We All Fall Down
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang but a whimper.
I read it in a poem once. I never could get those lines out of my head, and now they swirl round and round my mind. Round and round and round. Slamming against the screeching of the hospital alarm. Warring for my attention against the echo of screams, the panting breaths of fear, the remnants of what was.
The steady rhythm of the words, their predictable monotony, would be easy to slip into. So easy to lose myself in, far from reality.
Not with a bang but a whimper...
Black smoke seeps out from beneath one of the inpatient doors, the remains of a minor fire set by a patient in panic. The woman- Carly Anderson, age 50, happily married and mother to twin twelve-year-old boys, cursed by stage four lung cancer- played with matches and lighters all the time to keep herself busy, distracted. She got them snuck in so often that we finally gave up on confiscating them. There was no harm in it, they figured, as long as she didn't light a cigarette. When her roommate- Talia Montgomery, age 31, engaged to be married but struggling with breast cancer- died in her sleep, Carly didn't know anything was wrong. And nothing was wrong, technically. Just another death, expected but unprepared for. With everything else going on, her sudden passing went silent and unnoticed.
Until an hour later- a record for the hospital. Until Talia- or what was left of her- woke up. Her face, her body, but with bloody eyes and a snarl, growling and staggering until she was at Carly's bedside. And on her.
Carly screamed for help, shrill and piercing. Everyone in the wing heard. The doctor making his rounds- Tate Ramsey, age 49, receding hairline most likely due to the stress of his recent divorce- was the first responder of a sorts. Although bold in delivering the diagnosis, he was a coward in all other aspects of life. Carly was a goner the moment the biter ripped a chunk out of her arm, but instead of helping her or sparing her or taking care of the problem, Doctor Tate slammed the door on her pleas and threw away the key.
Then there were only screams. Hungry grunts. Whimpers. A moan. Blood all over the room, although you wouldn't know it with the room sealed and filled with the lingering smoke from the fire. Containing the threat. That's how the good doctor justified his actions.
And Carly, Carly…
I don't think she knew what she was doing when she lit the match.
Then again, maybe she did. Burning any items contaminated by exposure to the biters was one of the first precautionary measures people could think of. It was the way disease used to be dealt with in the ages before science, before there were better options available to us. And now, it seemed, all that progress failed us. We were reverting back to our old ways, relying on what we knew with a vengeance thanks to this foreign sickness. By now, we knew burning things didn't work, because it was all about the bite itself, but fear made people do insane things.
Like set yourself on fire.
But the screams aren't from the lick of the flame. Oh, no. Burning is a mercy that brings an escape. No, the screams are from the pain of being ripped apart by dull teeth. Human teeth on a monster.
Monsters made of the dead, that kept on gnawing away at organs and muscle and bone even when their flesh was melting off. Parasitic corpses that wormed their way into every corner of the earth and infected the hospitals, starting with the morgues lacking a proper security watch. That was back when we didn't know a guard was necessary, when things were normal. It's where the problem started with all the health centers. One person died while no one was paying attention, came back real quick as a biter, and went on to spread its venom, driven by an insatiable hunger. Then there was something out of hand, this mass panic as a herd of the dead lurched in, and just as rapidly as it began, it was over and the hospital was overrun.
They'd covered the epidemic on the news, in the beginning. Little things, here and there. A dad devouring his child's eye and taking a bite of his cheek before the wife could knock him out with a frying pan. They discovered she'd banged a gash into the back of his skull when the police arrived. A homeless man attacking a woman, ripping out her jugular with his teeth. More stories popped up day by day. Said they weren't connected, but you can't help but be suspicious when there are mysterious reports on cannibalistic killings across six countries and a rash of missing persons reports in all fifty states.
And then there was the video that went viral on YouTube in a matter of hours. The one of the cop emptying a clip of bullets into some supposedly dead woman in San Diego, California. You'd think she must've been on PCP to withstand one shot to the chest, but after eight going in, and her simply grunting, you only think "impossible". The lady just kept walking, blood leaking from her wounds, gore splattering her shirt, trying to get to the police officer, until a shot lodged itself into her forehead. Only then did she drop. After, everyone started noticing the odd whispers. Everyone recalled the freak car accident in downtown, the similar situation. Got a little skittish, especially when, one night, a breaking news segment interrupted the regularly scheduled programs to report that John Hopkins Hospital had fallen, yet another in a string of medical disasters.
