So Long, Lollipops (An Until the End of the World Novella)

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  Peter found it when he neared the main road—a yellow, two-bedroom house that was unlocked. Once he’d verified its lack of occupants, he locked up and lay down on the green couch with his bag beside him. His stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t muster the energy to do anything but close his eyes. He kept his holster on and the machete by his side and thought of how he was only forty miles away from Bits, from Ana, even though it felt like a thousand. But, tomorrow, he’d be there. Forty miles on a bike was no problem.

  CHAPTER 6

  He’d meant to eat but didn’t wake until it was almost dawn. The windowless bathroom made for a safe place to use his flashlight to survey his food. Definitely the big packet of slop; he was starving. It said Beef Ravioli, and maybe it was, in an alternate universe. It could have been worse, though; he’d seen the stew and was glad not to have firsthand experience. He swallowed it down and ripped open the packet marked Toaster Pastry. Now that was good. Too bad the whole thing wasn’t Pop-Tarts.

  He used the dry toilet. It’s not like anyone was going to complain, and by the time he’d left the bathroom it was light enough to leave. The kitchen cabinets were empty. That was fine; he had enough food for a few days. What he needed was water; the liter bottle in his pack was pretty low. He grabbed an empty bottle to fill when he next came across water, to replace the one he’d stupidly left in the pickup.

  The air was thick with fog, which might help to obscure him from Lexers. It went both ways, though, so he pedaled slowly enough that he could stop if necessary, while still making decent time. The two-lane road passed farmhouses and fields that had grown into wildflower meadows. There was a pileup that looked like it had been moved to allow for a vehicle and assorted Lexers, but the bike made all the difference. He would whiz past, and by the time they’d figured out breakfast had arrived, he was already gone.

  The fog burned off and the sky was a clear blue with puffy clouds. A gas station sign loomed ahead. He decided to look for water. Really, any beverage would do. He was almost at the turnoff for the smaller road he planned to take north, and there were probably no stores along it.

  The doors to the station’s store were locked, which would have necessitated breaking the glass had someone not already done it. It was good he wouldn’t have to make noise, but that likely meant it was empty of anything worthwhile. Still, he stepped through the opening and crunched over the glass, past shelves barren of all food, to the coolers that lined the back. Rotten milk and orange juice were the only things on offer. Peter sighed. He’d just guzzled the rest of his water and was still thirsty. He bent down to scan the lower shelves and let out a quiet whoop of joy. There it was, on its side in the back: one small, lonely bottle of water.

  He twisted the cap and allowed himself a quarter of the bottle, then stuck it in his pack’s side pocket before heading to the door. There was a Lexer sniffing around his bike just outside. It really was sniffing, like a dog. It turned its head in small, jerky movements and grunted at the sight of him. It was almost a greeting. Hey, how you doing? I’m thinking of eating you. The machete rasped out of its sheath, and he walked to meet his new buddy halfway. He brought it sideways into the Lexer’s neck and pulled it out again.

  You had to get the head, but if you got just under the jaw and angled up it did the job with a little less effort. There was enough lower brain there to kill them once and for all, he guessed. He wiped his blade on the grass and threw a leg over the bike. The breeze was nice; it kept him from becoming unbearably hot in all his layers, even with the solid barrier of sweat that had formed between his back and pack.

  The turn was just ahead. He was getting closer, and it was morning, with the whole day ahead of him. There was a state park with a lake nine miles north where he’d replenish his water supply. He would’ve whistled, if he could’ve done it silently.

  Halfway to the state park, he thought he heard noises in the woods. He straddled his bike and stood in the center of the road, straining his ears. A crash came from behind, and he spun around to see Lexers spilling onto the road. Dozens of Lexers. He put his feet to the pedals and picked up speed around the bend, only to find another group. They seemed to be part of the first; he was in the middle of one of those traveling pods Zeke had warned them about. He’d ridden into the calm eye of a Lexer hurricane.

