Until the End of the World (Book 1) (29 page)

“We’d just gotten back in the truck when a van pulled up alongside. There were two guys in it. The guy in the passenger’s seat was at the roadblock in Bellville. The shorter one.”

Mean Dog. Neil Curtis. I say his name aloud and John nods.

“There was some trouble a few years back with Neil and an assault on a woman. I don’t know all the details, except that Sam tried real hard but could never get anything concrete on him. Was it a red van?”

The red van that turned into Wal-Mart as we left.

Peter nods. “They asked us where we were headed, and I tried to be vague, like we were just passing through, but then he spotted Ana. He said he remembered us, that we’d been heading north. We said we had been, but we were moving on. There was nothing here for us.”

He glances at me when he says this. I keep my eyes on the bookshelves my mom built and read the book titles over and over, repeating them in my head instead of screaming. They didn’t just run into people, they ran into murderers.

“It looked like he believed us. He asked us where our gear was. We said we were picking it up as we went along. He told us to go by the Wal-Mart if we didn’t mind backtracking. Said it was safe in there, that the Biters were all dead. He offered to take us, since he knew the layout and it was dark inside. We said thanks, but we needed to go. They watched us the whole way out. We drove the long way around so it didn’t look like we were coming back here. Then we sat and waited to see if they followed, but they never passed by on the main road.”

He says this like we should congratulate him on his excellent spy technique.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice barely controlled. He looks away, tight-lipped. “He knows my name from the roadblock, and now he remembers us. All he has to do is look in a phone book and find Forrest. Or find it in the records at town hall, or any number of places.”

“That’s if he remembers your name,” Ana argues. “How many people do you think tried to come through? Why would he remember yours?”

She waves her hands in a crazy fashion, like it’s been such a whirlwind of roadblock activity, who could remember anyone?

Nelly points at me, Ana and Penny. “Because of all of you. A man who rapes and murders teenagers, probably killed the sheriff and maybe blew up the school, is going to remember three pretty girls who might be alive and well.”

John sits with one fist extended on the table in front of him, nostrils flared. “There’s a certain kind of man who gets pleasure out of killing. Some join the Army to kill legally. Some are just straightforward murderers. And a few end up with an opportunity, whether it’s here or the Sudan, to give in to their basest desires.

“Neil Curtis strikes me as that kind of man. He’s not going to give up, not when he’s found something he wants and there’s no one to stop him. He’ll take time to work it all out and then they’ll come. But we’ll be ready for him.”

It must be like living in the Midwest and being told a tornado is coming straight for your town. A tornado that’s just cut a mile-wide swath through three previous towns. It’s too late to run. Besides, there’s nowhere to run to. So you prepare the best you can and hope it doesn’t rip everything you know and love out from under you.

The next day we plant the vegetables. Two of us act as sentries, and the rest lower the tiny plants into the soft black soil in predetermined sections. Tomatoes, beans, melons, everything has a place. Every crack in the woods startles us, and we jump up constantly until John comes over from his post.

“It’s under control,” he says, his voice firm. “I don’t think they’ll come in daylight, anyway. They’ll wait for dark.”

Summer is here, I can feel it in the strength of the sun on my back. The grass in the yard is long and soft under my bare feet. Adrian used to say I had hooves instead of feet, because the minute it’s warm enough I cast off my shoes and run barefoot over any terrain. My feet hate to be cooped up.

It takes all day, but the plants are in and watered. After dinner we sit in the lamplight, waiting, watching and talking quietly until it’s time for bed.

The next day is another glorious one, followed by another. John has us doing small things around the house that might give us an advantage if—
when
—they come. Nelly and I take turns sleeping out in the barn with John, and I’m exhausted and itchy from sleeping on hay.

Peter and Ana have been working hard. We’re all angry, but I sense a lessening in everyone else’s ire. Not mine. This is the only safe place we have, and now it feels as dangerous as anywhere else. This house was always my safe haven, and they’ve taken that away from me.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” Penny says on the fourth day, the relief evident in her voice. She looks at John hopefully.

