The Horde Without End (The World Without End) (7 page)

I go still.

“She’s under my protection. If you want to call her that, by all means, do. But she isn’t who you think.”

“What is one of the Thrasher’s men doing this far south? I heard you were all given appointments in 1 after that last battle in New York.”

“We were. I turned mine down. If you know anything about that battle, you’ll know none of us deserved a promotion.”

Something flickers across Ansliey’s face, and his voice tips toward apologetic. “No one knew what to believe about that offensive, sir.”

I can’t hold back my laughter at that, and both men glance at me. “You’re a Warden, and you’re calling him ‘sir?’ In what world does that make sense?”

Ansliey smiles. “In a world where he served under the Brown Thrasher. No one who fought for her deserves less than my honor and respect.”

I slide a glance at Finn. His hands are deep in his pockets, and a blank expression has settled over his face. “I thought you said your name wouldn’t open doors here,” I say, a little bitchy.

He shrugs slightly. “It didn’t.”

No. It didn’t—his past did. How much does that bother him? From the tight grip he’s got on himself and his emotions, more than I know.

“What can I do for you?” Ansliey says, picking up on the tension and changing the subject.

“First aid kit?”

Ansliey grabs it from the kitchen, and Finn tugs me to the table, pushing me down with my head tilted back as he inspects the wound on my neck. I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling as his fingers move with practiced precision over my wound. When he rubs it roughly with an alcohol swab, I hiss and look at him.

His face is blank as he works, but his eyes—his eyes are hot and furious. I shiver, and he meets my gaze, all of that emotion there for me to see.

And then it’s gone, shut carefully away as he finishes cleaning my neck. I keep my gaze averted, and when he tapes the last gauze on and steps away, I mutter a quick thanks and straighten, moving away from him.

His gaze follows me, seeming to mock me. I ignore him and focus on Ansliey, who is watching us with a bemused look.

“What can you tell us of recent Haven arrivals?” Finn says abruptly.

“Three arrived a few days back. In pretty bad shape—we’ve been seeing a lot of refugees recently, more than we have in the past decade. I don’t know where they came from—the Priest met with the Aldermen before they left again.”

Finn frowns. “They were with a Priest? Of the Order?”

Ansliey nods. “Arrived together. The Priest and a sick one, in a truck. The other was on a bike.”

My heart drops. Why the hell is Collin keeping company with a priest? What about that makes any sense at all? I open my mouth to say something, but Finn speaks quickly, cutting me off. “Did they go anywhere? Besides the Aldermen—did they meet with anyone, or indicate where they were headed?”

“The Stronghold. The Priest was pretty vocal about that being their destination.” He hesitates, and then, “Come on. I’ll take you where they were.”

My head is swimming. Because it’s too hot in the south. Because I’m exhausted and can’t rest. Because my stomach still won’t settle and my throat itches and stings when sweat slides down and catches on the sliced skin.

Or, maybe, because of where we’re sitting.

The Jeep engine ticks quietly as it cools, but none of us have moved. None have spoken.

A lot of things change from one Haven to the next. They have to, to become distinctive and someplace people can call home. It’s necessity as much as desire.

Two things don’t change—the Walls—they are always tall and wide and white. And the Morgue. It is always next to the armory, patrolled by Walkers, and painted black.

I stare at the black building, panic building in my chest. A building of the dead, and they were here—why the hell were they here, what is Ansliey thinking, I can’t do this, can’t go in there, it’s dangerous…

“Nurrin,” Finn snaps, and I realize it’s not the first time he’s said my name. I shift in my seat. Take a deep breath. I can taste decay and death on my tongue, and it makes me want to gag. I shake my head and swallow hard. Shove the door open and almost fall out of the truck.

I can do this. I have to do this—whatever is inside, I have to face it.

Finn catches my arm as I start toward the morgue, staring down at me. I can see it in his eyes—I don’t have to do this. I could let him.

Except that I can’t. I have to be able to face this, or I’ll be paralyzed. I have to see what’s inside, even if it destroys me.

His lips thin and he lets go of me. For a second, I sway, but he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t help me get my feet under me. Just waits patiently as I do.

