The World Without a Future (The World Without End) (17 page)

I’d heard of wartime converts—the military who fought and lost the East when we eventually waved the white flag and retreated to the safe zone.

Not that it was—not really. Even the safe zone had the Wide Open, and that was undisputedly the zombies’ land. We only traveled through it, and all of us were living on borrowed time.

The Order thrived when we lost the East. They grabbed the military up faster than anyone could believe. Before the East was declared unrecoverable, the Order was just a fringe group that was annoying and a little dangerous. But with the backing of so many military, they became something else—something everyone was afraid of.

By then it was too late. The Havens were fractured, the government was in shambles, and when the Order retreated into what was left of Vegas, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The elevator dings pleasantly, and the doors slide open on a spacious, quiet hall. I can hear the soft murmur of the gaming room, and I turn toward it. I have no real interest in the games, but maybe I can find a drink—getting drunk seems like a brilliant idea, suddenly.

After the dinner club and what I saw in Haven 18, I’m not sure what to expect from the Order’s casino. I’ve seen films of them before the change, when they were brightly lit and filled with glittering people playing at velvet-lined tables and sitting in front of rows of slot machines, drinking and smoking and winning.

It’s nothing like that. A few guards in Order robes patrol the edges of the massive room, and tired looking men and women loiter around dirty, scratched tables, piles of chips in front of them as blank faced dealers pass out cards and collect money. A waitress, wearing a sedate uniform instead of the chains and strategically placed cups, pauses near my arms. “Are you wanting to play, miss?”

I look at her, at the startled respect in her eyes. I don’t fit in here—not wearing this dress that Finn put me in. I can feel the spark of interest from the men at the tables, the disdain from the women watching their men. I am distantly aware of the attention of the guards and the realization that this might not have been my most intelligent move ever.

The waitress is still waiting, a hopeful look on her face. “No,” I say, shortly. I’m not here to gamble away what little I have—the Order is dangerous enough to me without lining their pockets and selling my freedom. “I only want a drink.”

A small smile turns her lips and she motions. I follow her deeper into the casino, aware of the eyes chasing me and the soft murmur of conversation that swells behind me as I make my way to the bar. It’s a pitted, pockmarked thing of oak, rounded and smooth from hands rubbing against it, and time. I rest my arms lightly, and the bartender, a boy who looks younger than me by a year or so, approaches. His eyes are tired, but his smile is bright. “What can I get you, lovely lady?”

“A beer,” I say. He nods and turns to the tap, and I wonder why I didn’t just keep my mouth shut. I don’t want a beer—I don’t even
like
beer. And there is the small matter of this dress still.

“Do you know where a girl could get a little privacy and quiet?” I ask as the bartender places the beer carefully in front of me.

“How much privacy?” he asks, seriously.

I motion to my dress. “Somewhere I won’t be stared at.”

He hesitates for a long moment, and I give him my most beseeching eyes. Finally, he cracks the barest of smiles. “Come on then—I don’t want you to be stared at either. The girls don’t like it when something competes for their tips.”

I give him a hostile smile and he takes a half step back.

“Sorry, miss.” His head drops, respectfully, as he comes around the oak bar and leads me past the edges of the casino. The deeper in we go, the odder the games become—a cat chases a mouse in one cage. I stop, half appalled when it catches it’s victim and rips into it. The watchers cheer, and a few fistfuls of chips change hands. But most are still, waiting, as the cat paces its cage, yowling and hissing.

“What are they waiting for?” I ask, and the bartender glances over. Something flickers across his gaze before he looks away.

“The change.” He says shortly, striding away. I glance back, my stomach twisting as I realize the mouse had been infected. The cat is slowing, stumbling. As I stare, it screams, falling over.

The mouse had been dosed with ERI-Milan, heavily—there’s no way the cat could change that fast without something to instigate it. I shudder and hurry after the bartender, almost tripping over my heels in the process. "Why?" I ask, my voice low.

He glances at me and shrugs. "Blood sport is a paying game, miss. And the Order needs money to run."

I don't respond. For a moment, I had managed to forget where I was—the beast whose belly I traipsed through. Now, I can't help but think of it, and I feel a slither of cold fear—maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe going back to the room is the best idea I've had all night.

"In here, miss."

I look up, startled out of my thoughts, and gasp as he leads me into a large ballroom. It had to have been an events room, before the change—it's wide, with high, heavy walls and a vaulted ceiling soaring above us. My heels clack on the marble as I step inside, staring around.

It's a massive library. The walls are lined with books, tables ordered nearly with stacks of newspaper clippings.

There's always been rumors about the Order. Rumors they are in the slave trade, that they buy children and raise them to be killers, rumors that they experiment in the depths of their compounds, looking for a cure to the disease everyone knows can't be cured.

And there is talk of a library, a vast collection of clippings, newspaper articles from the change that are gathered and collected—here, apparently.

A soft light glows through the room. I want to look through the record of the Change.

"Will this be quiet enough, miss?" The bartender asks.

I turn, smiling at him. "It’s perfect, thank you so much."

He nods and starts to turn away. "Oh. You are, of course, welcome to pursue our shelves. Make yourself at home."

