Until We End (2 page)

If I got lost on the back roads, it'd take hours to find my way home. I couldn't count on a friendly neighbor or shopkeep to point me in the right direction. My eyes wandered to where Coby was curled under his blankets in a pout and my heart squeezed. No way I'd leave him alone that long. I'd risk thieves on the highway if it meant I could get home sooner.

For the millionth time, I wondered what could possibly still be out there. If there were any other survivors. In the beginning, for the first few months after the virus hit, the wail of sirens and the hum of helicopters were the unbroken soundtrack of the apocalypse.

Dad put us on total lockdown. It was only once the cacophony of sirens and bullhorns and squealing tires quieted that he started talking about leaving. And then he only talked about himself leaving. He held our hands and reassured us in his doctorly bedside manner that everything would be okay. But, when I was lying awake the night before he left, I could hear him crying.

It was an unspoken rule that Coby and I were not allowed to leave the house, and I'd never been eager to break that rule. But now I had no choice.

I bent down next to Coby and tucked the blankets around him. He turned over and peeked up at me, the tip of his nose bright red from crying.

“Don't go,” he pleaded, pulling his arms out from under the covers and wrapping them around my neck.

I rubbed his back and made shushing noises to calm him. “Don't worry, Coby.”

“I want to go with you,” he demanded, sitting up and jutting his chin out. “I can help. I'll be good, I swear!”

“You can't, sweetie. Maybe one day we'll go out together, but I need you to stay home today,” I said. He cried out shrilly, tears spilling down his face. I squeezed my eyes shut, heart breaking more with every ragged breath he took, and hugged him closer.

“Promise you'll come back, Cora?” He gasped between his sobs. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

I gripped the strap on the bottom of the garage door and heaved it upward.

At first glance, my neighborhood looked normal. Little brick houses lined the street and curled into a friendly cul-de-sac. It could have been any strip of suburbia in America.

It was only after I stood staring for a few moments that the differences sunk in. There were no dogs yapping happily in the backyards, no joggers pounding the sidewalk. Cars sat abandoned in the street, their doors hanging open and their owners nowhere to be found. Our neighbor's blue-ribbon-prize-winning heirloom garden had been invaded by weeds and wildflowers.

I turned my back on the scene and got into the truck. The engine turned easily, thank God, and after I pulled out of the driveway, I spared one last glance for my house.

I'd never been much for religion, but I sent up a prayer for safety — Coby's and mine — right then.

I found that if I kept my eyes on the road, then I didn't have to see the bodies.

They were piled into hills on the street corners every few blocks and left to decay. The smell, a thick reek of sewage and skunk mixed with the pungent stench of dead flesh, seeped through the cracks of the truck and into the surgical mask that I'd strapped to my face.

Someone must be collecting the dead. Who? There was no infrastructure, that much was clear. The traffic lights weren't working, so there was no electricity; the gutters were clogged, so there was no running water. No evidence of government that I could see.

But the bodies were neatly piled on the street corners, like they were awaiting collection. Like the garbage man was coming. Like the
people
were garbage. My skin shrank against my bones at the realization, covering me with goose bumps. I stuffed my head with scratchy white noise, refusing to let myself think or feel.

My eyes caught on a grotesque image from a tangle of limbs — the body of a little girl in a soiled pink dress, propped up against one of the biggest hills downtown, on the corner of Broad and Oglethorpe. A cat sniffed the tip of her shoe. I forced down a gag and laid on the truck's horn — an echoing blare in the cobblestone streets — until the cat skittered away.

That little girl's body was
fresh
. That meant that there were still people out here, alive, trying to survive. But where were they? The city seemed deserted.

The second I saw the square blue sign directing me toward the interstate, my heart got lighter. It was a long drive from the city to the springs, and the thought of Coby waiting alone at home, curled under his blankets and crying, made me press the accelerator harder.

