Until the End of the World (Book 1) (28 page)

I nod but don’t reply because I’m guzzling the next beer. Nelly holds his bottle in his lap. I wave my hand at him. “C’mon, Nels. Drink up.”

He and Penny exchange a glance before he looks at me from under his furrowed brow. Penny’s mouth is twisted to the side.

I look from one to the other. “What?”

“Don’t forget watch tonight,” Nelly reminds me.

We’d been getting lax about it, but the Franklins were dressed in their pajamas, after all. The radios work between our houses, and they’ll be on all night.

“I have last watch. By then I’ll be fine.” I shrug and change the subject. “You know what we need? Music. It’s weird to sit around drinking without music.”

Nelly looks like he wants to say more, but he drops it, much to my relief. If I have to talk about Adrian or think about him for one extra second, I’ll scream.

“Yeah,” he says dreamily. “What I wouldn’t give to plug in my iPod and listen to a whole playlist.”

“I’m just tired of having the most ridiculous songs on Earth in my head,” says Penny, who walks around singing jingles and TV theme songs half the time.

We all do. I have no idea why the theme song to
The Golden Girls
has taken up residence in my head, but it seems to be what happens when you’re denied any other music.

“There’s a windup record player in the basement,” I say. “But it only plays seventy-eights. My dad had plans to rig it so it would play all his forty-five records, too. There are hundreds.”

I jump up and slam my empty bottle down, almost knocking over the oil lamp on the coffee table, which Penny steadies. “Let’s find it! C’mon, James.”

I know I’m manic, but I need to do something. I grab a third beer and head for the basement. James follows with a lantern. I see the big wooden box on a shelf in the far corner of the basement.

“Here it is.” I pull it out and point to the numerous boxes of records above it. “I’ll grab the 78s.”

Back upstairs, we unlatch the box and place a record on it. A grinding noise comes from somewhere inside, but the record won’t spin.

James inspects it. “I might be able to get it working if I open it, but I’d need better light.”

Our nights are dark, the way they were before electric light was common. Our lamps cast enough light to read, but not enough to do tasks that require we see tiny parts. And we don’t waste batteries for things that can wait until daylight. I sigh and finish my beer. My nose is numb, a sure sign I’m getting drunk.

“I just wanted a dance party,” I say to Penny. She pushes her glasses up and smiles sympathetically. “A stupid, measly little dance party.”

I know I sound whiny, but if I can’t have the big things, then I want a small one. I crack open a fourth beer.

“Cass and I used to have dance parties from when we were little up until, well, now,” Penny explains to James. She grins at me and holds up her bottle.

“Long live dance parties!” I yell.

I crash my bottle against Penny’s and lick the splattered foam off my hand. I drink, and now this beer’s half empty. That’s how I’ll see things from now on, I decide: as half empty instead of half full.

“Viva la dance party!” she yells back.

“Oh, Lordy,” Nelly says.

Our giggles turn into guffaws, but then my guffaws turn into a sob.

Nelly looks at me with concern.

“Don’t,” I say, and wipe away the tear that’s escaped. I don’t want anyone pitying me, to acknowledge how weak I’ve been. “Please. I’ve had my one crack-up, remember? I’m fine. Can’t we just drink and have fun?”

He looks like he’s going to say more, and I brace myself, but he gives in. “Yeah. I think that can be arranged.”

He guzzles his bottle as Penny and I cheer him on.

“You’re on,” James whispers.

I wipe the crust out of my eyes and sit on the edge of my bed. “I’m up. You can go to sleep.”

The fire is still going and the living room is warm. I pour a cup of tea and sit at the table. I feel a little better than I did. I wouldn’t recommend drinking as a regular problem-solver, but it helped; my feelings aren’t as raw as they were. Although when I think about how I believed I could find Adrian and he would want nothing more than to pick up where we left off, my entire body gets hot with embarrassment. I’m such a fool. It makes me angry that everyone knows. And I’m sure Peter is gloating that he’s right, that he’s exposed me.