Chicago General was one of the last strongholds in Illinois. After the outbreak worsened, the hospitals were meant to stay fortified, be beacons of hope, lighthouses in a dark ocean, yada yada yada. To say it was hard to do after world renowned clinics had crumbled was the understatement of the year, but treatment would still be needed for the sick, and a safe place to go for it once the government "got things under control", whatever that meant. So we stayed- some of us, anyway. The brave ones. The ones who couldn't afford to go without employment. Short-staffed and overworked, the new norm.
We started carrying weapons, too. Crowbars, hammers, kitchen knives- whatever we could find that would protect us. Guns couldn't be bought anymore. Those were concentrated with the police, under the broad umbrella of "protection". And we couldn't complain, not when we were under martial law and a state of emergency had been declared.
The police's new job description unofficially included "dispatching the infected." And that could mean anything, really, depending on the definition of "infected".
The alarm blaring renews, a harsh ringing in my ears. I jolt, finding my legs again. I flex my fingers, curl them around the baseball bat I brought from my apartment. The steel, unyielding weight and the noise reminds me of who I am.
A fighter, not a weakling. Not someone who will sit by and welcome the end, paralyzed by fear. Not a lamb to the slaughter. Not prey.
I am a survivor.
The police will be here soon. In full riot gear, armed with semi-automatics.
They march into large places like a hospital once the dead outnumber the living, and no one comes out again. Those were the murmurs. Those kinds of reports vanished from the nightly news after the first fourteen days. It turned out it wouldn't matter anyway, because after day twenty, the oddest thing happened- the broadcasts stopped. Day after day of reassuring the public that everything was normal, maybe insisting more than usual that we get our flu shots, and suddenly nothing.
Utter radio silence that sent everyone in Illinois into a flurry of hysteria.
Fighting erupted in the heart of the city. Riots ensued. Roads were blockaded by protesters. The shelves of supermarkets were empty within days, usually because of raids. I hadn't dared to push through the crowds. One of my neighbors told me their friend was trampled in the stampede.
I stand from behind the reception desk counter, peer around the corner too see if the police are near this wing. Only hospital beds barricading doors to rooms filled with the dead, and scattered glass and flickering bulbs. I force my stiff legs to move, to get to the exit.
There's a bang. A scream. A pop.
I stop.
Silence, for a moment. And then- "This room is clear."
So the rumors are true.
No one leaves alive.
Footsteps sound in the hallway, the marching of heavy boots. My first instinct is to run in the opposite direction, but I know I won't make it into cover in time, and there would be no good place to hide anyway. Which only leaves one of the patient rooms and whatever lies within them.
My gaze slowly latches onto Room 214. The smoke trickles out in faint tendrils now, a light grey. I know it has to be my best bet, that I'll be safe. If I can stomach what happened, the stench. And I'll have to. I'll have to if I want to make it out alive. If I want to get back to Ian and Madeline.
Ian. Maddy. I'd do anything to get back to them.
Mom pulled Ian out of school at my insistence. She never would have done so had it not been for my nagging, but we weren't the only people to do so, and it helped my case. Parents had been taking their kids from school for weeks, ever since the first strange reports hit the air. I'd forced Mom to keep him home after one of the elementary schools in the county over got overrun. The chatter and shouts from the kids at recess drew the attention of the biters- a mob. The teachers tried to protect the kids, gathered them in large groups in classrooms for a lockdown.
It just made them easier pickings for the dead.
That much was evident from the footage.
I shake my head, forcing myself to remember Ian and little Maddy are safe. At home with Mom and their dad. But still, I'm antsy. I know my mom, and I have a pretty good idea of the kind of man Darian Wheeler is. I don't trust them enough to be at ease. I won't be able to calm down until I'm there myself to see that they are okay.
