End of the World Afterparty: Part Three

For End of the World Afterparty: Part One, click here.

For End of the World Afterparty: Part Two, click here. 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Night was falling by the time we finished boarding up the windows. Someone had set the coffee table on its side and slid it across the front door, although I couldn’t see it holding up for long under a committed siege. Even at that point, I was more worried about people, about intelligence, about raiders coming and taking our only means of survival. The zombies were still an unknown quantity, but I knew about humans. 

After washing the vomit from my face and rinsing out my mouth with Jason’s toothpaste (he used the Jāsön brand, of course), I joined the others in the basement where we all sat on the couch and on the various oversized bean bag chairs arranged in the corner, staring at each other with wide eyes while Jason set up a camera and tripod. He flicked on a spotlight that further washed out our bloodless faces. No one protested or asked what he was doing. Everyone had seen what’d happened with the little girl and, more importantly, had heard what he’d said. I kept my eyes on the gun tucked into his waistband, safety off, and thought about what would happen if I tried to make a break for it. Somewhere along the way, the playing field had shifted in my head. 

Despite the fading light, it was still possible to see movement out the narrow windows high on the wall, feet shuffling past—there were so many feet. I could feel the press of bodies around the building, feel the collective intake and outtake of their strange breathing. They must not have been dead, I thought to myself, if they were still breathing, but it didn’t really make a difference. I didn’t think there was any coming back from that, and calling them dead made me feel better about the idea of killing them. 

I got the impression of dense numbers, of zombies piled up six or seven deep. Worse was the dry sound of hands sliding along the siding, nails scratching. I pictured them prying the house apart, piece by piece, and wondered how long it would take them to crawl inside, wearing their fingers down to the bone to get to us, bloody nubs reaching for me, grasping my face, always more zombies to replace the ones that fell. 

For a moment, I wondered if the afflicted could feel pain, if they were terrified—but then I let the moment pass. If I was going to survive this, I got the sense that I was going to need to be a little cold-hearted. Of all the people here, I figured Jason was the most equipped for this situation, in more ways than one. 

The first thing I’d noticed, as we sat expectant while Jason hurried back and forth, is that you could lock the basement from the inside. It wasn’t an ordinary lock, too, or even a deadbolt. The door was heavy and solid, with brackets that could hold a steel beam across it, which was currently leaning against the wall, and all I could think was that, given its size, the beam must have weighed at least two hundred pounds. I probably should have spent more time working on my deadlifts. 

You know, I’m just throwing this out there—and it’s too late now, of course—but Jason’s channel would have been a lot more interesting if he’d shown this whole other aspect of his life. 

Once he had the camera and the lights set up to his satisfaction, he joined us at the center of the semi-circle, becoming the focus of the camera’s baleful eye. I’ll describe the scene for you as I remember it, but you’ll be able to watch the footage for yourself once I’ve finished compiling everything. 

“This video is going to be different from my normal videos.” Jason’s voice was somber in  a way that felt practiced. “Vanderbelts, it seems that the end times are upon us. I’m here with my fellow survivors, eight of us in total. We’re holed up for the moment, with no easy way out, but we have enough supplies to last the apocalypse.” He held his arms wide, indicating the wall of guns behind us. When I went back and rewatched the video, I saw that he’d framed the shot so you wouldn’t miss the window and the feet milling past it. 

The whole thing ended up giving off cultish vibes, the way we sat like worshippers around him, sallow and dirty, our eyes fixed on his face with a kind of rapt hunger that would hint at something else entirely when removed from its proper context. Years from now, I wonder how these records will be interpreted, what sort of story they might tell to people who were never there, who’ve never heard my side, if, on finding my version, they would denounce me as a heretic, the woman who killed god. 

“I think it would be good if we introduced ourselves and talked about the various skill sets we bring to the table. We don’t know how long it will take before help arrives, if help arrives, and we need to know how best to work together to ensure our survival.” 

He turned first to Ian. It was weird, watching the man introduce himself when we already knew who he was, but he did it for the camera without question. “It’s, uh, it’s Holmes, Ian Holmes.” He said it like, “Bond, James Bond,” only with none of the suavity, and I remember I almost laughed out loud. I don’t think he realized how stupid he looked—I don’t think he was self aware. It made everything more pathetic. 

