The World Without End [Box Set]

by Nazarea Andrews

I laugh, and it startles him, his eyes flashing to me. “Fuck, yes. I’m terrified. You want to do the impossible. And you want to leave the people we’re supposed to be looking out for alone while you do. What the fuck is there to not be scared of?”

  I push off the table. “We’re going back to the mainland. The Captain gave the order earlier today. Resznick’s got his people moving.”

  “We’ll give the army a day—two at most—to recoup after we reach the mainland. And then we’ll take the Holdout and we’ll go. There’s no use waiting here.” He says.

  And like a good little solider, I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  He catches my wrist as I shift to leave, pulling me to his side for a one armed hug. “This is the only way. We can’t protect the West by staying there. We need a place to fall back.”

  I blink back the shudder. Because he believes that. So completely that it’s almost terrifying.

  Omar told me once that there was nothing worse than a zealot. It’s why he hates Lori so much—because the Blood Priestess believes, with every idiotic fiber of her being, that the High Priest had been right. Blessed with divine insight and not fucking high on meth.

  She was a true believer. And those are dangerous because there is no reasoning. He always loathed the ones who fell for that. Said it was weak.

  Omar hated weakness.

  I find it ironic—in the worst way possible—that now he’s one of them.

  “Holly?” He says and I blink out of my thoughts, and look at him.

  He’s waiting patiently for me to agree. To fall in line.

  Good little solider.

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling slightly. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  He nod once and turns back to his map. “Tell the unit captains, and have them all ready to move at my command.”

  I step away from him and snap off a salute.

  So easy. Too easy. I swallow my nerves and leave the tent.

  Because whatever else it is, this has to look natural.

  Chapter 4.

  Picking Up the Pieces

  I step off the boat and my unit falls in around me, the clatter of their weapons and boots covering my soft exhale.

  Ahab still catches it, and he gives me a wrinkled smile. “Not fond of the water are you?”

  I make a face. “I’m not too proud to admit it—I’m a Haven baby and we’re landlocked. If I never see this much water again, it’ll be too soon.”

  The old sailor laughs, and I slide a glance at him as my unit moves out. I don’t understand him, or his place in the Holdout. It’s one of the many mysteries that surrounds this tiny bastion of life.

  “What will you do, when the doctor goes with us to the West?” I ask, curious despite myself. I haven’t allowed myself to think of what will happen after—I shove that thought down, and stare at Ahab.

  “What she needs me to do,” he says simply.

  The sentiment reminds me, too much, of O’Malley.

  I shiver and give him a tight smile, before darting after my unit. Camp has already been set up by the grunts, and I’m given a wide berth while I walk. The soldiers respect me, but they don’t go out of their way to get to know me. I’m Omar’s pet priestess and right hand. His aide de camp. But I’m never going to be invited to share a beer over a fire with any of them as we reminisce over a firefight.

  Sometimes, that bothers me. Being Omar’s confidant comes with a heavy, isolating price tag.

  Most of the time I don’t care—because he’s all I’ve ever wanted or needed.

  “Stay alert,” I order when we reach our camp, and my unit stills, watching me. “We’ll be rotating sentry duty, because the General doesn’t trust the Holdout to hold the line.”

  “Will we be here long?” one, Andrews, asks.

  I glance at her and shrug. “For as long as the High Priest thinks we should be. Get some rest, people, and watch the fucking natives.”

  Without waiting for her to argue, or my unit to respond, I stalk into my tent.

  It’s depressingly barren.

  Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m doing. What kind of life am I building? One lived out of a bag, chasing a man who would never be what I wanted.

  “Shit. Get out of your head, Hols.” I mutter, and a laugh jerks my attention from the empty tent to the young man poking his head through.

  Trent flashes me a quick grin. “You talking to yourself?”

  “Maybe,” I shrug. “What do you need?”

  “The Council has requested your attendance at a private session.”

