Until the End of the World (Book 1) (24 page)

“Yeah,” I say. “About twenty, at the school, which is burned to the ground. We had to shoot them.”

“Wow,” James says.

Penny’s eyes widen and she touches my shoulder. It aches from the impact of the machete into bone. The calm feeling has dissipated, and now, suddenly, I’m terrified. I collapse on the steps and drop my head in my hands. The cool breeze turns my sweat cold, and my teeth chatter. Penny leans over me.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I wasn’t that scared, then.”

I look down at my dirty hands and realize I can’t tell what stain is what. There are smears of brown and black and something rust-colored. The Lexer I killed with the machete might have gotten infected blood on me. Maybe it’s seeping inside, finding a way through a tiny cut and infecting me. I choke back my terror and say, “I need to wash up.”

I will not give in to panic, not after the fact. I hear Penny ask if I’m okay as I rush inside.

“Cassie’ll be just fine,” John says.

He has a lot more faith in me than I do.

At dinner John asks if he can say grace. He always bows his head before dinner, and we’ve all taken to following suit. I send out my informal prayer that asks for Eric to reach me safely. I ask my parents to look out for us, wherever they are. I thank whoever or whatever is up there that we’ve gotten this far, because we are so very lucky. If today has shown us anything, it’s that nowhere is safe.

“I know we have a lot of different beliefs here,” John says. He inclines his head at me, smiling. “But whether we’re agnostic or Christian or—”

“One of the Chosen People,” James interjects with a grin. “James Gold was James Goldfarb about a hundred years ago.”

John laughs. “Or Jewish, of course, I’d just like to give thanks. I don’t want to offend anyone.”

“No one could be offended by you, John,” I say.

He’s a deeply religious person, but he doesn’t proselytize. He draws strength from his beliefs, something I envy but have never been able to emulate when it comes to organized religion.

He bows his head. “Lord, we thank you that we have food on our table and good friends to share it with. We pray that our loved ones are safe and also have tables laden with food and surrounded by friends. We ask that you help us to protect ourselves in the coming days. And, finally, we pray that the souls of those bodies that walk the world are safe in your arms, Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” we all repeat.

Penny wipes her eyes, and even Peter looks like he means it.

There’s banana bread for dessert, made from the bananas we rescued. John gave me today’s eggs from his chickens to bake it, now that he’s got enough in his homemade incubator. He has eight chickens; he wouldn’t get rid of any of Caroline’s “girls” after she died, even though come summer he’s swimming in eggs.

“Tomorrow we’re taking a ride,” John says. “Target practice for everyone. We shouldn’t do it here. Noise seems to attract them.”

“Sam was shot,” I say. “That means the infected may not be the only thing we have to worry about.”

Everyone’s confused by the scene we found in town. There were Lexers, but obviously there’s someone else out there, too. Someone who killed Sam. Sam, who wanted nothing more than to protect everyone. I can’t imagine who would want him dead.

“I want you all to know how to use a firearm safely and accurately,” John says. “So, bright and early tomorrow I’ll drive over, and we’ll head out in the two trucks. I might have a surprise, too.”

We’ve driven through the surrounding state forest to a clearing. If anyone follows the noise they won’t know where we live. Ana complained that we were overreacting, but Penny didn’t deign to answer her.

“Okay,” John says, his eyes stern. “Rule Number One: Never, ever point a gun at something you don’t intend to shoot. Loaded, unloaded, it doesn’t matter. Got it?”

He stands in front of Penny, Ana, James and Peter, hands laced behind his back like a drill instructor. The four of them nod and hold their guns gingerly.

“Rule Number Two: Treat every gun like it’s loaded.

“Number three: Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re firing your weapon.

“Number four: Always clean your gun after use. That way it’ll work when you need it. You’ll be cleaning your weapons later. Any questions?”

“John, I was looking at my gun, and I didn’t see the safety,” Penny says.

“Revolvers don’t have safeties, at least not the kind you’re thinking of.” He taps his head. “This, between your ears, is your most important safety. Use it properly, and you can’t go wrong.”

