Until the End of the World (Book 3): All the Stars in the Sky (7 page)

“You definitely should,” James says. “We had a lookout. That’s how we got out in time. We couldn’t see much from the roads with all the trees and mountains.”

“Well, we don’t have a problem with mountains or trees.” Thomas gives a cheerless laugh. “Have you seen the mold on the bodies?”

“You mean the black moss?” Mark asks. “Is that what it is?”

“That’s what Gerry thinks.”

“It’s mold all right,” Gerry says, pushing at his dentures with his tongue. “Not one I’ve ever seen, but it’s mold. Used to do mold removal years ago. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

He stops as if we’re going to argue; when we don’t, he continues. “When you see the black fuzz, now, that’s a large colony. But I’d say they all have some spores on them. With all these bodies, the air must be full of ‘em.”

“Is it dangerous to us?” Penny asks.

“Don’t know, but I don’t think so. You’ve all been around it and are fine?” We nod, and he crosses his arms like that’s that. I’d like a more conclusive answer, but since we’re still alive I suppose it won’t kill us.

“Gerry thinks the mold is breaking down the virus in the flesh, allowing for decomposition,” Thomas explains, then shrugs. “It’s just a theory. Now, as for Winnipeg…” He leans over our atlas.

Jessica leaves for the dining room, where Bits and Hank are belly-down on the floor, working on a comic, while Nicki scribbles beside them. Ash and the teenage boy, Colin, each wear one earbud while they listen to music on my phone. Colin almost fainted when he saw a phone in working order. He may have thought Ash was cute before, but now she’s a goddess. I watch Jessica beckon them into the kitchen and then return my attention to Thomas and James.

“We’ve gone as far into the city on the east side as is safe,” Thomas says. “You won’t find much unless you venture farther in. There are places where the bodies block the streets and you’ll never get them moved before more hear you.” He runs a finger along the map. “Here, on the west, is a large subdivision called Whyte Ridge. There are gas stations and shopping centers nearby—Walmart, Costco. I don’t know what’s left, though. The outbreak started over there.”

“If you want to come along, we’ll split what we find,” Zeke offers. “We have a good fuel pump and long hoses. We can get down in the underground tanks where most people with siphons can’t reach.”

I’m disappointed when Thomas shakes his head. “I’d like to see if anything’s coming before we risk our lives for supplies we won’t need.”

After he points out a few more stores and marks their locations on the map, we set up our blankets on the living room floor. Jessica runs her fingers along the closed lid of the piano.

“Do you ever get to play?” I ask.

“All winter. I miss it.” Her fingers tap the wood, and she looks to where Thomas stands in the doorway. “Maybe I can play something short. If you want.”

“Please do,” Mark says.

She opens the lid carefully and sits on the bench. Bits settles in my lap, and I smell the rich spices of their dinner on her breath.

“Your tummy full, sweetie?” I ask.

“Yeah. It was really good.”

I’m filled with gratitude. I spend much of my day wishing for things, and at least for tonight, the wish that they don’t go to bed hungry has come true.

Jessica lowers her fingers to the keys. The music is simple and beautiful and quiet, exactly what I’d like the world to be again. Maybe that’s why she chose it. The piece can’t be more than a few minutes long, but in those few minutes before the final chord fades away, I believe that we’ll make it, that we’ll find respite from all the ugliness and noise of the Lexers.

Jessica shrugs off our praise with a shy smile. “See you in the morning.”

“That was beautiful,” I say to Bits, who nods. “I wonder what it was.”

“Bach,” Peter says.

“Prelude in C Major,” Margaret adds, surprising us with her knowledge. She covers herself with her blankets and doesn’t utter another word.

The worry I’ve kept at bay the past few hours resurfaces. I long for the spell of the music, but there’s nothing but the crackling of the fire and the surety that tomorrow is going to suck. I can feel it in my bones, as John would’ve said.

There’s a reason why floors are not celebrated as places to get a restful night’s sleep. I wake up stiff and sore, but warm. I have a feeling they kept the stove going all night for us and I appreciate every degree. After I’ve cleaned up, which involves the outhouse, a toothbrush and a new, ineffective layer of deodorant, I find Jessica in the kitchen.

