Until the End (11 page)

“You’re right.” I admit, because he is. I sit up slightly and prop myself up on my elbow so I’m looking down at him. “Let’s promise not to leave each other for the other person’s own good, because that’s bullshit. We’re both adults, we’re both survivors and we can make our own decisions, so unless that decision is that we don’t want to do this together anymore, we stick with each other.”

“You do remember that you’re the one who wanted an out initially, right?”

“I do. My reasoning was a for-your-own-good type so it’s void now.”

“And here I thought it was because you didn’t like me.”

“When have I ever acted like I didn’t like you?”

“The first day I met you.” he answers without hesitation.

“Very extenuating circumstances. You gotta give me that.”

Jordan watches me closely and asks, “What was the reason then?”

I look away from his face and focus on the protein shakes on the shelf behind his head. I’ve already kind of told him what the pills are for, but I don’t want to get into the rest of it. Not until I know what the rest of it even entails. Maybe I’ll have enough pills to make it to Corvallis and he’ll never have to know. He’ll only know this me; the healthy, happy me.

“The same reason I take the pills.” I answer him. “When they’re gone it can get… intense and I didn’t want you to have to deal with that.”

“And now?”

“Now I think you can make your own choices, and if things get too intense, I’ll understand if you choose to leave. For your sake, not for mine.”

He nods his head in agreement and holds his pinky out to me. I smile and wrap mine in his, but his face remains serious. He uses our joined hands to pull me closer until I’m leaning over him and his eyes bore into mine.

“I will not leave you. Not for anything. Not for your good, not for mine. We’re in this together until the end. I promise you that.”

I’m rendered speechless by his intensity and I simply hover over him, staring. His words mean so much to me that I’m worried the water works I shut down a week ago are coming back online. There’s no denying that he is my home. Right now, this dusty storage aisle is warm and cozy to me. Cheerful, even. If he were to leave though, it would never feel the same. That sense of home for me lies within him, not this place. We’ve both been stripped of almost everything, and the only constant we’ve had since day one is each other. I will make this promise with him because I absolutely do not want to lose him.

“I will not leave you. Not for anything. Not for your good, not for mine. We are in this together till the end. I promise you that.”

He smiles at me, squeezes my finger with his and then releases me. I fall back on the mattress and close my eyes. I’m so tired I’m not thinking straight. I’m doing and saying things I probably shouldn’t, and I wonder what all of this will look like to me in the morning. Ugh, in the morning when I’m standing guard again.

“Where do you think they are?” I ask Jordan absently. “The guys in the trucks. They can’t be staying too far away, I didn’t see any supplies.”

“They’re probably squatting in one of the mansions on the lake, trashing the place.”

“Now that’s profiling.” I protest with a yawn. “Just because they tried to rob and or kill us with stolen cars and a flame thrower, you assume the worst of them. How do you know they aren’t in one of those mansions sitting by a fire, sipping chardonnay and having a discussion about Tolstoy?”

Jordan simply stares at me and blinks emphatically once.

“Or they’re pissing off a balcony, I don’t know.” I say, defeated.

“Such a waste of all those bathrooms you dreamed of.”

“There are easily fifty of them in each of those houses! Why are they on the balcony?”

“It’s a man’s God given, natural right to piss off high platforms and write his name in the snow.” he explains patiently. “It’s in our DNA, we can’t help it. It’s like women and shoes.”

“And now that’s sexist. You are on a roll tonight, buddy. Any racist comments you feel like throwing out there? What’s your stance on black people and chicken, Jordan?”

“It’s not sexist if it’s true.”

“Well, it’s not true.”

“Really?” he exclaims and throws the sleeping bag off his body, struggling to rise in our limited space. “Exhibit A!”

“No, don’t!” I cry, grabbing for his arm and pulling him back down before he can reach the foot of the bed. “You’re not sexist, I take it back!”

