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

by Sarah Lyons Fleming

  This is how it happens: one small mistake, one tiny stroke of bad luck—they grow exponentially and then you’re dead. I unsnap my knife. Something moves through my path of escape. Whoever created this labyrinth of boxes may have been thinking in terms of privacy for the occupants, but it’s what’s going to kill me now. I press on my headlamp to better see my target and grunt with the effort of bringing knife through bone. I use both hands, but it won’t come out no matter how I tug.

  A sharp pain blossoms in my calf. My throat clenches in agony when I scream at the sight of the one-legged zombie with its jaw practically unhinged, teeth grinding on my leg. I fire my pistol point blank and turn to flee, in what direction I have no idea. The shelves. I’ll go to the shelves.

  I’m no longer thinking straight, consumed as I am by the fear I’ve been bitten. Either Ana’s leather pants have saved my life or they haven’t. I think it’s sweat that courses down my leg in warm streams, but it could just as easily be blood. My foot hits something and my axe spins on the concrete before it thuds into a dark corner. Maybe I shouldn’t take the time to stop, but I need more than just my gun. My ammo will run out sooner or later. All of our ammo will. The boxes we traded for fuel were a large chunk of what we had.

  I retrieve my axe, hack my way to the fence and practically fly over the top. Nothing can catch me in my wild state.

  “Cassie!” Peter’s light switches on ten feet up and two aisles over. I ignore the closer shelves and run for him. I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to have to do what Dan did. And then Peter’s on the floor in front of me, tossing a body out of the way and boosting me up the diagonal metal braces on the end of each aisle.

  He follows me onto the shelf. I stumble on open boxes of cans and send them crashing to the floor. I hear his voice, but the roar of dread in my head drowns out his words as I rip off my light and shine it on my calf. I check again and again to be sure, but there’s no rip, no tear. I sink to the open boxes and for a moment forget what surrounds us. I’m by no means safe, but there’s still a chance I’ll live.

  Peter crouches. “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought one bit through.”

  Peter looks over the wet, gory leather and pulls me close. The Lexers bang and the shelving vibrates, but these shelves are bolted to the floor, made to hold a lot more than us. I want to stay up here forever, but I let Peter go and take out my pistol. We can’t reach their heads from this shelf without longer blades. Guns are going to be loud and messy, but I’ll take loud and messy over dead.

  We lean over the shelf’s edge. The Lexers follow our every move, hands lifted and bodies bent our way like ardent lovers—sick, twisted lovers who’ll swallow you whole if given the chance. We’re not the only ones who’ve opened fire. The reports are so loud that I tilt my ear to my shoulder to save at least one eardrum. Even this close, we miss when the Lexers shift and fall. I have another fifteen rounds and I blow through them quickly, saving a few for an emergency.

  Peter and I are farthest away from the majority of Lexers, who’ve gathered in the daylight that illuminates the others on the shelves and where Jamie, Kyle, Mikayla, Ben and the Talkeetnans stand on a long row of pallets along the fence.

  “I think we can get them out the door,” Peter says.

  I nod. We’ve thinned out the nearby Lexers to the point where we might make it to the loading door if we keep low. We climb to the floor and are over the fence and halfway there when we have to duck behind a pile of garbage to avoid a passing group.

  A shout comes from the row of pallets by the fence. One end has crumpled to the floor, and Jamie, Kyle and the others kick at the Lexers’ hands on what remains. They can’t let down their guard for a second, and they stab and jab, out of ammo by now. What was supposed to be the easiest part has turned into a complete and total fuckshow.

  Ben stands at a gap leading to a wider grouping of pallets that would keep them out of reach of groping hands. He pushes Mikayla behind him and takes three quick steps before he’s airborne. I’m certain he has it until a Lexer bumps him in midair and sends him crashing to the floor, Lexers following.

  Ben’s frenzied screaming is pain and despair rolled into one. It mixes with Mikayla’s wails to pierce through the dullness in my ears. Mikayla drops to hang off the pallets when his shouting grows hoarse, her shoulder-length curls loose of her ponytail, and I want to drag her to her feet. I know I tend to be overcautious—hair tightly wound, gloves on, mouth closed against splatter—but it’s because any tiny thing can, and often does, go wrong.