For some reason, he believes in me, and that means so much to me. More than Finn O’Malley should. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then step forward. Ansliey trails us up the wide steps, stepping forward to speak to the morgue attendant as we enter. I twitch impatiently, and then we’re moving again. I follow the morgue attendant down a long hallway, and then he opens the door. A stench of death slaps me, and at my side, Finn curses. Ansliey mutters something, but I can’t hear him. I barely feel it as Finn presses a mask into my hand.

I can’t feel it, and I can’t see anything but the body lying on the table in front of me.

I don’t know him—he’s a stranger, younger than me. Maybe ten. Blond hair, feather fine, falls on the table in a long sheet. Blue eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. There is very little evidence of what killed him—faint bruising around his eyes and a redness to his mouth that suggests a contact infection.

And a neat hole in the center of his forehead, a gunshot directly to the brain.

My stomach twists, unexpectedly heaving, and I swallow, hard, struggling to keep the bile in my stomach.

Finn twitches at my side, and I shift past him, moving down the line of tables.

Haven 9 is small. They don’t have many dead at any one time. Going through the morgue is quick, and as I near the back—only three tables from the last—my breath eases. They aren’t here.

I look away from the end of the room, at the body on the table. And scream.

The thing about the apocalypse is that it made life fragile. Life always was, but for those who had lived before, death was not an everyday occurrence. It was a tragedy, something that was actively feared. It was people’s greatest fear.

And then, death became complicated, because it became less than permanent.

People survived because of hope. It wasn’t the weapons or the army, it wasn’t the walls of the Havens or the medicines pumped out by the drug companies working to fight their own creation. It was hope. That simple.

That insidious.

Hope that one day, death would be simple again. Hope that it would change. That the dead could be cured—that the world could be cured.

Everyone has a moment. That defining, life-altering moment when everything hinges on hope.

It can kill people, to see it dashed. I’ve seen it before, in the Haven, and after.

You never know how you will face the end of hope. Until you have no choice but to face it.

I’ve lost people. You can’t survive in this world for twenty years without having lost people. But seeing him, lying there, a tiny round hole in his forehead—it’s different. Different from when Mom died, eight years ago.

Different from watching Hellspawn fall or the parade of deaths on Day Three every year.

I scream again, but this time, there is no strength behind it, or in me. My bones go limp, and I hit the ground. I close my eyes, willing it away, the vision.

Dustin looks nothing like the boy who woke in my bed the day Hellspawn fell. His skin is ravaged and gray with infection, his green eyes filmed with it. The muscles in his face have begun to sag. The neat hole in his forehead is rimmed with black, a sure sign the infection was moving too fast.

I take all of the details in, but nothing makes sense. Nothing is sinking in.

Dustin is here. Dustin is dead. Collin—

“
Collin,”
I gasp and lurch forward.

Hard hands catch me, tug me up. I meet gray eyes and see the understanding there. And the demand. Tears well in my eyes, and I gasp, struggling to keep from falling apart. “Collin,” I whimper, my brother’s name a plea.

Finn ignores me and motions to Ansliey. “Take her to the Jeep,” he orders. The Warden doesn’t protest, just takes my arm gently and leads me out as Finn talks to the morgue attendant. I can almost taste the questions on the back of my tongue. Distantly, I want to go back and demand to be included.

“Who was he?” Ansliey asks, the question a gentle intrusion. I blink at the Warden, the one I never expected.

“Who is the Thrasher?”

His eyebrows go up. But he doesn’t hesitate to answer, maybe because he just watched me crumple. “Kelsey Buchman. The daughter of President Buchman—she led several key assaults in the Battle for the East.”

The world spins. My gut heaves, and everything that still made sense—which wasn’t much—disappears.

Who the fuck
is
he?

Ansliey doesn’t push as we wait for Finn. Maybe because after his little revelation, I retreat into silence, staring at the sky until sunspots dance in my eyes and my head spins. Maybe because just when he does gather the nerve to speak, Finn emerges from the morgue. I’m aware of him, but I don’t turn to look at him. I just stare at the sun, hoping that it will burn out the image of my dead lover.