They face the targets he’s strung up. Nelly and I stand behind to help with stances and sighting. On John’s word they fire, one by one.

Penny holds the gun out by her side when she’s finished. “I just don’t like holding it. Or shooting it.”

“Okay,” John says. He watches her reload. “You don’t have to like it. Just be able to aim and hit the target. You need to get comfortable with it. Keep going.”

The biggest surprise is Peter. Every bullet hits the target.

“That was great! You hit every one,” I say enthusiastically. “You’re a natural.”

John eyes his target. “You say you’ve never shot a gun?”

“Nope,” Peter says.

John claps him on the shoulder and smiles under his bushy beard. “Well, you did great, son. Keep shooting like that and you’ll be a better shot than I am one day.”

Peter tries hard to keep his face unmoving, but his eyes light up a little. I’m pleased he might have found something he’s good at and grin at him. His mouth turns down.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” he says, so only I can hear. “You line up the sights and pull the trigger. Anyone with half a brain could do it.”

My smile falls as he moves away to reload. I know he was proud of himself. I saw it. It must be because I said something. I pick up a rifle and imagine pointing it at Peter. But that would break Rule Number One, unless I actually shoot him. It’s tempting, but instead I pretend the target is him and hit every time.

John and Nelly take John’s truck and head to a nearby farm as the rest of us head home. John will only tell us where they’re going, but not what the surprise is, saying he doesn’t want us to be disappointed if he comes home empty-handed. Back at the house, James talks excitedly about shooting; he was a decent shot. Even Ana seemed to enjoy it. I think they’re feeling they’ve gained some control over all of this.

And they’re not entirely wrong: guns saved our lives yesterday. Quiet weapons would have been better, though. There’s no sense in inviting more Lexers to the party if you can avoid it. And even though yesterday showed me that I can hold my own, I don’t feel brave or like this situation is any more manageable. I’m pretty sure that whoever said facing your fear makes you braver wasn’t facing the prospect of millions of walking dead.

John’s surprise arrives in the back of his pickup. It’s a little mama goat and her kid, both a rich brown with white markings. She looks at us with liquid eyes, and the baby hides behind her between frantic nursings.

John strokes the doe’s head. “I was set to buy her this spring. I missed goat milk, and since the grandkids were coming for most of the summer, I figured they’d like to milk her, too. The kid, a girl, was born a few weeks ago. I thought they’d live in your little barn.”

I don’t know anything about goats, or even goat milk. But I imagine it’s got to be better than the milk that comes powdered in a can, which tastes exactly like dried out milk flavored with metal can. He unties and lifts them out of the truck.

“So, is the farmer you got them from okay?” James asks.

“Yeah, he and his wife and three kids, teenagers, are fine. Last name’s Franklin. You might remember him, Cassie. They had a petting zoo years ago. We’ve got a plan to meet up once a week to check in.”

I do remember the petting zoo, how the goats used to crack us up. They would eat anything, including our shoelaces and the ends of my sleeves.

“They’re so sweet.” I laugh as the kid bravely walks over and nibbles on my sleeve just as I remember. “You’d better show us how to take care of them. I don’t know the first thing about goats.”

The mama goat is named Flora, and James suggests Fauna for the kid. John also brought back hay, and we put a layer in the little pen in the barn. A couple bags of food are included, but John says that goats will eat anything, and now that spring is here there’ll be plenty.

And spring is here. Every day I check the strawberry plants out back, and today I saw a bud, which will turn into a strawberry in June. The fruit trees have exploded with blossoms. My mouth waters at the thought of fresh fruit. The apples from the store and John’s root cellar are long gone. It panics me to see how quickly the canned peaches are going; they’re the last ones my mom canned. I allow myself one small concession to my insanity and hide a jar in my closet.

Seed trays cover every available window spot. Tiny sprouts poke out of the dark soil. I serenade them daily. I don’t know if it helps, but my mom used to sing the plants silly songs to make us laugh. She said it made them grow faster, and her plants were always big and healthy.

