Until the End of the World (Book 3): All the Stars in the Sky

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  The Lexers advance on the RV. Barnaby raises his hackles and starts his relentless barking that, for once, isn’t unwelcome. We need them to come toward us in order to give Tony a fighting chance. Bits crawls under the table and puts her hands over her ears.

  “Tony!” Margaret yells out the window. “We’re leading them away. Get in the truck!”

  We don’t expect an answer, as that would be deadly for him. The one tangled in the hose attempts to rise, the pump rattling along the concrete, and lands near what’s left of Mike’s body. Mike’s abdomen is hollowed out, his face a hole where hands or teeth cut through to brain. Only his pants and the long dark hair make him identifiable. I send this morning’s oatmeal back down with a forceful swallow.

  We wait until Lexers pound on the RV, but Tony doesn’t emerge. The ones from the supermarket have reached the road. They only need two minutes to reach us. Three if we’re lucky.

  Shawn races into the living area from his vantage point at the bedroom window. “More pods coming. Are the truck keys in the ignition?”

  Zeke nods. I join Jamie at the door and hear Bits sob, but I can’t think about that right now. Whoever does this has to be fast, and the loads of stupid things I did this summer have made me faster and stronger than ever. I pull out my axe and ignore the sweat dripping down my back.

  “We’ll get the pump,” I say, and point to Peter and Nelly.

  Shawn looks to Jamie. “We’ll get the battery.”

  “Let us out behind the pickup,” Nelly calls. “Try to block the ones from the street.”

  Kyle swings around the pickup, where we jump out and keep low while he pulls to the pumps. Between Margaret’s calling and Barnaby’s howls, the Lexers are focused on the RV.

  The zombie in the tubing drags itself forward at our approach. I kneel to unwrap its limbs after Nelly’s machete goes through its head. There’s no slack where the rubber wraps around his ankle, and the remainder is trapped under his torso. The pickup’s hood slams and Jamie’s boots pound past. I don’t look up; they’ll tell me when I need to run. The dead Lexer wears a heavy boot, the knotted lace locked with dried mud. I’ll never get the loop wide enough to fit over it. The sound of blades hitting flesh and the meaty thud of bodies hitting the ground nearby tells me that we’ve become more interesting than the RV. There’s no time—this foot has to go. I lift my axe and bring it down on the Lexer’s shin with a crunch. Nelly’s machete follows my axe, and he flings the severed foot away while I slip the hose free.

  “Done!” Nelly calls.

  He tosses the pump in the truck bed and jumps in. I use the tire to launch myself after him. Jamie heads for the passenger door and Peter lands beside me just as the few coming our way hit the truck. But that’s not all that’s coming our way—all the Lexers from the supermarket plus two more pods are closing in—close to a thousand altogether. The RV moves across the grass to the street. Shawn bumps over a body and races after it.

  I look down to see the pump inching toward the tailgate. The end of the hose in the ground tank has threaded itself under Mike’s body as we passed. All of this, and we’re going to lose it anyway. I dive and clutch it to my chest, feet braced against the tailgate, as Mike moves an inch, a foot, and then rolls to the side. The hose whips out of the hole, throwing up droplets of gasoline.

  We roll behind the RV, passing stores that must have something in the way of food inside. They might be the only places between here and Alaska that do, and a thousand reasons why they’re untouched follow us down the road.

  Jamie knocks on the back window and gives us a thumbs up. Nelly returns the gesture and leans against the metal. His cheeks are two spots of pink from exertion. I offer a weak smile and force my fingers to release the pump. There’s a momentary high when you’ve survived something so risky, but I’ve had enough of that high to last several lifetimes.

  Peter puts an arm around my shoulders and I close my eyes while we leave Winnipeg. I’m tired, too tired to look back to where we just left one person dead and two a mystery. We’re down to seventeen, and I don’t think the Lexers are finished with us yet.

  CHAPTER 15

  Someone—or someones—has beaten us to every gas station two hours northwest of Winnipeg. There’s no dearth of stations along the two-lane roads we travel, but they’re empty of food, empty of fuel and, thankfully, fairly empty of zombies. The truck’s tank is only half full and we’ve already dipped into it for the RV.

