The World Without a Future (The World Without End) (20 page)

They stream around us, moving like a river of death, and for the most part, don't even realize we're here. I shudder, staring at the dead faces, the vacant eyes. Every instinct screams to run, to find somewhere they can't reach me. Every instinct says that sitting like this is paramount to death.

I've learned to listen to my instincts—my instincts and my brother have kept me alive for twenty years. But this—Finn is still and silent, his eyes tracking the herd as it parts and sways and shakes the truck.

We sit there for what seems like forever, until finally—finally—they are gone, the last one darting past in a blur of decay and blood.

Even then, we don't move. We sit in utter silence until the herd vanishes completely, the sun glaring in our eyes. I can't feel my fingers, and somehow, I realize I've grabbed my gun. Finn's crossbow is sitting in his lap.

The sun begins to set, and I finally look at him. He's staring at nothing, his eyes half closed. He looks exhausted—worse than I've ever seen.

"When is the last time you slept?" I ask.

He shrugs, exhaustion pulling at him. "It's hard to sleep when there's no one watching your back."

That burns a little. "You can't keep me safe if you’re dead from exhaustion," I say, sitting back. "And I would stand guard."

Finn's gaze snaps to me, startled. I don't say anything, and he's quiet for a moment, watching me. Finally, he cranks the engine. I wince at the sudden roar of noise, and he gives me that quirk of a smile that drives me fucking insane. But something is different, this time—almost like he's got a new-found respect that I haven't seen in him before.

It's full dark when we finally limp into Haven 18. The Wall gleams in the moonlight around us, the crack of a shot gun echoing across the mountains.

Finn is still driving, although I'm not sure how he's managed to keep awake. He stops the truck near the gate, and we wait as we're cleared. They take a little longer than usual—probably waking some poor medic—until Finn is cursing, his fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. Finally, the medic arrives and the blood tests are done. Not terribly surprising, we're cleared clean and we drive through the gates. Immediately, Finn slams the truck into park and slides out. I scramble to follow him, grabbing my bag.

"We hit a horde about half way here. Looked like they were headed for Haven 22. You might want to send them word, that it's coming."

One of the Walkers sneers, and Finn rolls his eyes. "Or don't. Frankly, I don't give a fuck what you do. The truck needs to go through decontamination. Send it to Jesse—he knows how I like things done."

"We're not your servants, O'Malley. 18 isn't beholden to you or Haven 1."

Finn doesn't bother to answer the man, just turns and stalks into the night. I could question the soldier, but I don't—I follow Finn into the dark streets. We walk quietly, some of the tension draining from me. I can hear people talking, laughing in their homes, the lights dim for the night, but life clearly being lived. It makes me nostalgic—I want to be home, surrounded by Dustin and Collin, Kelly a quiet counterpoint. But I'm not. Kelly is dead, and Collin could be—Dustin could kill him. Home is gone, and I'm with Finn O'Malley, of all people.

"It's amazing, how secure and safe they think they are," he murmurs. I look at him, but Finn isn't talking to me. He's almost swaying with exhaustion.

We reach the house, and it feels comfortable, familiar. Without talking to me, Finn locks the doors behind us and stalks to his room. I hear the lock click into place, the creak of his bed, and the clank of his gun landing somewhere.

I sit on the couch and try not to think about how I came to be guarding Finn while he sleeps.

I stare at the door, a knife in my hand. It's been quiet for a few seconds but—

BANG BANG BANG

Like clockwork, the pounding comes again. I should just answer the damn thing. Clearly my ”ignore and hope it goes away” method is striking out.

Finn would be furious if I opened the door to a stranger. And in this Haven, the only person who isn't a stranger is Jesse, and he only just barely qualifies as more than that. He'd say it's too dangerous.

The banging comes again, and my fingers twitch on the knife, reflexively.

He can say it's too dangerous all he wants. The bastard's been sleeping for almost twelve hours straight, and this banging is gonna kill my nerves. A noise from the back of the house startles me. Finn stalks from his room, his hair a mess, drawstring pants riding low on his narrow hips. I look away, uncomfortable. I hate when he uses his body as a distraction. It's not fighting fair.

He ignores me completely, going straight to the door and yanking it open. "What the
fuck
do you want?" he snarls. I flinch back from the barely checked violence in his tone—it's the voice you hear before he kills someone.

The man on the other side of the door stares back impassively. He's shrouded in a light gray robe, the cowl pulled up and over his head. He looks like death—or what people imagined death to be, before the end of the world and the zombies came back.

"Priestess will see you now," he says.

Finn bares his teeth in a parody of a smile. "Your damn priestess will see me when I'm good and fucking ready."

He slams the door without letting the priest respond and heads back to his room.

"Get dressed," he snaps and slams the door behind him.

