Until the End of the World (Book 1) (20 page)

The sun is bright when we step outside. I turn to Sam and shield my eyes from the glare with my hand. “Why didn’t you go with the Guard?”

Sam’s hat is back on his head and his eyes are in shadow, but his mouth tightens. “I was in Albany on Sunday. It was a complete fuckshow, pardon my French. People ignoring the curfew, infected wandering the streets. I’ve been listening on the police radio for the past week and honestly, Cassie, I think—hell, I
know
—they’re in over their heads. When I heard the plan was to move us to a
more
populated place, I thought they had to be out of their minds. I offered to set them up here; we could’ve used the help. But they had their orders. I tried to get more folks to stay, but they felt more secure with the Army.” The decision is weighing on him.

“We were in one of those so-called Safe Zones. It might be the least safe place I can think of. You made the right decision.”

Even if it won’t be enough, it’s still the better choice. But they did say a month, I remind myself. It should be enough.

“Oh, Cassie, I really hope so.”

We follow the paved road out of town for about twenty miles before the turnoff. I’ve moved the star ring to my clean pair of jeans, and I use the word clean very lightly. Mostly puke-free would be a better description. I circle the outline of the ring in my pocket and think of the first time I brought Adrian to the cabin.

Adrian and I pulled up at lunchtime, as the last strains of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” died out. It was a tradition that began with my mom’s John Denver cassette tape when I was young. I would make them play it on the last road to the house. I had pulled out the CD at the turn and popped it in. Adrian laughed at the corniness of it, but still sang with me at the top of his lungs. After all those months he was used to my idiosyncrasies.

We sat in the car and listened to the clicking car engine mix with the sounds of the house: the soft clucking of chickens, the wind in the trees, a dish clanking in the kitchen.

“Ready?” I asked.

I knew he was nervous. He’d met my parents a few times, but this was a long weekend in their house. A whole different ball of wax.

“It looks just how I pictured it,” he said.

I tried to see it through his eyes: the weathered logs of the cabin, the picture windows my parents installed, the porch that ran the breadth of the front, with table and chairs, the porch swing at the end. The flowers my mother babied surrounded the house with a riot of bright colors. But all I could see was home. I hoped that Adrian would love it there as much as I did.

My parents came out the screen door as we retrieved our bags. My dad grabbed me in a bear hug and tickled my neck with his beard. My mom gave Adrian a hug. Her long hair was in a braid and her laugh lines deepened as she welcomed him with the signature warmth that drew people to her.

“You can always tell when Cassie is coming down the road,” she said, humming a few notes. She had a soft spot for the song, since she grew up in West Virginia. You could still hear the mountains in her voice if you listened carefully. “Lunch is ready. I made a few things since I wasn’t sure what you liked, Adrian.”

I translated for Adrian. “That means there’s enough food for fifteen people inside.”

“No, no, I practiced restraint. There’s only enough for ten.” She laughed and then swatted my dad when he shook his head and mouthed, “Fifteen.”

The wood walls and floor were a warm honey color in the sunlight that came through the loft. When I was a kid I would spend hours painting up there, feeling very serious as I worked in what I thought of as my art studio. There were supplies up there still.

The big farmhouse table sat next to the kitchen, which was open to the rest of the house. Eric and I would tease my mom and say that was why she always went overboard with food: she was feeding the ten chairs instead of the people. It was loaded with cold cuts and hummus, homemade potato salad, three kinds of bread that she probably baked herself, yogurt, some sort of pasta, two pies and lots of fruit.

“There are chips and some—” mom began, as Adrian started talking.

“This looks great, M—”

She cut Adrian off and held a hand in front of her. “You aren’t about to call me Mrs. Forrest, are you? Because I refuse to answer, remember? I get enough of that at school all year. Please, please call me Abby.”

She put a plate down in front of him while he smiled and promised to never do it again.

“Well, you can call me Pat, or Patrick or whatever you’d like. Just don’t call me late for supper,” Dad said. Mom and I groaned; he loved to act hokey.