  Mikayla rips at the hands that tangle in her curls with high-pitched shrieks. She’s dragged forward a few inches. Jamie and Kyle yank at her legs and fight to keep her out of the zombies’ reach. A corner of their platform crumples, her torso slides into contact with waiting teeth, and they finally allow her to slide headfirst off the boxes. The shrieking ends, which chills me more than the shrieking itself.

  The group of Lexers that forced us to stop has moved for the pallets. Peter and I could run to the door, but we wait, needing no discussion to agree that we’ll detour from our original plan in order to help Jamie and the others if necessary. Jamie leaps across the gap while the Lexers are busy with Mikayla. She’s followed by everyone but Tara and Philip, who are last in line and trapped by a new wave drawn by the blood and screaming.

  The boxes under their feet bend. Tara’s knife plunges viciously, but the skull isn’t easy to crack. And from her vantage point, with a knife, all she has to work with are the tops of skulls—the hardest spot as well as the spot most likely to be intact. She dances like a boxer to keep out of the Lexers’ reach until her feet are yanked out from under her and she goes down. Philip struggles to rise from his knees.

  I look to the loading bay. There aren’t many Lexers in the way. We could make it. Tara and Philip are closer to where we crouch, yet in the opposite direction. But I can’t watch them die—I can’t listen to them die—like Mikayla and Ben, and there’s no way those Lexers will leave them behind to come for the door. I nod when Peter tilts his head their way. We run and climb up the collapsed end of the pallets. I leap over Philip because I know Peter has him, and Tara is in worse shape. Lexers hang from her ankles that jut over the pallet’s edge. Her mouth is open with the effort of bucking to keep her skin out of the reach of teeth. Hands are twisted in her hair.

  I start with the Lexers at her feet. Black sludge flies when I slice through wrists, and the stumps continue to wave wildly when the hands loosen and drop. Tara brings her legs under her, head still pinned to the cardboard. I stand astride her and bring down my axe. I don’t care what I hit as long as they let go, and when they have, I yank her to her feet. My arm aches and my lungs are on fire, but I pound away until we can push through the remainder and make it to the door.

  Tara and Philip follow when Peter and I leap to the floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they ran all the way back to Talkeetna without a glance behind them, but they halt at the loading bay and call the Lexers along with us. When we have a large following, we race to the pickup’s bed while the first drop off the ledge. I grip the roof of the cab to steady myself. Every cough is a sharp spasm. Phlegm fills my throat.

  “You okay?” Peter asks.

  I nod and point in the direction of the zombies that are only feet away. I help when I can breathe again, but my arm is weaker and it takes several strikes to finish each one. Thuds and yells ring out of the warehouse. It isn’t long before the truck sits in the middle of a mound of zombies and Nelly and James appear at the loading bay with tired but triumphant faces. I try to find my second—or maybe fourth—wind, but Peter has to help me out of the truck and up into the building. I throw my arms around them both and watch the others move toward us.

  “We’re all okay,” Nelly says. Everyone except Mikayla and Ben, that is, but I don’t say it and neither does he.

  Another door rattles up, and I look around in amazement that any of us is okay. Bodies are everywhere. What look to
be entrails are stuck to the floor along with other unknown and revolting substances. I might have run through it, crawled through it, and I’m glad I didn’t know at the time. Nelly surveys the room and then peers at the sole of his boot before wiping it on a blanket that doesn’t look much better. “I don’t want to hear shit about having to take short showers when we get back.”

  “Hey, sugar,” Zeke says from behind me. I fall into his arms. “Thought you got rid of me, did you?”

  “Oh, well. Next time.”

  He releases me with a laugh. “Liz kicked some righteous ass back there, but there may be a few more in the back. Let’s finish this.”

  I give Liz’s arm a weak punch. She punches me back, eyes aglow. “Ready to kick some more ass?” she asks. I nod, although I don’t think I could kick at the air right now.