He’s dead, in case you forgot. All of them are dead. I know you’re supposed to save stuff like that for the big reveal at the end, to recount it all as it occurs or whatever. I was never a good storyteller; I’m just the only one left to do it. Explaining the story as it happened in the beginning, when you’re sitting here at the end, is disorienting in ways I don’t know how to describe. I see it with double vision.

“You have your own survival show on TV,” Jason added, as if for those who might be watching later, faces pressed to the screen, hands cupped to catch the words of a god. “Hey, didn’t you drink your own urine that one time? If we ever run out of water, man, we need you.” With that, Jason clapped Ian on the back and turned his attention to the next person in line. 

“And who are you, love?” 

“I’m Ann…Peletier.” Her gaze darted around like she expected everyone in the room to attack. When they didn’t, her shoulders relaxed by a couple degrees, only to stiffen again as Jason spoke. 

“And do you have any special skills? Is there anything interesting about you people might not know?” 

“No, not really,” she said, a little too quickly. “It’s not, um, it’s not like I’ve killed a bunch of people or anything. It would be weird for you to think something like that. I don’t give off serial killer vibes.” She said it in the way that a man holding a clown mask and a bag of money might say to the police, “Officer, it’s not like I’ve robbed a bank or anything.” I remember feeling a little differently about her sitting in a room full of guns after that. 

Someone started laughing, high-pitched and shrill, something between a giggle and a hysterical shriek. It was the man in the camouflage jacket, the one Jason had called Laffy Taffy. I don’t think anyone had actually asked for his name up until that point—the 5:16 minute marker, if you’re following along. 

Watching the footage, the disparity gets a little heady. There’s something deeply triggering about witnessing this tank of a man—six foot six, at least, bigger even than Jason—having a panic attack. It’s uncomfortable to watch, makes me want to crawl out of my skin. As it was happening, I remember getting the sense that if someone like him was scared out of his wits, then I didn’t stand a chance. 

Everyone just kind of stared at him for a few moments, none of us sure what to do. His eyes were screaming—wide, terrified things, whites bloodshot—but he was almost doubled over with laughter. I don’t think he could have stopped if someone had put a gun to his head and told him to shut up. Probably that would have made it worse. 

I knew then that he would be one of the first to die. 

“Who are you, then?” Jason asked. His tone was flat and cold, and he didn’t bother to hide the disgust on his face, the way his mouth wanted to curl into a sneer. 

Eventually the poor man’s laughter died down enough for him to answer the question. “I’m Brandon Weiss.” His hands were fists in his lap, clenching and unclenching. “Sorry, I know it’s awkward. I get like this when I’m nervous. It’s a condition. It never—I never used to do that before I joined the military. One firefight and a dishonorable discharge later, it turns out I do that all the time.” He started gulping air. Maybe he didn’t mean to share that much, all at once. Maybe that was another aspect of his disorder, something else he did compulsively and uncontrollably. 

“That’s nice,” Jason said and turned to Alana. “Why don’t you go ahead and introduce yourself?” 

She was tall, and you could tell she was hiding some serious muscle under her hoodie, especially when she stood up, (even though no one else had stood for their introduction thus far). When she started pacing, it was hard to miss the way she carried herself with a specific grace. 

“My name is Alana Hekekia. I’m a black belt in Brazilian Jujitsu, and I run a dojo back in Hawaii. I was only supposed to be here for a couple days.” Her breath hitched a little, and the pacing intensified—four steps, turn, four steps, turn. “I was visiting my family because I’ve been very sick, just very sick all the time, and honestly, I might die any day now.” She looked around forlornly, her eyes resting on each of us in turn, as if begging us to help her, fix her, heal her. All things considered, she seemed healthy enough at the time, but who was I to judge? Her golden skin had a washed-out cast to it, nothing more, easily chalked up to the circumstances. There was, however, something increasingly feverish and disconnected about her eyes. 

“And you?” 

It took me a moment to realize Jason was talking to me, and when I did, I glared at him like I intended to stare him down. “I don’t give out my real name,” I said shortly. “So like I told you earlier, you can call me Singh. I think the government probably engineered those zombies. Whether or not it was on purpose is the only question I need answers to right now. Oh, and also what are they going to do about it? I guess that’s a primary concern as well—so, two questions.” I’m still not sure why it felt so important for me to get that on record, rather than keeping my mouth shut, knowing the kind of ridicule I might face. Watching the video is like watching a twelve-step meeting. 

