The professor flipped the switch, and saved the world. 

It wouldn’t happen all at once; the signal would take time to get from dispenser to dispenser, and then each dispenser would take further time to flood the area with the cure. 

But this was, the professor told herself, the beginning of the end of the End. 

She sipped a cup of coffee, turned to face the window, and sat back in her chair, looking out over the city beneath her. One by one, she could see the lights of the dispensers – tall, thin silos already engulfed in blue-white clouds of gas – come alive, little stars in otherwise darkened ruins.

The weeks spent poring over notes, trying vaccines, capturing infected people for experimentation – in that quiet moment, where all she could hear was the hiss of hundreds of dispensers going off at once, where the gas sifted through the streets and rolled over buildings, it seemed worth it. 

The signal would go out to other dispensers; the network of survivors would continue building out from their newly safe bases of operation, administering the cure across the country. Dispensers would go up; infections would go down. Society would rebuild itself. The plan would work. 

Her part in it was almost over.

“Almost,” she murmured aloud, staring into the coffee cup. 

—

Red-gold sunset poured through angled blinds into the half-destroyed living room; thin strands of orange highlighted the sweat beading on Billy’s brow as he stared at the opposite wall. The room was quiet, and hot; the buzz of the fan annoyed him, and so he suffered in silence, knees held against his chest. 

He kept waiting for the rage to return – he braced at every minor irritation, certain that it would bloom into the impossible rage again, certain that his mind would be obliterated by the heat of it, certain that Billy Lawson would disappear before the incredible hate inside him. 

It never did. He was jumpy, and irritated, and frightened, but whatever rage Billy was waiting on never appeared. Not even when the knock at the door made him jump up and yelp in surprise. He tried to turn the surprised shout into “one second,” but only managed to mangle the words into further nonsense. He flinched at the sound of his own voice, and wondered what the person on the other side of the door would think.

The person in question was a tall, blonde woman wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses who, if she was concerned about Billy’s half-strangled cry, did not show it. She gave him a once over and pulled a badge – a well-worn, second hand thing, little more than a shaped bit of bronze – out of her pocket. 

“Sheriff Creech,” she said. “You Billy?”

“Th-that’s me,” he said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. “Wh-what can I help you with, Sheriff?”

“Just checking up on you,” Creech said, and thrust a plastic bag towards him. The bag was warm, and inside he could see two styrofoam containers.

“F-food?” Billy said, poking one of the containers open. The smoky scent of – steak? Meat – rushed past his nostrils and he recoiled before he could stop himself. The nausea came so quickly that he had to swallow bile before it got past his lips. 

Creech watched him bend over with one eyebrow raised. She had a scar over that eyebrow, one that ran all the way down the right side of her face and toward her neck – Billy found himself, in the midst of his mild panic, wondering if someone like him did that to her. 

“Something wrong?” Creech asked, coolly.

“It’s – uhm, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Billy stammered, handing the bag back to the sheriff. “It’s just – since the uhm…the cure, and everything, I can’t…I can’t really eat meat.”

Creech gave him a long stare over the top of her glasses. “You used to,” she muttered.

Billy flinched backward, out of the doorway, trying to put some space between him and the sheriff. He was certain, now, that someone like him absolutely gave her that scar, and he was even more sure she hadn’t forgiven them for it. 

“I – I don’t, anymore,” he said. “I don’t eat meat anymore.”

“That’s a relief,” the sheriff said. “Shame for this to go to waste, though. Cook down at the kitchen is doing their best to make you folks feel as home as they can, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I really appreciate it anyway.”

She gave him another long stare, and sighed, and draped the handle of the bag around one wrist.  “Me too,” she said. “I’ll go see what they have for, uh, vegetarian options.”

“Th-thanks, sheriff.”

She turned to go, and Billy stood on his doorstep, still trembling from the wave of nausea.

“Sheriff?” 

She stopped, turned on one heel. He was suddenly very aware of the massive handgun she carried on her hip – shined to a chrome finish, with a barrel as long as his forearm. Did she ever use that thing on people like him?

“Yeah, Billy?”

“I – appreciate the fact that y’all are letting me stay here,” he said. “I know it’s difficult to -”

“I don’t think you do know, Billy, if you want the God’s honest,” Creech said. “Maybe you’re sorry, and maybe that should mean more to me than it does, but I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

Billy found himself staring at the ground, hands at his sides. The trembling no longer had anything to do with nausea.

“S-sorry,” he said again. 

“I know you are,” Creech said, turning away from him again. “I am, too. I’ll be back in a little bit with some vegetables or something for you. I’ll drop them off at the door.”