  My eyebrows raise, despite myself, and I nod. Without really considering why, I strap on my weapons and pull a single robe from where it’s tucked away in my trunk I shake it out and slide into it, ignoring the wrinkles and musty scent that clings to it.

  Black robes. I never wore my black robes—Omar wanted me in Red when he planted me in 1, the sect he didn’t trust with Lori’s influence, too close to the president. But the only sect I had ever given my loyalty too. I take a deep breath, and follow Trent out of the tent, through the camp and past my unit, until we’re approaching the Holdout. It’s bustling with activity, the citizens bringing their city back to life. Not all of them. A large part of the population stayed on the island, where they farmed and fished and so many lived.

  It was the closest thing I’d ever seen to a clean zone.

  The townhall where we had gathered before the horde descended has been ripped apart, and I shiver as Trent leads me past it. I’m not used to seeing just how devastating a mass of zombies could be. What I know with pure practical knowledge is different when I see it so readily.

  “How often do you face a horde like that one?” I ask, my voice quiet.

  Trent glances at me. “Once every few years. We haven’t, not since Josiah took control of the border patrol. He’s been good at keeping our casualties down, and the damage from the infected at a minimum.”

  I pause. “He’s an apocalypse baby, isn’t he?”

  Trent’s eyebrows raise and I shrug. “Someone born after the change.”

  The confusion clears and he nod. “Yes. About six months after—Sylvia was pregnant when Atlanta fell.”

  “How did he become the leader of the military?”

  “The last one died—and Josiah was always a bit of a prodigy. He killed his first biter when he was eight. He was being groomed to be the second in command. When Emery was killed, he stepped in.”

  I nod, and the question that’s been bugging me is on the tip of my tongue. But I bite it down. Because maybe he doesn’t know—and maybe it’s too soon to be pointing out that Josiah is gone.

  And he isn’t coming back.

  The Council has gathered in a small courtyard outside William Boyd’s little two bedroom cottage. It’s a far cry from the stately estate where the Buchman’s live in 1.

  I go still, startled.

  “He’s dead,” I murmur, and Trent jerks around, his gaze sharp and searching.

  The last president of the United States, before the world changed, and all of his family. With Kenneth dead at Finn’s hands—they’re all dead.

  I blink, realizing that Trent is staring at me, his eyes probing and I force a smile. “Nothing. No one.” I say, and he scowls.

  I grin, a surprising bounce to my step as I push past him and into the courtyard.

  Boyd and Maria Peterson are convening in one corner. Bishop Flannery is sitting on a bench, his gaze sharp and calm, while Sylvia sits alone on a single stool.

  Ahab stands at her shoulder. Only the base commander is missing, a seat they won’t fill today.

  Omar is stalking back and forth, and his gaze flicks to me, irritation lighting his black gaze. I lift a silent eyebrow and he shakes his head. Looks away.

  “When can we leave?” He asks, abruptly, twisting to stare at the Council.

  There’s a breath of hesitation. “That will depend greatly on you and what you intend on doing." Boyd says, shifting to stare at Omar.

  I fee
l the tension settle over my priest, and breath a prayer that he'll get through this without threatening to kill someone.

  "Our mission hasn't changed," Omar says.

  There's a beat of silence and then Ahab laughs. "You're a determined fuck, aren't you?"

  Omar smiles, the savage baring of his teeth that terrifies so many and secured his position in the Stronghold. Boyd makes a quiet huff.

  “We cannot sanction you killing your way across the Eastern seaboard.”

  I swallow my instinctive response. Here’s the thing.

  We’re all fucking insane. The way I figure, we have to be—we’re living in a world where a meth addict can become a cultural icon, and a genius scientist can be reviled, where the dead walking is normal.

  Insanity is like air, in our world. It’s part of what keeps us alive.

  “You do realize we’re killing zombies. Not humans.”

  “The first law doesn’t make an exception for the infected,” Maria says softly.

