Until the End of the World (Book 1) (25 page)

Nelly pulls me by the hand that holds his. “Come with me.”

I follow him to the porch. He looks excited; his hair is standing up all over the place, and he runs a hand down his cheeks.

“That farm they named? Kingdom Come.” He looks down at me as I nod. “I think, well, I’m pretty sure that it’s the name of Adrian’s farm. I’m not positive, Cass. I know it was in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, but it had a name that had Kingdom in it, too. I could swear it.”

There’s a rush of air in my ears, and I don’t hear what he says next. Of course Adrian is running a Safe Zone. Nelly’s work boots shuffle on the wood slats of the porch.

“—don’t want you to get too excited. I might be wrong,” he finishes.

“Okay,” I say, but I’m beaming because I know it’s true.

It’s just how I pictured. I can see Adrian right now, the way his face looks so stern when he’s serious, although his eyes are always warm. He would have seen this all coming; he would have started planning even before we did. And if the farm is anything like how he always dreamed, it’s close to self-sufficient.

“You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?”

Nelly snaps his fingers by my face, but I’m too far gone. I can feel him out there, just like they say. Adrian is alive.

The mood around the table is much more somber. At first I’m riding on a wave of happiness but soon the excitement fades. Knowing—okay, suspecting—Adrian’s safe is enough to make me satisfied for now. But the hope that I can reach him dissipates as we figure out how high the infection rates must be.

Peter and Ana sit, dejected, while they listen to the rest of us crunch numbers and shudder at the thought of what’s only miles away. I know Penny is trying not to show it, but Maria weighs heavily on her right now. I just hope she can hold out for as long as it takes.

And it’s pretty clear now that that will be longer than any of us thought, which supports what John’s buddy said. I don’t know how it’s possible. People decompose. If they’re dead it seems impossible they’re not rotting away.

“That’s the one thing no one could ever explain in all the zombie stories. And I feel stupid even bringing pop culture up as a frame of reference,” James says. “But it was always some theory like the microbes that advance decomposition avoid infected flesh. Every Lexer we’ve seen looks like they’re decomposing, just not fast. So maybe some will last six months. Maybe it also depends on climate. It’s possible that in the winter they’ll freeze and their muscles won’t work in the spring.”

“Like meat in the freezer,” Nelly says. He holds up a piece of beef he’s skewered on his fork. “This beef is muscle, just like us. The cells burst open when it’s frozen, right? If that happens, then come spring maybe they wouldn’t be able to move. Plus, we could kill them while they’re frozen.”

Ana lets out a little moan at this and runs into John’s living room. Penny goes after her.

“Sorry,” James says. “I forget not everyone can take talking about it.”

“Well, they’re going to have to,” I say. I studiously avoid looking at Peter. “You have to know things will never be the same if you listened to what that man said.”

John’s been silent, leaning back in his chair. Now he gets up to clear the table, but not before I see that his eyes are red. I jump up to help and stand by the sink, where he pretends to be involved in washing dishes.

“I’d bet good money on Jenny,” I say.

He squeezes my hand with his soapy one and nods. I would’ve bet good money on Eric too. But he’s not here, and he should have been by now. I try to feel him out there, the way I think I can with Adrian, but all I get is a knot in my stomach.

Everyone loves Flora and Fauna. Their antics as they frolic around never fail to make me smile. I once read that before television people would watch their chickens for entertainment. John’s talking about bringing half the chickens to live in our coop, plus some of the ones that will hatch soon. Then we’ll have two channels.

We’ve got no refrigerator, except for what the generator keeps cold at John’s, so we store the milk there. The milk is great; it’s the getting the milk out that’s hard. It takes John five to ten minutes to milk Flora, but it takes us thirty.

It’s the third week of May, but the actual date means less than it used to. Our calendar is set to strawberry time, so it’s a few weeks until strawberries, and we’re counting down the days. We’ve planted the spinach and other greens. The pea plants have grabbed hold of the trellis with their curly tendrils. I found my mom’s garden plans from previous years, complete with her doodles and little asides about each plant. It feels like she stands over my shoulder, directing me in her gentle way.

