The Girl at the End of the World (7 page)

Infecting everyone but me.

Or so it seemed as I stood there looking at the body of my best friend’s mom. Jen and her dad and her brother could be anywhere in the house, all in similar states. I didn’t want to have to see, but I couldn’t just leave either.

Mr. Waverly was in the living room, absurdly planted in his recliner, the stalks that emerged from his face pointing at the ceiling. He’d been watching television, and it was still on, an enormous flat screen mounted to the wall.

Trying to ignore the corpse, I picked up the remote from where it had fallen beside the recliner and began flipping through channels.

The locals were what I really wanted, but they were all dead. None had been broadcasting their normal programming. Each channel was running the same thing, a simple static image of the station’s news desk. Chatty anchors and overly made-up weather girls should have been at the desks, but there was no one. On one channel, I could see a pair of stalks waving in the air on the other side of the desk, some poor broadcaster or station employee having died on camera. But the rest all looked abandoned, whether from massive panic in the studios, or sudden deaths, or the employees all leaving their posts to rush home to the illusion of safety.

The emergency crawl was pretty much the same on all the channels: We Are In A State Of Emergency. All Citizens Are Urged To Stay Indoors. Do Not Call For Emergency Services. Resources For Survivors Will Be Allocated Once The Crisis Has Passed. Stay Tuned To This Channel For Updates And Instructions. We Are In A State Of Emergency. All Citizens Are Urged…

It just looped like that.

That was all they’d had to offer: stay inside and watch TV and don’t change the channel whatever you do. I wanted to laugh, but it would have been too cruel in front of Mr. Waverly’s corpse.

The cable news channels offered a bit more. Things must not have been as bad yet in Atlanta and New York. There, people wearing masks still spoke to the camera, but you could barely understand them through all the filters.

If I’d had any doubt that it was the end of the world, it left me that afternoon staring at Mr. Waverly’s giant television screen. CNN showed image after image of streets filled with corpses and crashed cars, buildings on fire, and people dying not just here but all over the world. They called it a plague, an outbreak, and an apocalypse, and it had struck in Europe, Asia, Africa, and South America. During the time I watched, there was no mention of Australia, and I began to wonder about islands, or people doing research in places like Antarctica or out in the ocean on submarines or cruise ships. There had to have been people who hadn’t been exposed yet, and surely there would be some of those who could find a way to keep safe.

And there had to be others like me, who were immune. Or at least slow to show signs of infection.

But how would I find them?

I thought about going into downtown LA to City Hall or finding the nearest police department in Pasadena, reasoning that any other survivors might try the same thing. Part of me thought it sounded like a good idea. And part of me wondered who else would be there. Police, I hoped. But what would make them so special? The people in charge, the people you could count on, the good people…they weren’t somehow more likely to have survived this long. But who then? Other people like me? I wanted to find them. And at the same time I thought of the woman who’d lived down the street from me, the one who’d looked at me so strangely as I’d driven away from the fire. There might well be people who’d survived this far through luck or genetics and who were not at all happy about it, not at all ready to embrace other survivors.

I gave it a minute’s thought and then clicked off the television, setting the remote neatly on the coffee table and leaving the room as though everything was normal.

At the foot of the stairs, I tentatively called out, “Jen? Are you up there? It’s Scarlett.”

There was no reply, no movement, no sound. I could have walked upstairs and found her; I told myself that maybe I should, that it would be the last thing I could do for her, the last friend I’d have the chance to say goodbye to. But I turned from the stairs instead. There was no point in climbing them. I’d just have to come back down again. My tears for Jen had fallen outside by the pool. I wasn’t about to let them start again.

Back in the kitchen, I began looking for proper supplies, not just the kinds of things you grab when you fear the house will burn down around you if you don’t get out fast enough. Jen’s mom had re-usable canvas grocery bags in the utility closet by the back door, and I filled them with canned food after finding a hand-operated can opener in a drawer. Mixed vegetables, tuna, pineapple, beans. I tried to remember nutrition class and the things I’d need most, but it was all a blur, and I grabbed whatever made sense.

One cupboard held four gallons of water, and several liter bottles of more expensive “designer water” as my mother had called it. Those all went into canvas bags, too.