I could see Adrian relaxing. My parents had a way of doing that to people. Dad heaped a plate like he hadn’t eaten in days, which couldn’t possibly be the case with my mom around. I wanted some of everything, and tried to figure out where to start.

Mom plunked a fork and a jar of her canned peaches in front of me. Now there was no contest. Nothing in the world compares to a home-canned peach; it’s like summer in a jar. I stabbed peaches and plopped them in my mouth, their cool sweetness exploding on my tongue.

“Savage!” she said. But she loved that we all adored her food. “That’s almost the end of last summer’s peaches. I got a couple of batches done yesterday but thought we’d do some more tomorrow. If you want to, that is. You can take a bunch back to school with you.”

“Definitely.”

I handed Adrian the fork with a half of a peach on it. He ate it in a single bite as we all watched him, like it was some sort of test.

“Wow. That’s really good. No, better than good,” he said, passing the test, since you could tell he meant it.

“We’re having them over homemade ice cream tonight,” Dad said. He scoured his beard with a napkin and rubbed his gut.

“I can’t wait,” Adrian replied.

He smiled at my mom and she beamed back. My dad brought up some problem he was having with the solar, and once they started talking about inverters and arrays, I zoned out. I knew I should pay more attention, but there was always something else I’d rather be doing, like eating peaches.

“Eric really wanted to come, but he couldn’t get away,” my mom told me. While I would have liked to see Eric, I thought maybe it was good that Adrian wouldn’t be on Forrest family overload right away.

“I spoke to him yesterday,” I said. “He keeps mentioning one girl in particular. Sounds like she’s a tough broad. Kicked his butt climbing some mountain. I think he might like her for real.”

“Is her name Rachel?” I nodded. She clasped her hands together. “We met her at parents’ weekend, with a group of his friends. She seems like a nice girl. One of those girls that reminds me of horses, you know?”

She saw that I had no idea what she meant. It’s no secret that I inherited my flaky side from my mom.

“She doesn’t look like a horse, nothing like that,” she continued. “She’s actually quite pretty. She’s like a thoroughbred: all tan, muscular flanks, strong, white teeth and long, thick mane of glossy, dark blond hair. She looks like she just came in from some sort of adventure, even if it was just a walk to the store.”

The funny thing was that I knew exactly what she meant. I’d always felt like those girls were a different species from me, with their rosy cheeks and unbridled enthusiasm. I burn in the sun, and even the millions of freckles on my arms have never joined forces to create a tan. My hair isn’t a naturally shiny mane; it gets frizzy and puffy from waves that don’t quite make it to curls. My thighs tend to wobble and no one has ever said that I look like an outdoorsy girl, even though I do outdoorsy things. In the wilderness I tend to look like something the cat dragged in, not an L.L. Bean ad. But I liked Rachel already; anyone that could kick Eric’s butt was great in my book. He could be insufferable; he was just so competent at everything. But he was also impossible to dislike because of it.

Dad and Adrian glanced furtively at us as my dad attempted to draw some electrical thing on a pad.

I shook my head sadly when they looked my way again. “You’re both itching to get out there, aren’t you? You can barely stand it!”

“Well,” my father said, “it would be easier to show him.”

I pretended to be defeated, but really I was glad they had something in common. “Go. Shoo!” I flapped my hands dismissively. “You can have the tour later, Adrian. We’ll clean up.”

Their chairs screeched as they jumped up and left through the sliding glass doors on the back wall. Mom looked fondly after them and began to stow the insane amount of food in the refrigerator.

She came to stand next to me while I washed dishes. “You love him,” she said.

Mom was the one person who could always get me to talk about my feelings. I kept my eyes on the sponge and smiled. “I do.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “I’m so glad.”

Afterward, I wandered around and stuck my head into all the rooms, saying hello to all the familiar books and pictures. Being there after an absence was like a reunion with old friends. My bedroom smelled of the wildflowers my mom had put on the dresser, and I sat on the bed and played with the single ear of an old, ratty stuffed dog I’d won at a carnival long ago.