My fingers twitch, involuntarily, at his words. I wait as he smiles one last time and slips out the door. In the sudden quiet, I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of mourning incense and smoke, leather and hot plastic. I take a step toward the bookshelves and pause. Omar's words from upstairs are still echoing in my head. He seems to ascribe to the same philosophy on information as Finn—which means virtually none. But after a little time with him, I'm getting better at picking up Finnformation. He gave me more than he thought—more than he probably wanted. I grab a few books at random and sit at the table stacked with papers. They're neatly ordered, divided by Haven and month. I grab a stack about Haven 1 and start paging through it. There's almost no chance that a random child would have been documented during the change—the only one who mattered was Emilie Milan, and after her death triggered the change, no one was able to spend much time reporting any news. Not until things settled, and that took almost two years.

But there was always news from Haven 1. It's where the government retreated to—the president and his advisors sent out news bulletins to keep people's hope up.

There wasn't much beyond that—emergency PSA announcements, a few articles about the measure to approve Haven building and mandatory evacs.

One name—Sean Finnegan—keeps popping up. A friend of the President Buchman. He worked with WHO and led the CDC team trying to find a way to combat the infection. I see him again and again, until the fall of Detroit three years after the change. I don't remember that—but Collin does.

Detroit fell in a wave of blood. No one expected it. The cold slowed the infects, and the gun-toting gangs put them down almost as fast as the zoms rose. Then a horde swarmed—one that migrated down from Canada, and the city collapsed under the sheer numbers of the zombies.

The scientist is briefly mentioned—a tragic casualty in the fall. The president hosted a funeral, which raised a few eyebrows and made the news, such as it was. There was a blonde girl there, a pretty, thin creature standing, somber and dignified, next to the president and the casket.

The president’s daughter.

I dig back, pondering the information I have. Finn has a slight accent, which means he originated somewhere else—and was probably trapped here by the zombie apocalypse. He has contacts everywhere and enough money to move small mountains.

And the High Priest of the Blessed Order knows him from a past life. That is the hardest part to reconcile, the part that doesn't fit. Who was he—who were his parents—when the world ended? It's the only way to explain his wealth and prestige.

I flip the file closed and reach for the stack that's largest—the articles that follow the Battle for the East.

There was a small contingent of college students who couldn't put aside their civil rights hang-ups and refused to fight the zombies. Most of those were eaten. The only civil right a zombie cares about is the right to eat anyone's brain.

The only use for people like that was reporting, and in that crazy time, everyone needed to have a use. So they were sent to the front lines, reporting back during the war. A lot of them died. Those who didn't got over their civil rights issues and killed, because that is the only way to survive in this world.

I find Omar in the eighth article. There's a square box of text detailing an offensive to reclaim Methuen, a small town in Massachusetts. Omar is mentioned in the article, but it's the picture that captures my attention.

Omar was young—younger than I am now. But he was still a small mountain of a man, his body wrapped in fatigues and zombie-resistant armor. His expression is lighter somehow, more hopeful.

Before the inevitability of the war hit him.

There are other people in the picture, but the one who draws my attention stands at Omar's right, a blank expression on his face.

He looks the same. Same empty eyes, lithe body, close-cropped hair. Same full lips that refuse to smile. Same disdainful impatience oozing from his negligent disregard of the world around him.

Finn. He fought in the war—they
let
him. It doesn't explain his wealth, but other things make a little more sense, the foggy lens of who he is twisting into focus a little more.

I hear him enter the room, the air charged with his irritation as he stalks toward me.

I slide the article away and twist in my chair to meet him. Sitting feels too vulnerable, standing too aggressive. There is no good way to confront Finn O'Malley.

He stares at me in silence for a few moments, long enough that I want to fidget, but refuse to.

"What are you doing, Nurrin?" he asks, finally, his voice low and tightly controlled. Even with that control, he sounds furious, and it makes my own anger swell to meet his.

"Reading," I answer blandly.

"You’re fishing," he says, glancing at the closed files in front of me.

"Does that bother you? I don't believe in blind trust, O'Malley, and you've done nothing to earn mine."

His expression tightens—something about that bothers him. But he doesn't address it, doesn't tell me why. Instead, "I told you nowhere alone."

Really? "That's your hang up?" I demand, my voice going up a little despite my effort to remain calm. "You kicked me out, remember? You didn't want me overhearing whatever was so damn important. Well, fuck you—you can't decide that and then expect me to trot back to the room like a docile little wind-up toy. I'm not that girl, and I'm not your arm candy. If that's what you want, pretty sure there's a whole casino full of girls who can keep their mouths shut. Go find one," I snap.

"You have no idea what you’re talking about," he says tightly. "And being angry isn't an excuse for risking your life, you fucking idiot."

I smile, a nasty edge to it. "You have to give a damn to be angry."

I finally stand, and Finn is close enough that I can feel the heat if him a hair’s breath away, a slip of air and cloth separating us.

"If you risk yourself again, because you’re too fucking impulsive and childish, I'll chain you to the damn bed until its time to go home."

I blink, almost take a step back. He's got that look in his eyes, the one that is feral and disturbing.

"Do you understand me?"

"If you touch me, I'll cut your balls off and feed them to you," I whisper.

He smirks at me. "Last time I touched you, you liked it, little girl."

Rage and humiliation flare through me, chasing a spike of arousal. "Go fuck yourself," I snap.

He shoves me into the wall, his mouth hovering above mine, and I can almost taste him. I push back against the wall, as far from him as possible. "Collin will kill you for this," I whisper, and I hate that my voice shakes.

Regret flickers over his face, briefly, and he steps back, giving me a little breathing room. "You might be right about that. But I would risk it to have you alive."

"Why?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

He steps away, and I can breathe, the air slipping through me and leaving me weak in the knees.

"Come on. Omar invited us to dinner."