  Even though it’s been obvious, that’s been unstated. Until now. Omar stares at them, and I risk a glance at him. Fascinated revulsion crawls across his face, and I bite my lip.

  “Will you try to stop us?” I ask, cutting him off before he can insult them even more. He throws me a dirty look—he knows exactly what I’m doing.

  Omar has always been exceptionally good at reading me.

  “No,” The Bishop says. “What you do beyond our borders is your business. Unless it affects us and we don’t know that it will.” He glances at Boyd who stays still and quiet.

  Omar glances at me. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. I want my quiet apartment in 1 and the monthly reports, and his proud smile every few months. I want the political maneuvering behind the safety of my walls, and the other acolytes who jockeyed for power I already surpassed.

  I want anything but this.

  “We’ll leave in two days,” he says and that’s it. The clock is ticking.

  I barely hear the end of the meeting, and I move only because muscle memory demands I fall in beside him as he leaves the council. I can feel Sylvia watching me, and I can feel his impatience, and all the rage he’s fighting down.

  I wish like hell Finn had finished the job before he vanished with that damn First.

  Chapter 4.

  Night Moves

  I’m sitting on his cot, cleaning my gun. Omar is stretched out at my back, his legs hot as they press against the thin tank top I’m wearing.

  “What do you think we’ll find, in the East?” I ask.

  Omar yawns and shifts, so I fall back a little and he props me up. He’s been napping and for the first time since we arrived at the Holdout, he looks rested.

  Omar has never rested well without someone he trusts to guard his back. It’s why I spend so much time in his tents. I know some of the army—a lot of the army—thinks I’m fucking him. But it’s never been that. I love him. He’s my best friend, and the father I never had. But I’ve never once wanted anything romantic from him. And Omar has a mission. It doesn’t have room for sex with girls who makes better tools than they do bedmates.

  I wait, quiet and patient, for an answer, but he doesn’t offer one. Instead he nudges me until I huff and stand. “Come on,” he say, rising. He’s fully dressed—always, and armed. The man has serious trust issues, but I suppose twenty years of the end of the world will do that to you.

  “Where?” I ask, snapping my gun back together. I’m a few steps behind, shoving my gun in the holster on my thigh and checking my knives when I catch him.

  He’s headed for the perimeter.

  Of course he is.

  Omar hates O’Malley. But he’s eerily similar to the man. Sometimes I think he hates him merely because he sees himself in the younger man. And no one wants to see themselves staring out of the eyes of a killer.

  I follow him out of the camp, away from the Holdout. He’s looking for a fight, and no one disturbs us as we walk, until all I can hear is the sound of bugs and birds, and the steady brush of my feet.

  But no screaming.

  “Omar,” I say and he pauses.

  Turns to look at the sky. “Do you remember where you called home, before all of this?” he asks.

  I flinch. “The only home I’ve ever known is 1. You know that.”

  He glances at me, and I see the apology in his eyes. Relax a little. “I was from the Bronx.” I inhale sharply.

  New York and the five boroughs fell. Fast and viciously. I learned about it with all the other Haven kids—Atlanta fell to the dirty bombs Washington ordered.

  New York fell to the infection, and the streets ran with blood before the army declared it a loss and pulled out. There were over twenty million people in New York on Third Day, and when it fell two weeks later, three quarters of them died. Five million walked out.

  And that was considered a win.

  “How,” I whisper, and choke, biting down on my question.

  “Dumb luck. We were locked in the apartment. When it became apparent the city would fall, Ma got some shit together for me and Tashaun. We were almost to the FEMA camps when we hit a horde. I lost her there—and I ran. Pretty sure I was gonna die, and not a damn thing I could do about it except be mad as fuck that these dead shits were taking my city. I ran into an army convoy and I guess they took pity on me. At that point, I’d fought my way out of a few tight spots. I was covered in blood and I was in the hot zone and they would have been within their rights to shoot me on the spot. Instead, they got me on a transport out, and one of the last things I remembered hearing them say is that we’d lost the city. They were pulling out.”

