Until the End of the World (Book 3): All the Stars in the Sky (23 page)

Adam resettles himself like an old man and struggles to eat with his left hand, but he’s pleasant as always. “I took my morning meds, so I should be feeling better soon. I only took half of the Percocet. I don’t think I need it all.”

He’s on antibiotics and painkillers. We learned our lesson last year with Nelly’s arm infection and packed all different types and dosages of antibiotics. I hate to think of what will happen when all the drugs are gone or way past their expiration date. We’ll die of the infections that killed people a hundred years ago.

Nelly looks up from where he sits on the nightstand. “I’ll take that Percocet off your hands if you don’t want it. I think I have a pain somewhere.”

“You
are
a pain,” Adam says.

“How are your bruises?” Jamie asks me. “Let me see.”

I raise the side of my shirt and get a chorus of
oohs
at the purple-black smudges under my ribs. “You might want some Percocet,” Jamie says.

“I’m fine.” I don’t want anything that will dull my senses. Actually, there’s nothing I want more than to dull my senses, but not at the expense of staying alive.

“Yes, she wants one,” Nelly says, hand out. “I’ll hold onto it for her.”

“Thank God Nelly’s okay,” I say. “I had him as a patient last year. You don’t even want to know what that was like.”

I take my breakfast and find Peter in the house’s kitchen with his wafflecakes. Determined to make him my friend again, I point to the pink welt my fist left under his eye and then my own face with a smile. “Hey, look! We’re twins.”

He slams his plate on the counter. “This is funny?”

I set down my plate next to his and sigh. “I’m sorry. Do you really think I meant to punch you? I’m
sorry
.”

“Not every fucking thing in this world is a joke.”

“Thanks, Humor Police. I know that. I was just—”

“Then act like it,” he says. “Stop pretending you’re fine.”

“I
am
fine!”

He leans forward. “You wake up throwing punches, but you’re fine? A man held you down and tried to rape you, but you’re fine? Aren’t you angry? Aren’t you something besides
fine
?”

The rage builds in my chest and when it reaches my arms I grip the counter to stop myself from punching him, on purpose this time. It doesn’t help, so I fling my wafflecakes at the wall, where they leave streaks of syrup before they drop to the carpet.

“You’re not giving me a chance to be angry!” I try not to shout, but I want to, can imagine the release as the screams rip my throat raw. “You’ve taken every fucking bit of anger like you own it all. Why the fuck are
you
angry?”

“I have every right to be angry. So do you.”

“Well, you don’t have to be such a dick about it.” I swallow multiple times and dig my nails into my palms. My bruises throb in time with my heart. “And maybe I don’t want to be angry. Maybe I wanted—forget it.”

His fighting stance melts before I flee into the yard, where I sit on the bench and breathe deep. Footsteps swish through the grass. I’m surprised when Margaret lowers herself beside me.

“It’s nice out here,” she says, eyes straight ahead. “I overheard you and Peter. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to talk to you.”

“I don’t mind. Everyone overhears everything. It’s like one big soap opera on wheels.”

She dips her head with a snicker. “When I was eighteen, I was at a bar with some friends.” Her voice is soft, different from her usual no-nonsense Northeastern twang. “I’ll spare you the details, but I ended up being raped in the parking lot.”

She rubs her hands together and nods at my shock. “I was angry at everything. I blamed myself for letting it happen, for not fighting harder. I played the violin, was good enough to get into music school, but after that I stopped. It was a long time before I forgave myself for doing what I needed to do to survive. I was angry for years. My father was angrier. Not at me—he was angry he couldn’t protect me. He’d always liked his drink, but he hit the bottle hard after that.”

“I…” I say. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Margaret shrugs. “It was a long time ago. But sometimes the people who love us can’t bear to see us hurting. They get all wrapped up in their own hurt. I just wanted to say I know a bit about how you feel. What it’s like to be at someone else’s mercy.”

“Nothing really happened,” I say quickly. “He didn’t—I would never compare it to what happened to you.”

“Honey,” she says with a sober laugh, “it’s no contest. And if it is, I don’t want to win, that’s for sure.”

