The World Without End [Box Set]

by Nazarea Andrews

  There’s a quick round of nods, and I start to step away from Finn, when he hooks a hand in my elbow and drags me back to his side. “You stay with me,” he says without looking at me. His unit is moving without looking at us, dragging my people away. I bristle and glare at him.

  “Fuck you, O’Malley,” I snap, and shake him off.

  “Don’t flirt, Nurrin. We have to work now.”

  I bare my teeth at him, a parody of a smile, and he gives me a bland smile.

  Anyone else would probably falter at the sight of that smirk. But I know Finn, and I know what that bland expression is covering.

  I’ve seen it before.

  Chapter 5.

  The Silent Dead

  We hit the horde hard, and before they can react, our vanguard slams through the outer rim, slicing through like water and leaving a trail of dead.

  And it flips a switch in the horde. Like fucking magic, they scream to life, and Finn hisses a curse that is almost lost under the furious screams of the horde as they twist to us.

  The horde swallows a pair of the vanguards, and I jerk free of Finn to break into a run.

  I throw my first knife as I sprint for the horde, and Finn keeps pace at my side, his bow up and picking off the infects in our way with deadly precision. Once, I stumble, and his hand catches in my shirt, jerking me back to my feet before he steps in front of me and slashes out, bringing down an infect. A whistle splits the air, and the units close in around us, forming a circle of weapons and human bodies.

  “Sir,” one of the girls pants, “Fisher is still out there.”

  “Tough shit,” Finn snaps. “Hold the fucking formation.”

  I hear her start to protest, but the horde is slamming into us and she shrieks as one hits her, broken fingers scrambling against her body armor. She throws an arm up, blocking her face before the infect gets to her, and slams a knife into the dead's guts, shoving it back enough that the solider to her left can sweep a Bowie up and across it’s neck. The infect’s head snaps backwards, and the body falls.

  It happens fast, so fast I barely can wrap my head around it before my attention is jerked away, to the zombies that are scrambling toward me.

  They've fallen quiet, all frantic movement and silent hunger, and it's fucking unnerving.

  “Duck,” he snaps, and without considering the wisdom, I drop. I feel the sting of sliced air as a sword hisses over my head, cutting through the zombies and clearing a small circle around us. I clutch a knife and jerk it from his boot, swinging back to my feet and slamming it into the eye of the infect charging toward me.

  And then time slows, thoughts vanish, and there is only this. The silent dead, the sun rising, the grunts and curses of the soldiers around me, and screams—screams I'm trying so hard not to hear as we fight our way through the horde, the infected forming a pile of carcasses at our feet, at the edge of the East.

  If this is what we will face at every turn, we'll never reach the Atlantic. Omar is a fucking madman, as insane as Sawyer had been when he threw that baby to the zombies and began their twisted ideology.

  Something touches my arm and I swing out wildly with my knife, the third I've had to scramble for—the first two broke off in the rotted remains of infected brain.

  I don't hit anything and I blink, clearing the haze of fight or flight from my eyes. Finn is standing a few steps back, a cautious look in his face. He's covered in tarry black blood, the viscous remains of the undead, and surrounded by a pile of dead bodies. His face is streaked with blood—red blood—and infection, and I want to skirt away because his eyes are wild and furious and concerned, and I don't know what to do with that look on Finn O'Malley's face.

  “Is it over?” I ask hoarsely, without meaning to ask.

  He nods and steps forward, pulling the knife from my suddenly nerveless hand. “It's over.”

  He’s lying and we both know it. This one is over, but the war has just begun.

  Chapter 6.

  The Order’s Mission

  When we get back to camp, the convoy is already being assembled. Tanks rumble through the camps that are being yanked down with practiced skill. Finn confers with the lieutenant at his shoulder, and the man whistles once before jogging off, the unit following him.

  I give him a brief look, but he ignores me as the Firsts slip through the chaos of base camp, headed to our still-assembled tents.