I also found three flashlights, only one of which worked, and a package of batteries with enough in it to get the other two powered up.

I grabbed more knives and tools, and from a hallway closet I pulled three blankets and a quilt and a pillow.

It took a couple of loads to get everything to the front door. Using a knife, I sliced through the plastic that Mr. Waverly had used to try to save himself and his family. It seemed so flimsy, such a futile thing to try. Then I unlocked the door and carefully cracked it open, peeking outside to see if anyone was around.

The neighborhood looked as empty as it had hours before when I’d arrived. A couple of crows flew past. A dog barked distantly. The air still smelled smoky, and the sky was hazy from the fires, but I no longer heard sirens or helicopters.

There was no one around, no one to come up and ask me why I was taking things out of the Waverlys’ house. Of course, I was paranoid about having to explain myself even though I knew I wouldn’t have to. The world had only just ended. The old rules hadn’t been forgotten yet. You didn’t just gather supplies from a house that wasn’t your own and cart it all away in your sister’s Nissan. You got things from the store. You paid for them. That was the way things were supposed to work. Even though they didn’t work that way any more, I still couldn’t shake the sense that I had to be on guard, ready to justify my actions.

It was like being in a dream where nothing makes sense and yet you somehow know exactly what you’re supposed to do…only no one else in the dream seems to know what’s going on or why you’re acting the way you are.

A deep breath, another look up and down the street, and then it was out to the car with my first load. I packed the car methodically, thinking about what I’d need most, what I should hide in case other survivors got curious about what I was carrying, what was most valuable, what I could do without if it came down to that.

When I was finished loading the car, I went back through the house and got my computer and other things from the backyard. Then I left Jen’s house without looking back, without even closing the door behind me. I might think of something else I’d need later. If I came back and found the door closed, I’d know someone else had been there—I wouldn’t know who, and I wouldn’t know if they were still there, but at least I’d know the house had been visited. I seriously doubted I’d be back, and doubted even more that the door would be anything but open just as I’d left it.

Chapter Six

It didn’t take me long to realize how impractical Anna’s Nissan was going to be, or how I’d pretty much wasted all that time loading the car so carefully. There’d been a few cars in the middle of the streets in Jen’s neighborhood, but they’d been easy to avoid, with me driving slowly and cautiously, still feeling shaky behind the wheel. But when I got out on the main street, with the intention of getting over to Colorado Boulevard, I found it to be just about impassable.

Cars were everywhere. Not parked.
Just there. Some had crashed into each other. Some had gone up onto the curbs and sidewalks or crashed into homes and businesses. Some were just abandoned in the middle of the street.

There were dead people in many of them—men and women and children with stalks growing out of their faces. More dead people lay in the street.

At first, I just stared in disbelief. There were so many of them. And no one was around to do anything about it.

No one was around.

Just me.

Some people hadn’t died from the disease. I saw more than one who must have died in crashes before the disease had gotten them. They were just dead, sitting there behind their steering wheels. I hadn’t been ready for that, ready to see dead people who were…regular, like me.
Had some of them been immune, too, and just unlucky? I tried not to think about it, tried just to watch the road in front of me and thread my way through the cars and bodies.

After a few blocks, I gave up, having already driven across one lawn and cutting through two parking lots to try and get through. There were just too many cars.

I navigated into a parking lot and brought the car to a stop.

Now what?
I thought.

I was in front of a dentist’s office. There were probably dead people inside. There would probably be medical supplies, too, but I didn’t know what I might need or what to do with any of it, so I put the thought out of my head.

Even though I was all alone out here, I decided to protect all the supplies I’d gathered, popping the trunk and then moving all the canvas shopping bags I’d filled at Jen’s. The quilt and pillow I left in the backseat. Then I locked the car and headed out, intending to walk the mile or two to Colorado Boulevard with only my backpack and phone. I wondered about taking one of the knives from the backpack and holding it close as I walked, but everything was so quiet that it didn’t seem necessary.

I hated that walk, hated being so close to all those people who’d just been trying to get away. How many more streets were there just like this one? How many bodies? And in how many other cities could the same thing be found? And what were the odds that some other survivor was wandering out there, thinking the same things?

That was what I hated most—thinking. I hated wondering if I was all of a sudden the only person left alive. Anywhere. I trembled at the idea, more than at the sight of all the bodies.