“No.” He cocks his head like he can hear them. “I think they’ll come tonight.”

A short bark wakes me from my light sleep. It comes from inside the house and is followed by Nelly’s voice on the radio.

“They’re here.”

There’s an incredible amount of tension in those two words. I throw back my blanket, instantly alert, and creep to the barn door next to John. The gunmetal feels slimy in my slick hand. It’s still dark, but the moon is low.

“Let them show themselves,” he says.

He holds a rifle with a scope in his arms. He wants us to see what our intruders’ plan is before he does anything. He hands me the other rifle. Rifles are better for distance shooting. I re-holster my pistol.

“Four men so far,” Nelly whispers over the radio, as John fits the earpiece in. “Two just went around back.”

The moonlight is bright enough to see the two men make their way around opposite sides of the house. One edges onto the deck, while the other slips into the bushes.

“Lights,” John commands into the radio, as he sinks to one knee.

The solar spotlight on the deck flares to life and illuminates a figure lifting a crowbar to the sliding glass doors. The other light should be giving a clear view of whoever is in front. John sights and pulls the trigger. There’s a loud report and a scream as the man drops to the ground and writhes before going still. I look through the scope, but the second man hasn’t come out from the bushes.

A bullet thuds into the wood above our heads. John jumps up. “Back inside!”

I head for the door to the outdoor pen where Flora and Fauna spend much of their days. Two more bullets hit the barn, but the shooter still aims for our original spot. I slip into the pen, John close behind me, and crawl along the ground. I kneel and raise the scope to my eye.

“He’ll come back up,” John whispers, his rifle raised. “Wait for it.”

The form in my scope looks like part of the foliage until it moves. John and I fire at the same time, and he goes down.

Then all hell breaks loose. The sound of breaking glass is followed by shots from in front of the house. My breathing is ragged, but my legs are strong when I stand.

“I’ll go to the front. Head to the back and go inside if it’s safe,” John says.

We hop the fence and run across the grass. At the deck John splits off and heads to the front, where it’s now ominously quiet. I look at the man John shot long enough to be sure he’s dead and skirt around him to the sliding doors.

A shout from inside stops me. I can see into the living room, but not the hall, where everyone’s attention is drawn. Nelly has his pistol in his hands. In the dim light he looks furious. Peter stands ready to shoot out the front window, with frantic glances at the scene behind him. Penny holds a struggling Laddie by the collar with a desperate look on her face. I don’t see Ana. Someone must have Ana. The breaking glass was someone coming in down the hall. A surprise attack.

A voice yells, “Put your fucking guns down, I said! Put them down or I’ll kill her. I will.”

Ana screams. James grimaces as he watches and holds his useless weapon. Laddie roars, but Penny holds tight. If she lets him go, Ana might get shot.

I’ll head for the other side of the cabin. The broken window. Maybe I can get in that way, too, and make my way down the hall behind him. I fall into a running crouch just as the wind from a bullet raises my hair and crashes through the door. The shattering glass stings my face and hands. I’m off the deck and behind the bushes as another shot misses. There’s a single shot from inside and Nelly’s voice rings out.

I don’t have enough clearance for my rifle in the thick foliage. I drop it and aim my pistol at the side of the barn, where I think the shots came from, but it’s quiet. It’s hard to tell; everything in the woods echoes. I crawl through the bushes, heart racing, waiting for that shot, the one I won’t hear until it’s too late, until it hits me.

When I hit something soft, I let out a scream of surprise and cut it off, quick. It’s the man John and I hit, and if he’s not dead he’s close to it or unconscious. I scramble over, wincing as my knees sink into his torso. I scurry around the corner of the house just as a man jumps out the broken window and races for the road, followed by Nelly. I can’t risk a shot.

Laddie races across the back lawn to the barn with deep, angry barks. We were trying to keep him safe inside, but he’s gotten out through the broken glass of the doors.

The gunfire in the front begins again, and I stand there, undecided. I was going to follow Nelly, but now I head to the front of the house with my back against the logs, never forgetting that someone by the barn wants me dead. Two men are in the trees on the other side of the driveway, guns flashing as they fire at the other corner of the house, where John keeps them at bay.