We’ve all been assigned chores. The only people who actually need assigning are Peter and Ana, who’ve been walking around like robots since the first broadcast. We’ve listened every night since. Kingdom Come Farm is always listed, which means they’re still okay. A few more Safe Zones have been added as well. Every night I wait, while my heart pounds, until I hear them say those three words: Kingdom Come Farm. Then I say goodnight to Adrian and congratulate us both on another day survived.

We have no way to communicate out. James says the cord may have a short in it. But we listen. We’ve picked up other broadcasts. There’s a group down in Virginia who say that D.C. is completely destroyed. It was bombed in a final failed attempt to stop the spread.

Every day we hear something new from survivors who have figured out access to radios and antennas. People who want to make sure that they aren’t the only ones. There’s a man in Kansas who says it’s not so bad where he is, now that he’s killed most of his neighbors, and that he’d welcome some company. Then he plays the guitar and cries before signing off.

Peter knows that we suspect Adrian is in Vermont, and these last few weeks have convinced me that my happiness conversely affects his. The cheerier I am, the angrier he is. He scowls at me and mutters at everyone except Ana. I know that Peter and Ana never hoped to be living on a farm shoveling goat crap, but it sure as shit beats being dead. And, frankly, I’m so sick of them I could scream.

I’m heading out to the barn to check on the goats and punch a wall after a particularly obnoxious comment from Peter, when Nelly falls into step with me.

“Want to take a walk?” he asks.

“No, I’d really rather pitchfork out goat shit.” I turn away mid-step and head for the path.

When we get to the Message Tree, Nelly boosts me onto the wooden platform, the only remaining part of the tree house. We swing our legs and watch chipmunks race around with their tails sticking up like masts.

It’s nice to blow off work. During the day we’re always busy. John’s newest project is digging a trench around the fences we made. It reminds me of how my parents used to catch the slugs in the garden. We would mound up dirt and place a small cup of beer in the center. In a day or two the cup would be full of slimy drowned slugs. But slugs are small. This pest control solution entails digging five feet deep and a few feet wide by hand, which should be finished in about twelve years.

Between the digging and chopping firewood, my arms are much stronger than they were. The next time I need to take out a Lexer, I won’t be sore afterward. And I think there will be a next time because we’re going to town tomorrow. John’s working on a long-handled blade in his shop that might be more useful than a machete.

We move the plants in and out of the sun, water them, and sing to them. Well, Penny and I sing to them. Nelly says we’re bananas. We fill the generator and cook food. We clean the chicken coop and milk Flora. But, mainly, we dig. Then, at night, we sit around in the lamplight and talk or read or play Scrabble or Monopoly before heading to bed, where we’re so tired we fall asleep mid-speech.

Thinking about games reminds me of Nelly and John’s project.

“How’s the beer coming?” I ask. “We need a night of debauchery and drinking games.”

My dad’s brewing ingredients are still around. There are a few dozen bottles in the basement right now, filled, capped, and doing whatever beer does while you’re waiting for it. I’m dying for one. Maybe those people who grab the beer first thing in a crisis are on to something.

“We’ll know in a few days,” Nelly says. “I could really use a night of debauchery. And I’m not looking forward to heading to town.”

We need some radio parts, and I want to get some stuff for a project I have in mind. Everyone is going. John has a cockamamie idea that seeing what town is like will get a fire going under Ana and Peter.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” I say. “Why the long face? What’d the world end or something?”

Nelly smiles and lies back on the platform, his face sun-dappled. I sit cross-legged above him and watch him watch the leaves rustle.

“I guess I’m just acclimating,” he says. “You know, I think I’m getting used to all of this, and then I’ll be doing something mundane like chopping wood, and I think, ‘Holy fuck, this is all real.’ Like half the time I’m in a dream state or something.”

I nod. I do the same thing. Or, sometimes, I’ll be digging the ditch or pulling weeds and wonder if Adrian’s doing the same thing. Those are the good moments, the ones where I feel a tiny kernel of hope that I’ll get to see him again.

