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

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  The packaged pastries are green fuzz, but there are five-pound bags of waffle mix in the low cabinets. Small containers of syrup. Mini boxes of cereals full of sugar and loaded with vitamins to make up for it. Hot chocolate mix, tea bags and coffee. Packets of oatmeal and sugar and even powdered creamer. I jump up and down silently at the treasure trove.

  “I’ll go get the bins,” Peter says. “Cassie, you want to help?”

  I startle at the sound of him addressing me. He follows me past Mark, who’s keeping an eye out in the hall. I give Penny and the kids a thumbs up as I jump in the truck’s bed and hand empty bins down to Peter.

  “We have it,” he says. “Stay out here.”

  I lean on the edge of the pickup and narrow my eyes. “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “I’m not trying to get rid of you, Cassandra. You’re not needed in there, so why go?”

  I’m not arguing in the middle of zombie-infested territory, so I take a page from his book and ignore him. “Do you want me to take a bin?”

  “No.”

  I stride ahead into the lobby and stop short at Mark’s holler and the clatter of plastic bins hitting the floor behind me. Two Lexers have come from the manager’s office, although everything in there looked dead when we checked it. One knocks Peter to his back and the other drops to its knees. I run and kick one so hard that it slides along the slick tile. I puncture the other in its forehead and turn to the first, but Peter’s already up, machete smashing its skull. We stare at each other, wheezing, and I think this is where he’ll stop being angry at me or the world or whatever it is he’s pissed at, but his shoulders harden. “You could have died.”

  The tears come, but I turn away before he can see. “You’re welcome,” I say, glad he can’t hear them in my voice.

  CHAPTER 35

  I watch a small factory milling with Lexers until it’s out of sight of our vehicles. Even up here, with nothing for miles around, they’ve taken over. We won’t make it past Fort St. John today, so, well before the city, we stop at a house hidden from the road by shrubbery. It has a For Sale sign and is furnished just enough to give potential buyers an impression of the rooms’ purposes. The fridge is clean and kitchen spotless.

  Inside the RV, Nelly sits on the couch and smiles through the worry evident in every line on his face. “Adam’s sleeping, but he’s okay. I made him drink some syrup and oatmeal soup,” he says before I can ask.

  I smooch him on the lips. He rubs it off, but his eyes sparkle. “You look a damn sight better than last night. You okay, darlin’?”

  I wave away his question. It’s embarrassing to think about what I must’ve looked like, barely dressed and bloody, which makes me angry that I feel any shame at all. The only people who should feel ashamed are lying on the side of the road with their throats sliced. “How’s Kyle?” I ask.

  “He woke up for a few minutes. He was babbling and didn’t make any sense. Nicki’s sleeping next to him.”

  The only thing we know to do with head trauma is leave it alone and hope it sorts itself out. Jamie sits at the dinette with her head in her hands. It’s a different kind of head trauma for her, but the treatment is the same. I touch her shoulder. “I’m going to make dinner. The house is all clear if you want to lie down.”

  “I’ll sleep in here so I’m close to Kyle and Adam,” she says, head down. “They need heat.”

  I hug her even though she might want to be left alone. She squeezes my arm before she nods and lets go. The kitchen in the RV is different, but I get a vision of Maureen’s dull eyes and pale skin, the kids in a terrified pile on the couch, Boss’s brains scattering across where Jamie sits. My hand shakes when I dump waffle mix into a bowl.

  “Maybe I should use the camping stove,” I say. “Since you need the heat tonight.” I rush out the door and drop onto the RV’s steps. I’ll go back once I’ve collected myself.

  “Want help?” Margaret asks. She never helps with the cooking, preferring to sharpen blades or clean guns.

  “I’m going to cook outside. I just have to get the pans and waffle mix.”

  “I’ll get it.” She puts her hand on my shoulder as she steps past.

  I set up the stove on the house’s front porch and add filtered water to the mix. My breathing has returned to normal by the time Bits and Hank hover over me. “We’re having wafflecakes,” I say. “These are gonna be the best wafflecakes you’ve ever tasted right here.”

