Until the End of the World (Book 3): All the Stars in the Sky (2 page)

Hank, the least snuggly ten year-old I’ve ever met, climbs into my lap like a puppy. Bits knows now that we’d never leave her, and I hope it’s only a matter of time before he knows it, too. I’m stuck with these kids, which is both a wonderful and terrifying responsibility. “I’m so glad you’re with us,” I say. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon.”

Hank wipes his nose on his sleeve and nods. He’s smart enough to know that it might not happen, but I want him to believe—maybe it’ll make the difference between death and survival.

“Gas station,” James calls.

The gas pumps sit in a large concrete lot with a convenience store set far behind. We ignore the pumps, pull to the underground tanks and turn off our engines to wait for any unwanted visitors. After a full minute, there’s still nothing but empty street on one side and open field and train tracks on the other.

Zeke’s head emerges from the RV. “All right. Take your spots.”

Penny moves into the driver’s seat and waits with the kids. She’s there to rescue us or take off with Bits and Hank if she can’t. She hates this part but does it with a grim determination I’d only seen on her sister prior to now.

Nelly jumps from the pickup and saunters over, blond hair sticking out at crazy angles and blue eyes sparkling. “You’re both looking less shitty. Did you sleep?”

“Is there an ounce of tact in there, Nel?” Adam, his boyfriend, shakes his head.

“You know there isn’t,” I say. “It’s a lost cause. Give up before you go crazy.”

“Too late for that,” Adam says.

Zeke, Kyle and Shawn work on opening the ground tanks and readying the pump, which resembles a tiny red generator with a gas nozzle on one end and a collection hose on the other, while the rest of us fan out in a circle to keep watch. Once the pump’s going you can’t hear a thing. I wish we had the small tanker truck from Whitefield that held enough fuel to deposit us in Alaska with barely any stops.

The roar of the pump commences and continues on. That means there’s fuel in the tanks and it looks fresh enough to use, although they’ll add fuel stabilizer to be sure. If there’s enough to fill the tank in the pickup’s bed, the vehicle gas tanks and the fuel cans, it’ll get us another 800 miles. I grip the axe, a tactical tomahawk, that I found among our spare weapons, and wish for my cleaver. It’s gone forever, seeing as I dropped it on the road outside Kingdom Come. I loved that weapon for its versatility, but mainly I loved it because it was handmade by John. I’d gladly give up every weapon I have and a whole lot more to get him back. That he’s gone leaves me feeling rudderless, as though we’re not traveling to a destination but lost at sea. I’m trying my best to believe Peter when he says we’ll make it, but John would’ve been able to convince me. I tell myself to stop wishing for things that can’t be. If there were no zombies, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. How’s that for a wish?

I grind my teeth. When we get to Alaska I’ll allow myself a huge, sobbing, ugly cry. Until then, I’m focusing on the people I do have instead of the people I don’t. By the time seven Lexers stumble out from between the businesses across the road, I’ve managed to swallow back my tears. Those of us on the street side move forward to meet them at the sidewalk.

Five against seven is a fair fight when it comes to people and zombies: We have speed and brains and they have the ability to go forever. I swing my axe. The handle grip sits firmly in my glove and the head is nicely weighted for impact, with one side a hatchet and the other an evil-looking spike.

Peter ventures into the street after one that’s strayed from the pack. He finishes it off and then slides his blade through the back of another’s head. The metal blade glints in the Lexer’s open mouth before he yanks it out. He’s taking more chances than he should, and I resolve to keep an eye on him to be sure he doesn’t do anything stupid like I did this summer.

The remaining five close in, resembling extras in a horror movie with their open sores and gray skin and tattered clothes. I’m glad the pump masks the noises that must be coming out of their gaping mouths because, along with the smell, those hissing moans can drive you batty. I’ve held on to the hatred for these things that want to eat us, but they don’t scare me as much as they used to. I still get tense and sweaty, but I’d be a fool not to when death is only feet away.

I’m taller than the woman who comes for me, so I swing the spike downward through the top of her head. It’s not the optimal spot—you can get a good knife or machete through skull, especially the softer skulls of older zombies, but it’s more work for the same payoff and you’re better off going for an eye, nose or mouth. I’m pleasantly surprised when the axe’s spike punctures with no jarring impact the way a knife would.