  They were too dense to make it through on his bike. He could leave his bike and run into the woods, but it sounded like there were more in there. The breeze wasn’t cooling him down any longer. He was a shaky, sweaty bundle of nerves. This was what you saved your adrenaline for. A trailer park ahead on the right, which went by the name Elmore Estates, was his only other option. It meant heading toward the limping, growling group coming for him, but he had to try.

  He pedaled furiously into the first few Lexers. A set of grimy hands locked on his handlebars, and the bike skittered out from under him. He managed to avoid going down with it and made for the park entrance. Elmore Estates consisted of a loop with park trailers on either side of each lane. The whole place was surrounded by a chain-link fence threaded with green privacy strips. It looked to have been well-kept, but now the flowers in the planters were dead, a few doors hung on their hinges and garbage was scattered throughout.

  Peter took the right-hand lane. A trailer with a busted door would be useless, and if he had to bust down the door it would be rendered useless. He ran for the open window of the fourth trailer down on the left and sliced his machete through the screen just as the pod came into eyeshot. They could see him. He followed his bag in and slammed the window down.

  He was in an empty living room that had a wide entrance into a kitchen, also empty. The dim hallway had three doors, all closed. That was good enough for him at the moment, so he crouched and moved to the window by which he’d entered. He put a hand on the arm of the floral couch and raised his eyes to the windowsill. He was greeted by yellow teeth filled with black gunk and lidless eyeballs, and he fell back when the Lexer slammed a skeletal hand to the glass. They knew he was inside. They knew, and that meant they wouldn’t stop until they were inside, too. As if in answer to that thought, the bottom half of the other window darkened with hands and the front door rattled.

  He crawled out of the room, dragging his bag behind him, and then rose to make his way down the hall. The room at the end was his best bet. Maybe he could get out a window and into another trailer. Maybe, through some miracle, he could make it over the fence. Into what, he didn’t know, but it had to be better than waiting inside a trailer-shaped coffin to die.

  He turned the knob and swung the door open with his machete at the ready. There was a bed with a cheap quilt, and under it lay what looked to be an elderly woman and man. They’d shriveled and shrunk in death, but he could still see the lines etched into their skin from the years they’d been alive. A Ruger Scout rifle—Peter recognized it because John had one—leaned against the bed, a box of ammo beside it. Another gun wouldn’t hurt. He shoved the box of ammo in his pack, slung the rifle’s strap over his shoulder and moved to the window.

  A stretch of overgrown grass ran between the back ends of the trailers. The grass was still clear, but he could see Lexers on the asphalt of the other side of the loop. If he could get into one of the other trailers from the backyard, they could break down this one’s door all they wanted. And they were going to; he could hear the wood door splintering from the other end of the house.

  He raised the window and shoved out the screen. A quick glance confirmed it was safe to run, and he set his sights on a window two trailers down. There was no reflection behind the screen, which made him think it was open. If it wasn’t, and he had to break the glass, he might end up dead. But he was dead if he stayed and dead if he tried for the fence.

  His boot hit the sill and then he was out, running in a crouch between the backs of the trailers. The screen tore under his machete. He threw his pack in and followed it to the floor with a thud. He lay there for a moment, trying to hear over his pounding heart, but the so
unds of the Lexers didn’t draw closer. The window made a squeak that seemed to echo for miles when he closed it. Then he lowered the blind a millimeter at a time. He’d made it. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.

  They snapped open at the creaking noise down the hall. This trailer was the same layout as the first. He’d entered in the back, into the same end bedroom by which he’d left the other one. His machete lay on the floor; he was so relieved to be safe he’d forgotten that inside could be just as dangerous. Another stupid move brought to you by Peter. Well, he was learning these things the hard way—it seemed to be the way a lesson stuck.