That’s when another voice broke in, accompanied by Brandon’s rising, nervous giggling, a laugh track to a bad sitcom. This time it was the wooly-haired skeptic talking. “Oh, come on you guys, you don’t still believe the zombies are real. You can’t believe that. I know Jason has to be in on this somehow—he’s involved with the special effects, you saw that. Of course he didn’t actually kill a little girl, that would be absurd.” The way he spun it into his running narrative, I got the sense that the moment he allowed himself to accept what was truly happening would be the moment he went insane. 

There were spots of color on Jason’s face now. “The rest of us know the zombies are real. It’s obvious they are.” I still can’t tell if he was irritated by the challenge this man posed, or if he was pleased by the excitement of it all. Sometimes his expressions managed to cover several bases at once. 

“It’s just a promotional gag for the Night of the Living Dead remake.” The wooly man turned to me. “You said so yourself.” 

I frowned as I thought of a diplomatic way to respond. “I didn’t actually say that,” is what I ended up going with. 

“It’s obvious this is all an elaborate prank, just a bunch of people who are going to get arrested and probably sued for going way too far. I’ve already left a voicemail with my lawyer, and I’m sure he’ll get back to me soon. Don’t know why he hasn’t already.” He searched our faces, saw only closed expressions. “Oh, come on, you can’t all believe they’re real, can you? Zombies aren’t real. They’re fiction.” He enunciated his words and spoke slowly, as if talking to children. “I sell refrigerators door to door, and I see all sorts of crazy things and crazy people all the time. Trust me, these are actors.” He was getting more and more worked up, eyes darting around in search of the weakest link, the person who might agree with him and lend weight to his argument, resulting in a snowball effect. 

“No, they’re dead,” someone finally said, “or as good as dead.” That was the only man who hadn’t spoken yet, the one our skeptic had been chasing. He was wearing a red and white name tag that said “Hello My Name Is.” Written under that, in nearly illegible scrawl, was “Mr. President,” and in parentheses, in even smaller writing: “of the United States.” Possibly he was the president of something else, maybe a comedy club, but I doubted even that. He didn’t seem like the kind of person you would put in charge of anything. “Trust me.” He winked at us. “I know dead people.” There was a specific emphasis to the word “know” that I found difficult to swallow—every time I rewatch this clip, it stands out to me even more. Usually it’s best to go with your first, unfiltered instinct. 

“And you are?” Jason asked, eyebrows raised. 

The man gestured absently to his name tag. 

At that point, my attention was still on the refrigerator salesman, because I was thinking that he was probably going to get someone killed. He saw that and took this as an opportunity. “You believe the government caused this? Sure, they did. They hired a bunch of crisis actors—the ones you people are always talking about. All of this is an elaborate distraction from whatever they’re up to now.” 

Using this as a distraction was definitely something the government would do, but I knew better than to think that these poor unfortunates were actors. And if this was the distraction, whatever they were hiding would have to have been off-the-charts horrible. 

“Man, what does he do in his spare time?” Jason asked the camera, his face a mask of innocence.

“I don’t steal sheep, if that’s what you’re thinking,” the man said quickly, in the same way that Ann had claimed she’d never killed anyone, the way Dahmer might have asserted that he’d never eaten human flesh. “If someone has been stealing sheep in the area, recently,” he added, “it would be a different man who fits a similar description to me, is all, and I would know nothing about that. I don’t know why I have to keep telling the police this. I bought all the sheep I own.” He pulled his wool blazer more tightly around his short, husky frame, eyes darting between his observers. 

“What was your name again?” There was something hostile about Jason’s tone, now, almost hungry. I imagined a clock in the air, counting down the seconds until the two of them came to blows. 

“Gregory Viltch.” As the man said it, his chest puffed out a little. “I think I might be the only sane person here.” 

Sane is probably a strong word. 

“Filch,” Jason muttered, half to himself. “I think I’ll call you Filch.” 

The room was starting to get a little restless now. It wasn’t just the rising tension between Jason and Gregory. By that point, the initial numbness had started to fade. People had started accepting how bad the situation was and who they were trapped with and that things were probably only going to get worse. They were starting to do the math and realize they didn’t like how the numbers added up. 

Gregory seemed ready to stand at any moment, run upstairs, and fling the door wide. 