He stops and sits, looking down at me. “So you acknowledge that there are brand new running shoes down there that you told me, and I quote, ‘are super cute’?”

“Yes, I do, now shut up.” I plead, pulling on his arm.

He lets me pull him back down until he’s lying on his back beside me. The triumphant smile on his face when he looks over at me is such a pain in the ass. It is equal parts adorable and smug.

“You’re still a profiler.” I say quietly. “And probably a terrible racist.”

“Probably.” he agrees.

I’ve called Uncle Syd several times since we’ve been here, and each time he insisted I leave immediately and get to Corvallis. He’s still threatening to come get me, especially after I told him what I had to go through to get my pills, but I intentionally keep my exact location from him so that he can’t make good on his threats. He’s happy I found more of my meds and he’s made a trip into town to make sure he has more waiting for me when I get there.

While we’ve been here, more suburbs of Portland have fallen and towns all around us are being breached as well. The news talks about barricades and the military making attempts to contain the spread of what they are still adamantly calling The Fever, never zombies, but I’m not sure how effective those barricades are. The infection has reached the coastline. Quaint little sea shelled towns are crumbling left and right, and it’s reaching into the mountains and heading east. Uncle Syd hasn’t seen it in Corvallis yet, but he hasn’t seen any military or CDC presence either. Jordan is convinced this means the barricades are farther south, leaving Corvallis in the infected zone, whether it’s been touched by The Fever or not. 

We wait it out for four days before we tell Cal we have to leave. Jordan conjures a story about my uncle and how we might have waited too long already. It’s vaguely true. Cal nods in understanding but he’s reluctant to lose us. They’re at a critical point right now, facing their first inevitable human attack and now he’s losing two trusted members of his guard. I feel bad but we told him at the start that we wouldn’t stay and we’ve fulfilled our agreed upon tasks. Jordan has his bow and we both have our bone piercing chisel point arrows—it’s time to go.

Taylor is a hard one to say goodbye to. He’s a good guy, a great shot and I desperately want to ask him to come with us, but I know he never would. This is his home now, his family, and they need him more than we do. Also, I think Cal would shoot me himself if I tried to poach his best marksman. They try to give us packs full of supplies, but we decline furiously, knowing we probably still have our gear waiting for us back at the boathouse.

“Can’t believe you’re leaving me.” Taylor says sadly.

It’s early afternoon, we’ve just finished our last rotation and we’ll be leaving soon, right after we finish the lunch we’re eating. The rain has stopped and the sun is actually shining so we eat outside with Taylor as he patrols the rooftop.

“You say it like we’re breaking up with you.” Jordan says, biting into a cheese stick.

“You’ll find someone better.” I tell Taylor consolingly. “Someone younger. Hotter.”

“As long as she’s a good shot, I’ll be happy.” he says.

“Not a bad quality to look for in a woman these days.” Jordan agrees.

Taylor glares at us briefly and then returns his attention to the perimeter.

“Yeah, yeah. You hit the jackpot, jackass. Don’t rub it in.”

“What jackpot?” I ask, talking around a large chunk of apple I’m gnawing on.

I’ve spent the last two weeks almost exclusively in the company of men in the bowels of the zombie apocalypse and my civility is notably on the decline.

“You know what I don’t like in a woman?” Taylor asks, leveling his gaze at me and ignoring my question.

“I can think of so many things you might not like.” Jordan says, biting his cheese stick again.

“You know that’s string cheese, right?” I ask him, unable to hold my tongue.

He frowns at me and looks at the cheese stick. “Yeah, why?”

“You’re biting it.”

“So…”

“So it’s string cheese. You’re supposed to pull it apart in strings. I feel like this should go without saying.”

“Why would I pull it apart when I can bite it?” he asks, taking a large bite to emphasize his point.

“Because it’s fun.”

“Fun for who?”

“You mean ‘whom’.”

He narrows his eyes at me, sizing me up. “You’re messing with me, right?”