Then there are the moments I think of Eric and Rachel, or Maria, and I feel sick and desperately impotent. I can always tell by someone’s face when they’re thinking of their families. There’s hope, then desperation and then finally some mixture of horror and resignation. Peter’s the only one whose face remains clear; he has no one to fear for. I can’t decide which is worse.

“What about you?” he asks. “How’s life as Public Enemy Number One?”

I shrug. “It’s great, thanks for asking. I always hoped I would be the one everyone hated.”

Nelly turns on his side and props his head on his hand with a wry smile. “
Everyone
doesn’t hate you. Peter and Ana have decided to hold you responsible for everything that’s befallen the world, that’s all.” He raises his eyebrows. “I know it bothers you more than you’ll say. So, since you’re incapable of asking for help, I’ll ask you. Do you want me to say something to Peter?”

What I want is for Peter to come around and act sensible because he’s a decent human being, not because he’s threatened with bodily harm. Making people do something they don’t want to do almost always backfires.

“They’ve been doing their chores,” I reply. “So what are you going to do, tell them to be nice, or else? Ana was never very nice to begin with. And Peter, I guess he had his moments, although he was nice to me. How can you force someone not to be selfish?”

I twist one of my braids around my finger. I feel like a terrible person when I do it, but sometimes I daydream that Peter hadn’t been in my apartment that night. That he was just another person who was out of reach right now. I don’t wish him dead, but wishing he isn’t here is so close it makes me feel guilty.

“Well, I guess you can’t, Half-pint.” Nelly tugs on my other braid and flashes me his big smile. “But I could still beat him up for you. Knock some sense into him.”

“You’re really dying to punch him, aren’t you?” His eyes light up. “Stop being such a guy.”

I would love to take him up on his offer, but that would only give Peter more fuel for the fire. He already thinks everyone is against him.

“If only it worked that way, you could’ve knocked some sense into me two years ago, after I broke up with Adrian. Then I never would’ve met Peter.” I wonder where I would be right now. Probably on a farm in Vermont, just like we’d planned.

“Yeah, but then you’d be off in the country somewhere, painting and living some idyllic farm life, and I’d be a corpse shuffling around New York City.”

I ruffle his hair. “You? Never!”

But there’s a good chance he’s right. He might have gone out in Manhattan that night, without me and James to stop him. He would’ve ignored the signs until it was too late, like most people did.

He sits up. “Bet you a million bucks you’re wrong.” He sounds so like a little kid that I wait for his tongue to make an appearance.

He’s got on his smile where one corner of his mouth goes up and his eyes go all crinkly. I’m overcome with love for my friend, my would-be protector, the guy who knows when I need a boot in the ass. I’m so glad he’s here. I can’t regret being the reason he is, even if it means being so far from where I hoped I’d be.

“Well, then, next time you’re shaking your head because I’m doing something really stupid, remember my stupidity saved your life once,” I say, with a superior look.

His eyes crinkle even more. “Yeah,
once
. Out of how many, a thousand stupid things? Those aren’t great odds, darlin’.”

Then, always the mature one, I stick my tongue out at him.

“I thought you said you’d never shop at Wal-mart,” I tease John, as we near the gigantic cinderblock box.

“I did say ‘When Pigs Fly,’ ” he says. “I figure that’s pretty much on par with When Dead People Walk. Plus, I’m not shopping, I’m looting.” He smiles at me and resumes scanning the road.

Ana and Peter are in the backseat. Nelly, James and Penny follow in the police truck. The trucks and John’s fuel drums are full of gas we siphoned on the way down. Pumping all that took a couple of hours, even with a motorized pump to help. You don’t know if a car’s gas tank is empty until you try it, so there was a lot of wasted time.

“I do believe it’s not looting anymore, since there’s no one around to care,” I say.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Cars litter the parking lot, like the occupants got here and made a run for it. The electric eye of the front doors has closed for a long nap, but it’ll be easy to enter through the gaping hole in the glass.

“Someone’s been here,” John says, and we pull up to the doors.

“Obviously,” Ana mutters.

She’s really itching for some conditioner. Apparently, ours leaves her hair flat. I was so upset to hear the accommodations were lacking.