“Thank you for feeding the kids,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

She murmurs something and keeps her eyes on the pot she stirs. It’s more of that grain from last night, but she’s added maple syrup as you would to oatmeal. My oatmeal is waiting outside, but I wanted to catch her before things got hectic.

“Okay, well, thanks again,” I say when no more words are forthcoming.

“Welcome,” she whispers.

I leave to eat, wondering why she’s aloof when last night she was friendly but put it out of my mind when Jamie hands me my breakfast. I would happily eat a mixing bowl full of oatmeal right now even though I don’t love it. Will Jackson—Whitefield’s old boss—was right when he said people may bitch about oatmeal but they know they’re lucky to get it.

“So, how was the RV?” I ask Jamie, who slept there with Shawn last night.

“Cold,” she says, her breath fogging in the morning air, “but private.”

“You know what they say.” Shawn finishes his final bite of oatmeal and claps his hands for warmth. “If the RV’s a rockin’, don’t come a knock—”

Jamie smacks him. Bits and Hank look up from where they sit on the ground. I focus on my food; there’s no way I’m explaining that one. Bits knows about sex, and she knows far too much about its darker side, having spent weeks listening to her mother being used by men before they finally killed her. It still wakes her up at night. But she’s been around happy partnerships, although the fact that a few of those were ended by Lexers probably doesn’t help. Her amused disgust at the thought of kissing, which she says she’ll do when she’s older—
maybe
—gives me hope that she hasn’t been too damaged by what she’s seen.

We say our goodbyes and have just started rolling when Jessica runs from the house with a cloth sack clutched to her chest, calling my name. She thrusts it into my arms on the RV’s steps.

“Wheat berries,” she says breathlessly. “Twenty pounds. If you soak them the night before, they’ll need less time to cook. Use a three to one ratio with water. Toss them with oil or spices if you want.” I nod slowly, taken aback by her kindness and trying to put her instructions to memory. She blinks. “I couldn’t let you leave without something.”

That’s why she wouldn’t look at me—she felt guilty. I hug her, sack in one arm and eyes burning. “Thank you so much.”

“Be careful out there,” she says with a final squeeze.

“Wait!” I rush into the RV and grab both my bags from under the bed. I find my lip balm stash, grab two of my four unopened tubes and put them in her hand. “It’s not lotion, but I thought you could use it.”

Jessica holds the tubes to her heart. I wave as we pass through the gate and then admire the bag of wheat berries. It’s worth its weight in gold—more, since gold is worthless. I look around and see I’m not the only one who stares at the unassuming sack with something like awe.

“See?” I say to Peter. “Canadians.”

***

For a city of over half a million, the outskirts are desolate farmland. The blocked roads into Winnipeg force us to circle around and burn more gas than we’d like. The lack of hills, of any rise at all, allows us to drive on the grass when necessary and to avoid a few smaller pods of Lexers on the road. In mountainous or wooded territory we might have driven around a bend and directly into them.

Now that we’ve all had a handful of nuts and dried fruit, my hunger—or maybe my fear of hunger—has lessened. We’re back on diet rations rather than starvation rations. If we ever head back to the Northeast, I’ll stop to give Jessica another hug.

The fields end at a long white fence with an entrance into a subdivision. Some houses are still occupied, with cars sitting in their driveways and Lexers beating on the window glass. James directs us to a street of large homes that he’s chosen for its multiple exit routes and proximity to the stores. The pickup will go for fuel and those left here will check the houses for anything useful. It doesn’t look promising, based on the number of kicked-in doors and broken windows. I didn’t argue when Tony, Margaret, Zeke, Mike and Rohan volunteered for the fuel run; I couldn’t bring myself to leave the kids in a place so populated, even in hands that I know to be competent.

I wave at the others who have already seated themselves in the pickup and touch Mike’s arm. “Careful, please.”

“Don’t worry,” Rohan says. “We’ll have the Tantive Four all gassed up in no time, Leia Organa.”

Mike laughs at my blank look. “Princess Leia’s ship. The Tantive Four.”

“That’s it, I’m switching to a ponytail,” I say.

I pretend to punch Rohan, who ducks into the pickup and grins as they pull away. I send along a wish that they make it back in record time with plenty of gas.