“Hey!” Taylor cries, demanding our attention, and we both turn to look at him. “What I don’t like in a woman is a total lack of respect for a rifle.”

“Here we go.” I mutter.

“You threw it on the ground.”

“It wouldn’t fire.”

“Oh no? Or are you—“

“We’ve got movement!” His walkie crackles alive. “East side!”

Taylor and the rest of the guard run for the east side of the building while Jordan and I take up our bows and scan the west side, making sure it remains clear. Once the scare is over, it was an infected wandering the back alley, Jordan and I make our last quick goodbyes and head inside. Cal waits for us at the exit and makes one last attempt at getting us to stay, then another attempt at giving us packs before wishing us well.

“You always have a place here.” he tells us briskly. “As long as we’re here, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” I say with a warm grin.

“Thanks.” Jordan says.

And, with that, we’re gone. Out the door and leaving the settlement behind us. It occurs to me that I’m abandoning relative safety and running headlong into a gigantic unknown, but as we put first one block, then two between us and the building, I feel lighter and free. I suddenly feel a little more alive than I have in weeks and when I look at Jordan, I know he feels it too. We’re probably going to die out here, but at least it will be out in the air, under the sky and not boxed in a beige hallway under flickering, fluorescent lights. There’s something defiant and wild about running through the abandoned streets and heading for the river, leaving the fortress behind. I feel good and even though my leg is starting to hurt around my jagged scar, I run even faster. I want the shore, I want the river, and I want our stupid little white dinghy.

There’s a surprisingly small number of infected in the area surrounding the store. We don’t start really seeing them again until about a mile out, and even then they are sparse. I ask Jordan what he thinks the reason is and he simply shrugs and runs us faster. By the time we’re reaching the turn toward the lake, my leg is killing me and I’m struggling to keep up with him. I know he’s aware I’m in pain, but he keeps us moving at our quick pace. Part of me understands and part of me wants to stab him in his leg with my hunting knife and see how fast he runs then. When we get to the turn that brings us to the lake and puts us directly behind the lot where our boathouse is located, we get a shock that makes my aching leg scream in frustration.

Massing around the gates of one of the mansions about a block and a half down the street is a swarm of easily fifty zombies. They are groaning and moving as one grasping, pulling group trying to breach the heavy steel barrier. Even that many of them will never get through, they’ll never tear the gate down or have the force to overrun it. They could, however, easily smell us standing amazed upwind of them and break down the walls of our boathouse should they see us flee there. Jordan grabs my arm, and without a word, yanks me back up the street and out of sight. We cut through an unfenced yard, dodge an infected that appears suddenly from the poolside cabana, and make our way to our boathouse. The long way. On a bum leg. I don’t complain because, really, what good would it do, but it doesn’t mean I’m not seriously hurting.

When we race down the slope of lawn from the main house and finally stand in the relative safety of the boathouse, I collapse onto my back and groan like an infected. Maybe this is why they’re groaning. Maybe they aren’t immune to pain as we seem to think, maybe they are moaning because everything hurts. Their atrophied muscles and their drooping, dead skin faces. Maybe they are poor souls trapped in the agony of a never ending torment because they are unable to die. I’ll remember this theory the next time I’m required to bash a skull in and feel a little twinge of remorse. It’s a public service, a kindness. A mercy.

Friggin’ shit, my leg hurts!

I thought that I was simply screaming this inside the safe confines of my head, but suddenly Jordan is upon me, his hand clapped over my mouth to silence me, and I realize I shouted it aloud. He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, and with the pain I’m feeling, I wonder if maybe I have a little. It actually felt better when I was still on it, when I was moving. Now that I’m lying here and all I can think about is how much it hurts, it feels like it’s on fire. I thought it had healed enough to do this, but then again I haven’t run really at all in the last two weeks so how would I know?

“Sorry.” I mumble against Jordan’s hand still on my mouth.

“Will you be quiet if I move my hand?” he whispers.

