Until We End (14 page)

The clothes that Brooks had given me were warm and dry and reminded me of the times I'd wear Dad's sweaters on lazy Sunday mornings. That memory didn't comfort me the way it once would have. I couldn't think of my dad now without seeing a flash of what his face must have looked like when he died.

I hauled myself to my feet and trudged into the warehouse, hoping to escape the heat and images. Brooks had sloshed a barrel of bleach water onto the floor before they left, saying that it'd kill the virus, but really he was just guessing.

Who knew if a bath in bleach water was enough to kill it?

The thought made every hair on the back of my neck rise.

I walked into Brooks' room for lack of anything else to do. Just wanting to find something to keep my hands busy. I wandered to the bed and began making it, pulling the corners crisp just like I'd seen them on my first day at the warehouse. When I looked up from folding the sheets down, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Angry red patches blotted the skin on my face and arms. My hair had gone from dirty to platinum blonde, almost white, brittle and dry and sticking up all over the place. Just like the brigade's.

I hope you never find out,
Lonnie had said when I asked him what was up with their matching hair. Now I knew why.

Walking closer to the mirror, I saw that more than my hair and skin had changed. I'd lost too much weight and my eyes were a fluorescent red, contrasting violently with the blue of my irises. My face had taken on a pinched look, the same kind that cats get when they're backed into the corner of their cage.

I tore my eyes away from my reflection and looked down at the dresser. Maybe there was something in its drawers that could give me insight into Brooks' life. Something personal, like dog tags with his full name and address, pictures, papers. I wanted to know where he came from, who he used to be, how he'd become the perfect habitant of the world post-apocalypse.

The first drawer I opened held a bunch of knickknacks. A box of matches, a stack of papers, a set of keys. A passport. I flipped it open to the photo page. Brooks grinned up at me out of the picture, his hair a shiny golden brown that matched his eyes perfectly. That smile — I'd seen a glimpse of it after I won the chess match — made him look so
alive.

“Who were you?” I whispered.

I started to flip through the pages, but as soon as I got past the photo, I heard a muffled
thump
. I froze, listening hard.

No other sounds came, but I wasn't stupid enough to think it was a fluke. I'd seen enough horror movies to know better. I dropped the passport and slammed the drawer shut, sinking into a crouch and taking stock of my surroundings. Nothing seemed to be out of place. The sound seemed like it came from far away... maybe from underneath me?

Brooks and the others drove off in the Humvee a while ago. They were long gone. So what was that sound?

Then it clicked. The other day as we drove into town in the SUV, Jackson had mentioned a cellar. Yesterday, I'd watched him turn left out of the warehouse and come back with his arms full of food. The sound had come from underneath me.

From the cellar. Wherever that was.

I grabbed my hot pink backpack, took out my gun and double-checked to make sure it was loaded, remembering how Brooks had dumped my ammo on the day I met him. Not about to make the same mistake twice. Gun in hand, backpack on, I walked outside to the raised concrete platform that surrounded the warehouse.

In the time that I'd been inside, the sky had darkened to a bruised bluish gray, clouds filling the air with the sharp smell of atmosphere and the weight of impending rain. A hard gust of wind whipped the hair away from my face, bringing with it an unseasonable chill. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

I turned left, trailing my hand along the wall as I walked, searching for hidden doors. Everything looked normal. I did two laps around the building before I stopped, frustration burning in my chest. There
was
a storm brewing. Maybe the sound that I'd heard was from the wind after all...

I closed my eyes and ran through every possibility I could imagine, remembering the sound as vividly as possible. There weren't any doors attached to the building that I could see. But I
knew
that I'd heard something. I'd been so sure.

My eyes snapped open as I turned on my heel to face the red clay shipping yard, searching the terrain for any change. I jumped off the walkway, knees bent, and moved a few steps closer to the band of pine trees inside the chain-link fence.

There
.
A little ways off, near the far corner of the yard, a glint of metal in the darkening sunlight. I jogged toward it, a square metal trapdoor planted in the ground, tucked into the corner of the fence. A padlock secured the door, its metal rusted orange.