John’s old farmhouse looks like a greenhouse exploded inside it too, and he fights a constant battle with Laddie’s enthusiastic tail toppling them. I keep asking John to move in with us, but he refuses. He says it would be too cramped or that his snoring would drive us all out, but I think he wants to be there in case Jenny arrives. Tom’s stationed in Germany, and John hopes he’s safe on a base somewhere.

Tonight we’re going to run the generator and listen in using our new antenna. We’ve heard what sounded like a report from New Hampshire, but we keep losing them. James has written down any promising frequencies to try.

We make the trip to John’s in the late afternoon. A green mist of new leaves has settled on the trees, and birds call as they swoop across the trail. We settle down in John’s big kitchen, where he’s set up the radio. There’s stew cooking on the cook stove, made with stored carrots and potatoes. It smells delicious.

James turns knobs and dials. The handset doesn’t work, but we can still listen in. We lean toward the sound like compass needles pointing north. Ana may be most eager; she’s been talking about this all day, thinking it’ll prove it’s not as bad as we think. She helped me plant seeds under Penny’s orders, until I finally told her to find something else to do. Instead of planting them carefully, she jabbed the seeds into the soil like they had done her a personal grievance.

I’m doing my best to be civil to Ana and Peter. I try to talk to them like I do to everyone else, except it’s hard when it’s obvious they can barely tolerate anything I say. They do the bare minimum and talk incessantly about the first thing they’ll do when they get back to New York. They have a game they play, which Nelly and I have named Zombie Zagat. One of them names a restaurant or bar and the other lists the best food, the best drinks and all the annoying people they might know in common who frequented there.

There’s some static and a voice, an American voice, leaps out.

“Gotcha!” James yells.

We crowd around him and listen to a man’s voice reporting our first live news in weeks. “…157th Air Refueling Wing, which is now located at the Mount Washington Regional Airport in Whitefield, New Hampshire. We ask all citizens to disregard pre-recorded broadcasts that offer Pease Air National Guard Base at Portsmouth International Airport in Portsmouth, New Hampshire as an official Safe Zone. The base was abandoned due to uncontrollable levels of Bornavirus infection.

“The remaining National Guard has removed itself to the Mount Washington Regional Airport and established a Safe Zone in this area. All uninfected citizens are asked to make their way to this location if they are in need of a Safe Zone. We have been in contact with several other locations that are also listing themselves as Safe Zones in the northeast. These are civilian Safe Zones and are not affiliated with the United States government. We know of no other governmental Safe Zones within a five-hundred-mile radius.”

That means every other one has fallen. I grab Nelly’s hand when I realize that means almost everyone in the northeast is dead. Maybe some are holed up like us, but how many have enough food that they won’t have to leave?

“The following locations have been declared Safe Zones in the northeastern United States: The sister towns of Moose River and Jackman, Maine. These towns are serviced by the Newton Field Airport, if you have access to light aircraft.

“Tolland, Massachusetts has room for three hundred people and can help relocate others to another Safe Zone. Follow signs on Route 57 to barricaded area.

“Kingdom Come Farm in Vermont. Located fifteen miles north of Lowell, Vermont on Kingdom Road. Take 105 north, right at Trunk Road, left onto Kingdom Road.”

Nelly’s grip tightens like a vise. I look at him, and he shakes his head, but something’s going on. The broadcaster lists a couple more Safe Zones and continues.

“There may be other safe areas, but at this time we are in communication with these five Safe Zones. Please make your way to one if you are in need of assistance. Note that all persons will be checked for signs of infection and will be barred from entry if they are infected. All obviously infected will be shot on sight.

“The last contact we had with the United States government was a week ago. They assured us that they expected the situation to last only another few weeks.”

Up until now the man’s voice has been carefully modulated, but now I hear a crack in it.

“However, we have received reports that infected may remain active for a number of years before finally succumbing. We urge you all to remain vigilant as you make your way to a Safe Zone. This broadcast will be repeated every hour and updated every day at seven p.m. Eastern Standard Time.”

There’s a pause and then an addition in a soft voice. “Be careful out there. Don’t take any chances. Travel armed and light. Move quietly. God bless you all, and God bless America.”

The radio goes quiet, and we listen to the hiss that’s left behind.