Jamie whoops and skewers a tall, skinny Lexer with her spike. The curly ends of her black hair poke out from the knot atop her head and her rosebud lips are curled. Jamie’s fairly crazy, even measured against everyone else who’s survived thus far, and we’re all crazy to some extent.

But no one was crazier than Ana. It’s strange to kill Lexers without her to watch my back and make ridiculous comments. She was reckless, but she always survived. I truly thought Ana would outlive us all. Never in a million years did I think she’d end up a zombie.

Adam stands from his corpse, brown eyes sad the way they sometimes are. He takes no satisfaction from this, probably because he had to put a kitchen knife in his boyfriend’s head last year. But he does what needs to be done in his quiet way. Nelly puts an arm around his slim shoulders while we return to our positions.

It’s only another few minutes before they’ve filled every container. In the silence, the wind rustles the branches of the only two trees for block after block of concrete. This town was not designed with aesthetics in mind.

“We’re just about full up,” Zeke says. He smiles under his bushy beard. “We got lucky here, no doubt. Let’s look in the store in case there’s something.”

Margaret, Tony and Shawn head for the store, where the broken windows practically assure us that nothing worth taking remains. Kyle opens the camper door and scoops up his four year-old daughter, Nicki. She rubs a hand on his shaved head and asks, “It’s safe now, Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby,” Kyle says. “Do you have to go potty before we leave?”

Kyle is average height but wide enough to appear tall, with brown skin, well-sculpted features and nice eyes that he hides behind sunglasses much of the day. He’s friendly, but the only time I’ve ever seen him happy is when he’s with Nicki. Otherwise, he acts like a military man on a mission—which I guess is what he is.

“Uh-huh,” Nicki says with a bounce of her two puffy pigtails. “Can I go in the RV?”

We only use the bathroom in the RV when we need to, so as not to waste water. We’ve left a trail of pee between here and Quebec, but since this area doesn’t afford much privacy and we don’t let the kids out with Lexers nearby, we’ll use the toilet and flush only when full.

“I think we could use a little luxury,” I say.

“You need me to come?” he asks.

“I’ve got her.” He nods his thanks and sets Nicki on the steps.

Inside, Ashley’s dark blond ponytail swings as she struggles to keep Barnaby in one spot on the RV’s floor. Barn’s so excited by the sight of his leash that he dances in a circle, tail whipping around. “Barn, sit still!” Ash pins him down and clips it to his collar. “This dog is such a dork.”

Barnaby is a dork, and he’s also not allowed out until we know the coast is clear. He either barks at Lexers or tries to run in a whimpering mess, neither of which is helpful when you’re attempting to be quiet and unobtrusive. Ashley, however, has shown herself to be both in the past day, especially for a sixteen year-old.

“We saw a few out there,” I say. “So give him to someone else to walk, okay?”

“I’ll take him,” Maureen says from where she folds blankets. She puts on her coat and takes the leash from Ash.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I can do it.”

Maureen gives me a motherly look. “I may be an old lady, Cassie, but I can walk a dog around a parking lot. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not old. Just well-loved.”

She spanks my behind as she’s dragged out the door by Barn. Maureen’s in her fifties and full of energy, although the past days have aged her more than I care to see. I must look like I’m forty instead of thirty, and I feel like I’m ninety.

“Okay, let’s go potty,” I say to Nicki. “This is so much better than a tree, isn’t it?”

“It’s really hard to go on a tree,” she says, her long-lashed eyes round.

She doesn’t know how adorable she is, which makes her even more so. It’s no wonder Kyle can barely smile. I’m worried enough about Bits and Hank, but I know they can run. They could fend for themselves for a little while, maybe a long while, whereas a four year-old is as good as dead by herself.

“That it is,” I say. “But I still like being a girl.”

“Me, too. I think I have to poop. Can you wipe me?”

I sigh inwardly. Of course she has to poop. Everything has to poop. I’ve spent a lot of time in the past day escorting various life forms—a cat, a dog, small children—to places where they can poop. It’s a good thing Penny’s baby isn’t due until December; cloth diapers would be a nightmare.

“Can’t wait!” I say. Nicki dissolves into giggles as we head for the bathroom.