  “And the only,” Hank says, but he laughs along with Bits.

  “Will we get a big one?” Bits asks. “With syrup?”

  “Not one,” I say. “You’re going to eat as many wafflecakes as your little hearts desire. And you can drown them in syrup. We’ll fill up a tub with syrup and you can get in and eat your wafflecakes while you swim in it.”

  Peter is in the pickup’s bed arranging things, head cocked as if listening. I pour batter into the pan. The smell of browning flour and sugar is so wonderful that I want to cry.

  Hank hesitates and then asks, “Shouldn’t we save it?”

  I can see how badly he doesn’t want to, and I want to do anything that might bring an ounce of pleasure into these kids’ lives. “Not today. There’s plenty and we all need a big meal. I’m tired of saving things for later.”

  “Me, too,” Bits says, and swings on the porch rail. “I’m going to eat five.”

  “Ten,” Hank says.

  “Well, I’m going to eat twenty-seven,” I say. “How many are you going to eat, Peter?”

  Peter glances over. “I’m not very hungry.”

  I flip the wafflecake and consider throwing my pan at him, but instead I say to the kids, “More for us, right?”

  ***

  Penny is my partner for the first cold watch shift of the night. But we had the presence of mind to take a couple of carafes from the hotel and now we have copious amounts of hot coffee and hot water in which to brew tea. I’ve only allowed myself creamer and sugar in one cup, but as long as it’s warm, I’m happy.

  Penny pours herself coffee number two and pats her stomach before she gets back under our blankets. “Sorry, kid, but you’ll have to deal.”

  “She’ll be fine,” I say. “Maybe a little hyper, but fine.”

  “Maybe it’ll make her run fast. That’s what you want with zombies, right?” Penny’s joking about zombies. Penny never jokes about zombies. I watch her carefully, but she takes another sip of coffee and leans back, eyes closed. “You’ll teach her what she needs to know.”

  “Of course.”

  Penny’s eyes open. “And you’ll teach me this winter. Maybe I didn’t have to learn on the farm, but I don’t ever want to be caught out again. You’ve seen how terrible I am at this stuff.”

  “I saw you last night. That wasn’t terrible. He might’ve shot me if it weren’t for you.”

  Penny’s cup trembles in her hand, but she looks pleased to have had a part in bringing them down. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t even think—I just jumped him. It was really stupid.”

  “It’s only stupid if it doesn’t work,” I say with a grin. “Otherwise, it’s genius.”

  “You sound like my sister.” Penny takes an extra long sip of coffee after the words slip out.

  “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. I do know what I was thinking last night,” Penny says slowly. “It was what would Ana do? And then I did it.”

  “W.W.A.D?”

  “She’d love that, wouldn’t she? Me asking myself that and then actually following the advice?” She’d looked on the verge of tears a moment ago, but now she rolls her eyes in a loving sort of way.

  “Except the acronym is wad. I don’t think she’d be into that.”

  Penny’s laugh has changed—another weird pregnancy side effect—to a throatier, louder belly laugh that might attract Lexers but is so contagious I join in. James lifts his head from where he’s camped out on the house’s living room floor. “Trying to sl
eep here. What’s so funny?”

  There’s no way to explain, and, anyway, we can’t stop. Penny grabs her stomach. “Ow!” James leaps up, but she waves him away, tears running down her cheeks. “It’s just round ligament pain.”

  One side of James’s hair sticks straight out as he dances around her like a frantic daddy long legs. I point at him and say, “That’s the father of your child right there.”

  Penny and I lose it. My bruises throb less than they did a minute ago. They’ve spent all day reminding me of where I was held down, trapped and defeated, but now, if only for a little while, I revel in the fact that I’m free.