The policemen are just rounding the corner when I dark into the rotten room. The fumes hit me first, and I gag, swallowing back bile. I wipe my eyes, step around the charred bodies mangled, fused together. My nurse shoes slip over the blood-slicked tile, and I fall into the mess of black gunk and body matter. I spit, congealed blood coating my lips.
"Son of a bitch," I hiss, furiously brushing my mouth, gasping.
Stomps fill the air, pounding past my hiding place. And finally a hesitation. I tense.
The door handle starts to turn, and I scramble behind the empty hospital bed, sheets hanging off the edge hiding me from view.
A guard in full protective gear stumbles in, double-takes just like I did. The officer takes off his helmet, revealing the young man behind the mask. He heaves a couple of times, and doesn't make it one step before he throws up. His lunch mixes with the remains on the ground, creating a smell so acrid that tears prick my eyes again. I cringe as he pants, pray he doesn't move his head an inch more to the right.
But he does.
I lift my baseball bat.
He stares.
And then he starts shaking his head, just swinging it back and forth, trembling all over like a man on his way to his own execution. "They gave us orders." His words are a hoarse whisper I have to strain to hear.
I watch him warily, my grip slackening on the bat.
"The orders…" he sighs. It's one of those 'world on your shoulders' sighs, but how is that possible when the world is falling apart? "We were given orders to kill the dead. The- thethethe biters. Only them. But… but then the captain said "everyone goes. They've all been infected."" He looks at me, but his brown eyes are glassy and dull with distant terror. I wonder if he even knows what he's saying. Why he's telling me.
"And the others, once we got in here, they just started shooting. Shooting over the cries! Innocent people! I didn't see any scratches or bites! They- there was only begging. And the kids." A ragged sob escapes the man, and his eyes absently search the blood on the floor, like the warm, sticky pool of red holds the answers. My stomach rolls with dread. "The kids. Some… some of them were already gone, but- I mean, most of them… They lined them up. Lined them all up, and - and they were..."
He doesn't have to finish. Put down like dogs.
I swallow.
"I- I didn't want to," the officer continues, ragged voice tapering. "So I didn't. I didn't, I didn't. I just- only pretended to- to-" The man stops, retches. "Kids… How is this going to save anyone?!"
He looks down at his hands, the bloodstains there. They shake, raked by tremor after tremor. The man laughs, and the noise, its broken, lost ring, sends a shiver down my spine. "Look at this," he says, bordering on hysterical. "I can't- Ican'tstopit."
He focuses on me then, eyes pleading with me to understand. I nod slightly, a small mercy for him, but I don't let my pity show. No one wants to be pitied.
He straightens, jaw set with resolve. "Once I call this section clear, go out the way we came. Everything from here to the first floor is… safe."
Safe. I could scoff. Dead littering the ground is safety now?
I stand and clear my throat. "Do you have a cellphone? I need- I need to call my brother. The line here is cut off, um. I need to make sure he and our little sister are okay."
His nodding is frantic, eager to please, as though this will atone him for what he's done. He fumbles for the phone, nearly dropping it into the drying puddle at his feet. I barely restrain from snatching it from his trembling fingers.
My fingers shake, too, from fear and adrenaline, but somehow I manage to punch in the numbers for the phone I bought Ian, and it dials. Rings and rings and rings.
A click, and for a moment, I can believe that there is someone up there looking out for me, because the call goes through.
Breathing.
A sniffle.
"Ian? Ian, are you there? It's me. It's Harper."
A shuddering sob.
"Ian." I force myself to say his name slowly. Calmly. Keep the wavering doubt out. "Are you okay? Is Maddy okay? Are you with Mom and Dar- your dad? Are you safe?"
Another sniffle.
"It's okay, Ian. It's okay. I'm coming soon, okay? It'll be alright, I promise. I promise…"
"Daddy… Daddy tol- to hide- closet," he whispers through the crackling phone speaker. "- not to come out- he or Mom- me."
I can hear screams coming from down the hall, and when I glance toward the door, I see the officer bracing his hands on his knees, wiping at his mouth. He's puked again. I pull the phone closer to my ear, as though that will protect me from my mounting panic.
"Ian? I can't- You're breaking up. I'll be right there, Ian? Stay where you are, okay? Is Maddy with you? Don't- don't come out until I'm there. Stay hidden!"