  “You look like shit,” Nelly says. “You sure nothing bit you?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I say. If I weren’t already sick I’d be terrified that I’m infected.

  Peter takes my arm and says, “Sit this one out.”

  I want to refuse, but I feel worse with each passing second. There’s not a scrap of adrenaline left. My two-pound axe feels like it weighs fifty. Peter strips off a glove and presses his hand to my forehead, then leads me to the receiving office and rolls out a chair from the corner.

  “Sit,” he says. “Please. I’ll have Rich come look at you.”

  I use my feet to roll it to the window and press my forehead against the cool glass. “Keep the door open?”

  He nods, hands me a water bottle, and leaves down the ramp. There are still pills in my pocket but standing to reach them and then uncapping the bottle is too Herculean a task. I’m done for, as Zeke would say.

  Rich walks into the office a few minutes later. “Not feeling well?”

  “Not really.”

  “Peter says you’re playing it down.” He sets a first aid kit on a desk and rubs antibacterial gel on his hands. His cheeks are ruddy from all the exertion, but he wears a gentle smile. Peter’s told me how Rich had to kill his daughter and wife, and that he’s been a man of few words ever since.

  I shrug. “He’s overprotective.”

  “He took great care of Nat. It’s a good thing.” I open my mouth for the thermometer and Rich raises his eyebrows at the display when it beeps. He has me remove my jacket for the stethoscope. I start to shiver the moment it’s off. “Just a minute and you can put your coat on. Take a deep breath.”

  I choke when I do, and he makes me choke several more times before he pulls the stethoscope from his ears. “You have a lot of congestion. High fever. Bits had this?”

  “Yeah. We gave her antibiotics in case it wasn’t viral.”

  “Good call. We’ll get you on some when we’re back. For now, I want you to rest.” I shake my head and point to all the boxes that need to be moved into the trucks. “Nurse’s orders. We should have you on a nebulizer and in bed.”

  Rich has me take a few of my pills and suggests I lie down. I take in the rubbish-strewn floor. “I’ll sit.”

  Rich chuckles. “Don’t blame you. I’m going to help out. I’ll stay close in case you need me.”

  ***

  I wake from sleep, head against the window, when Terry says, “We can’t find Frank. Have you seen him?”

  I shield my eyes from the light—a few more doors have been raised. My head throbs unrelentingly, and through the haze I remember that Frank’s the reason Mikayla and Ben are dead. Something I’m trying not to think about. “No. Why did he come if he couldn’t be trusted? He almost got us all killed.”

  Terry opens his mouth, but Patricia comes out from behind him and says, “We came for ourselves, in case you couldn’t be trusted. Not to keep you alive.”

  She shakes off Terry’s hand when he shushes her, and he throws me an apologetic glance. I peer out the window. Tara and Philip move bodies while Rich works on dismantling the fence, but I don’t see Nelly or Peter or anyone else. “Where is everyone?” I ask Terry.

  “They’re in the back doing a sweep.” Terry points to the rear corner of the warehouse. “They’re almost done.”

  I want to lie down. I want someone to tuck me into a bed with cool, clean sheets. My body is numb and fuzzy. My ears are clogged. Terry smiles before he leaves and Patricia follows after she scowls. My hand tightens into a feeble fist; I’ll have to save punching Patricia for another day. The thought cheers me as I watch her head to the small office in the corner.

  She pulls on the door handle, and I think dazedly that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to open a door unless she was absolutely sure of what was behind it. I’m wrong. Once cracked, a Lexer with brown hair and a flannel shirt shoves its way out. Patricia turns, slips on flattened cardboard, and falls to the floor with the Lexer on top.

  There’s no one else nearby, and as much as I think she’s a bitch, she doesn’t deserve to die for it. I pick up the axe by my feet and run as fast as I can manage. Patricia, who doesn’t have the sense not to open mysterious doors but at least has the sense to wear gloves and leather, holds its snapping teeth inches from her throat. Frank appears from the office and races toward her. The Lexer is recently turned, his skin still plump by zombie standards, and probably good-looking before he began to rot away. I skid to a stop and raise my axe.