  No one will touch our tents. The other units are fluid and flexible—led by Black Priests and generals that Omar culled from the Havens when we swept through the West. They mix and borrow from each other, and when enough of them die, merge into a new unit. They talk to each other.

  No one talks to us. No one but Finn’s merry band of suicide seekers.

  “Tell them to get ready to pull out. Omar won’t leave us here long now that the horde is clear.”

  I know he’s right. We’re already two weeks behind the Priest’s schedule. I glance at Ethan, and he moves away, spreading the word. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  He gives me a flat stare and I nod.

  Omar commands a huge army green tent, “HQ” as Finn refers to it. It’s the first thing to go up when we make base camp, and the last thing to be pulled down, and even when it is, Omar keeps HQ together and functioning in three armored RVs.

  They make our ZTNK look like a casual vacation vehicle.

  Finn lifts the tent flap, and two acolytes in black fatigues slip forward, weapons drawn. I giggle, and they both stop.

  No one, not even Omar’s trained pets, will fuck with Finn O’Malley when I’m at his side. They learned the hard way that he is utterly savage when I am with him.

  The Black Priest was waiting for us. He straightens from the map when Finn reaches the table, and his gaze tracks over me briefly before sliding to Finn.

  Always. He has to ensure I’m healthy and whole, because dead doesn’t do him any fucking good.

  Not for the first time, I want to pull my gun and bury every last bullet and every spare round in his smug fucking face. But I don’t. I keep mine blank and step away from Finn.

  “Any casualties?”

  “Fisher,” he says, and a chilling smile twists his lips.

  Omar’s expression tightens and then smooths. He nods. “Take another—”

  “No. We’re in the East now and I don’t want to worry about keeping one of your lackeys alive. You can keep them. I can’t bolt from here. You got your fucking wish, Omar. I’m leading your army. I’ll do it on my terms from now on. So. Tell me the fucking plan.”

  Omar is quiet, staring at him for a long moment, and then he nods at me. “She goes first.”

  Finn gives him a blank stare. “I think you missed a memo somewhere. We’re in the East. She doesn’t go anywhere without me.”

  I shiver, because the words are spoken so evenly, so utterly emotionlessly—as if they are simple facts that are indisputable.

  I told him, in those first few horrible days in the Outpost, to leave. Get the hell away from Omar. Finn had looked at me like I was the worst kind of idiot. He hadn’t even responded. Just closed his eyes on the spare cot in my cell and gone back to sleep.

  If I changed—when I gave in to the virus that would eventually kill me—he’d be there. That was the second thing the Outpost taught me.

  What’s the only thing that matters?

  I blink hard, trying to push the thought aside.

  I will keep you safe.

  Apparently even from myself.

  “The evac from the East was successful because it happened too fast for the infects to react. The army trains and convoys moved out without stopping for anything.”

  Finn’s body goes tight and angry next to me, and I glance at him.

  “That’s not quite true. There were a few stops.”

  Omar nods, looking at him. “And that’s where we suffered casualties. When we got slowed down.”

  “Kelsey wasn’t a fucking casualty,” Finn snarls.

  Omar stares
at Finn impatiently, and I shift, drawing their attention.

  “We don’t have trains.” I say.

  “We don’t—but we only need to reach the Atlantic. We can do that in a week—two at the most.” Omar says impeccably.

  Finn barks a laugh. “Are you fucking insane? We’re not strolling through pre-change southern America. They aren’t rolling out the sweet tea and front porch rockers. We’re walking into a minefield of infected. We have no idea what the radiation has done outside Atlanta.”

  “And I’m saying that none of that matters. We don’t stop. The vanguard will clear what they can, and reattach to the back of the convoy. We don’t bury the dead. We don’t clear the infected, and we don’t offer mercy. We keep moving.”

  A ripple of nausea goes through me. I knew that Omar was manic and insane. I knew that he was intent on reaching the coast, and almost fanatical about reclaiming the East.

  I knew nothing, not even killing, would slow him down.

  Near his side, Holly looks at her mentor, and I see it in her eyes too—the knowledge.