  “It has been over a year,” James says, although he looks as disappointed as everyone else. “Imagine all the people who left Winnipeg? Most of it was probably gone the first week.”

  “Which means a trip into more populated territory,” Mark says. He flips through the atlas and points to several smaller towns. When I look close, I see they’re a lot smaller than Winnipeg but still have enough streets to give me pause.

  “We could give Yorkton a try,” Mark continues. “There should be enough daylight to find fuel and a stopping place up north. Three hours until Yorkton, wouldn’t you say?” James sits opposite Mark at the dinette, and now he turns the atlas his way, studies it for a moment and nods.

  No one’s spoken of Mike, Rohan and Tony. There’s nothing to say, which may seem cold, but the quiet of the RV speaks volumes. I sit on the kitchen floor and braid and re-braid Bits’s silky hair. It soothes her, the way it does when Peter rubs her brow after a nightmare. Ashley slides down beside me and sighs.

  “Hey, you all right?” I ask.

  She gives me her profile. “I’m used to losing people.”

  Her words are flat. She lost her parents at the beginning of Bornavirus and then Nancy, her surrogate mom, outside of Kingdom Come. I can tell Ash is shutting down, battening down the hatches, and I’m afraid she might never come back if she does. I hope that these kids aren’t damaged beyond redemption for what’s happened in their formative years.

  “I’m not used to it,” I say. “No matter how many.”

  She folds her arms. “You’re not crying or anything. Even after Ana and John and—” She stops with her mouth open in apology, but I smile and tuck her hair behind her ear.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m used to it. I’m choosing to focus on other people. Like you and everyone in here.”

  “I don’t want to be sad.”

  “Me neither. You know what I’ve decided?” She shrugs like she couldn’t care less and rips a hangnail off her index finger. “I’m not going to cry until I get to Alaska. Then I’m going to let it all out. It’s going to be great.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  I ignore her sarcasm. “We’ll have a cry party. A sobfest. You can come if you want. We’ll have refreshments.” I say the last part in a sing-songy voice.

  “Cassie’s Cry Party?” She turns her head, but the swell of her cheek gives away her smile.

  “Only a select few are invited.”

  “I want to come,” Bits says. “Except I don’t think I can not cry until Alaska.”

  “You’re still invited. You have to let out the tears or they’ll rust your insides. Then we’d have to make you drink motor oil. It wouldn’t be pretty.” Ash laughs when Bits does, and I turn to her. “Same goes for you.”

  “How about you?” Ash asks.

  “I’m good. I drink a capful of oil every morning.”

  She rolls her eyes but scoots closer to lift Bits’s hair. “You want a fishtail braid, Bits? I can do a really cool one.”

  “Yes, please,” Bits says. “Cassie can only do boring braids.”

  “Well, excuse me for living,” I say. “Ash can be in charge of braids at the party.”

  Ashley smiles and carefully pulls the brush through Bits’s snarls. “Are we having lunch today?” Bits asks.

  “Yes. Let’s let Ash decide. Should we have rice, rice or rice?”

  “I think rice,” Ash says, her laugh mixing with Bits’s giggles.

  I throw on water and measure out enough rice for everyone to have a cup once it’s cook
ed. Ash and Bits declare it movie time after the braid has been admired, and the kids head for the bedroom.

  Peter places home-canned chicken stock and a bottle of oil on the counter. “Use these, too.”

  “Wait, why am I cooking when you’re standing right here?” I ask.

  He nudges me out of the way. “I’ll take over. That was nice of you.”

  “What? Lunch?”

  “No, talking to Ashley. You weren’t kidding about not crying, then.”

  “Nope.” I lean against the sink and watch James and Mark trace routes on the atlas. James has found himself a map buddy, which allows Penny to rest rather than listen to him yammer on. Knowing where we’re going is interesting, the ratio of paved roads to dirt roads in any given map quadrant is not. “We’re going to get there, right?”

  He lifts the lid of the pot and sets it back down. “We are. Why, are you on the ledge?”