The sun is almost down when we finally make it out of town. I’m behind the wheel of the VW and remembering why I like automatic transmissions. “I hate myself for saying this,” I say, “but Miss Vera is possibly not the best car for this journey.”

“You think?” Peter asks. I laugh—he’s improved his sarcasm in the past year. “Even with Shawn’s new engine our top speed will be forty miles per hour once we get to the mountains.”

“Say it isn’t so!” Penny calls from the back. She loves Vera as much as I do. “We’ll have to get a minivan or something.”

“Another pickup with an extra gas tank would be good,” I say. “I don’t mind being squished if we don’t have to stop as often.”

“Sparky can sit on my lap,” Bits says. “I don’t want her to ride in a different car. Or I could ride in the RV with her. They have a TV. Hank and I—”

“No,” Peter and I say at the same time. Neither of us is letting her ride in a separate vehicle ever again.

“It’s not a big deal,” Hank says. “We’re right next to each other, it’s not like—”

“Nope,” Peter says. He’s answered by two sighs. On the farm, we let them run free within the fences, but if there was ever a time when being an overbearing parent is called for it would be now.

I slow at brake lights ahead. Zeke’s voice comes from our handheld radio. “Big traffic jam up ahead. Move to the right shoulder and go slow. Gonna get a little bumpy, but it looks like someone cleared the way.”

This part of Canada wasn’t very populated, which has worked in our favor so far. But now, with the sides of the roads an inky black, it feels menacingly desolate. I straddle as much of the shoulder as possible and bump over the grass behind the RV.

A heavy fog has rolled in, making the cars in the gloom resemble a deep-ocean shipwreck. Our headlights pass over open doors and a particularly bad collision. Bodies dot the asphalt along with bags and suitcases that have burst open or been rifled through.

“Did you see that?” Hank yells, nearly giving me a heart attack. “There was one in that car! It was pounding on the windows and its face was all white.”

I hadn’t, but Hank’s aspiring-author description gives me plenty to go on. The stopped cars stretch on for another hundred feet before we’re back on asphalt. I wonder what became of all the people in those cars—another mystery chalked up to the zombie apocalypse. We spend far too much time trying to work these little mysteries out, almost like a game.

“What do you think happened there?” Penny asks.

“Maybe a pod caused it,” James says.

“Yeah,” Bits says. “Or the crash was first and there wasn’t enough time to move the cars before a pod came.”

“Maybe it was a roadblock,” Hank says. “We saw a lot of those when we were walking to Whitefield.”

A few more suggestions are thrown around. There’s never a winner, but it gives everyone something to do besides despair that we’ll meet the same fate as those cars and people.

“That’s it, gang, I’m not giving Vera up,” I say. “We can travel the country, solving mysteries. I’ll paint flowers on the side of our Mystery Machine.”

James breaks into the
Scooby Doo
theme song, and Bits and Hank join in with the rest of us; Scooby spans many generations. At the end, Peter does a Scooby Doo impression that’s so spot on I can’t see the road through my tears.

“What the heck?” I ask. “How did I not know you could do Scooby?”

“I’m full of secret talents,” he says. “And I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids.”

Everyone laughs. This trip sucks on so many levels—we’re missing so many, we have no home, we don’t have enough fuel or food, we have no idea what awaits us—but I’m in the Mystery Machine with what’s left of the best people on Earth, which kind of makes everything all right.

The bus is quiet when Peter takes over driving. Bits and Hank have crammed in with Penny and James on the VW’s bed. Midway through the night, Penny and James will drive while we sleep through dawn. I lean my head against the window and watch the taillights of the RV. It’s slightly hypnotic, and with the heat blowing I have to fight to stay awake. I’m not afraid to sleep after my nap today; I’m yearning for it.

“Let’s turn off the heat,” I say quietly. “Just for a bit.”

“I know it’s your voice,” Peter says, “so it must be you, but are
you
really asking to turn off the heat?”

“I was never gladder in all my life than to find out that running a car’s heat doesn’t use extra fuel, but it’s putting me to sleep.”

“Sleep, I’ll be fine. Our shift’s almost over, anyway.”

It’s tempting, but it’s against the rules. The rules that are intended to keep us alive.

“Nope, one to drive and one to watch and keep them awake.” I switch off the heat and stretch. “Are you tired?”