I can see the pretty girl she must have been. The years haven’t been kind to her, or maybe she hasn’t been kind to herself. Right now, with her gentle smile and warm hazel eyes, she’s an attractive older woman. Maybe the stern face and standoffish manner are protection against what she ran up against all those years ago and whatever’s happened in the years since.

“All right. Gotta get ready to go.”

“Thanks, Margaret.”

She pats my arm and leaves for the house. That was more than I’ve ever heard her say, but I guess she chooses her words wisely.

Peter steps out as she goes in. I watch my feet until he sits and says, “I’m sorry. I was just tired of hearing you say you were fine.”

I brush away a tear. It seems the waterworks are back on now that I’ve called off the crying party. “Okay. But you’re acting like you’re mad at me.”

“Hey, I’m not mad at you.” I don’t look up, and he lowers his face to mine until I do. “The last thing I am is mad at
you
. I was just…really fucking angry.” He chews his lip, looking more remorseful than the situation warrants.

“I don’t know if you forgot, but you’re not supposed to be the angry one,” I say. “You’re the calm, level-headed one who listens to me blather on about stuff and tells me to stop when I do stupid shit.”

“Sorry, I didn’t get that memo,” Peter says. I sniff at his joke. “I was worried about you.”

“You were so worried that you wouldn’t talk to me? That makes no sense. Why do men act like idiots when they’re worried?”

“Because we’re idiots.” Peter gives me a rueful smile. He’s annoyingly handsome and affable, even with the dark hollows below his cheekbones and under his eyes.

“Stop being charming. I’m mad at you.”

“You know I can’t help it. It comes naturally.” I roll my eyes at his wink. His expression grows serious as he drags a boot through the grass. “I thought we were too late when we got there. I left you when I was supposed to stick like glue.”

“I’m glad you were safe.” I’d relive the whole experience, and even worse, before I’d take the chance that Peter die.

“I’m not glad. I could have protected—”

“I don’t need protecting.” It’s not strictly true—we’ve all needed protecting at some point during the past year, but I can take care of myself most of the time. And, as much as I took care of myself the other night, I would’ve liked some protection. Not only do we women have to worry about marauders and Lexers, but we also get rapists—the post-apocalyptic trifecta.

“I know that,” he says, as if it’s a slightly irritating quality instead of a kick-ass one. “I know you’d fight to your last breath.” I shake my head and he says, “You did.”

“I didn’t. And when he—in the truck, I decided to stop fighting altogether. I gave up. And it didn’t even work. Maureen is….” Her death hangs around my neck like an albatross. It feels as though it was someone else who lay in the back of the truck and surrendered. Someone I don’t like very much. Those moments when I welcomed death play on a loop in my head. I swore I wouldn’t let this world get the best of me again, but it did.

Peter’s eyes darken. “What you’re forgetting is that Ashley is okay, and so are Bits and Hank and lots of other people. You were willing to do that for them. You were strong, just not in the way you thought you should be. Okay?”

I nod and try to believe that my momentary lapse was just that. Maybe I would’ve fought no matter what, or maybe I fought the only way possible in that situation. Shadows flit across Peter’s face, reminding me of how he killed Twitch and Dark-hair. Peter does what’s necessary and never utters a word about it, but he’s so kind that I fear it affects him.

“I don’t know if you feel bad about killing those—”

“Not in the least. When I saw one had his fucking hands on y—I’m glad you killed him, but I wish I had.” He seems unaware of the way his hand grasps his machete’s hilt, knuckles white, and I take it in mine until it releases.

I have no qualms about killing those men. I’m sure I’ll have nightmares, but I have no qualms. I stare at my red shoelace. I think it might belong to one of them, but I don’t want to ask. Instead of letting it creep me out, I decide to see it as a battle trophy—a head on a pike, a scalp on my belt.

“What I said before, in the kitchen?” I say. “It’s not true. You’re allowed to be as angry as you want. It’s not your job to make me feel better.”

Peter lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Cassandra, it is. You hired me for that job a few days ago.”

I remember our conversation in the nursery and knock on my head. “I totally forgot!”

“I knew working for you would be a pain in the ass.” Peter catches my incoming fist and turns it over in his hands. “You mean a lot to me, you know. That’s why I was so angry. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too.”

I can’t put into words what he means to me without it being corny as all get out, so I simply say, “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine. How’d that happen?”

