Until We End, page 11
“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.
Chapter Eighteen
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.
Again I saw myself lining her — Corrine — up in the sights of my nine-millimeter semi-automatic Glock 17. The way the gun’s black matte finish shone in the sunlight. The sinew in my bones singing with the reverberation that the gun made when I pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot being fired echoing in the street. In my head.
When I closed my eyes, I imagined that I could feel the bullet piercing Corrine’s flesh, like my hand was the one to push it in. The sound that her body made as it hit the pavement. Wet. Solid. The scream — God, that scream — from Briggs as he knelt over her body. He must have loved her.
No wonder he wanted me to die.
Tears burst from my eyes in a sob, violent and volatile, coming from that place deep down where I buried everything I couldn’t handle thinking about. My ribs felt like they’d crack if I didn’t stop. But the tears flowed beyond my control. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Corrine’s body, seeing Briggs’ face twist as he told me he wanted to kill me, and deep down I had this horrible suspicion that maybe I deserved it.
I lay in the dirt and mourned. I mourned for Corrine; I mourned for my father. For Coby, who’d lost his childhood. For Lonnie. I mourned for myself. For the unfairness of it all. Dad spent years trying to prepare me for the apocalypse. He taught me how to shoot, pick locks and make sure Coby and I stayed fed. But he couldn’t prepare for me this.
This wasn’t supposed to be my life. Before the virus, I was a straight-A student on my way to a full-ride scholarship at the university of my choice. I had a home. A family who loved me. Now I had nothing.
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I did. Maybe my brain decided that it was all too much and put my body on hibernate for a little while. That was fine with me.
I woke to the rumble of a vehicle.
Instantly alert, I jerked the trap door closed and hooked the padlock in place, then crawled to the edge of the pine trees. It was dark, but the Humvee’s headlights illuminated the nighttime gloom like a mini-sun. I closed my eyes and cursed a million different ways. The cans I’d dropped in the janitor’s closet were still there, and Briggs wouldn’t hesitate to give me away if Lu, Jackson or Brooks went down there. I was in deep.
Ducking behind a tree, I pulled out my Glock and watched as the brigade got out of their car. If they came this way, I’d be able to surprise them. I had no doubt what they’d do if they found out I broke into their stockpile. I’d shoot them if I had to. If I had no other choice.
But... maybe not Brooks.
Jackson and Lu walked up the stairs and into the warehouse. I released my breath and squinted, looking for Brooks, and spotted him. He stumbled out of the Humvee and braced a hand on its side.
Was he sick? I started moving forward, and then thought better of it. No, that couldn’t be it. He wouldn’t have been able to stand.
What was wrong with him? I bit my lip and watched from the shadows of the pines. He leaned heavily on the side of the car for a moment, then when he tried to take a step, he swayed and tipped a little too far to the side. Shit. He was drunk.
I tucked the Glock back into my jeans, jogged through the trees away from him and the trap door, and circled back around to walk up behind him. He turned as he heard me approach, and when he saw me, his trademark smirk snapped into place like he was flipping a switch.
But it was a little too slow. I saw his face before he spotted me — red nose, blotchy cheeks, bloodshot eyes. I bet I looked about the same way.
I wasn’t the only one who’d been mourning.
“Hey sweetheart,” he said. His voice was raw and hoarse and cracked a little. The passport picture I’d seen of him flashed in my mind, golden brown and grinning. With his white hair — now even brighter than before — Brooks looked like a ghost of his former self.
I walked closer and caught his scent. He reeked of booze and cigarettes. Unbelievable.
“You smoke? You’ve survived this long and you’re killing yourself?”
“Didn’t know you cared,” he slurred.
I don’t care, I thought. But I knew that was a lie. “It’s stupid, that’s all.” I ran a quick bitch-check and decided I was being way too harsh. Deep breath. Calm down.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Brooks didn’t answer. He stumbled across the dirt to the small set of stairs that led to the warehouse. He paused and seemed to consider them for a moment, then sank down on the bottom step instead of trying to climb them. In his state, they were probably about as challenging as Mount Everest.
I leaned against the Hummer and watched him, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at his hands. A blank look of shock had replaced his smirk.
When Brooks spoke, his voice was tight. “Smith used to say that if he died, he wanted his ashes to be spread on top of Elvis Presley’s grave.” I cracked a bit of a smile before smothering it, horrified at myself. Then I saw a shadow of Brooks’ smile come back and I felt better and realized that Lonnie would probably be glad he could still make people happy. “Smith said he was his soul mate.”
Brooks brought his head up and looked at me in that unwavering, unsettling way of his. When some people look at you, it’s easy to tell their thoughts are a million different places. I never felt that way with Brooks. He looked at me, and I knew I had his attention.
He planted his hands on the step and pushed himself up, swaying as he walked toward me. He stopped a foot away. His stare burned like a physical touch, trailing down my body. I tried to catch and hold it, but couldn’t. He was beautiful. Slightly crooked Romanesque nose, hard jaw, his skin a burnished bronze even in the darkness.
I was hyper-aware that I had my back up against the Humvee, and he was so close, and if he took just one more step then I’d be pressed against the car and he’d be pressed against me, and…
When Brooks touched me, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was feather-light, his fingertips sliding across my cheeks to brush the hair out of my face. I shivered. He forced my chin up and locked his eyes with mine. His were milk chocolate and caramel. Mine, probably deer in the headlights.
Don’t kiss me, I thought.
Please kiss me, I thought.
My heart was pounding so hard and fast I thought he had to hear it. He looked at me for what felt like forever. Then he let his hands fall away, took a step back, and walked inside without a word.
Chapter Nineteen
I braced a hand on the Humvee’s hood and tried to catch my breath. It was stupid, so stupid, that I let him affect me like that. Especially then, knowing what I knew.
