crying.

  He doesn’t respect weakness.

  The thought startles me. Because there was a time when I don’t care at all what Finn respected. Somehow, between Hellspawn falling and my brother going missing, that has changed, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

  The Jeep lurches to a stop. We sit still and silent for a few heartbeats, staring at the little cabin. It’s nestled against the east Wall, with a small patch of grass converted into a personal garden.

  There are no houses or businesses near it—the Warden apparently likes his privacy.

  “Come on in. Your girl looks like she could use some time to clean up. We’ll talk.”

  Finn nods, and I trail the two wary men into the house. It’s neat, almost fanatically so, with a sparseness that makes me worry about the man. There are no knickknacks, no personalization. It is as sterile and untouched as Finn’s home in 18.

  This, I realize abruptly, isn’t a home. It’s a place to sleep and keep weapons. But the Warden isn’t comfortable here—he moves through the space with a kind of awkwardness that says it’s not a safe place.

  And how terribly sad is that?

  “Bathroom is through there, if you’d like to clean up,” he says, pointing. “Unless you’d rather she stay put.” Blue eyes flick to Finn briefly then back to me. He’s being too solicitous, too careful around me. I tense—does he know I’m a First? He can’t know that, not after ten minutes. I step closer to Finn, and Ansliey relaxes. “So she is your Thrasher.”

  I go still.

  “She’s under my protection. If you want to call her that, by all means, do. But she isn’t who you think.”

  “What is one of the Thrasher’s men doing this far south? I heard you were all given appointments in 1 after that last battle in New York.”

  “We were. I turned mine down. If you know anything about that battle, you’ll know none of us deserved a promotion.”

  Something flickers across Ansliey’s face, and his voice tips toward apologetic. “No one knew what to believe about that offensive, sir.”

  I can’t hold back my laughter at that, and both men glance at me. “You’re a Warden, and you’re calling him ‘sir?’ In what world does that make sense?”

  Ansliey smiles. “In a world where he served under the Brown Thrasher. No one who fought for her deserves less than my honor and respect.”

  I slide a glance at Finn. His hands are deep in his pockets, and a blank expression has settled over his face. “I thought you said your name wouldn’t open doors here,” I say, a little bitchy.

  He shrugs slightly. “It didn’t.”

  No. It didn’t—his past did. How much does that bother him? From the tight grip he’s got on himself and his emotions, more than I know.

  “What can I do for you?” Ansliey says, picking up on the tension and changing the subject.

  “First aid kit?”

  Ansliey grabs it from the kitchen, and Finn tugs me to the table, pushing me down with my head tilted back as he inspects the wound on my neck. I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling as his fingers move with practiced precision over my wound. When he rubs it roughly with an alcohol swab, I hiss and look at him.

  His face is blank as he works, but his eyes—his eyes are hot and furious. I shiver, and he meets my gaze, all of that emotion there for me to see.

  And then it’s gone, shut carefully away as he finishes cleaning my neck. I keep my gaze averted, and when he tapes the last gauze on and steps away, I mutter a quick thanks and straighten, moving away from him.

  His gaze follows me, seeming to mock me. I ignore him and focus on Ansliey, who is watching us with a bemu
sed look.

  “What can you tell us of recent Haven arrivals?” Finn says abruptly.

  “Three arrived a few days back. In pretty bad shape—we’ve been seeing a lot of refugees recently, more than we have in the past decade. I don’t know where they came from—the Priest met with the Aldermen before they left again.”

  Finn frowns. “They were with a Priest? Of the Order?”

  Ansliey nods. “Arrived together. The Priest and a sick one, in a truck. The other was on a bike.”

  My heart drops. Why the hell is Collin keeping company with a priest? What about that makes any sense at all? I open my mouth to say something, but Finn speaks quickly, cutting me off. “Did they go anywhere? Besides the Aldermen—did they meet with anyone, or indicate where they were headed?”

  “The Stronghold. The Priest was pretty vocal about that being their destination.” He hesitates, and then, “Come on. I’ll take you where they were.”

  Chapter 17.

  The End of Hope

  My head is swimming. Because it’s too hot in the south. Because I’m exhausted and can’t rest. Because my stomach still won’t settle and my throat itches and stings when sweat slides down and catches on the sliced skin.

  Or, maybe, because of where we’re sitting.

  The Jeep engine ticks quietly as it cools, but none of us have moved. None have spoken.

  A lot of things change from one Haven to the next. They have to, to become distinctive and someplace people can call home. It’s necessity as much as desire.

  Two things don’t change—the Walls— they are always tall and wide and white. And the Morgue. It is always next to the armory, patrolled by Walkers, and painted black.

  I stare at the black building, panic building in my chest. A building of the dead, and they were here—why the hell were they here, what is Ansliey thinking, I can’t do this, can’t go in there, it’s dangerous…

  “Nurrin,” Finn snaps, and I realize it’s not the first time he’s said my name. I shift in my seat. Take a deep breath. I can taste decay and death on my tongue, and it makes me want to gag. I shake my head and swallow hard. Shove the door open and almost fall out of the truck.