I didn’t want to believe it, knew that chances had to be good that people on other continents were fine, or at least some people. There had to be people on islands, sailors on submarines…people who were immune or just lucky, people who hadn’t been exposed yet and now knew to avoid contagion.

That was what I hoped, what I had to believe. What choice did I have?

I didn’t have much of a plan beyond making it to the main boulevard. I’d had a vague sense of what to do when I’d struck out from Jen’s house, but the impassability of the streets had changed that. There was no point in planning anything that had to do with driving. That new skill I’d only just started playing with was now useless.

When I finally reached Colorado Boulevard, I realized that if I’d somehow managed to make it this far by car, I’d have needed to abandon the Nissan then. The street was clogged, cars pushed together, some still running with their owners dead behind the steering wheels. Even the sidewalk was blocked in places, cars’ front ends pushed through storefront windows. These I had to walk around or climb over; in most cases, climbing was easier. I didn’t want to start walking out into the street and the maze of cars, fearful that I’d find my way blocked. The last thing I wanted was to be hemmed in among the smashed fenders and dead people.

As I walked, I couldn’t help thinking about where I’d spend the night. It was early evening now, and though I still had at least another hour of daylight, I knew the time would pass quickly.

After walking a few blocks, I glanced across the street and saw three things in quick succession. The first gave me a little hope. The second brought a rush of elation. And the third terrified me.

The first thing was simple enough—a sporting goods store. I thought of tents and sleeping bags and all sorts of
outdoor and survivor gear. Food even. Lanterns, batteries. Everything I’d need if I was going to be on my own for a while.

With one foot off the curb and heading for the store, I stopped, stock-still.

I was no longer alone.

A woman was walking along the other side of the street, having almost reached the sporting goods store. Why she hadn’t seen me moving along ahead of her, I couldn’t say. Maybe she’d only just started down the street. Maybe she’d just come out of a different store or restaurant or some other place where she’d been hiding. And maybe she’d been so focused on what was in front of her and on weaving her way among the dead bodies and crunched cars that she hadn’t thought to look more than a few feet in front of her.

At any rate, she was there. I wanted to call out and wave. But I worried that I might scare her away. She looked to be in her twenties, in jeans and a pink t-shirt, her blonde hair a mess. She looked like she’d been through hell. I probably looked the same. She moved along slowly, warily, and I knew a call from me would make her bolt. Then where would I be? I certainly didn’t want to have to chase her through the streets just to have someone to talk to. But what choice did I have?

“Hey?” I called out, hoping the word came out softly, not threatening or surprising. My voice sounded feeble and squeaky.

But before I could get up the nerve to call out again, I saw the third thing. A man came up fast behind the woman, running full speed across a clear stretch of sidewalk. I don’t know how he moved so quietly and quickly at the same time, but he did. Neither the woman across the street nor I had any clue he was coming until he was right on her, tackling her.

The woman fell with her attacker, barely able to gasp out a scream before he was on top of her.

I screamed as well. “No!” Then I shot into the street, dodging around cars and hopping over a few to try and get to the other side, not sure of what I’d do when I got there.

When I reached the sidewalk, I saw the man had one arm around the woman’s throat and the other under her stomach. He held on tight as she tried to wrestle her way out of his grip, attempting to thrash from side to side, but he didn’t show any sign of weakening.

“No…. no,” the man kept saying while the woman writhed beneath him.

She said nothing, just grunted in her struggle to free herself.

“Hey!” I shouted, not sure what good it would do, hoping just to scare him off.

The man barely glanced my way, hardly even seeming to see me. Then he buried his face in the woman’s hair and kept saying, “No…no.”

I’d never really been in a fight before. I’d never taken karate class or anything like that. I’d never hit anybody in real anger or self-defense.

Even so, I didn’t think twice. I took another three steps, planted myself right beside the struggling pair, and then I placed a well-aimed kick right in the man’s side.

He shouted then and half rolled off his victim but still didn’t let her go.

My toes hurt where I’d kicked him, but I saw my advantage and did it again, this time getting him in the stomach before he had the chance to roll back down and protect himself.

Again, he shouted and grimaced in pain.

“No!” he yelled.