  CHAPTER 36

  Kyle woke again and was able to carry on a conversation before he lapsed back into sleep. After my shift, I get into bed next to Hank instead of the space by Peter, who ate plenty of wafflecakes but didn’t say another word the entire night. It takes me forty minutes of shivering to fall asleep, even with Barnaby stretched along my legs. He couldn’t believe his luck when I invited him up, but as far as I’m concerned he’s earned a place in my bed and our group even if he never learns to shut up. If Auburn hadn’t gone down from my arrow, Barnaby’s attack would’ve given me and the others time to get to Auburn before he killed me.

  My sleep is fitful and loaded with dreams that wake me up in a panic, until I wake to a hand on my shoulder where Whit pinned me down. I know it can’t be him, but my brain neglects to tell my arm that fact before my fist connects with Peter’s face.

  “Jesus!” he says, and holds a hand over his cheek.

  I sit up in the morning light and reach for him. “Oh my God, sorry! Peter, I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, and backs out of the bedroom.

  He has to know I didn’t want to punch him. Or maybe that I didn’t mean to, because with the way he’s been acting I’m kind of glad I got one in. I help Penny with breakfast in the RV’s kitchen without losing my mental faculties, which I take as a good sign, although Maureen’s absence looms large. She might be whispering directly into God’s ear at this very moment, but I’d take her comfort over any special favors. We have enough people up there to look out for us.

  Ash reads at the table. Instead of her usual chattiness about vampire relationships, she lifts her head to stare into space every few minutes. I remember the hope on her face as we stood in Aubrey’s bedroom. I’d told her that she could have all the trappings of a normal life, or as normal as it gets nowadays. I’m as bad as Peter, promising things I’m not sure I can deliver. My hand tightens around the flimsy spatula so hard that it bends.

  I take breakfast to our patients in the back of the RV. Nicki perches alongside her dad on his twin bed, face still sticky with last night’s syrup. Kyle dives into his food and I head back to the kitchen for more. He didn’t eat yesterday, so they’ll be gone in seconds. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of wafflecakes with syrup, although we did put a cap on our intake this morning.

  “How are the folks in the sick bay?” I ask after I’ve deposited three more on Kyle’s plate.

  “Fine,” Kyle says. “I’ll be up later today and I’ll get—”

  “You’re not getting anywhere,” Jamie says, wagging a finger. “Except to the bathroom and back into bed. And you should thank me for not giving you a bedpan. The last time you stood up, you fell down. Nicki, you’re in charge of keeping your dad in bed.”

  Kyle mutters, face dark and lips pursed. Nicki wags her finger in imitation of Jamie. “Daddy, I’ll bring you stuff. Like Mama did when I was sick. Don’t yell at Jamie.”

  “You’re right, baby,” Kyle says. He turns to Jamie. “Thanks for taking care of her while I was out. And me.”

  “You’re the absolute worst patient I’ve ever had. You were much better unconscious,” Jamie says, to which Kyle grunts. She turns to Adam in the other bed. “And how’s my best patient?”

  Adam resettles himself like an old man and struggles to eat with his left hand, but he’s pleasant as always. “I took my morning meds, so I should be feeling better soon. I only took half of the Percocet. I don’t think I need it all.”

  He’s on antibiotics and painkillers. We learned our lesson last year with Nelly’s arm infection and packed all different types and dosages of antibiotics. I hate to think of what will happen when all the drugs are gone or way past their expiration date. We’ll die of the infections that killed people a hundred years ago.

  Nelly looks up from where he sits on the nightstand. “I’ll take that Percocet off your hands if you don’t want it. I think I have a pain somewhere.”

  “You are a pain,” Adam says.

  “How are your bruises?” Jamie asks me. “Let me see.”

  I raise the side of my shirt and get a chorus of oohs at the purple-black smudges under my ribs. “You might want some Percocet,” Jamie says.

  “I’m fine.” I don’t want anything that will dull my senses. Actually, there’s nothing I want more than to dull my senses, but not at the expense of staying alive.

  “Yes, she wants one,” Nelly says, hand out. “I’ll hold onto it for her.”

  “Thank God Nelly’s okay,” I say. “I had him as a patient last year. You don’t even want to know what that was like.”