  “No, I just don’t want to miss out on a good sobfest,” I say. He watches me closely, until I start to squirm and ask, “What?”

  “You’re a nice person,” he says with a shrug.

  “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.” Peter has me beat any day of the week. I get emotional and cranky at the drop of a hat, while he rides along on an even keel 99 percent of the time. But I still feel my cheeks warm from the compliment.

  “I don’t know that your plan’s the healthiest, though. Especially for you.”

  “Crying’s like crack—one taste and I can’t stop,” I say. “I’m just saying no.”

  He laughs and dumps in the rice.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re at the side of the road by a tiny pond eating the extra delicious rice that Peter made. He added some dried fruit, which has plumped up and adds sweetness to the lightly salted rice.

  “Why do any of us ever bother cooking when Peter could do it?” Maureen asks me.

  “I have no idea.” I stick a bit of my rice in Hank’s and Bits’s bowls and then finish off what’s left. “I’m going to wash up.” I’ve added gasoline to my collection of odors and want to use the pond to rinse my gloves and leather jacket.

  Nelly hands me his coat and gestures at the pond. “If you would.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  He joins me with a grumble. I squat by the edge of the water and squirt dish soap on my gloved hands, then foam them and my coat sleeves. Nelly does the same and lets out a giant sigh.

  “Really?” I ask. “All because I wouldn’t wash your coat?”

  “Not that. Adam doesn’t want me to help with the gas in Yorkton.”

  I heard them speaking in forceful whispers but ignored it because I like to maintain the illusion of privacy. I thought Kingdom Come was bad. Try living in an RV with seventeen people.

  “You don’t have to,” I say, and rinse my sleeves. “We have enough people.”

  “You have Bits and Hank. They’re kids. If anyone shouldn’t go, it’s you, Peter and Kyle.”

  “We could argue all day about who’s most important. I don’t like the idea of you going, anyway. I like to keep my eye on you.” I raise two dripping fingers to my eyes and then point at him.

  Nelly pushes me with his shoulder and brushes the water off his coat. “I just think families should be together.”

  “We’re all family. You and Adam are a family.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t repopulate the Earth if you all die.” I burst out laughing, and he rescues me from falling into the pond.

  “There’s no procreation going on in my neck of the woods, either. He’s worried. Just give him this one little thing. Next time I’ll stay with the kids and you can go.”

  I’m scared to go into Yorkton, and I’m scared not to. If I’m there maybe I can stop something terrible from happening. Zombies have given me OCD and made me a control freak. It’s another reason to despise them, not that there weren’t plenty already.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” Nelly looks across the field, jaw locked. He’s pissed, but I understand why Adam wants him nearby today.

  “Mind that wittle baby has to stay home ‘cause his Mommy won’t wet him go?”

  Nelly attempts his signature icy blue stare, but a laugh escapes the corner of his mouth. “You’re such a shithead.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It’s the same old story at every gas station we come across, and it doesn’t bode well for Yorkton. We stop at every house that doesn’t look ransacked, but aside from one can of pineapple chunks, they’re empty. The gas tank door of every car has been pried open.

  Armed with a phone book and map, Peter, Jamie, Shawn and I prepare to leave the RV parked outside of town. Bits holds Hank’s hand and tries not to cry.

  “I can stay,” I tell her and kneel for a hug. “I will if you want me to.” She shakes her head and buries it in my neck. “I promise I’ll stay next time, okay?”

  I kiss her and Hank’s heads, add in one for Ash, and get in the backseat of the pickup with Jamie. Shawn drives and Peter holds a map marked with an X for every gas station. We’ll try the ones on the outskirts first and then move into the city if we have to. I think of how resigned Bits looked at the idea we might not come back. I don’t want her to get used to losing people. I clench my fists and ask someone—my parents, Adrian, John—or something to get us back okay.

  “Ugh,” Jamie says, “didn’t these people get tired of looking at the same thing all the time? It’s looked the same for over a thousand miles.”

  “Grass, trees, lake,” Shawn says. “Lather, rinse, repeat.”

  “You guys are from Massachusetts, right?” Peter asks.