“Can you take us to the barracks? I need to drop her off, and then I want to talk to the Aldermen,” Finn says.

“Don’t bother. I’m going with you,” I say, not moving.

“No.”

That does get a reaction. “Excuse me?”

“You need to go and get a hold of yourself,” he says dismissively.

Grief gives away to rage so quickly I can’t process it. I can only lean forward, into Finn’s face, and hiss, “He was mine. My lover. You have no right to say what I need now that he’s dead. Collin? He’s mine. My brother. Do you think for a minute he’s thinking about you, lost out there? Go fuck yourself, O’Malley.”

“He is,” Finn murmurs, a smirk turning his lips. It enrages me, and I jerk back, ready to smack him. He catches my hand before it can connect, uses it to jerk me forward. “He’s thinking about me, Nurrin,” he whispers, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips, “because he knows I will keep you alive. Remember that.”

Then he releases me, so abruptly I fall backward in my seat. I can see Ansliey watching us with wide, confused eyes, and I wonder what he thinks of this.

If he’s still under some delusion that I mean anything to Finn O’Malley.

I don’t. I am merely a promise he is fulfilling.

“To the Aldermen, then,” Finn says, soft and even. I ignore him and focus on the sky again as the Jeep rumbles to life.

We drive in cautious silence. Something about Finn’s insistence on seeing the Aldermen bothers me—I want to confront him about it, but I can’t.

Not with Ansliey listening and Finn’s lips a thin angry line.

Not with the knowledge of who Kelsey is.

When we stop, I don’t bother looking around. I can’t see past the sunspots. Even if I could, all I would see is Dustin. No need to look around for that. I drop out of the truck and tug my shirt into place. I can feel them watching me, and it makes my chin come up.

I refuse to let Finn fucking O’Malley see me break.

I stride to the steps of the Haven government building, taking the moment to shove the pain down, down deep where I can’t feel it for now.

Later. On the road. When Finn isn’t staring. When Collin is safe. Then I can shatter into the grief clawing at me. But for now—now I let it simmer and embrace the anger just beyond it.

Because anger is easier. So much easier than grief will ever be.

The Aldermen are gathered around a large round table, arguing over a report that looks like it’s seen better days. When I enter through the open door, they don’t even notice. I hesitate there, a lifetime of respect for the people who run a Haven keeping me from interrupting.

Finn apparently has no such reservations. He slides past me, directly to the table. Refusing to be left behind, I move to flank him as Ansliey circles the table to stand near a curly haired woman. Her eyes narrow as they assess us. In any other circumstance, the lingering glance at Finn would bother me, but then her gaze darts to me. I don't know what she sees, but she pales.

"What can we do for you?" she asks. Whatever she's feeling, her voice is steady and strong.

Bonus points for her.

"We're just passing through, Alderman. But we wanted to warn you—the Havens are being attacked."

"We heard a little." She makes a face. "Or maybe it would be better to say we haven't heard. From several Havens. I take it you have some theories or information?"

"ERI-Milan has mutated. It's the only explanation. Without a scientist or lab, we can't really say much more than that, but the disease has changed, and because it has, the zombies have. The hordes are bigger, and they're working together—we haven't seen numbers like this since the change."

"But we're safe behind the Walls."

"No. I don't think we are. That's the problem—we've gotten comfortable behind the Walls, and now things are changing and we aren't. You need to be willing to change, or this Haven will fall, just like 8 and 18."

"We haven't heard 18 fell," the curly haired woman says sharply. "Who the hell are you?"

"Cora, this is Finn O'Malley. Walker in Haven 8 and a veteran of the East."

Her eyes narrow, and she snorts dismissively. "How old are you, O'Malley? What on earth do you think you know about something you can barely remember happening?"

Disgust sours my stomach. "He didn't have to come here. He didn't have to give you any warning—we're leaving, and he could have gone and let the whole damn Haven take its chances with the Horde. But we took the time, and we're here. And you'll dismiss it just because you think he's too young?" My voice is thick with disbelief and a little mocking—maybe because I'm not trying to keep it from seeping through. "That's not just shortsighted, it's stupid and reckless."