  He was a rabid dog and the only way to stop him was to put him down.

  “She stays with me,” Finn says, his voice low and furious. “Understood?”

  Omar shrugs, and his eyes skirt to me. “The First is free to choose where her unit goes.”

  It’s not real freedom. I might not have a leash but I do have an electric shock collar, and it draws me up every fucking time I think about taking Finn and my Firsts and running.

  I give him a bland smile, and tug on Finn’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “I won’t leave my people behind,” Finn says.

  Omar cocks his head. His gaze is curiously assessing. Finally, “That’s why you’ll never keep her alive. I don’t care about the ones who fall behind, O’Malley. The weak die. That’s what is left for them in this world.”

  Finn doesn’t argue any further, just stalks from the tent. I scramble to keep up and try to ignore the whispering truth—that Finn is only angry because Omar is a dark reflection of himself.

  He would do the same thing, offer the same disregard, for the few people he cares about.

  Chapter 7.

  The Zealots of the Order

  I’m only a little surprised to find the little First in my camp. The rest of my unit is ignoring her, and I understand why.

  Abry leaves a bad taste in the mouth of any First.

  I can understand the ones who bolted—they wanted a life, even a stale empty existence behind the Haven walls. And there are the ones who followed me, choosing to live and die in their own way, their own time. Both were understandable.

  But Abry didn’t do that. Abry chose her chains, to be a held First, waiting to be sacrificed on Third Day. It makes my skin crawl, and it is impossible to ignore when she’s standing in front of me with her wide eyes and trembling hands.

  “She needs to see you,” Abry says softly. “Both of you.”

  I can feel the sudden tension take Finn, and I sigh. “Tell her—“

  “Tell her yourself,” Abry says and shifts. A bald black man detaches himself from the shadows and Abry gives us an apologetic smile. “She’s not waiting any longer.”

  “Your mistress will wait until I am ready to speak with her,” Finn says coldly.

  “Finn,” I say, sighing. “We need to talk to her. Following Omar is going to get us all killed—and you know it.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and then Finn laughs shaking his head, and I glance at Abry. “Fine. We’ll go with you. We’ll listen to your mistress.”

  His head whips around and he glares but I ignore him. We’ve tried this Omar’s way. It’s past time we enlisted the help of his enemies. You don’t ally yourself with a rabid dog unless you have a way to put it down, and right now I would take the help of anyone who would bring him to heel.

  Even the Red Priestess.

  Chapter 8.

  Strange Survivors

  She’s in a white silk tent, a beacon in base camp for all of the zealots. It’s been an eye-opening and terrifying thing, to realize how many zealots there really are.

  When we’re ushered into her tent, Lori looks, startlingly, like she did the first time I saw her, in the Underground of Haven 18.

  Perched on a small table, her legs crossed under her, swathed in red. Her hair is shorter and her pale face is dirty and tired, but she looks calm and collected, as if the world were lined up to fulfill her every desire.

  Not the truth—that she is here because Omar wouldn't risk leaving her alive in the west, that she is a captive to guarantee her people's behavior as much as I am to guarantee Finn's.

  I would almost feel sorry for the fallen priestess except that I don't like her, and she arranged my capture after swearing to leave me and mine untouched.

  The little priestess didn't stay in 18 when Finn and I ran, hours before the horde brought it down. She's a fucking survivor, and if I didn't call myself the same, it would be a curse. But there is one thing that makes her especially valuable, if dangerous. Omar loathes her. And he doesn't trust her.

  The Order is rife with political maneuvering and backstabbing.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” she says softly.

  “Did we have a choice?” Finn says, his voice tinged with irony.

  She inclines her head at that, and her black hair falls like a curtain before she brushes it back. “I would ask a favor.”

  “Priestess. I'm still trying to get away from the last favor you asked for,” Finn says, and his voice is remarkably even.

  She smiles, a tight little thing. “You would happily see me dead for that little errand.”

  “What do you want, Lori? We have things to do, zombies to kill, a maniac to manage,” I say, snapping my fingers briskly. Finn's lips twitch, amused or annoyed—I can't tell.