By the time we are dressed and get to the Order's club, we're both in a foul mood. Finn and I are escorted through the empty club, past the wheels and chains of the vice club. The scent of blood and sweat still hangs in the air, their own perfume.

Lori looks like she hasn't moved since we left. Her red robes pool around her as she perches on the desk, her black guard silent at her back.

She watches us with quiet intensity as Finn paces into the room and scowls. "What the hell, Lori. What the fuck do you think to accomplish by dragging me from my house? I have your damn information."

He throws the file at her, and the guard shifts, agitated. A slim hand lifts to still him before she plucks the file open and lazily glances over it.

"Very good, O'Malley," she almost purrs.

"You knew he'd be there—that Omar would work with me," Finn accuses without heat. She shrugs, delicately. "You manipulated me," Finn says, and I finally understand his anger.

"I did."

"I've killed for less, Priestess," he says, almost conversationally. A smile, amused, turns her lips up.

"I know. But I have what you want—meds. I gambled and won." She snaps her fingers, and the gray priest behind us disappears. "He'll bring the medicine. Now, give me the information about the zombies."

He stares at her, and the priestess smiles, a cool expression. I want to hate her, but it’s damn hard—she’s done what I didn’t think anyone could: manipulate Finn. I admire that.

But I would hate to be the red priestess, when Finn no longer has use for her.

Three shiny glass vials, filled with a viscous gold fluid. Two tubes of pills large enough to make me gag.

They sit on the counter like precious gold. I want to cry at the sight of them.

There isn't a cure to ERI-Milan. After the zombies rose, there was a backlash to medicine—even the most medicine-proponent person was hesitant to take something unnatural. The end of the world had a way of leaving a bad taste in one's mouth.

But eventually, even that fear faded. The most extraordinary thing about humans is we can overlook anything. Sure, it was the side effects of experimental drugs that triggered the apocalypse, but when drugs were good for keeping depression and anxiety and headaches at bay, what’s a minor apocalypse? Humanity didn't die when ERI-Milan swept the earth, and eventually, the medical powers—CDC, WHO, drug companies, even Sanelos, began looking for the magical cure to ERI.

The problem was, they couldn't trace how it changed. When the zombie horde hit the Army troops, it triggered a change in the structure of the disease. That's what people didn't realize—not then, not even now. ERI wasn't a chemical suppressant. It was a disease that crippled the emotional response centers.

And diseases are living things. When it looked out the eyes of the horde in Atlanta, it saw its own destruction, and it did what any living thing is wont to do—it changed. It did whatever was necessary to survive.

There was no way to study it, though. And without studying the disease, it was virtually impossible to destroy it.

So the drug companies turned to lesser “cures.” They came up with serums and neural inhibitors—risky medications that could stop a contact infection—sometimes.

It wasn't a cure, but it was almost better. The drug companies colluded in their labs and bottled hope. In a world without that, they created a drug that offered a chance, and sold it at a premium price.

Finn comes up beside me, jerking me from my thoughts as he scoops up the meds and tucks them into a secure pocket of his bag.

"Ready?"

I nod. I am so beyond ready to be done with this Haven and back with my brother. I grab my bag and follow him out of the house. He tosses his stuff into the back seat, and I settle on the passenger side, my gun and knife propped in the custom holster hanging from the door.

They stop us at the front gate. A man Finn's age approaches his window and leans in. "Sorry, sir. Walls are closed."

Finn gives him a disbelieving look. "Why?"

"Aldermen's orders. No one is allowed out, on account of a horde spotted headed this way."

For a heartbeat, I can't breath. I'm back in Hellspawn, the alarms screaming in my ears, the sound of zombies feasting a horrific counterpart. I'm in the silent truck, my heart pounding as hundreds of zombies whip past us, driven by hunger and some unknown
need
.

I shiver in my seat, the burning desire to escape slamming into me. "Finn," I start, and he nods, cutting me off.

"I know, Nurrin. We need to get out."

It's impressive—and a little alarming—how quickly Finn can gather the Aldermen. The Haven has been closed, there are quite literally zombies at the gates, and Finn does nothing more than call Lissel. Within an hour, all of them are assembled, waiting a little impatiently as Finn and I enter the little room we first met Lissel in. She's sitting with five others—four men and a tired looking young woman.

"What do you want, O'Malley? We have better things to do then waste our time on you." One of the men, a thin, pointy faced man, gripes.

Finn ignores him, drops lazily into a seat. He kicks a chair out and nods at it—my invitation to sit. "I need out of the Haven."

"Can't help you. The Haven is closed until the horde passes or reinforcements arrive."

Finn is quiet, staring at nothing, for long enough that the aldermen begin to fidget. Finally, "Do you think holding me here will bring those reinforcements? I hate to break it to you, but Haven 1 forgot about me. They don't care about me or 18 or anything but their own survival. We're on our own here."