  “You want to reclaim it. New York.”

  “I want what belongs to us,” he says. I shift, coming up behind him, and stills. “This isn’t their world, Holly. It’s ours. Mine and yours,”

  He barely makes a noise when I slide my knife up and though his ribs. Just the way he taught me. A tiny grunt and his body, so large and reassuring, goes tense under my hand. He shudders when I twist the blade, and sags to his knees.

  He never asks why. Not when I pull him against me and hold him, the blood pouring out against my legs, his breath rattling under my silent sobs, tears dripping on his face. Not when I pull my knife around and press it against his throat. He stares at the sky, still and serene, and his eyes glint.

  And then they dull.

  And I scream, muffling it against my hands. His body a weight holding me down, tethering me to the moment and the brutal reality.

  I killed him. The man who saved my life, a million times and ways.

  Omar is dead and I am covered in his blood.

  Part 2.

  The Blood Priestess

  Chapter 1.

  The Black Priest Is Dead

  Omar was dead. It was whispered in every tent and knot of soldiers, until the whispers were a wave, tidal and devastating.

  The Black Priest was dead, and his pet was stepping into his vacant shoes, not even waiting to clean the blood from her nails before she countermanded his orders.

  It would kill her. It would kill us all.

  But before it did, I would dance in the blood of the Firsts.

  Chapter 2.

  The New High Priestess

  The train is moving, quiet shaking around me. It’s been one week since Omar was killed. The army and Holdout moved fast—almost scary how quickly Holly brought the army to heel when word of Omar’s death hit.

  Or maybe, given who and what they are—his army, made so largely of black robes and war veterans—it’s not surprising at all. For them—I suppose, for all of us—there is an inevitability of death. Zombies ensured that, and the danger of the job they had chosen.

  We are all waiting to die.

  But not today.

  “High Priestess?”

  I go still, listening to her move.

  Abry is what I spend my life looking for. And I am damn good at finding those like her.

  Pretty little
girls bound to die for the salvation of all of us, and better—a willing sacrifice. I twist and stare at her. “What is it, Abry?”

  She shudders, and I see the way her eyes go glassy, almost glazed. I see that look on her face so often, and I can’t decide if it’s drawn by fear or a hunger for what she knows is coming.

  I can’t decide which I would rather it be.

  Fear is an intoxicating thing, and I will gladly watch it in her until the day I slice up her perfect skin and feed her to a horde while my priests writhe behind their feast.

  “The scientist wants you, Priestess,” she says softly, her eyes turned down.

  In his corner, Beau shifts. Silent. Watchful.

  I give a tiny nod and he comes alert, shifting to pull the door open. He precedes me through it, his entire body tight with tension, watching.

  We follow Abry through the train in a formal procession, and I make a small smile, amused by it.

  Formality and ritual is one of my best tools. And why I keep Beau safe. Omar never thought to keep a personal guard. He never needed an attack dog on a leash—but what he quickly forgot is that I didn’t either. I am the fucking High Blood Priestess. Violence is my lifeblood.

  Sylvia is in the first cabin. Not terribly surprising, considering her people control the train and like to stay together. Trent stuffed his precious scientist in the cabin closest to the engine, and stationed his troops in the cabin after that. We wanted her, we would have to fight our way through two cabins full of the Holdout’s best fighters.

  Not that we want her. Sylvia has a purpose, and I need her alive to win 1, and give me control of the Stronghold.

  I draw to an abrupt halt when we enter the first cabin and I find Holly lounging at Sylvia’s table.

  In black fucking robes.

  “Ladies,” I purr, gliding past Abry. Beau keeps moving behind me until he flanks her and Holly’s gaze darts to him for just a moment before she refocuses on me. “What’s the occasion?”

  Sylvia turns away from the computer she’s tapping away at, and pulls glasses off. Sits down next to me. “We’ll reach 1 soon. We need to discuss what exactly we’re trying to achieve while there.”