  I take my breakfast and find Peter in the house’s kitchen with his wafflecakes. Determined to make him my friend again, I point to the pink welt my fist left under his eye and then my own face with a smile. “Hey, look! We’re twins.”

  He slams his plate on the counter. “This is funny?”

  I set down my plate next to his and sigh. “I’m sorry. Do you really think I meant to punch you? I’m sorry.”

  “Not every fucking thing in this world is a joke.”

  “Thanks, Humor Police. I know that. I was just—”

  “Then act like it,” he says. “Stop pretending you’re fine.”

  “I am fine!”

  He leans forward. “You wake up throwing punches, but you’re fine? A man held you down and tried to rape you, but you’re fine? Aren’t you angry? Aren’t you something besides fine?”

  The rage builds in my chest and when it reaches my arms I grip the counter to stop myself from punching him, on purpose this time. It doesn’t help, so I fling my wafflecakes at the wall, where they leave streaks of syrup before they drop to the carpet.

  “You’re not giving me a chance to be angry!” I try not to shout, but I want to, can imagine the release as the screams rip my throat raw. “You’ve taken every fucking bit of anger like you own it all. Why the fuck are you angry?”

  “I have every right to be angry. So do you.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be such a dick about it.” I swallow multiple times and dig my nails into my palms. My bruises throb in time with my heart. “And maybe I don’t want to be angry. Maybe I wanted—forget it.”

  His fighting stance melts before I flee into the yard, where I sit on the bench and breathe deep. Footsteps swish through the grass. I’m surprised when Margaret lowers herself beside me.

  “It’s nice out here,” she says, eyes straight ahead. “I overheard you and Peter. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I don’t mind. Everyone overhears everything. It’s like one big soap opera on wheels.”

  She dips her head with a snicker. “When I was eighteen, I was at a bar with some friends.” Her voice is soft, different from her usual no-nonsense Northeastern twang. “I’ll spare you the details, but I ended up being raped in the parking lot.”

  She rubs her hands together and nods at my shock. “I was angry at everything. I blamed myself for letting it happen, for not fighting harder. I played the violin, was good enough to get into music school, but after that I stopped. It was a long time before I forgave myself for doing what I needed to do to survive. I was angry for years. My father was angrier. Not at me—he was angry he couldn’t protect me. He’d always liked his drink, but he hit the bottle hard after that.”

  “I…” I say.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  Margaret shrugs. “It was a long time ago. But sometimes the people who love us can’t bear to see us hurting. They get all wrapped up in their own hurt. I just wanted to say I know a bit about how you feel. What it’s like to be at someone else’s mercy.”

  “Nothing really happened,” I say quickly. “He didn’t—I would never compare it to what happened to you.”

  “Honey,” she says with a sober laugh, “it’s no contest. And if it is, I don’t want to win, that’s for sure.”

  I can see the pretty girl she must have been. The years haven’t been kind to her, or maybe she hasn’t been kind to herself. Right now, with her gentle smile and warm hazel eyes, she’s an attractive older woman. Maybe the stern face and standoffish manner are protection against what she ran up against all those years ago and whatever’s happened in the years since.

  “All right. Gotta get ready to go.”

  “Thanks, Margaret.”

  She pats my arm and leaves for the house. That was more than I’ve ever heard her say, but I guess she chooses her words wisely.

  Peter steps out as she goes in. I watch my feet until he sits and says, “I’m sorry. I was just tired of hearing you say you were fine.”

  I brush away a tear. It seems the waterworks are back on now that I’ve called off the crying party. “Okay. But you’re acting like you’re mad at me.”

  “Hey, I’m not mad at you.” I don’t look up, and he lowers his face to mine until I do. “The last thing I am is mad at you. I was just…really fucking angry.” He chews his lip, looking more remorseful than the situation warrants.

  “I don’t know if you forgot, but you’re not supposed to be the angry one,” I say. “You’re the calm, level-headed one who listens to me blather on about stuff and tells me to stop when I do stupid shit.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t get that memo,” Peter says. I sniff at his joke. “I was worried about you.”