“Sure,” Billy said. 

He watched her head down the street before he turned and went back inside. He crossed the room back to where he was sitting before, sank down against the wall, and tried to stop thinking of meat.

—

The professor finished her coffee and left the mug on the desk next to her computer. She retrieved an aerosol can from one drawer on the desk and a small pistol from the other.

“Just in case,” she murmured, staring at the gun. 

The trip down through headquarters was a solemn one – most everyone on the professor’s little team had left the building to monitor the dispensers and continue expanding their reach. 

The place, which the professor had often considered too noisy and too crowded for her comfort, suddenly felt lonely. The halls were quiet. The elevators were working again, as they had been since the professor and her group had moved in, and she could hear the hum of electricity in the facility’s fluorescent lights.

She took the stairs regardless, if only to give herself time to brace for what was coming.

—

The man on the gallows looked parched, and pale, Agnes thought – a far cry from the vicious, red-faced creature she met a week ago. All that rage had gone out of him, and in its absence the man looked hollow and gaunt. 

Where pity might have crept in, however, she found the image of her brother dead on the front stoop of an apartment building, his throat torn out and part of his jugular between the man’s teeth. 

They’d made it so far, she thought to herself. They’d nearly seen the end of it – and then this last horde had surprised them, driven them into a corner, and…

Agnes shook her head. Best not to think about it. This would be the end of it, proper. 

There wasn’t enough life left in the man to protest, it looked like; he kept his eyes lowered and his mouth shut as the executioner – a balding, wide-built man named Henry – read him last rites. There was already a pile of bodies with snapped necks on a truck next to the gallows; this man was the last execution for the day. 

Agnes tried to look at the pile of bodies too long. You couldn’t stop and think about what you’re doing, not anymore. You had to do it. You had to get it over with. They couldn’t be trusted. They had committed a crime. They had hurt people. They killed Jeremiah. They tore his goddamn throat out. 

“You have been charged with murder,” Henry pronounced, his voice quavering. “The sentence is death.” 

Agnes felt temporarily sorry for Henry – he had pleaded with the settlement to spare the formerly infected – but remembered the sight of her brother and shook her head again. Henry hadn’t lost anybody. She had lost everything. 

“Any last words?” Henry asked. 

The man said nothing. Very few of them had said anything. Agnes resented them for that – shouldn’t one of them say they were sorry? Weren’t they sorry? Didn’t they realize what they’d done?

Henry checked the length of cable around the man’s neck one more time, muttered “I’m sorry” under his breath, and hit the button. The trap door opened, and the crowd let out a bark – not a cheer, not anything so mirthful as a cheer, but an acknowledgment – that nearly (nearly) drowned out the snap of the man’s neck and the choked gurgle that followed. Agnes found herself yelling, too – that was it, then. Jeremiah had his due. Her brother could rest easy. 

Now, she thought, if only I could. 

—

There was a barred door in the basement – a heavy, metal thing with a thick length of rebar set to hold it closed. Cutting the food slot into the bottom of it must have been difficult, the professor thought. 

Her team went to great lengths to accommodate her wishes, and had asked very few questions, in the grand scheme of things. Whatever it took to save the world, they’d done without hesitation. She counted herself lucky – and luckier still they’d left her to herself. 

Her thought was disrupted by a sudden snarl from beyond the door, followed by the entire thing rattling in the jamb as something slammed into it from the other side. She still caught herself jumping at the sound, and cursed herself for it. 

“Come on,” she said, mostly to herself. “You can do this. Last step. Just have to get through this last step.”

She could use the food slot to spray the cure into the room. She’d have to hope that would be enough – she wasn’t sure she could risk opening the door beforehand. 

If it didn’t work…

Well. The rest of the world would be safe. The professor tried to tell herself that was the important part. The cure was out there, the dispensers were on, and all that remained was the one person she wanted to save in the first place.

“Here we go,” she said aloud – then jerked the food slot’s sliding door up, leaned down, and pressed the nozzle on the aerosol can.

—

To whom this may concern,

My name was Louie Townsend. They used to call me Lou, before the virus hit. I remember that much. I think I was a mechanic – I remember working on cars a lot, somewhere in New York City. Can’t remember what company I worked for. Don’t guess it matters now. 

I don’t remember much about how I got infected, or how long I was infected for, or what happened while I was infected. I’ve got bits and pieces – I think I had a family, and I think one of them got bit, and I think they bit me. Then I guess I helped kill a bunch of people, and ate some of them. There’s bits and pieces of that, too, when I close my eyes at night and try to sleep. 