I think I see something at the window and freeze, ready to sound the alarm, until I realize it’s my reflection. It feels like the night holds only murderers and rapists and walking dead. I’m afraid to look at the windows for fear that a ghostly white face will suddenly appear, bent on my destruction. It’s not necessarily a new fear; I’ve been scaring myself like this since I was little. The only difference is that now it’s not only within the realm of possibility, but there’s also pretty much a guarantee it will happen eventually.

I decide to make bread instead of sitting here alternately scaring and berating myself. I love making bread by hand, although when my arms are tired from kneading I think longingly of my mother’s beloved electric mixer with the dough hook attachment.

I take out the flour, yeast and salt, and measure the quantities I know by heart. I drop the dough on the wooden counter in a puff of flour. I fold it over and punch it, then fold it again, letting myself think only of how it feels under my hands, how it turns from clumpy and sticky to smooth and elastic. I put it in a bowl by the stove to rise and rinse my hands.

I want to call over to John’s on the radio, but there’s a one out of three chance I’ll get someone I want to talk to, so I dismiss that thought. I feel so alone. We’re separated from the rest of our families, from the rest of the planet, really. There are others out there, obviously—we hear them on the radio every night—but we may never see anyone else. We may struggle on here and then end up like the Franklins, and no one will ever know how hard we tried.

I hear a noise outside and jump up, hand on the radio, but I recognize the
tick-tacking
of Laddie’s claws on the porch. He wags his tail and gobbles his treat happily when I let him inside. He knows I’m a sucker for the pathetic I-need-a-doggy-treat face he’s perfected. He climbs up next to me on the couch and nestles his body along my legs as I stroke his head. Now I’m not as scared, since Laddie will alert me to anything in the woods way before it can get to the window. We sit in silence for a while.

“You’re a good old boy,” I tell him. His tail flops twice. “It must be nice, being a dog, huh? You don’t have all these issues with people. You just like them or you don’t.” He looks into my eyes like he understands. I scratch behind his ears. “And everyone likes you. How could they not? ‘Cause you’re so handsome. You’re the handsomest dog in the world. Yes you are, you puppy-dog. Yes—”

Nelly interrupts my silly baby voice. “You know, there are humans around here you could talk to.”

I don’t turn around, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “I prefer dog therapy.”

He sinks into the chair across from me and yawns. “Of course you do.”

The wind-up clock on the mantel reads five a.m.

“What are you doing up? Go back and get some sleep.”

“I couldn’t go back to sleep,” he says, annoyed and bleary-eyed. “It would appear I’ve gotten used to having company in my bed. Of course, it’s completely the wrong kind of company, but I keep waking up and looking for your blanket-stealing lump.”

I’ve been teasing Nelly that he likes sharing the bed but won’t admit it. I clap and laugh. “I knew it!”

He pretends not to hear me. I grab the bread bowl while he puts on coffee. The dough has risen, so I punch it down, turn it out and shape it into three round loaves. I place them on the wooden peel to rise and let the oven warm.

“Mmm, bread,” Nelly says. He bends over and inhales the yeasty scent. I lean on the counter and try not to smile. “Yeah, yeah, I’m secretly in love with you. I can’t live without you. Won’t you please marry me, fair maiden?”

He falls to one knee, hand outstretched.

“Oh, shut up,” I say, and smack his hand. “You’re worse than me. Why can’t you admit you need some comfort? At least I can admit to that.”

He gets up. “You’re a girl. And you suck at admitting it, too.”

We turn as John bursts in the front door, still in his pajamas. “Peter and Ana are gone. They took my truck and left a note saying they were going to town.”

When Penny raises her head from her hands, her normally placid expression is tight and drawn. The first few shafts of sunlight fall through the window and illuminate every line of worry in her face. She looks old enough to be her mother at this moment, thanks to Ana.

“I’m so sorry, you guys,” she says. “I know Ana’s selfish, but I didn’t think she could be so dumb. What were they thinking?”

“You’re not responsible for her actions,” John reminds her. He sits at the dining table and shakes his head. “I had a talk with them last night. I told them we weren’t going to town for a while. That it was too dangerous. Ana was upset and complained that she was always the last one to get what she needed. But I thought they understood.”

“When did they leave?” James asks. He grabs Penny’s hand and squeezes.