“I have no idea. But we’re gonna need one of those best friend necklaces where we each get half a heart and when we put it together it’s whole.”

Peter’s laugh helps to fill the hole that’s been in my chest since Grande Prairie, since Adrian. My heart’s gotten used to feeling like one of those necklaces. I know it’s on the mend, though I wish it would repair itself a little faster.

“Sometimes it feels like I only have half a heart,” I say. “Sometimes it hurts so much you can barely stand it. But just when you think it won’t ever be whole again, it starts to regenerate. I didn’t believe John when he said that, but it’s true.”

“I know,” he says. I think he must—he’s lived the majority of his life with a broken heart—but I want him to know I understand.

I use my free hand to pick at a string on my jeans—Ana’s jeans. I wonder if it’s hard for him to see me in them or if they’re just a regular old pair of jeans to him. “It’s like a lizard’s tail.”

“What is
what
?” Peter asks.

“The heart. It’s like a lizard’s tail. I read once that when the tail regenerates it’s never an exact replica, but it’s a tail nonetheless.”

“You do realize you get a tiny bit weirder every day?” Peter asks. “The heart is like a lizard’s tail? It’s very poetic.”

“So I should give up painting and become a poet?”

“I wouldn’t quit your day job just yet.”

His anger has been swapped for crinkly eyes and a light voice. That I might have had something to do with it fills that hole a little more.

“We’re all packed,” Penny sticks her head into the yard and calls.

Peter spreads his arms when we stand and I bury my face in his coat. “You smell clean,” he says before he lets me go.

“Jealous?” I sniff my armpit. “It’s one of the many perks to being held down in the back of a pickup truck against your will.”

Peter’s lips clamp but a laugh escapes. “I can’t believe you went there.”

“I’ll go wherever I need to go for a laugh. You know you love it—that’s why you’re my BFF.”

“It’s part of it,” Peter says. “An infinitesimal part that’s so small it’s almost nonexistent.”

“You’re pretty funny when you’re not being a party pooper.” My cheek hurts from smiling, and I raise my hand to it with a wince. “Ouch. No more jokes.”

Peter points to his own cheek and then takes my arm. “Hurts, huh? A taste of your own medicine. Let’s go, weirdo.”

Fort St. John had a Safe Zone back when this all began. It became a black pin on Whitefield’s map when zombies took over, and we don’t want to go anywhere near it now. We don’t know exactly where the Safe Zone was. Some Safe Zones were named for their exact locations and some for nearby cities. I’d check on the paper map we brought from Vermont, but it was destroyed by the contents of Boss’s skull.

I’m in the RV, which has prompted only a few moments of residual panic. Peter drives and I sit in the passenger’s seat with Bits on my lap and Hank on the floor between us. They’re often drawing or reading or whispering, but since the other night I’m glad they’ve stuck close.

“We’re going to have to go through the bottom of the city,” James says. “It’s just a few miles. It should be quick, if all goes as planned.”

“And when does that ever happen?” Nelly calls. He has the perfect vantage point from the nightstand between the two beds in the back, allowing him to sit with Adam and toss out smart-ass comments at the same time.

James lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “Never. Thanks for the reminder.”

But the few miles of wide, paved lanes and empty businesses are quiet. Once we’re past the city, we come across the Safe Zone at the lake where we’d planned to fill the water tanks. Whether a giant pod has reached this place or every zombie in Fort St. John is here, I don’t know, but the Safe Zone sign that hangs from a telephone pole would be laughable if it wasn’t so terrifying, hanging as it is over a giant mass of Lexers.

“Keep going,” Zeke’s voice comes over the radio. “Go on through.”

Whatever’s kept them focused on the lake and woods is not as appealing as us. We zip by and watch them spill onto the road in our wake. I tighten my arms around Bits when twenty or so appear around a bend. The last thing we need is a kid going through a windshield. I slide off the seat with her in my lap. “Hank, get in the seat and buckle.”

I’ve given up on trying to keep myself and them buckled in, especially in this older RV, but the chance of an accident has just multiplied. Hank’s up and belted in immediately. He’ll make a good patroller one day, although I pray we have no need for patrols. Small isn’t an issue—as long as he’s strong and fast and as quick-witted as he is now.