Really I think that’s why I’m writing this: I want you to know I’m sorry, but I can’t get those images out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about the blood on my hands.

I can’t stop thinking about the blood in my mouth. 

You welcomed me into your community, and gave me food and water, and a place to stay, and I feel somehow like I’m wasting it, doing something like this. You were kind enough to take me in and here I am leaving all of a sudden. 

But I can’t keep this up. I’m so scared it’s going to happen again, that the cure is temporary, or that something will set me off and I’ll hurt someone again. Even if it doesn’t happen, I keep seeing faces at night, in the dark, just beyond my bed. When I’m not paying attention, or when I’m not thinking about much, I feel like I can hear people screaming in the distance. 

Whatever was in my body may be gone, but I catch myself wondering whether or not I played any part in it. Whether I was more susceptible to it. I can’t remember what I was like before the virus got me – was I cruel? Did I want to hurt people? Was there some part of me that was just waiting for something like this? An excuse?

I can’t be sure. 

I want you to know that I am grateful for your kindness, and your trust. I hope that you continue to give that to other people like me who may be in better shape. I hope this cure gets out and saves the whole world. 

I really appreciate what you did for me, whatever this may look like.

Thanks,

Lou

—

The younger woman sat at the opposite end of the mission briefing table and nibbled quietly at an apple. The professor was a few sips into a new cup of coffee before the younger woman finally spoke.

“How long was I…”

“Three years,” the professor said, as gently as she could. “It took me a year and some change to find you, and then we kept you here for two.”

The other woman took another tentative bite of the apple, and chewed it slowly. The professor watched her companion turn the apple in her hands, staring at it. 

“Stella–” the professor began, but stopped when the younger woman looked up with tears in her eyes.

“How many did I–”

“I don’t know,” the professor said, an edge in her voice. “I don’t want to know. I don’t think you want to know, either.” 

The silence sat in the air between them, heavy and cold, despite the heat of the building. The professor could see Stella’s expression, shadows carved into her face by the overhead bulb, swing between confusion and anguish and back again.

“I can’t remember anything,” Stella murmured, dropping her eyes back to the apple. “I can’t remember any of it.”

“What do you remember?” the professor ventured, turning in her seat and putting the coffee cup down on the table. “Anything from…before?”

“Not much–” Stella managed, before a sob bubbled up in her throat. 

The professor got up, and crossed to the other side of the table, about to place her hands on the woman’s shoulders before Stella twisted backward, nearly falling off of her stool. 

“Stella–”

“I barely remember you,” Stella managed, wrenching her head up to stare at the professor. “I remember we–we–”

The professor watched her quietly, waiting.

Stella leapt up from the chair and wrapped her arms around the professor, hugging her close. The professor cursed herself for nearly going for the pistol in surprise. 

“I missed you, love,” Stella breathed, in between sobs. The professor slowly put her arms around the woman, and kissed the top of her head. 

“I missed you too,” she murmured – and they collapsed against one another, barely staying upright.

—

Eliza Browning could not stop brushing her teeth. 

It was a waste of resources, she knew – the water wasn’t infinite, infrastructure was still being rebuilt, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep stealing toothpaste from the warehouse before someone noticed. If they caught her stealing resources, no matter how inconsequential, then…

…but it didn’t matter. She had to get clean. She had to get the taste out of her mouth.

Her arm ached with the effort, most nights, and she often found herself spitting blood into the sink – which only made her resume brushing. At least it was her blood, she told herself, and not someone else’s. 

She felt guilty, sometimes, stealing from the people that took her in – a little commune on the west side of Oklahoma, just before you got into what used to be Texas. A lot of formerly infected had come here, and they’d been welcomed with open arms. 

Better than what they were doing in Texas – Eliza heard they were curing people, rounding them up and killing them in groups down there. 

She spat into the sink. More blood. More brushing. She couldn’t stand the taste of it – and no matter how much toothpaste was in her mouth, no matter how much water she swished around her tongue, she could still taste pennies. 

She didn’t spend all day in the bathroom, of course – just this afternoon she helped James and Polly put up a fresh supply run from up north in Kansas, and she’d got through the evening okay, but she’d tried to lay down too early and felt pennies on her tongue and – 

She jerked the toothbrush out of her mouth, spat, saw blood and swigged at the bottle of Listerine – she made a point not to think of how old it was – sat on one side of the sink, then yelped in pain as the alcohol touched her gums. 

“Shit,” she sputtered, and dropped the bottle on the floor, then cursed again. There wasn’t much of that stuff left, and it should have been used for cleaning serious things, but it helped, and –

“Eliza?”