I pulled my pocketknife out of my backpack and examined the lock. It had probably been outside in the harsh rain and sun for months. I flipped out the portion of my knife that looked like half a pair of scissors and stuck it into the keyhole.

Dad used to have me practice lock picking when I was a little girl. He called them puzzles.

I wiggled my knife up and down until I heard three soft clicks. Only took four minutes for the padlock to pop open in my hand. I tossed it aside and picked up my gun again, clenching it hard with one hand and closing the other around the latch of the trapdoor.

I took a deep breath to steady my limbs.
One. Two —
I swung door open on three and shot to my feet in one motion, bringing the gun around to point down the cellar's hatch.

It took me a moment to absorb what I was seeing, but when it finally sank in, I almost dropped my gun. It should have been dark and hot underground in the summer — I'd been expecting dirt and dank and mildew — but I was staring at a well-lit flight of stairs, the air wafting up from it cool and refreshing.

A low buzz filled the air with white noise, probably from a generator. It was quiet other than that. I put my back to the wall and walked forward, keeping my steps light. At the foot of the stairs was a short hallway, angled so it led back toward the warehouse. It ended in a metal door with a small window.

I ran the last few steps to do the door, hardly daring to believe my eyes. The room behind it was gigantic, at least as big as the warehouse, with a concrete floor and a low, sloping ceiling. Shelves upon shelves of every non-perishable food I could imagine filled it.

This had to be the brigade's stockpile. I pressed my nose to the window's cold glass, trying to see if someone was inside. All clear so far.

My stomach
hurt
from hunger, and the memory of my half-starved face in the mirror was fresh, taunting me. I tightened my grip on my Glock.

The brigade wouldn't be happy if they found I'd broken into their stockpile. But they didn't have to know. I'd be careful, lock the door on my way out, and they'd never be the wiser.

I wanted that food. I wanted it so bad it made my head spin.

My hand found the doorknob and turned it easily. Unlocked. I shouldered it the rest of the way and charged into the room, running to the first shelf I saw. Junk food. Potato chips, beef jerky, pretzels... Nutella! I grabbed the jar, tore off the lid and dipped my finger in. Chocolate, hazelnutty goodness filled my mouth, thick and sweet as frosting.

The other shelves were mostly canned goods — beans and veggies and things like that. I tucked my Glock into the front of my jeans, pulled my shirt out in front of me like an apron and started plucking random cans from the back rows of the shelves, careful not to leave any obvious gaps in the spacing.

I walked up and down the aisles, cataloguing the hoard. It wasn't just food, but canisters of gasoline, batteries and cases of bottled water stacked floor to ceiling. No wonder they could afford to do laundry. They probably had enough water for a year.

Near the back of the room, in the far left corner, I saw another metal door. Remembering the thumping sound that had brought me down here, I stopped walking.

But the sound could have been anything. The air conditioning or the generator kicking on, or something falling over. Or even the wind.

Still, my heart beat faster. I clenched my shirt tighter and made myself walk forward. This door was solid metal, no window, and when I tried the handle, it was unlocked.

The room was a spacious janitor's closet. Racks of bleach and detergents lined the walls and mops hung from hooks next to them. But that wasn't what caught my attention.

A man was there, his eyes closed and mouth gagged, lying on his side and roped to a chair in the middle of the room.

My arms went limp, cans of beans and veggies clattering to the floor and rolling away. I rushed forward. The chair he was strapped to was flipped on its side, contorting his arms and legs into an impossible position. I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled the chair upright before I realized what he was wearing.

Army gear.
Bloody
army gear.

His eyes blinked open. But as soon as they focused on my face, he started screaming around the wad of cloth stuffed in his mouth, his face twisted in an inhuman howl.

I did the only thing that seemed to make sense at the moment. I took out the gag.

And he spit in my face.

“Bitch!” he roared, shaking in his chair. “I'll kill you. You're dead!
Dead
.”