I looked out to the backyard. Off to the right of the house was a stand of trees, the hammock underneath practically begging me to come and read. The little barn was right behind it, shaded by fruit trees. There were no animals in it; my parents were waiting for retirement to get some goats and maybe a pig for bacon. The chicken coop was full, however. In the fall they would give the chickens to our neighbors, John and Caroline, who were happy to take them.

Blueberry bushes and a huge bed of strawberries sat before the wood and wire fence that surrounded the vegetable garden.

I strolled outside and raised my face to the sunshine, listening to the bugs that tease you with their calls that cut off when you get close. We could never catch them when we were kids, no matter how stealthily we crept. I let myself into the garden. The zucchini that had escaped attention were over a foot long, and the earliest tomatoes were almost ripe. I fingered the tomato plant leaves and breathed in the green, almost minty smell.

I heard laughter and headed for the shed that housed the batteries for the solar. Adrian and my dad were bent over a metal box, nodding. I knocked on the top of it, like a mechanic does on a car, and pretended I had any sort of inkling of what could be going on.

“So, boys,” I said. “Any luck?”

They stood. They were so different. Where my dad was broad and pink, Adrian was lean and dark. My dad couldn’t tan on a bet, but Adrian was bronzed by the sun. It struck me that they were very similar as well. Not only their interest in self-reliance and insanely boring electrical systems, but they both had infinite reserves of patience. They were solid. Always ready for a laugh and full of kindness. But under that was a core of steel. If provoked, they were a force to be reckoned with. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by that revelation, but I was.

Adrian looked mischievous. “Yeah, I think we figured it out. It was the flux capacitor. You guys need a new one.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know, I have seen
Back to the Future
. Nice try, though.” They laughed. “Mom and I are going down to town. Getting some peaches and there’s a sale on canning jar lids. You need anything?”

“More canning lids? That woman has enough lids for a hundred years!” My dad exclaimed, although he didn’t mind, really.

“Hey, those lids are what bring you peaches all winter. Pea-ches,” I reminded him.

His eyes twinkled. “You’re right, Cassafrass. Tell her to get enough for two hundred years, then.”

I kissed them both and left them to their flux capacitors.

That night our neighbors, John and Caroline, came over for dinner. You could walk a straight shot through the woods to get to their house. Over the years we’d worn a trail.

While my parents were liberal hippies, John and Caroline were religious libertarians, which made for interesting dinner conversations. People thought it strange they were such good friends, but they were like family.

John sat at one end of the table, spooning pie past his beard. “If you think that FEMA is going to be there when the stuff hits the fan, well, I can’t imagine that’s always going to be true. Look at the places they’ve dropped the ball so far.” He turned his attention toward Adrian. “What do you think, Adrian?”

Adrian nodded. “I guess I never really thought about stocking up with food for any particular reason. But it would be a by-product of the kind of farm I’d like to live on. Meat stored on the hoof. Preserving the harvest and keeping food until the next planting season.”

“Exactly,” John said. He knocked his fist on the table. “People think it’s crazy to store food, but it’s not a recent phenomenon. It was the way things were done up until fifty years ago. You planned ahead for tough times.”

“What’s crazy is relying on a complex chain to bring food to you, and to believe that every link in that chain will do its part unfailingly,” my dad agreed. “So far, it’s worked, because any time there’s been a problem it’s been localized and other areas pick up the slack. But it would only take several areas in the United States to be hit at the same time. A cascading series of events.”

“And then you’re standing on the FEMA food line, praying there’s enough so you can feed your kids,” John finished.

It was pretty heavy dinner conversation. I was used to it by now, of course, but I wasn’t sure if Adrian wanted the Preparedness 101 lecture on his first visit, even though he seemed interested.

“You know, I think you’re preaching to the choir,” I said, smiling. I changed the subject. “How are Tom and Jenny?” We had spent our childhood summers playing with their kids. Caroline filled me in.

“I think we’re going to sit out on the porch a bit,” I told my parents, after Caroline and John had left.

My mom yawned and hugged us both. “We’re heading to bed.”

My dad was at the stereo. “You guys want this off? Any requests, or can I put on a couple more tunes for you?”