My breath came easier as Savannah faded behind me. Contrary to the reek of death in the city, the countryside was revitalized by the absence of people. Rolling pastures that were once filled with grazing black and white cows and bales of hay had been overgrown by kudzu and brushwood. The grass, a deep, vibrant green, grew almost as tall as the worn-down fences surrounding the fields.

I pulled the surgical mask off my face and, squinting against the sunlight, rolled the window down. I smiled as a small bubble of exhilaration rose in my chest.

For the first time in nearly nine months, I was out of the house. There was no radio to fill the silence, but quiet didn't bother me anymore. The solitude settled around my shoulders like a blanket.

It only took thirty minutes to get to Chatham Springs, half the time it would've taken with traffic. I parked the truck in a gravel lot off the highway, got out of the cab and stood for a moment, just looking.

The spring formed a deep pool, fed by a river far underground. Its water was bright blue around the edges and faded to the color of midnight in the center. A thick band of pine trees framed the spring, tingeing the air with their fresh, clean scent.

I strode to the edge of the spring, pebbles crunching under my boots, and splashed my face with the deliciously cold water.

Pre-TEOTWAWKI, the spring was open to the public. In the long summer days, bursts of children's laughter would bounce off the rocky shores of the pool and echo into the woods. Sweethearts would meet here at night. But on this perfect day in the middle of July, it was deserted.

I pulled off my boots, unbuckled my holster and jumped into the spring feet first. The icy water crashed against my chest and stole my breath, but I didn't fight it. I curled into a ball and let myself sink.

My lungs throbbed and the tips of my fingers began to prickle. I opened my eyes. My hair floated around me in a cloud, its dirty blonde turned white against the murky water.

I uncurled and let my arms float toward the surface, where the sun shone like a spotlight on the water. When I felt my toes touch the sloping sand, I pushed back up with every ounce of strength in my legs, sputtering as my head broke the surface, lungs inflating in relief.

Gravel scraped my arms as I pulled myself out of the water. I lay on the shore shivering for a few minutes — longer than I should have — and let the sun warm me.

Dad used to take us here on Sundays. When I was younger, he would swim me out to the deeper part of the spring and toss me screaming into the air, and I'd crash back down into the water. We'd go home sun-scorched and covered in mosquito bites and happy.

I sighed and turned my face to the sun, letting its rays sink into my skin.

And then.

The sound of gravel crunching behind me jerked me from my thoughts. A guy — over six feet tall, brawny and broad through the shoulders — stood there.

I didn't pause to think. Adrenaline slammed into my body, electrifying my muscles into action. I whipped around, hand flying to where I'd dropped my holster, but it was missing. I turned back to face him slowly.

My holster was slung across his shoulder and a semi-automatic assault rifle hung loosely at his side.

“Don't panic, sweetheart,” he said, white teeth flashing against tanned skin in a predatory smile. “I won't hurt you if you do exactly what I tell you to.”

I froze in a fight-or-flight nightmare. My muscles screamed
run, run, run!
But a loud voice inside of me demanded that I take the guy down. And maybe keep him there for a while...

I found my voice. “What do you want?”

He cocked his head and scanned me head to toe. “I want you to get those jugs out of your pickup, fill them, and then take me for a drive.”

Anger burned in my chest as I looked at him. He was tall, muscular, handsome, the type of guy who always got his way. I would've been scared stiff to look at him, much less talk to him, pre-TEOTWAWKI. And now he was standing between me and my brother? Hell no.

I stood to my full height and sized him up. He was bigger than me, but topping 5'9 and not exactly being a twig, I could put up a pretty good fight. I'd heard stories about mothers who'd found the strength to lift two thousand pound cars off their babies. This guy stood between me and getting water to my little brother; that was pretty much the same thing in my book.

I scanned the woods around me for an escape route and saw several half-overgrown footpaths that would lead back to my truck. I'd have to walk right by him to get there.

Good.

I walked toward him, my steps slow and calculated, at just the right angle to take me within arm's reach. I knew what to do — grab his wrist and twist it behind him. Ram my knee into his groin. He'd gasp, fall to the ground in a fetal position, and I'd sprint to the truck. A clean getaway.

Almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him, I looked up at his face. It was all sharp lines and ridges. His nose had been broken more than once and a scar crossed the top of his upper lip in a jagged line, one shade paler than his bronze skin. Dark stubble dusted his jaw, a stark contrast with his white-blond hair. A few strands of that hair fell over his eyes, and his mouth — wide, full, and
not what I should be looking at
— curved into a cocky smirk.

Arrogant jackass,
I thought, reinfusing myself with anger.

Then I realized I'd stopped walking.

I cursed and made a clumsy grab for his arm. He tried to pivot out of my way but, clumsy or not, I'd moved in time to get a steel-grip on his bicep. I twisted on my heel and drove my elbow into his stomach. Air exploded from his mouth in a gust that blew against my cheek. I balled my fist and brought it down, punching him in the groin, and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing.

I didn't pause. I rocketed into the woods, feet pounding the gravel, arms swinging at my sides. The truck came into view like a finish line, and I pushed myself faster, only twenty feet away — ten —

Pain exploded in my back, hurtling me to the ground. Next thing I knew, I was lying on my stomach with my nose in the dirt, head twisted to the side, and the guy was kneeling on my back, his face close to mine.

“I don't want to hurt you, sweetheart,” he said, mouth an inch from my ear. “Don't make me.”

“Let. Me. Go.”

The weight of him pressed my ribs against my lungs, stealing my breath. I could hear the smile in his voice. “No, I don't think I will,” he said. “Go to the truck and load up that water. I want you to take me to your base. How'd you get the fuel, hmm? You must have quite the little stockpile.”

Over my dead body was I taking this guy home, and I told him so.

He flipped me over onto my back and pinned me by the arms, his fingers digging into bone. “You don't really want to die, do you?” he asked.

He loosened his hold, raised my gun, and stood. Staring down the barrel of my own pistol, I went still. “Go get the jugs,” he said.

I brought my feet under me and stood. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. Eat shit and die. I wanted to tell him
exactly
where he could put my pistol. But it was hard to muster that much courage with a gun in my face.

I went to the truck, got the jugs and canteens and dropped them into the sand by the pool. Five gallons of water is heavy. I moved even slower than I needed to, trying to come up with a plan.

Pre-TEOTWAWKI, Dad told me if I ever got carjacked then I should try to crash the car. The scene would attract policeman and ambulances, the bad guy would get caught and if I got hurt, the ambulance would whisk me away to fix me up. But that wouldn't work anymore.

Maybe the guy had a conscience. Maybe if I brought him home, he'd just take a little food and go. I looked at him — black clothes, arms crossed, big with a capital
B
— and snorted. He didn't exactly exude down-home southern Good Ol' Boy.

A thought consoled me: even if he cleaned out our pantry, we had a monster hoard of supplies stored in a shipping container buried in our backyard. No way he could find
that
. We would still be set for at least a year while I tried to revive the greenhouse.

An image of Coby pushed itself to the front of my mind, making my feet falter.

I couldn't let this guy anywhere near him. Coby already had nightmares almost every night. What would happen if he saw some Rambo-wannabe toting an assault rifle in our house?

What if this guy hurt him?

I still had one chance. North of the knee and south of the navel. It was weakness more than just physically. I was more or less attractive. I hoped. But this guy would've still been out of my league pre-TEOTWAWKI. He didn't look like the type that would date. He looked like the type that'd drag you by the hair and throw you on the back of his Harley, and you'd just thank God he'd looked your way.

I loaded the last jug in the truck bed, got in, and revved the engine. He stood from where he'd crouched at the edge of the pool and began strolling towards me.

Arrogant. He knew I wouldn't try to leave without him. How could I, when he could just shoot out my tires? I gripped the steering wheel tightly and thought about punching the gas, ramming him. But before I could make myself do it, he opened the passenger door and joined me in the cab.

I slammed the truck into drive and got on the road.