I nod my head and his hand leaves my mouth as he sits back hard beside me. He leans an arm over my stomach and braces himself against it, looking down at me.

“Are you going to be okay?” he whispers again.

I feel hot tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back.

“I don’t know. Jordan, it really, seriously hurts. I can’t run anymore, not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” he says dismissively. “I knew I was probably pushing you. It made me nervous, though, that there were hardly any infected around.”

“Me too.” I agree as I try to stretch my leg out and find a comfortable position for it. “There must be someone in that building down the street.”

“Quite a few someones.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s the biggest house in this cove. Fortified by the gate, lots of land between the house and the road, plenty of room for big equipment or vehicles…”

“The truckers.” I say glumly.

Jordan nods reluctantly. “I think so. I wasn’t kidding the other day when I said they were probably here on the water.”

“Looks like you were right. If I see anyone pissing off a balcony, though, I will shoot them.”

“I won’t stop you. Hey, seriously, are you alright?” he asks as I wince and move my leg again.

“I don’t know.” I grumble and sigh heavily. “It hurts and I can’t find a way to lay that makes it hurt any less. No way am I getting any sleep with it this way. Do we have any Ibuprofen in either of our packs here? Any kind of anti-inflammatory?”

“Let me check.” He grabs both of our packs and rifles through the medicines we have stored in Ziploc freezer bags. He finds what I need and I swallow four of the things with a quick swig of water. As he’s packing everything back in, he casually asks, “Did you take your other pill this morning.”

I freeze and stare at him, surprised. I’m not annoyed he’s asking, not yet. Right now, I’m simply surprised.

“Yes.” I say quietly.

“Okay. Good.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I worry about you, about what happens when they’re gone.” he says plainly.

“I’ll tell you when they’re gone.” I say, carefully watching him. “Don’t treat me differently because of it.”

He grins slightly and I cannot fathom why this is amusing.

“Of course I’m going to treat you differently. If you found out I was diabetic and had a limited supply of insulin, you’d be asking after me, wouldn’t you? You’d be on the lookout for signs that I was crashing. You’d treat me a little differently.”

I frown and pause because I’m annoyed that he’s right.

“This is different.” I protest anyway.

“Not to me it’s not.” he says calmly. “You should float, by the way.”

“What?”

He stands up, pulls a brightly colored life jacket off a hanger and checks the size on the inside. “Your leg would feel better if you floated in the water for a while. The water is crazy cold, so that’s gonna suck, but the cold will help the Ibuprofen bring the inflammation down and the weightlessness of being in the water might help the muscle ache.”

“Anything you say, doctor.”

I sound like a sarcastic ass because I’m in pain and grumpy, but I am willing to try anything to get some level of relief. Even freeze to death.

Ten minutes later, I’m bobbing in the water in my underwear and a life vest feeling a little ridiculous but also a million times better. Jordan is a genius. Or a pervert who just wanted to watch me strip down. In fairness, he turned his back without having to be asked, but he did have to help me into the water since I didn’t want to leap in and submerge my head, dooming myself to the frigid experience of cold, wet hair all night. Pneumonia would be hard to shake off. He sits beside the water, keeping me company. I don’t know what else he could really be doing, but I’m grateful just the same.

“I feel like a survivor of the Titanic.” I say, my voice quivering as I shiver in the water.

Jordan smirks at me. “Never would have happened. You and I would have been in Steerage Class and locked in a watery grave. Probably never would have made it topside, let alone to a lifeboat.”

“That’s cheery. Thanks, Jordan.”

“Now these people,” he says, ignoring me and pointing up toward the house on the small hill behind us. “They would have made it to the lifeboats. Them and their dogs.”

“Little yappy things with sweaters on.”

“Hm hmm.” he agrees. He looks up at the boats suspended from the lifts; one hanging directly above my head. “We should sleep up there tonight.”

I look up as well, staring straight at the white, curved underbelly. “In the boat?”