A cry. Static. "Maddy was crying- Mom, she did- I'm sc- I- Jax is dead, it-"
"I'm coming! Stay there!" I repeat, nearly shouting into the phone. "I'll be there before you know it! Okay? Ian?"
It takes me a moment to realize that the line is dead.
"Damn." I chuck the phone at the wall. It clatters to the floor, the screen a cracked spider-web. The officer and I stare at it as it slides through the blood and vomit. He's too ill and ashamed to care that I've just mutilated his phone. Or maybe he just knows we'll never have a chance to use technology like that again.
I take a deep breath.
"My brother and sister…" I shake my head, trying to get rid of the fog. "I need to go. Yeah. I need to go. Thank you."
He jerks his head in finality, but he pauses with his hand outstretched to open the door. I quirk an eyebrow at him in question, waiting. "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of Chicago as quick as I can," he admits. "I heard the army's loading up planes with napalm."
My eyes widen, so slowly it could've been comical if circumstances had been different. Bombs. Bombs to deal with overwhelming odds.
"Thank you for telling me."
I don't think I'll ever forget his grim smile, or the way he had the voice of an unwavering dead man who'd accepted his fate as he stepped into the corridor and yelled "Clear!" And it's not until he's gone that I realize I never learned his name.
Eventually I pry the door open again, snaking out into the carnage. It's like there's a shift in the air, as though a tornado tore through the hospital and this is the aftermath. Even though the smell is the same, and the lights continue to flicker, there is an undeniable difference. Something tainted in the unnaturally still silence.
The bodies litter the floor, some tangled together, others holding hands in a last desperate act. Nobody wants to die alone. All of them have wide and vacant eyes. Countless innocents, running from death with their last breaths even as it dragged them down to whatever comes next. Adults who were in for a normal checkup, some who were visiting elderly relatives. Cancer patients in remission, who'd tasted a hint of sweet victory only to have it viciously stolen from right beneath their noses. Children just in for a burst appendix or a nasty flu, but otherwise had an entire future in front of them.
My lips curl, the only hint of my disgust, my fear.
I don't bother to sneak past. I sprint, panting, trying not to pay attention to what I see around me.
When I burst through the emergency exit, I expect something different from the fallen hospital. Something like a breath of fresh air to rid me of death's stench, to cleanse me as I entered a new world that would make the inside of Chicago General a distant nightmare.
What I get is a war zone. Tanks idle in the parking lot, like they are casual invaders that really mean no harm. Police trucks swamp the entrance, a blockage. Officers hide behind the vehicles, prepared to shoot on sight.
I am the only one who will escape.
The ride home, to Ian and Maddy, is a blur. I remember the congestion on the streets, the shouting and chaos and fire, but not how long it took. I remember crawling past a car painted 'JUST MARRIED!' with a shattered passenger window and a corpse bride with blood staining her wedding gown. I remember how bright the sun was, beating down on me as I ran inside with my weapon at the ready. I remember thinking that it was cruel, how happy and hopeful the day seemed to be when nothing was okay.
The door to our home is ajar, and I absently think it's as much a blessing as it is a curse, because I'd forgotten to bring the key with me in my rush to get here. Everything looks normal at first glance, but then I notice the little things. The papers tossed carelessly about, swiped to the carpet. The lamp displaced a few inches to the right, so you can see the ring of dust surrounding where it should've been. The overhead light that should be illuminating the room because the switch is on but the power is out.
"Ian?" I hiss, creeping through the front room to the living room. Silence. That eerie nothing. "Mom? Darien?"
The windows are shuttered, and only dim rays of light filter in. I squint, fairly certain something is there in the darkness, a black, small mass. "Ian?" I ask again, foolishly. Ian always listens to me, so he had to still be hiding in his bedroom closet.
And then I hear the sound, when I'd been so deaf before. Growling. Ripping. Shredding. Snarling. That blob moving, growing bigger. Taller.
A biter.
Steeling myself, I edge closer and swing. A spray of blood coats me as part of the biter's head flies off. The thing falls over with a last strangled moan. I gag, move in. One way or another, I have to know. I have to know who this monster is and what it was eating.