In retrospect, that’s when I should have put a bullet through his brain—could have called it a preemptive strike, self defense if the right lawyers were in the room. A mercy for him, and for all of us. But I didn’t. I could feel the press of the holster on my hip, the weight of the sawed-off shotgun, but I kept my hands in my lap where I could see my ragged nails, the dried flecks of blood on my palms, the healing scratch from my cat, Hallucinogen. After all, I wasn’t a killer. It was one thing to think about it, another to act. I knew instinctively that I probably didn’t have what it would take, not if I couldn’t even force my way out of this house. 

“We should probably decide what we’re going to do next,” I said. My voice sounded unnaturally loud, an intrusion into the anxious silence. I pictured the basement traversed by a grid of lasers, crisscrossing the entire space, so that if any of us moved wrong, the whole building would go up. “No offense, Jason. Your murder fortress is great and all. But if the zombies are a relatively localized phenomenon, shouldn’t we focus on leaving the area?” 

“No,” he said. “We’re not cowards. We’re going to party like it’s the end of the world.” 

CHAPTER SIX 

“We should check the news before we get too distracted,” I said. “It’s been a couple hours. A lot could have happened.” Despite myself, I glanced up at the legs outside the window, shifting and swaying like the stalks of some strange, animate plant. 

At the very least, I was glad the windows were too small to let in anything larger than a child. But along with that thought came the image of Jason shooting the little girl. Even though she would have killed us, given the chance, I felt that sickness all over again, which was less about what he’d done and more about how he’d enjoyed doing it. 

“We still have power,” Alana said. “If we check the news again, there might be a helpline, someone we could call.” 

Though I appreciated the support, I doubted it would be that easy. And drawing the government’s attention didn’t seem like a good idea, at this or any other moment. 

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Jason dragged himself to his feet and turned on the TV. 

All the while the camera watched us with its baleful, red eye. It wasn’t alive, I knew, but I felt that whenever I shifted, it tracked me, a predator searching for signs of weakness. 

Predictably, the news was playing a clip of the action at the juice shop. Whoever had taken the footage offered chaotic commentary on the unfolding situation. We’d seen it so many times at this point, Jason mouthed along with the words, hamming it up when the yelling started, when the camera man himself was reduced to agonized screams, his equipment on the ground, the unmistakable sounds of ripping flesh preceding the cut. The whole time, Ann sat there laughing softly and clapping her hands, eyes starry and vague, as if this whole experience were fulfilling her every dream. I resolved to watch my back around her. 

It was then that I saw Jason in the crowd onscreen, blurry but unmistakable with a camera in his hand, and that’s how I knew later on to go through his footage. For half a second, I caught his eye and saw something sharp and knowing there. He winked, as if daring me to say something. 

The newscaster came on after the clip ended, a bland woman with brown hair and a rumpled navy dress sitting beside a sixty-something man in a tracksuit. Sweat gleamed on their un-powdered faces, pallid in the harsh glare of the studio lights. They squirmed in their seats like they had already been bitten and were trying to hide it. When they spoke, they didn’t read from a teleprompter—you could, instead, see them consulting handwritten sheets of paper on their shared desk. 

I have to give it to them. They were trying their hardest to put a brave face on an astronomically horrible situation, but all I can think was that they were probably stuck there in that building, barricaded against the living nightmare outside, that they were only appearing on air because there wasn’t anything else to do. Maybe this was the only thing keeping them sane. Or maybe they hoped that when this was over, their coverage of this story would make them famous and memorable. 

“The president has declared a state of emergency in the DMV,” the woman said. 

Watching them was like watching hostages talking about how they were safe and ready to go home once the ransom was paid. 

“While the infection has not been reported beyond the DC/Maryland/Virginia area, sources confirm that there are now military barricades around a total of twelve counties, with more expected to go up over the next few hours. Authorities have informed us that those attempting to cross the barricades, from either side, will be shot on sight.” 

I caught the subtext in her eyes, all the words she wasn’t saying, that she suspected it was already too late. Maybe I was reading too much into it, seeing my own thoughts reflected back instead of hers, but I think anyone with working brain cells understood the score. The possibilities were endless and varied: someone stopping in for a smoothie on their way cross country; someone who hightailed it out of there and went to ground, who had already been infected; someone with a child they couldn’t bear to turn over to the authorities. It only took one. From the moment it left the walls of Earth Joy, containing the infection had never  been an option. 

As the newscasters launched into a list of instructions for how to stay safe, the eight of us sized up each other’s reactions, waiting to see who’d speak first. 