And now the woman under him managed to break his grasp and wriggle out from under him. She barely looked at me and then started running.

It was the last thing I had expected. I’d just saved her life, and now she was abandoning me to face her attacker on my own.

Thinking back on it now, I guess I might have done the same thing if I’d been in her position.

I didn’t know what to do besides run after her, so I kicked the man again, getting him in the ribs this time and feeling his body lift just a little with the blow, and then I tore out after the woman.

Half a block along, I started catching up to her, and when she had to run into the street to get around a delivery truck that had run up onto the sidewalk, I cut around another car behind the van and was right at her side.

“Wait!” I said with barely enough breath to get the word out.

She looked at me for a second, nothing but fear in her eyes. I knew she wanted to bolt again, but she was just as winded as me. So I was relieved when she just stood there regarding me and breathing hard.

Blood streamed from her nose, and her chin had a nasty scrape on it. Her t-shirt had been torn at the collar in the struggle, a big flap hanging down across her chest. She stood up straight and tried pulling the flap up, but it just fell again.

“You’re bleeding,” I said.

The news didn’t seem to surprise her.

Slowly, so as not to scare her, I slipped my backpack off and looked inside to see if I had anything she could clean herself up with. The only things useful for something like this had been left back in Anna’s car. I shook my head incredulously when I saw the kitchen knives I’d taken from home at the bottom of the backpack. It hadn’t even occurred to me to pull one on the man. I still wonder if I would have dared use it. Even so, I promised myself right there not to be caught off guard again.

There were other survivors, and some of them were going to be dangerous.

“I’m Scarlett,” I said.

“Debbie.”

“Are you okay?”

I kept waiting for her to thank me for saving her, but she must have been too shaken up for gratitude to
have gotten past her fight-or-flight filter.

“I think so.”

“Did you know that guy? Was he following you?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean…I don’t know. I didn’t even see his face.”

I looked back in the direction of the sporting goods store, half expecting the man to be pursuing us. There was no sign, but that didn’t give me much comfort. Rather than running after us, he could have been stalking us, prowling along among all the cars.

“He was probably sick,” I said. “You know? Like, getting sick in the head from the…fungus.”

“Probably,” Debbie said. “Or maybe he was an angel. They have wings, you know?”

“I…”

And then, there was just nothing more to say.

I wanted to cry as I watched the blood flow from Debbie’s nose.

I thought I’d found someone, someone like me, another survivor.

But she wasn’t bleeding because that man had hurt her.

She had the disease, was just a few hours behind Jen’s family and all these other people who’d been trying to get somewhere safe on Colorado Boulevard. She had been wandering along on her own, having hallucinations or delusions about angels when she’d been attacked.
As good as anything else to spend your last moments thinking about
, I told myself.

I’d saved her from one thing, saved her from having her last moments being spent in agony and fear and victimization.

But I couldn’t save her from this. There was no arguing with the blood.

“Do you want to rest?” I asked. “Maybe catch your breath in one of these cars?”

She considered it for a moment and then nodded.

I glanced around, looking for a car without a body in it. There were several. A lot of people must have just abandoned their cars when they saw the street was jammed. Some lay in the road. Others had wandered off to who knows where. They’d all ended up the same.

I chose a black BMW with its driver’s door hanging wide open. The back doors were unlocked, and I got in first, sliding over to let Debbie get in with me.

“Only for a minute,” she said. “I need to find the angels.”

“Okay,” I said. I looked down at her hands and saw a wedding ring. “You’re married?”

She glanced at the ring. “I think so.” Then her eyes shifted back up to me. “You’re not…you’re not an angel, are you?”

I smiled. “I…I don’t know what I am. Would an angel know she was one?”

“I think so. But maybe not.”

She looked both sad and hopeful.

I felt terrible for several reasons. One, I knew I was about to watch Debbie die. Another, I could maybe make her feel better in these last moments, but it would mean lying to her. And lying to her about being an angel was something I felt really bad about. Finally, selfishly, I felt awful because I was about to be alone again. I hate to admit it, but that was the main reason I didn’t want Debbie to die.

I took her hand. She seemed to have no inclination to get out of the car again. Squeezing my hand, she smiled at me, no trace of fear on her face now. I hoped she had no memory of the man who’d attacked her.