They’ve situated themselves so that there’s no clear shot for John or from the house windows, but I’m able to line one of them up in my sights from my vantage point. I aim for his ample beer gut. I don’t think about it, don’t ruminate on the fact that I’m killing someone, because I don’t care. I want nothing more than to see him fall, to choke on his own blood.

Before the gun goes off I already know I have him. It’s like down at the school, with the machete. I’ve entered that serene place in the midst of the terror. The bullet and I have an understanding: I tell it where to go and it does what I ask. He drops when it slams into him, and I cut off his howls of pain with another shot.

His partner makes the mistake I was hoping he would, racing to the other side of the tree. The porch lights up with gun flashes, and John moves forward. Four, five, six shots hit the man with a deafening sound. He does a little jig and flies backward.

Peter twists from his spot on the porch as I move out of the shadows. He turns his gun on me. I freeze.

“It’s me, Cassie!” I yell.

Peter lowers his gun, his eyes huge.

“Ana?” I ask.

“She’s okay,” he says.

I exhale in relief. “There’s at least one more behind the barn. Nelly chased one down the driveway. I’m going after him.”

“I’m coming with you,” John says, and turns to Peter. “We’ll go after Nel and the one behind the barn. Two cover the back, two cover the front. Stay inside. I’ll call on the radio.”

Peter nods and heads in. I hear sobbing before the door closes. John and I walk within the edge of the woods along the driveway. I wish I were barefoot; my boots are too loud on the forest floor. The woods are silent and still. Any creatures who would normally be stirring are holed up, waiting for this storm to pass.

There’s a crash at the end of the driveway and two shots. A voice calls out, but I can’t make out the words over the sound of an engine roaring to life. They can’t be allowed to leave; this has to end tonight. I put on a burst of speed, sprinting on the diagonal through the woods, leaping over obstacles I can just make out.

I jump the ditch and see Nelly standing in the road with his gun raised as the van moves toward him. The windshield cracks as he takes two shots at the driver’s side and stumbles out of the way.

“Nelly!” I whisper, so he knows it’s me.

I grab his arm to steady him. The van moves past, and I think maybe he’s missed, but then it coasts and bumps against a tree. I move forward.

He grabs my shirt. “Don’t go yet.”

The van door stays closed. Nelly barely puts any weight on his left leg. He’s hurt. John reaches the van and eases the door open. The interior light shows the perfect circle of one of Nelly’s shots in the driver’s forehead. A high-pitched scream from inside the van makes us all leap. Whatever it is, it sounds frightened.

John moves to the empty passenger’s side. I jump up next to the dead driver and point my gun into the cargo area, which is littered with beer cans and empty wrappers. A little girl cowers in the corner. Her hands are over her head, and her screams flow one into another without ceasing.

John wades through the trash to pick her up as Nelly flings open the back. She’s no more than seven. Her feet are bare, and she wears a flimsy polyester nightgown that may have been pink once. Her long hair is ratty and tangled. She beats on John’s arms with her fists, but he keeps his grip.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he repeats. “We won’t hurt you.”

She quiets and swivels her head between the three of us. When she sees me she looks like she might just believe him. Her blue eyes are gigantic and scared, but dry. Even in the weak light from the van, I can see the freckles that stand out in sharp relief from her pale skin.

I reach for her. She pushes off from John and lunges at me. She’s lighter than I thought, all arms and legs and skinny ribcage. They wrap themselves around me so tightly it’s difficult to breathe. She smells like piss and sweat and liquor. I wonder what they’ve done to her.

“The one who had Ana ran that way.” Nelly points into the woods that lead to the barn and back of the house. He gasps when his weight shifts. “But I wanted to take out the one in the van so they couldn’t get away.”

“Your leg,” I say. His jeans have a ragged hole at the calf surrounded by a dark stain.

Nelly shrugs. “It’s just a graze.”

We’ve got to find the last of them, and Nelly won’t be able to move fast with his leg.

“Nels, you take her to the house.”