This time I can't keep it in. When my stomach turns over, I vomit. That's what Ian was talking about on the phone, before the call cut off. Jax- dead. Our dog is dead, and I am looking at the remains, what little hadn't been torn apart. Any meat goes for the biters, I guess. I wipe my mouth against my shirt sleeve, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. Now isn't the time for crying.
"Ian? Mom?" Please, please, please don't be more.
"Honey?"
That- That… My mouth goes dry. "Mom?" I raise my voice slightly. "Is that you?"
"Sweetie, are you home? What are you doing visiting so early?" Shuffling feet. Her shuffling feet, her usual gait. Never confident, my mom. That was the way she went, dragging her feet this way and that way. Even in times like this, she still took her time.
Shuffling.
My eyebrows draw closer and closer together as I process her words. "Mom, what are you talking about? Where are you?"
"In the kitchen, sweetie. I'm waiting for Darien to come home."
My grip on the bat loosens, and I snap back to myself. "Darien?" What did it matter at a time like this? I shake my head. Confusion can't cloud my judgement, dull my awareness. "Mom, are there any more of them in the house?"
I dart into the kitchen as a siren zooms past the house. Mom's back is turned to me as she stands at the sink with her arms folded in front of her. Nothing seems amiss here. And after the day I've had, it's like a moment taken from another time and placed in the present. It's wrong, even if it seems like it should be right.
"Darien was here earlier," Mom carries on. The way she's talking… I shudder. Her words lilt with a dreamy, distant quality, the way she used to get before she finally got a divorce and ended the first loveless marriage. "He was here, but then he had to go. He said he'd be right back. Right back. He just had to take care of some things. That's what he said. He said he'd take care of everything."
I take a few more steps toward her, my fear a growing itch, making me nauseous. "What happened? What happened, Mom? Where's Ian? Do you have Maddy?- I called him. Ian, I mean. I saw, I saw Jax. In the living room. With the biter." I swallow around the lump in my throat. "We need to get out of here."
Mom's body goes rigid like a lightning bolt has gone through her and then relaxes. I see the muscles in her arms clench and unclench, clench and unclench. "A biter? What in God's name are you going on about? And Jax- no, no, NO!" I jump, startled by her outburst. Mom spins around, livid. And finally I notice, finally I can see what she's holding in her arms. A bundle. I lurch forward, hands stretching out a little.
"Everything is FINE, sweetie!" Mom growls. "Jax is only worn out! Th- that intruder, it didn't- By God! I mean, Darien is going to take care of it!"
I can piece together what happened. Darien won't be back, won't keep his vow. That's the kind of man he is. Abandoning ship as soon as things get hairy, regardless of who he's leaving behind, like a kid son and a baby daughter. He had to save his own skin first, and if that meant leaving behind dependent children with an equally dependent, unstable mother, then so be it.
"Okay, Mom," I agree, the gentleness I mean to convey hedged by panic. "Is that Maddy you're holding? Mom?"
She looks down, and the aggravation lining her face recedes, and that detached calm settles back into her. "Oh, yes. Yes, my little Madeline. She was being so loud, you know. So loud. You know what she's like when she's upset. You know. But now she's quiet again, sleeping like a doll, sleeping…"
"Why don't I take her for a while? Let you rest. How does that sound?"
I lean my baseball bat against the kitchen table. Neither of us notice when a piece of biter brains sloughs off onto the clean wood surface. I stretch my arms further out. My fingers brush Maddy's baby blanket, and they sink into the soft fabric, but then I'm catching air, a cold draft. Mom whisks her out of my reach, softly humming a lullaby.
"Mom? Mom, give me Maddy, come on. Mom!"
"She's sleeping," Mom snaps loudly. "Now stop making a ruckus!"
I falter, a weird gasp escaping me, low and guttural. Lost. Maddy was notorious for her light sleeping. The smallest noises made her wake, howl like her worst nightmares had come true. But this, now… This isn't her.
The pounding of my heart is a dull roar in my ears, drowning out everything else. Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. Mom's mouth is moving, so noise must be coming out, but I don't hear anything. Don't understand her incoherent words.
How? How.
