Until We End
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Dad always knew the world was going to end.
He prepared us for it. Stockpiling food instead of getting us new clothes, and getting me a gun instead of a car for my sweet sixteen. He called himself a prepper. Our neighbors called him crazy.
But he was right. All it took was one little virus.
“I'm going to the hospital,” Dad told me, a couple months after the virus hit. He wore blue scrubs and carried his duffel, looking for all the world like he was just going in for another day's work. Except for the pistol holstered at his hip.
I remembered the steady baritone of his voice, big hands pulling me into a hug, blue eyes calm behind his glasses. He thought the hospital might still be running, and had to go see if he could help. “Don't worry, Cora Jane,” Dad told me. “I'll be back soon.”
That was six months ago.
My heart twinged at the memory as I hauled myself out of bed, peeling the sweat-soaked sheet from my body. Even early in the morning, the Georgia summertime was stifling. Sunlight beat through my bedroom window, the sky behind the glass a glowing, clear blue. Not a cloud in sight.
It hadn't rained in a month. I'd put off leaving home as long as I could â a couple weeks ago I even did a rain dance. But waiting any longer would be risky. Our water rations were already dangerously low.
The trip to Chatham Springs used to take an hour, but it'd be quicker now with no traffic. A perk to being one of the last humans alive. Except... I'd have to leave my brother, Coby. And he wouldn't be happy about it.
I tiptoed around Coby's pallet on the floor, hoping he would sleep for a few more hours. He'd been up tossing and turning all night, tangled in his blankets. Couldn't sleep in his own room anymore because of all the nightmares. He had even more than I did.
The house was still dim in the early morning light. I could barely see the outline of the gray armchair Dad used to love, situated in front of a TV that was good as junk now.
For a moment, superimposed over our dusty living room, was another memory: Dad, Coby, and me huddled together for the first month of the apocalypse. Eating expired cans of chili and crawling on all fours instead of walking, so a neighbor wouldn't see us through the windows. I wanted to board them up, but Dad said that was as good as announcing we were still inside. So we sat together, pretending Dad didn't have a rifle balanced across his lap, and waited for the world to end.
I pulled the screen door open. Our backyard wasn't very big â real estate in suburban Savannah used to be a hot commodity â and most of it was occupied by a glass-domed greenhouse. Our key to survival.
Before Dad left, the shelves overflowed with sweet potatoes, kale, carrots, and every kind of bean I could think of. Now the cabbages were pale, filled with holes and wilting. The tomato vines had gone from a vibrant contrast in greens and reds to bare brown twigs that couldn't even crawl up the wall.
The greenhouse's centerpiece was a small pond full of tilapia that bred like crazy. Rain was supposed to collect from the roof of the main house to feed into the pond, and then we could filter it for drinking water. But the combination of blistering drought and horny fish meant it was simultaneously overcrowded and drying out.
Above the pond hung a pen with a few chickens and a couple of goats. Waste from the animals was supposed to fall into the water where it could fertilize the algae and duckweed, but some of it always missed its mark â which meant the eggs that I needed for breakfast were wallowing in chicken poop.
I took a giant breath and held it, pinching one filthy egg at a time between my forefinger and thumb before placing them gently into a basket by my feet. Once all the eggs were out of the pen, I climbed down and crossed the greenhouse to the compost barrel.
I doubted the compost would revive the veggies, but I had to try. We could live for another year on the dried and canned food buried in the storage container under the backyard, but when that ran out we were done for. Unless I could get the greenhouse back up and running.
The stench of a garbage dump hit me when I pulled off the barrel's lid. It was a heavy, cloying smell. The kind that burrowed so deeply under my skin I still had the scent in my nostrils hours later. Brown grubs and groping, blind worms scuttled through the decomposing food waste, infusing it with the oxygen that would turn it into fertilizer.
The scrape of the screen door opening drew my attention to the house. My brother Coby, looking slight and pale in his oversized sleeping shirt, stood in the doorway.
“Good morning!” I called. Seeing me in the greenhouse, he broke into a run and raced across the lawn before throwing his arms around my waist. His head didn't even reach the top of my ribs. He'd need an astronomical amount of calories to see him through his adolescent growth spurt, and I needed the greenhouse to give him that.
“What's going on, buddy?”
“Do I have a fever?” he asked, looking up at me with worry.
I screwed up my face in mock-concentration and rested the back of my hand on his forehead. “Nope! You're as cool as the cucumbers that won't grow for me. Now you wanna tell me what's going on?”
“I had a bad dream,” he admitted, biting his lip and staring at his toes. “I got sick. I'm not sick, am I, Cora? I don't have a fever.”
Coby's worst fear was the same as mine, and seeing it reflected in his eyes made my heart ache. But I couldn't let him know that. Couldn't let him think I was worried.