Maureen and Penny watch the kids while we search a house that has shattered windows and a broken door but a minivan out front, which might mean clothes for Hank. We found him a spare outfit in Quebec, but it’s all he has except for what he wore outside of Kingdom Come. Even washed out, it still retains the faint scent of death, and I don’t want Hank to have to wear a reminder of what happened. I want fresh underwear, as does everyone else. At this point, I’ve lost the wearing-someone-else’s-underwear-is-weird thing. If it’s in a drawer and clean, then I’m wearing it.

Nelly, Peter, Adam and I step into a foyer that leads into a living room with vaulted ceilings. I don’t know that I’ll ever grow accustomed to stepping into someone’s life and rummaging through their belongings, although I hope people have done the same in my apartment in Brooklyn. Maria, Penny and Ana’s mother, was supposed to go there if she ever escaped the hospital where she was trapped. We left plenty of food in the basement along with camping equipment. If she never made it, someone else might have. Maybe someone is wearing my underwear right now. I smile at the thought instead of contemplating what’s almost certainly become of Maria, who was like a mother to me.

“What’s funny?” Nelly asks as we cross the carpet for the kitchen.

“I was thinking about a stranger wearing my underwear.”

“I should’ve known.”

We speak in hushed tones, partly so we don’t attract anything that’s outside, but also because you can feel the ghosts of the former inhabitants—the echoes of a once normal life. Dinner every night at six, kids playing in front of the TV, parents talking in the kitchen. There’s no room in the RV for the scattered toys and an infant bouncy seat I know Penny would appreciate, but a baby might mean maternity clothes.

A quick look in the kitchen cabinets reveals nothing but baking powder and a half-full salt container. Nelly puts both in his bag. As we thought, someone’s combed these houses for food. Peter opens the refrigerator for a final check, and when we’ve finished gagging I say, “I thought that was never a good idea.”

“We need to keep our losing streak going,” Peter says.

“So far, so good. Want to come upstairs with me? Nels and Adam can check the garage.”

Upstairs, we steal toothpaste, mouthwash and antacids from the bathroom, and then move into the kids’ rooms. The boy’s room has jeans and shirts that might work for Hank, and I take a few tiny pieces of unisex clothing out of the drawers in the nursery. I don’t want Penny’s kid to have to wear frilly pink shirts if it isn’t a girl.

“Done,” I say.

Peter leans on the crib rail with a rounded back. I know he slept last night because I was up every hour to check on the kids, but he looks haggard. “I wonder what happened to the baby,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on the crib mattress.

I picture the baby I put out of its misery in Vermont. I hope this one didn’t end up like that. But she probably did—another reason to get Penny to safety. I don’t have an answer, so I lean beside him and stare at the yellow and green quilt.

“I never thought I’d have a normal life,” he says in a quiet voice. “I mean, I thought it’d be normal—my grandmother’s version of normal. A wife I didn’t like much, probably. Parties. Kids I’d never see because I’d always be working.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“I know. Then it all changed, and I was kind of okay with it. It wasn’t going to be normal, but it would be different. I’d have all the things I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Time. Love. A family.”

“You still have a family,” I say. “And we all love you.”

“I know. I guess I just thought things were going to be a certain way and now they’re not. They can’t be.”

“You’ll have the other things again.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“That’s what you said to me after Adrian. Were you lying?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. Because you can’t go around spouting off profound things like that and then take them back.”

His shoulders jump with a small laugh. “Was I right?”

“Yeah. Well, I can see how it could happen.” I don’t mention how just when I believed it could happen again it was ripped away. Somehow I don’t think that would be helpful. “You, of all people, will get there. Promise.”

“Why me of all people?”

“Because you’re an optimist. I would’ve jumped off a ledge by now if you weren’t here.”

“You’d all keep going,” he says. “Just like we’re going now.”

“It wouldn’t be the same.” Even with how close we’ve become, we’ve only ever joked about our failed relationship. I feel weird bringing it up because there are things I’d rather not remember—how frustrated he made me, how I wasn’t always nice to him, all the nights we spent in bed—but I want him to know how important he is. “Remember the night we met?”

“I have a vague recollection,” he says. “Wasn’t it at a bar or something?”