John shrugs. “At least an hour ago. They were supposed to wake me at four. I woke up and the house was empty. Laddie must’ve come over here when they left. They’re already past town, if that’s the case.”

“We’ll go after them,” James says to Penny. “We’ll get them back here.”

She shakes her head. “We don’t know where they’ve gone. If we start driving around we might attract attention. I won’t have that hanging over my head. Or have any of you hurt because of her.” Her voice rises. “I can’t believe her! I could kill her right now!”

Nelly stands by the front door and watches the driveway. “Let’s give them a few hours. Chances are they’ll be fine. If they aren’t back soon, we’ll go looking.”

John heads to his house to change. I put the bread in the oven, but when it comes out, perfectly crackled and brown, none of us has an appetite. The rustling treetops sound like car tires on the road, and we all keep stopping, heads cocked, thinking they’ve returned. But they don’t come.

Finally, we put on our armor and holsters. We’re silent as we turn out of the driveway onto the dirt road. I’m angry as hell, but I’m also worried. I really do love Ana, and even Peter, in a way. I want them here, even if I don’t want them near me, because there’s nowhere else that’s safe.

When we hit the final curve before the paved road, we almost run into John’s truck. Ana and Peter are turned in their seats, watching the main road. John skids to a stop beside them. With a face carved of granite, he takes one thick finger and points it at them, then back up the road toward home. Ana and Peter look like teenagers who’ve been caught breaking curfew.

Penny leaps out at the house and waits until Ana emerges, looking guilty and afraid.

“I’m sorry,” Ana says.

Penny ignores the apology. “I don’t even know what to say to you, Ana! I’ve put up with your bullshit my whole life, first because Papa died and then because, well,” she makes quotes with her fingers in the air, “
that’s just Ana
. But I’m telling you right now, this has to stop. Your bullshit has to end right now. Today. Do you understand me?”

Ana’s eyes are huge and black. She stares at Penny.

“That was not a rhetorical question!” Penny yells, her cheeks red with rage. “No more! Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Yes,” Ana whispers.

She walks past Penny into the house. But Penny’s not done yet. She wheels around to where Peter stands, having the good grace to look ashamed. He watches Penny steadily, like he’s waiting for his penance.

“I’m not saying it was your idea. I know my sister well enough to know she always gets what she wants. But don’t you ever be the one to help her do anything like that again.”

Peter nods once and watches his feet as he walks inside. He’s always so unflappable, but now he looks shaken and distressed. If he were anyone else I might feel sorry for him.

In the evening I head out to the barn to milk Flora. Milking has its own peaceful rhythm once you get the hang of it. I love the smell of the hay and the sunshine that falls in stripes through the slats in the boards, making the goats look like tiny zebras. I’m almost done when I hear Ana and Peter arguing on the far side of the barn. They don’t know I’m here, outside in the sheltered area, where I like to do the milking.

Peter’s voice is firm. “We have to tell them, Ana. It’s not something we can hide. What if they did see where we went?”

“We watched,” Ana says. “No one came past. I’m sure it’s fine. We don’t know for sure if they’re even the ones. Do you know how angry they’ll be if they find out? My sister’s about to kill me as it is.”

I pick up the milk pail and creep to the doorway.

“Ana, the sheriff said he was trouble. We can’t take the chance.”

She’s got on her fighting stance. Ana won’t back down until Peter agrees. I clear my throat. Ana spins around in surprise, eyes narrowed.

“Milking,” I say, and hold up the pail. The milk sloshes from the rage I try to keep in check. I can’t believe they’d try to keep something this important from us. “You two need to tell us what happened.”

They’d said that the trip to town was uneventful and the stores were empty. We thought that was the end of it, at least as far as danger goes. But it turns out they ran into people.

“We didn’t go to Wal-Mart, but there’s that town on the other side.” Peter looks like he’s forcing the words out. He stands in the living room and stares out the window. “We wanted to see what was there. There was a beauty salon. We waited and when we saw nothing we went inside.”

Well, I guess Ana got her conditioner. Is there a more ludicrous reason to be willing to die? But, of course, they hadn’t been thinking like that. They’d been thumbing their noses at us, showing us that no one was going to tell them what they could and couldn’t do.