There was a knock on the door, and she could hear James standing outside, muttering to someone else. 

“Eliza, you okay? You’ve been in there for an hour.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Just washing up and all.”

“You washed up this morning,” James said. “I don’t know how much cleaner you’re going to get.”

Eliza stared at the door, and found herself biting back something more acerbic before she returned with “mmhmm!” and rinsed off the (bloody) toothbrush. She stashed the mouthwash and toothpaste under the sink, wiped her teeth off with a towel, tugged open the bathroom door and gave James a tight smile. 

“You’re pretty enough as is,” James said, giving her a warm grin. “Don’t gotta worry so much.”

“You’re sweet,” Eliza said. She turned her head, sucked at her teeth, grimaced at the taste of pennies on her tongue, and closed the bathroom door behind her. 

—

At first, the professor was simply glad to have Stella back, and sane, and here. 

It was such a strange feeling, to have so thoroughly grieved someone she could now hold again. The sensation had seemed so impossible, so incredibly far away – but now she was here, and real, and they could be together again.

Stella, too, seemed to be adjusting as best she could to resumed sanity. She asked questions, of course, but her memory seemed to be so thoroughly scattered that the professor could give vague answers and avoid the worst of it. 

They would leave the tower soon, and go find a place near one of the dispensers to try and rebuild. But for those first few days, they focused on getting used to one another’s company again, and tried further to revel in their reunion. 

It was the morning of the fourth day when Stella’s memory came back, and the professor found her standing next to the mission briefing table, staring at the floor. 

“Stella?” the professor said. 

“It wasn’t just us, was it?” Stella said, quietly. 

“What–”

“Before,” Stella said. “There was – there was someone else. Someone that lived with us.”

The professor stood fixed to the spot, a lump in her throat. There had been some part of her, some deeply shameful part of her, that hoped this wouldn’t come up. That Stella would have forgotten.

The professor hadn’t forgotten, of course. It still clawed at her stomach, sometimes, when she let herself sink too deep into thought. The image still flashed across the backs of her eyelids in less guarded moments. 

The blood on the wall, on the bed. One arm hanging over the edge. A shocked expression on his little face. The smashed glass scattered across the sheets and the wind whistling through the shattered window as Stella lurched and lunged into the night beyond.

“We…we had a child, didn’t we, Laurel?” Stella said, trying not to choke on the words. 

“Yes,” the professor said, woodenly. She tried to keep her voice flat, calm. She would have to be the reasonable one. She would have to stay steady. She could do that. She had done that for three years. 

“And I…”

“It was the virus,” the professor said. 

“I killed him,” Stella said.

The words lingered in the air of the mission briefing room, and the professor put a hand on the table to hold herself steady. 

“It was the virus,” she repeated.

“Laurel, I -”

“You were infected,” the professor said, more sternly. “You are not to blame.”

Stella stared at her, hands curled into fists, mouth opening and closing as she tried to find words that weren’t there. She opened her hands, let her fingers twine into her hair, and sat down on the stool. The professor stood, watching.

“I…I killed our little boy,” Stella breathed, staring at the table. 

The professor had told herself, in the early days of grief, she was glad Stella was gone after what happened to their son. Virus, or no virus – how could Stella have done that? How could she have ruined his throat? How could she have hurt him?

But in the years intervening, as her grief became her mission, she saw the depths of the infection. She knew, more intimately than anyone else in the world now, what it did to the brain. She knew that, by the time it happened, Stella had long disappeared into the virus’ influence. 

And besides, hadn’t she ignored the symptoms? The irritation? The bruising around the forehead and the base of the neck?

“It’s not your fault,” she said aloud. “It’s not. It’s not, Stella. I could have – I saw what was happening to you, and I -”

Dammit, Laurel, hold it together. You have to. When you found her, when you realized she could be saved, you practiced this conversation. You practiced it over and over. Please. Don’t break. 

“…it’s never going to go away, or stop hurting, but – but you’re you, now,” the professor continued. “You weren’t you then. That wasn’t you.”

She approached Stella, and reached out a hand.

“Please, don’t leave me alone, Stella,” Laurel said, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “I did all this for you. For us. I wanted to save you. I couldn’t save him. I can save you. I did.”

Stella stared back at her, and looked down at the outstretched hand, and then back up at Laurel. She stood up from her chair, shoulders still trembling, and they stepped into each other’s arms. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, into Laurel’s shoulder.

“Me too,” Laurel said.

Together, they took the elevator back to the top of the tower. They didn’t make it three floors before they both started crying again, but they were together, Laurel told herself. 

They were together, and the world was saved, and the end was over.
That’s all that mattered right now.