  “You don't agree with Omar, about the wisdom of taking the East. Do you?”

  “It doesn't matter. We're here. And the dead in the West—we had a very short window of time to deal with the changes that were bringing down the havens. And we didn't. That ship has sailed. If we make it back to the West, we'll deal with that then. But it will be far fewer alive than we have now.”

  “Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay and help the Gray find a cure?”

  Finn laughs, and I shake my head. “You aren't that fucking stupid, Lori. Believe whatever idiotic nonsense you need to sleep at night, but neither of us believes for a moment that you’re stupid enough to buy the lie about a cure.” My expression tightens. “Or that you believe the sacrifices will eventually make the zombies poof and the world will return to what it was before the change.”

  Anger spasms across her face, and I can feel her wanting to argue with me. I'm not just insulting her; I'm insulting her High Priest and beliefs. “Just tell us what the hell we're doing here," I snap.

  Her pet priest stirs angrily and I flash him a bright smile, and blow a kiss.

  Beside me, Finn chokes on his laughter.

  It's very hard to be worried about a killer when the zombie virus is swimming in my blood.

  “I want to bring down the Priest,” Lori says, cutting past the bullshit.

  “Why?” I ask, my voice sharp. Finn is silent next to me, assessing her every move. “Omar might be insane, and he might have no line he's unwilling to cross—but he's not a fanatic. His kind of crazy is at least motivated by a cure. You just want to kill people with a shitty birthday.”

  Lori's eyes latch on to me, and her gaze is furious and hungry and blind with religious fervor. “The High Priest said—”

  “I don't give a fuck what that lunatic said,” I snap. “He was a drug addict and as batshit as you and Omar. Frankly, I think you're both the worst thing that could happen to the Order—but I'm willing to let you kill each other to make everyone's life a little easier. But don't ask me to be a part of it.”

  She shifts and her gaze lands on Finn. It's assessing, and a smile tilts up her lips. “Do you all
share that sentiment?”

  He stands in quiet for a moment and I can feel the tension rising in Abry and the silent priest who shadows Lori, hear the sound of the camp breaking down around us and the rumble of tanks coming to life.

  “I'll kill Omar and Kenny Buchman before I die, Lori. Don't for one second doubt that I will let him live past his usefulness. But for the moment he is still useful. Don't stand in my way, or I'll see you dead before him.”

  The black man, her loyal hound, stirs, his robes a silent whisper as he does, and I slip closer to Finn.

  Safe. That is all I have ever felt at Finn's side, and even here, I feel it.

  “Fine. I offered. What happens next is on your head and no one else's,” Lori says, and I sigh. I've had more melodramatic bullshit from the Order than I ever wanted.

  Finn gives her a mocking little bow and nudges me into motion. Without looking at the Red Priestess again, I slip out of the white silk tent into the chaos of camp. I look at Finn, alone in an army, and ask the question I didn't when we were with the priestess.

  “Do you think she's dangerous?”

  “Lori? She's the fucking Blood Priestess, Nurrin. She had you kidnapped and sent to the Outpost and the only reason we got you back is because of Omar and his fucking agenda. They're all dangerous, and the sooner we can be clear of them the better.”

  I feel a hot flare of guilt. He would be clear of them. He should be safe in the West.

  “Stop,” he snaps, and I blink, looking at him.

  “What?”

  “Stop thinking. It's not going to do any good or change anything. This is what it is. Get your unit ready and I'll be back in five minutes.”

  He pushes me lightly toward my cluster of tents, mostly collapsed, and I see the conflict in his eyes before he jogs away.

  Chapter 9.

  The East

  Omar pushes the convoy hard. We reach the Alabama border, in mid-Tennessee, by nightfall, and we've only had three skirmishes. The units that fought them managed to catch up to the convoy without much trouble but they're ragged. I don't know how many were killed in those battles—and I'm coward enough that I don't ask. Sometimes you just let shit go because there's nothing to be done for them.