"How what?" Her question breaks through the haze, sharp and clear. I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud. "Sweetie?"
Sweetie. I feel a shiver of revulsion, and the surreal itch that this is all one giant nightmare I'm going to wake up from eventually.
"Maddy," I say flatly, staring blankly. "How did she die?"
Mom blinks, like she's waking up. She looks down at my sister, the red curls spilling from the top of the bundle, and holds Maddy closer to her chest. "I- I… what…" her words wobble as they tumble from her mouth. "She's sleeping, I told you. She needed some help, especially when the intruder came in, but I helped her to sleep. I couldn't have her whining, drawing attention to us. I had to muffle her somehow… It wasn't for very long … and eventually… eventually… No more crying."
A lazy, innocent, smile comes onto her face, like she's proud of her quick thinking, and there's this pain in the hollow of my chest. Clawing at me. I push the beast of grief and anger rising in me down. I can't be distracted. There are things to do, like keep Ian and myself alive.
"Where's my brother?" I don't recognize my voice, the harsh, rasping tone. Not me at all. I've always been soft, quiet. Bottle everything up and be pleasant before anything else so you don't draw attention or else. That was the way I was raised to be. "Where the hell is he?"
Is he dead, too?
But Mom's gone back to humming, rocking Maddy in her arms like a caring mother, living in her make-believe world. "Ian and I are leaving." I start to rummage around the kitchen, grabbing food, grabbing anything I can find that'll be useful, that I can stuff into another bag to take with us. "We're leaving and we won't come back."
"Okay, sweetie. I'm going to wait for Darien to get back home."
My jaw works oddly. Fine, I think, let her lie to herself. It wouldn't be the first time. Let her get herself killed. She probably won't know when it happens that it is happening. Maybe it's for the best this way. Another thought arises that I can't dismiss. Maybe…
I grab one of the spare backpacks from the pantry, start stacking the cans and fruit. It's for the best. The canned beets go in the bag. It's for the best. Canned corn disappears. It's for the best. Green bananas that Mom will let go to rot. It's for the best. Crunchy apples Darien bought mere days ago but never got around to chomping down. It's for the best. Boxes of granola bars Mom had stock-piled, as though she forgot she had a pack and kept buying more. It's for the best. All of Ian's snacks, thrown in. It's for the best. I smash the last box into the now bulging pack, sling it over my shoulder, and grab my baseball bat.
My gaze sweeps across the sunny kitchen one last time, searching for anything I might've missed that we might need. I slowly back my way to the kitchen door, unwillingly looking back at what I'd so adamantly ignored before. Mom humming, Maddy… not Maddy. What would happen to her? Would she turn into one of those things? Was that even possible for a baby? For someone not bitten? That hole in my chest caves in further, and there's this shattered mess where my heart should be. And what of Mom? Could I really leave her behind? Could I take her? After what she did? Or maybe…
No. No. She's a danger, a threat, and there are already too many threats on the outside to have to worry about instability within our own ranks. Ian's safety is my sole concern now. Protecting Ian. Yes. I will not lose another person that I care about. Protect Ian. I don't care what I have to sacrifice to do it.
"Goodbye, Mom," I say softly. "I-" I shake my head. "Goodbye."
I don't expect an answer, and I'm not surprised with one.
I fly up the stairs, uncaring of the potentially dangerous racket I'm making. "Ian!" I scream. "IAN!" I barge into his bedroom at the same time he's pulling the door open. I haul him up, wrapping my arms tightly around him. He clings to me in return, his fear and panic keeping him from making any noise. Relief clangs through me, and I release a shaky breath. "Ian. You're okay. You're okay." I pull back a little, using one hand to wipe away the tears wetting his cheeks.
Ian finally finds his voice, and part of me, the terrible part, wishes he didn't. Because I know the next words out of his mouth will form a question. And when he asks, I'll have to answer. Maybe not today, or the next, but soon. I'll have to be the one to rip him away from what he knows, because Mom certainly can't do it.
"What's going on?"
The beginnings of a headache makes my temples throb. I slowly kneel down so that Ian is standing again and I'm at his level. "We can't stay here anymore. So you and me, we're gonna go on a trip. You better pack your bag. As much clothes as you can fit."