  Another creak of floorboards. Better to see what was coming and have a place to retreat than to be trapped in the corner of this bedroom that looked like an eyelet factory had exploded inside it. Peter walked to the doorway. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. A little boy, no more than five and dressed in rocket ship pajamas, stumbled down the hall. He wasn’t cute any longer, but you could tell he once was by the pudgy cheeks and curly, dark hair that framed his face.

  Peter considered pushing him into the room and locking it to avoid having to kill him, but you couldn’t be sentimental when it came to zombies. People, even ones like that guy under the bridge, maybe, but not zombies. Peter backed into the bedroom. The boy came into the light, baby teeth grinding and eyes wild. His pajama shirt said One Giant Leap for Bedtime. He’d probably loved the shit out of those pajamas. Peter would’ve when he was a kid.

  “Sorry,” Peter whispered, and punched the machete into his left eye.

  The little guy landed on his side like he was sleeping, one hand up by his face and the other curled over his round tummy. Peter stood over the body for a moment and then closed the bedroom door behind him to check the rest of the house. The boy’s bedroom was painted a pale blue and full of toys, with the name Jonah spelled out in wooden letters on the wall. All the blinds in the kitchen and living room were lowered and the rooms empty. He wondered how Jonah had ended up alone. Had his parents left him for dead, not realizing what he’d become? Had they gone for help, only to be killed themselves? Had they known, but not been able to bring themselves to kill him? Peter could imagine any number of scenarios; he just hoped Jonah hadn’t been scared, that he hadn’t had to die alone.

  He bit down so hard this time he tasted iron, but the pain didn’t match the burning in his chest. So many people had died, alone and scared, crying for their parents, their husbands and wives, their children. Like Jane had probably cried as she sat in their parents’ car, surrounded by flames. Peter sank into a chair at the kitchen table, laid his head on his arms and let the tears go.

  ***

  Crying hadn’t been the best idea. He may have felt better emotionally, but he was thirstier than ever. His small bottle of water was two-thirds full and an exhaustive search of the kitchen turned up nothing except Kool-Aid mix, peanut butter and some boxes of crackers. Big fucking whoop, he already had crackers. Salty, thirst-inducing crackers.

  He peeked out the blinds and saw the park was full of Lexers. They must have broken through the first trailer and found nothing, and now they all stood or wandered aimlessly. One had his arm up on the side of a trailer, head lowered, like he was talking to a pretty girl at a party. Peter walked the house and examined every possible exit, but there wasn’t a single spot where there weren’t at least a few. It was likely he’d never make it to the far-off fence without a lot of trouble.

  The sip of water he allowed himself was delectable. He swished it around his dry mouth and swallowed. He’d wait them out. Surely they’d get distracted and amble off at some point; the pods seemed to like to move. He hoped it’d be before he was too thirsty. How long could you live without water? Two, three days? Longer, maybe, but he felt sure you weren’t going to be able to outrun Lexers when you were weakened from thirst.

  He sat on the living room’s leather couch. There were a few pictures of a family, with Jonah taking center stage. There had been a mom and dad, but obviously Mom had been in control of decorating. The living room was filled with prints of flowers in vases, accentuated by actual fake flowers in vases on both side tables, the coffee table, and the gold and wood entertainment center.

  He had to pee and was on his way to the bathroom when he realized he should probably save it. He poked around and came up with a Tupperware pitcher. It was clear plastic, and when he was done he looked at the yellow liquid inside with an unsettled stomach. He couldn’t imagine being thirsty enough to drink that. But you never knew how desperate you could get until you were there. Maybe he could add the Kool-Aid to it—he shook his head. He’d figure out how to do it when—and if—he had to, but he still had water and the other MRE, which might contain something that was liquid. He opened the outer packaging to reveal packets of beef brisket, biscuit, cookies, crackers and butter granules, among other items. They couldn’t have made a drier MRE if they’d tried. The universe was at it again. He hadn’t gone far today, but he was tired, so he grabbed the afghan off the back of the couch, rolled to his side and went to sleep.