If you squinted just right, you could look at what they’d said as a mix of good news and bad news, where the good was maybe worse than the bad. There was a chance of safety beyond the DMV, but we would never reach that safety. Eventually, if it wasn’t already in the works, the military would figure out a way to rescue all the essential personnel caught inside, everyone who was irreplaceable, but I’d had a hard time believing they’d prioritize anyone else, not if it meant putting the rest of the country at risk. Normal, healthy humans were going to be the greatest danger to us, one way or another. 

I looked around at this eclectic bunch of Jason fans, their faces visibly working over the problem. I remember doubting they’d gotten around to thinking through all the implications of our situation. Maybe that was me being unfair. No way to ask them now. 

“What are we going to do?” Ann moaned, rocking herself. 

I pictured us panicking and turning against each other. By the time the zombies broke through our defenses, we’d already be rotting. Again it came to me, the thought of sneaking out on my own, taking several guns and a backpack full of ammunition. I could commandeer Jason’s Porsche and make a break for safety. One person might slip unseen through the barricade where a group couldn’t. 

That’s when I caught Jason watching me. I saw it happen, that look in his eyes that told me he knew what I was thinking. Maybe it was written all over my face—an unmistakable, calculating expression. I’ve studied the screen so long, it’s hard to tell which details are real and which ones are imagined after the fact. Maybe it’s just that I’m a gamer, and that’s how gamers think, and he knew that. Or maybe he really could read minds. It felt like he could. 

“Let’s not get all bent out of shape,” he said. I knew he was talking to Ann, to the group in general, but he never took his eyes off mine, so it felt like he was talking to me alone. What I couldn’t figure out was if he would try to stop me again or go with me this time; there were any number of ways I could have factored into his plans, and I wasn’t about to ask. 

Brandon started laughing again, hysterical giggles bubbling up from deep inside. 

I didn’t want to be harsh or unnecessarily cruel, but I knew instinctively that he was worse for our morale than anything else. For a moment I considered the logistics of removing him from the playing field, and then I let myself really tease out the thought. I could take first watch and off him in the middle of the night. His absence would raise questions, but the ultimate effect would be better, I figured. It would save lives. There was the issue of his size; moving him would be difficult, maybe even impossible. Would there be a way to lure him outside, instead? And then there was the matter of killing him. Using a gun wasn’t an option—even with a silencer, the noise would be too distinct. Did Jason have knives? Or did I have the stones to lock Brandon outside and abandon him to his fate, alone with the undead? No, that was no good. Everyone would hear his screams; they would be worse than his laughter. 

I hated myself for following this train of thought, weighing all the possible outcomes, like this was a game of strategy instead of someone’s life. What did it say about me, that I hadn’t shut it down the moment the suggestion crossed my mind, that this was the second time a thought like this had occurred to me tonight? Brandon seemed like a genuinely nice guy. He wanted to live, too. Killing him wasn’t just one of several moves available in gameplay. 

I caught Jason staring again and tried to stop thinking. 

There was something about the way he sat, like a cat watching a mouse, waiting for it to run so he could pounce—even with his death between us, I still feel my skin crawling at the base of my skull. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a little half smirk I’d never seen before in any of his pictures online—it looked like his real, actual face. 

“Do you have any other vehicles, or is the convertible our only option?” Alana asked. “Did any of us drive here?”

“I have more.” Jason started to pace as the others shook their heads. Every time his eyes skated over me, it felt like they left a residue. “I have several. They’re not here, though.” 

At first I thought he was going to tell us to come with him, that we were going to make a break for it this very moment. My muscles tensed in preparation. 

Instead he adjusted the camera to follow his movement, crossed to the wall opposite, and slid a section of the paneling aside. Picture this: drywall painted white halfway down, and then wood all the way to the floor, and inside that a hidden treasure trove. Rows of shelves lined with bottles and shot glasses, backlit by LED strips. Whiskey and vodka and tequila and champagne, gin also. Poison green absinthe. Blue Hpnotiq. And other, stranger bottles, ones with labels written in foreign languages. Thousands of dollars worth of alcohol. 

I thought back to how Alana had mentioned his mother living with him, Jason saying something about how that had changed, though I couldn’t remember his exact wording at the time, and I got that same queasy feeling in my stomach that I still couldn’t name, a niggling thought I didn’t feel safe to chase just yet, but should have. 

He poured himself a shot of bourbon and threw it back, then poured another, which he gave to Alana—the same glass he’d been drinking from. As she looked at it like he’d just handed her the Holy Grail, he glanced up to make sure the camera was still catching this. 