  “No!” Frank yells.

  I bring it down. It crunches into the Lexer’s skull and he lands on Patricia, who stares up at me with wide eyes. I hold out a hand. “Are you—”

  Frank’s palms slam into my chest. I’m barely standing as it is, and it doesn’t take much to send me down on my ass. He advances on me with a snarl when I scramble back, gasping at the knife-like pain in my lungs. I grab my gun, wondering how Frank turned so quickly.

  “You stupid bitch!” he says. He’s not turned—just turned on me. I struggle to my feet and feel the cold muzzle of his pistol on my temple. “Drop your gun.”

  I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m sick and tired of this. Of fighting zombies and having nowhere to live, of course, but most of all I’m tired of people who think they can call me a stupid bitch. I press my gun to his chest and raise my eyes to his. “Fuck you.”

  “Frank! What are you doing?” Rich yells from behind me.

  “She was bitten,” Frank says. I swear he’s smiling in a tight-lipped way.

  “No I wasn’t,” I try to yell, but the words are insubstantial.

  “She’s sick, Frank. That’s all.”

  “She was just bitten,” Frank says. “I saw it.” Terry, Tara and Philip have joined us, and now they back up. I must look infected, feverish and struggling for breath.

  “Frank, put the gun down,” Rich says.

  “She was bit!” Frank screams, face purple.

  I point to Patricia, who looks up from the body of the Lexer without expression. She’s letting this happen after I came out here to save her. I should’ve let the bitch die. “Tell them it’s not true,” I say hoarsely.

  Patricia motions to the Lexer. “She’s fine. She killed…it’s Corey. He didn’t bite her. Frank had him in the office.” Terry takes a closer look and moves toward Frank, but stops at Frank’s warning shout.

  “Frank,” Rich says quietly. He puts a hand on the arm that presses the gun to my temple, and I pray Frank’s finger isn’t resting on the trigger. “She saved Patricia, Frank.”

  “She killed him.” Frank’s voice cracks. “She killed Corey.”

  “She had to. Did you want Corey to kill Patricia?”

  “I don’t fucking care!” Frank says. The gun shifts on my temple. “She’s not coming back with us. None of them are.”

  “I had to kill my daughter, Frank,” Rich says quietly. “My own daughter. You know it had to be done. Don’t take it out on her.”

  The pressure on my temple vanishes. Frank sinks to his hands and knees with a moan, but I still don’t trust him, even after Rich has eased the gun from his hand. I don’t trust any of them. I shouldn’t
have given them the benefit of the doubt—they used us to get the supplies in hand, and now our usefulness has ended.

  I don’t know what to do next. I draw in air to clear my head, but I can’t get enough oxygen. I need to sit, to pass out. I need help. This is a time when I could use some protection. Patricia moves toward me, gun in hand. I pull Frank to kneeling by his hair and press my pistol to his head. He doesn’t fight. He hardly seems to notice. Patricia freezes and the others stand stock still.

  “I wasn’t…” Patricia sets her gun on the floor. “I was already holding it.”

  My friends are probably dead. Frank will find a way to kill me, too. He said as much. “Where…is everyone?” I ask in short breaths.

  “In the back,” Terry says.

  “I don’t…believe you. Get them.”

  “Chuck’s back there, Cassie,” Rich says. “He wouldn’t hurt them.”

  “You were going…to kill us.” My hands shake. Blackness encroaches. I focus on breathing and keeping the gun that weighs a thousand pounds to Frank’s head, where the back of his neck is scratched and bloody.

  “Cassie, I promise no one is going to hurt you,” Rich says.

  I stare at Frank’s neck. Deep gouges run below his shirt collar. The skin around them is raised and turning purple before my eyes. Beads of sweat race down from his hairline. He has nothing to lose. He’d be happy if I died along with him.

  “He’s infected,” I say. Five sets of eyes drop to Frank.

  “I got scratched, not bitten,” Frank says. He raises a hand and licks his lips. “If I am, let me come back and say goodbye.”