  It was afternoon when he woke. He was still thirsty. Imagine that. He peed into the pitcher again, which already smelled terrible, and sipped at his water. The Lexers were still there. A way to distract them would be great. He went to the back, purposely not looking at Jonah, but there was no way to raise a window and throw something into the distance without being noticed. There went that plan.

  The bookshelf in the living room was full of romance novels. Either Dad had liked romance novels too, or he’d not been big on reading. Peter chose one that didn’t involve an heiress and sat down to read until dark. When the light through the blinds became too dim, he threw the book aside. His apocalyptic reading material had become bizarre. No wonder Cassie insisted on carrying her own books around; it was probably one of those survival strategies only she and John knew.

  He lay back and closed his eyes, but all he could think about was the couple in the book. They’d met at a party, fallen instantly in love and had a whirlwind romance. The girl found out she was pregnant and didn’t tell the guy because it would ruin his bright future to be a father at twenty-four. So she raised the kid in some far-off town while he spent almost two years looking for her. Of course, instead of being happy when he found her—since all she’d done was dream of him and stare into the eyes of their son, which were so much like his father’s—she’d slammed the door in his face. It was maddening. It’s not like Peter had been the master of healthy relationships, but come on.

  Why the hell was he giving this so much thought? Maybe the thirst was already addling his brain. He allowed himself another swig and closed his eyes again. This time he thought of what he’d do when he saw Ana—as long as she didn’t slam the door in his face, like some fictional characters he could mention—and the look on Nel’s face when he handed him that can of Pepsi he was saving.

  Peter sat up and shook his head. How could he have forgotten about the Pepsi? He pulled it from where he’d buried it in the pack and placed it on the coffee table. He could see it shining in the dark, and it was beautiful. Too beautiful to leave on the table. He nestled it on his chest and fell asleep.

  The next morning was the same: Lexers outside, pee in the pitcher, eat some crackers with cheese spread, sip water. At least the couple in the book had finally gotten together. He started on another one and rolled his eyes as the series of misunderstandings began. But he could see why people read them—you knew they’d end all right. You couldn’t promise that in the real world, certainly not in this world. You could hope it would be all right, you could believe it’d be all right, but you couldn’t guarantee it. But Peter decided to believe it. He still had the Pepsi, a few ounces of water and all the crackers one guy could eat.

  The characters in the book were constantly drinking, and he began to suspect the author was trying to torment him. Wine, soda, glasses of ice water—they were all there for the taking. They didn’t even appreciat
e it. He rested the book on his lap and stared at the Pepsi. He would open it and take a sip, then transfer it to a container where it wouldn’t evaporate.

  Peter cracked the top and took two swallows. “Enough,” he said aloud, and forced himself to stop. Was it better to drink it all and then go without or slowly die of thirst while sipping? He decided on the latter. At least this way, sip by sip, his body might use it, instead of adding to his pee collection. He hoped the caffeine and sugar wouldn’t make his thirst worse.

  The Lexers still hadn’t moved by late afternoon and his third romance. By nightfall he was so thirsty he allowed himself to finish the water along with the beef brisket. It wasn’t winning any culinary awards, but it was much more liquid than he had imagined. That left most of a can of Pepsi and his third day of captivity to look forward to tomorrow.

  Another day, another romance. By noon Peter could think of almost nothing but beverages. He’d even drink prune juice, his nemesis, gladly. A couple of sips of Pepsi at one o’clock made him so thirsty that he allowed himself to dip his tongue into the container a few hours later. He was tired, more tired than a person who sat around reading romance novels all day should be, and when darkness fell so did his eyelids.

  The next morning his mouth was glued shut. He eyed the five remaining ounces of Pepsi on the counter next to the many ounces of piss. He could almost see how that would be appealing, when the Pepsi was gone. Well, not appealing, but better than nothing.