“No way.” I pasted on a reassuring smile, disentangled Coby's arms and bent down to look him in the eye. “Never gonna happen. Why don't you go wash up and I'll fix us some breakfast, okay?”
He nodded half-heartedly, but made no move to leave. “If you give me a smile, I'll let you go fishing for breakfast,” I said. It was a good bargain. Coby needed the protein and the distraction, and I just needed him to be happy.
“Deal!” He gave me a big smile, showcasing the loss of several prominent baby teeth, then turned and beat feet back into the house to get his fishing pole.
I tore my eyes away from him and looked down into my filthy egg basket. Breakfast time. I'd try not to poison us.
It's the little things you miss, post-TEOTWAWKI (the end of the world as we know it). Like a good working oven. I'd taken enough biology classes to know the dangers of salmonella. All I had to work with was an old cast-iron pot and a wood-burning stove; not exactly top-of-the-line in sanitation for eggs covered with chicken poop.
Once they were clean, I cracked the eggs into the pot along with a can of black beans, some onions and sun-dried tomatoes. It would all have to be scorched.
I'd just gotten the kindling lit when I looked up to see Coby running full-tilt out of the greenhouse. My stomach clenched at the sight of the two fish he carried. There's nothing wrong with tilapia, but when you eat it three meals a day for months on end, it gets old.
“Look, look!” he cried, bouncing on his heels with excitement. “One for me and one for you. They're huge!”
Acid filled my mouth as the fish flopped morbidly against his arms. I wished fervently for the days when Dad would take us to the supermarket and pick up some fish sticks to zap in the microwave.
I swallowed the burn of bile in my throat and gave Coby my best big-sister smile. “Good job, buddy! Go clean them, okay? Breakfast's gonna be ready soon.”
Coby, thrilled at being given such an important task, skipped into the shed that we used for cleaning fish and slammed the door shut behind him.
I looked away and up at the sky, willing a rain cloud to appear. Thin wisps of white streaked the blue, but other than that it was clear and unblemished, promising to be a beautiful day.
Of course, it was out of the question for Coby to come with me to the springs. I had no idea what might be out there. The city could just be deserted; that was what I hoped for. But if there were looters or police, then I wanted him safe and at home. No matter how much he'd hate it.
I was just about to put the pot on the stove when Coby returned with a huge plate of fish meat. Holding my breath against the smell, I threw the meat in with the rest of our breakfast before putting it over the fire.
Coby peeked over my shoulder and grinned, looking proud of himself. I tried to smile back at him, but all I managed was a twist of my mouth that probably looked more like a grimace. He didn't notice.
The sun was just picking up steam over the treetops as we sat down to eat.
“Coby,” I said. “I've got something to tell you, man.”
He looked up with a mouth full of food, eyes holding a question and cautious hope. He thought I had good news. My stomach soured with guilt. He'd ask about Dad every day, and I dreaded it every time. I'd tell him that Dad was working hard at the hospital, helping the sick people get better. Coby worried, but he always believed me. Lying to him killed me.
Most eight-year-olds think anyone in a position of authority is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Sometimes the power of that optimism could be a good thing. It could fill me with confidence and buoy me into a new day, full of faith that somehow, some way, everything would all work out. But sometimes it just made me feel like dirt.
“I'm going to Chatham Springs today, after breakfast. I won't be back till later this afternoon.” I swallowed a lump of burnt, rubbery eggs and forced my mouth to smile. “You'll hold down the fort for me, won't you?”
“Why do you have to go?” Coby asked, squinting at me in confusion.
“Well, we need more water. If I take any more out of the pond then you won't be able to go fishing anymore.” I leaned over and dropped an arm around his thin shoulders. “I'll be back before you miss me. You'll have the run of the place all day long! Try not to burn it down, okay?” My weak attempt at a joke fell flat.
I glanced at Coby and saw that his eyes were getting shiny. “I can't come with you?”
“No, man. You have to stay here and take care of the house. It'll be okay. I promise.” I kissed the top of his head and walked inside, my vision blurred with tears.
The garage stank of stale gasoline and dust. I stumbled around in the low light, loading the bed of our decrepit black pickup truck with three five-gallon jugs and a couple of canteens for carrying water. Dust tickled my throat as I hurried back inside, my airway constricted against a cough. Coby got nervous when I coughed.
I made my way into the bedroom and stood by the window, studying the squiggly lines of a downtown Savannah map. Dad always said that I should avoid the main thoroughfares if I ever had to leave the city in a situation like this. He told me that the highways were the likeliest places for thieves and thugs to hide, lying in wait for unsuspecting travelers.
The comforting weight of the pistol holstered across my ribs testified that I wasn't necessarily an unsuspecting traveler. All those hours that Dad made me clock at the shooting range might come in handy after all.