  “Yeah, right outside of Boston,” Jamie says. “We bought a house there.”

  “Expensive as shit, but we could swing the payments because my lady brought home the bacon,” Shawn says.

  Jamie was a lawyer in her past life. “Shut up, Shawn,” she says.

  “You guys know she made close to two hundred thou a year?”

  I look at Jamie, whose olive skin has reddened. “So you were a fancy lawyer?”

  “Yeah, corporate law.”

  “You worked for the devil?” I ask, and kick her foot with mine.

  She kicks me back. “Yes, yes, I worked for the devil. But I swore I’d only do it until my loans were paid back. Then the house was expensive. We were thinking of selling so I could quit, but…” She points out the window at the new, unimproved world we inhabit.

  Shawn says, “The neighborhood had great schoo—”

  “So, now you know,” Jamie cuts him off in a tight voice. What she used to do isn’t a big deal, but something sure seems like it is to her.

  “Don’t feel bad,” I say. “Peter had a lot more money than you. He did evil stuff with lobbyists.”

  Peter turns in his seat. “It wasn’t evil stuff. It was—”

  “Did you save people or animals or the environment, or even the country from a foreign threat?” He shakes his head. “Then it was probably evil. Or pointless.”

  “I’ll give you pointless,” he says with a laugh.

  “Don’t worry, we still love you,” I say to Jamie. She wraps her arms tight around the knees she’s brought up to her rapidly rising chest. “If we can love Peter after that, we can love anyone.”

  I can tell she doesn’t want to have a breakdown right now, if ever, and it looks like she’s heading that way. I tousle Peter’s hair to let him know I’m kidding. Peter catches sight of Jamie and hangs his head. “It’s true.”

  Jamie gives him a quivery smile and smacks the side of Shawn’s head. “No, if we can love Shawn, we can love anyone.”

  ***

  The first gas station comes before we hit the town, just behind a Staples and a garden supply store. It’s a no-frills kind of place, with no roof over the pumps or a tiny store, but the expanse of concrete is blessedly empty. I stand in the truck bed and watch for Lexers. I’ve barely had a chance to get my bearings when Shawn curses. “The tank’s already open. Nothing.”


  We head for the next on the list. It’s only a few blocks away, and it takes us three passes before we’re sure it doesn’t exist any longer. Shawn leans his head on the steering wheel and sighs. “What’s left?”

  “7-11, which is down this road, or we can try the one that’s farther out,” Peter says.

  “Oh, thank Heaven for 7-11,” Shawn says, and rolls down the main drag.

  Everything from fast food to medical supply stores line the sidewalks. Most of the buildings were built in the time when people thought square and unornamented were attractive. A few have older brick facades on their second stories, but some genius thought to renovate the business levels to match the newer buildings’ complete lack of charm. Inside a small city park, a few Lexers lift their heads at our passing. One takes a couple of steps and trips, which we find endlessly amusing. You have to take your laughs where you can get them.

  We cross railroad tracks and hit streets lined with pretty yellow and orange trees. The 7-11 is on the corner of a heavily landscaped residential block, and suddenly I hate trees because they block our view of any lurking zombies.

  It doesn’t matter anyway, because the tanks are empty. Shawn pulls to a stop at another station down the road. The lot is full of Lexers, none of whom rise at the sound of our engine. They’ve been dead for months; they’re not yet skeletons, but they are shrunken.

  The covers to these underground tanks are our favorites—if it’s possible to have a favorite underground tank access route—small outer covers with unlocked caps on the pipes. Sometimes it’s a large metal disk that has to be pried up. Sometimes they’re locked. The keys can often, but not always, be found in the manager’s office. A padlock is easy enough with our bolt cutters, but if the keys can’t be found for an interior lock, it’s a matter of beating the shit out of the cap until it relinquishes its hold.

  Jamie and I stand in the bed and leave the grunt work for the guys. They lower the hose and pull it out again. Only the tip is wet with fuel.

  “There’s some,” Shawn says. He brushes the tip of the hose with a square of white paper and inspects the color before sniffing. “Seems okay. Not great.”