Some of the usual spark returns to his steely grey eyes. "Really?" A troubled frown turns down his lips. "But why?"
"It's not safe here," I sigh. "We've got to get out of the city. Maybe do a little off-roading. It'll be an adventure." I wiggle my eyebrows absurdly, pleased when it draws a reluctant laugh from my brother.
But his brow furrows more. "What about Maddy and Mom and Dad? Aren't they coming with us?"
I glance away from him, biting my lip. How do you tell a frightened kid that your dad ran off like a dog with its tail between its legs? That your mom isn't home when you knock? That your baby sister won't wake up? I couldn't. Not yet.
"Nah, not this time, kiddo." I attempt to smile, but based on the look on Ian's face, it probably looks more like a grimace, and I give up. "This trip is special. Just for you-" I poke him on the nose "- and me."
He nods slowly, but he knows I am keeping something from him. He's going to press me. "Go pack your backpack, alright?" I order before he can push. "Be quick. The sooner we leave the better."
"Are we ever going to come back?" His voice is small, vulnerable.
There's no beating around the bush. "I wish I could say yes, but I don't think so."
"But…" His eyes rove his bedroom, the same one he's known since birth. "If it's forever, why isn't everyone else going with us?"
I run my fingers through my hair in agitation. "They don't want to come, and Mom wants Maddy to stay with her. I just need you to trust me, okay? Can you do that?"
"Of course," he answers instantly, like it's a reflex.
"I promise I'll tell you, but not right now."
Ian finishes packing in silence, and then we trudge down the stairs, him lagging behind to soak up everything he can. The smell from the living room hits me first like a punch to the stomach, and there's no stopping it from reaching Ian. He gags, tripping down the last few steps onto the ground floor. His hold on the banister turns his knuckles a deathly white.
His expression twists with disgust. "What is that?"
I tug on his arm to get him moving. He cranes his neck to get a glimpse into the living room. "Is that- Is that Jax?"
"No," I answer tersely, a blatant lie.
"Yes, it is," he insists, a morbid determination edging his tone. "What's that in there with him? Is that the… biter?" He whispers it, like daring to utter 'biter' will bring more to our doorstep.
I glance into the yawning darkness, eyes lingering on the lifeless blob and the body next to it. "It's nothing. You don't want to see anything that's in there, Ian."
"But-"
"Ian," I say in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "There's nothing you want to see in there."
He swallows, but doesn't move. I nudge him along, but he doesn't follow for long. When we pass the kitchen, we both hear the singing. I think she might be sobbing, too. And, beneath that, I think I hear grunts of hunger. Maybe...
"Is that Mom? What is she doing in there? Harper?"
"Nothing we can help her with."
"It's Mom," he begs.
"No, Ian. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." My voice is ragged, so much so that Ian lets the subject to be dropped, and he leads me outside of the prison of a house. I gobble down the fresh air, try to ignore the clatter I hear from inside. My gaze slides to Ian, but he doesn't take notice. He's staring down the street with a vacant glint in his eyes, one that should never be seen on a child's face.
I run my hand across my forehead, unthinkingly leaving a smear of red in its wake. What kind of world is he going to grow up in?
"Where will we go?"
I don't know. I don't know. But then there's a glimmer, a thread to pull on. "Georgia. I'm thinking it's about time we visit our cousins."
Ian makes a face, as though Georgia is the worst place to go. I feel the start of a grin forming, but it quickly vanishes at the sound of a sharp bang. A gunshot. Not close. Still, I instinctively pull Ian close to me while pulling out the car key.
"I need you to stay in the car," I command, pressing the key into his palm. "There's one last thing I have to take care of." Because the shot reminded me of Darien's gun safe. With any luck, he'd left most of his weapons behind. "You stay hidden in the back seat until I come back, okay? Don't come out no matter what."
I don't make him wait long. At least, I don't think I do. At some point time turned to liquid, slipping through my fingers. It's for the best. Everyone's safe this way, I remind myself fiercely, checking my clothes and skin for dark stain splatters I wouldn't be able to explain away.
This is the way the world ends.
Not with a bang but a whimper.