I stumbled back, putting as much distance between us as possible, and wiped the spit off my face with a scowl. “What the
hell?
I was trying to help you.”

He stopped moving and shrieked, loud and crazed, making my ears ring.

I clapped my hands over my ears and stared at him, completely at a loss. “Who are you?”

The man's grin would have made the Joker's smile look like the Mona Lisa. It wasn't even really a smile, more like the way a dog bares its teeth. “You murdered her,” he said. “My Corrine.”

Then it came to me like a knockout punch from a heavyweight boxer. In my mind's eye I saw him, kneeling over the woman that I killed. Screaming that same horror movie shriek.

“You killed her for
nothing
. You're still going to die!” He cackled again. I tried to speak, but my throat was thick and my head too fuzzy to form words. “It won't be long now. They're gonna find you. All of you.”

“Wait— what? What do you mean?”

“You killed a soldier. You're not going to get away with that.”

“I didn't have a choice. You were the ones who chased us and started shooting.” The shock of seeing him was wearing off. I began noticing little details. Briggs was the name printed on the front of his regs. A thick, ruined bandage covered his left forearm, so soaked with blood that small ruby drops dripped onto the concrete floor. Bruises mottled his cheeks. Some were yellow and green, fading, but others were dark purple and blue.

Fresh.

“Those were our orders.” He strained against his bindings. “Running is resistance.”

“Resistance?” I scoffed. “We were just trying to stay
alive.
We weren't hurting anyone! I wouldn't have had to shoot—“ I couldn't say her name “—
her
if you'd left us alone.”

“You're hurting people by
breathing,
” he snarled, spit flying from his lips. “Spreading the virus. Like rats.”

It's true I murdered someone. But there was this cold, hard voice inside me that didn't care. That voice knew it was either Corrine or me. I'd made the only decision I could. For my sake and Coby's.

I listened to that cold voice, because the rest of me screamed that I was a killer.

“The military broke into my home and kidnapped my brother.” I couldn't stop my voice from shaking. “I just want to get him back. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I'm—“ I drew in a lungful of air, “I'm sorry. About what happened. Truly. But it was self-defense.”

Briggs' eyes grew bright, fevered. “Then untie me. They talk about you. Jackson and the Sergeant, the two that come down here. You're Cora, aren't you?”

He knew my name. “Yes.”

“They're going to put you down here with me,” Briggs said. His mouth hung open between sentences, like it couldn't fully close it after having the gag in for so long. His tongue snaked out and slid over a canine. “They want something from you.” My stockpile. “But they've been waiting. Afraid of what the others would do if they tied you up and tortured you.”

Brooks. Lonnie. Had they been protecting me? And now that Lonnie was dead...

“But if you untie me, I can get us into the base. We'll find your brother. No one has to know about what happened with Corrine.”

“I'm not sure I believe you.”

“Believe it. I'll tell my superiors I rescued you from the deserters. It wouldn't be a lie.”

I was sure it wouldn't.“Earlier, you said they'd find us,” I said. “Who were you talking about?”

“The military,” he spat. “It's what we do. Track down filthy rats like you, fucking strays, and take you to the shelter where they can make some use of you.”

“You know where the shelter is,” I said, barely stopping myself from moving closer to him. “Where is it? Tell me.”

“Untie me and I'll take you there.”

For a moment, I almost considered it. But the way he was looking at me — chin tilted down, hiding his eyes in the shadow of his heavy brows — changed my mind. I stepped back.

“
No
,” he said, jerking against his bindings. “Wait. You can't leave me here!”

I turned my back on him, nearly tripping over one of the cans I'd dropped, and ran out of the room, out of the cellar, and up the stairs. His screams chased me. As I reached the top of the stairs, my foot caught on the latch and sent me flying to the ground.

I rolled onto my back and shook my head like a dog, digging my fingernails into the dirt to steady myself. The sky overhead was heavy with storm clouds. A flash lightning illuminated the deepening night, followed by thunder booming right over me, deafening me.