I kept expecting him to choose this moment for some big reveal, something that would more than ensure our safety. Yes, my other cars aren’t here, but look outside—I have a tank, or maybe a helicopter, an intricate tunnel system that extends all the way to Tennessee. Something like that, something on the same scale as his guns and doomsday supplies. Something that could get us past the barricade without breaking a sweat. It was taking me a little longer than it should have to accept that wasn’t where his mind was going. 

My stomach rested somewhere near my toes as I watched Alana carefully place her lips in the impression his mouth had left, his eyes on her the whole time, hers on him, like some sort of cultic ritual. 

The 911 would be fine if I had open road. That baby had more than enough horsepower to outrun anything on two legs, even something not worried about pulling a hamstring. But the moment I was forced to slow down, I’d be a sardine in an open can—I didn’t trust the soft top to offer much protection. Plus the noise of the engine would call the undead from all directions and drown out the sound of their approach. It would announce my presence to other people, too. The more I thought about it, the harder it got to breathe. 

“Where are your other cars?” I asked, working to mask my irritation, my fear. “How far away?” 

“My garage is a couple miles down the road. It doubles as my editing studio, and—bonus—it has a pool. I keep my 1997 G Wagon and my 2019 Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat in that garage.” 

Ian scoffed, but I could see all the way through his bravado. “We could make it. A couple miles would be nothing, and we have more than enough ammunition. All we have to do is put together some makeshift armor—hell, if we layer up, their teeth might not be able to tear through. We could do it.” The reflection of the gleaming bottles shown in his eyes like tears. 

I remember wanting to feel sorry for him but feeling something else instead, which I am too ashamed to record. 

Finally Mr. President broke his silence. I’d been waiting for him to say something, because when he did, I knew it was going to be a peach. “I think we should sit tight and wait for the military to save us. They know I’m here and bring in the big guns. They’ll be wanting to get me to Mount Weather as soon as possible, and they’ll be happy to bring my friends along.” He smiled graciously at us, as if impressed by his own generosity.  

“I’m with Ian,” I cut in, before anyone else could. “I think we have to get out of here. The military is going to focus on putting down the undead, rather than saving a handful of lucky bastards. Think about it. If they truly believe they have the infection contained inside the barricade, what’s stopping them from firebombing the area? No one wants to risk even one zombie getting through. I don’t like our odds.” 

“Yeah, sorry, Mr. President,” Alana said. “I don’t think anyone’s coming for us.” 

“Oh, they’re coming.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. Everyone waited for him to elaborate further, but he didn’t, and no one wanted to push the issue, tensions being high enough already. 

“Here’s the thing,” Jason said, as he poured himself another shot. Brandon was on his feet now, helping himself to the vodka, and Ann was cradling a bottle of absinthe. She threw it back and swallowed several times, then wiped her mouth with a shaky hand. 

Jason offered me a mason jar, moonshine from Culpepper, and I took a sip before I could think better of it. How I hate the unmistakable fear I see reflected in my eyes in that footage, the way Jason’s lazy smile deepened when he recognized it. I remember telling myself the alcohol would settle my nerves. I remember the almost overwhelming urge to unhinge my jaw like a snake and drain the whole jar in one gulp, only stopping because of the expression on Jason’s face, something I still don’t want to name and probably never will. 

He waited until everyone was looking at him before saying, “We could risk our lives trying to run, when we already know the borders are a death trap. Doesn’t sound like fun to me.” Turning to face the camera, he raised his shot glass like he was presenting a toast. “By nightfall, the zombies will have lost our scent, or picked up a new one. They’ll have dispersed enough for us to make a break for it if we still want to, and in the meantime, I doubt anyone’s going to firebomb the county. It would be a PR nightmare.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” I argued. “Everyone on the outside is panicking, and the only way to look good right now is by ending things quickly. Letting this drag on indefinitely will be a worse PR nightmare.” Maybe I would have sounded a little more convincing if Alana hadn’t been finger-combing her hair at that exact moment, appraising her distorted reflection in one of the bottles. Ann stared at Jason with her mouth slack like a baby bird waiting to be fed while Brandon giggled in the background. 

Jason nodded at the mason jar in my hand. “You need to loosen up.” Every time I watch this clip, I hear the underlying tone, the threatening edge that no one else seemed to catch. “What’s that saying? Eat, drink, and be merry, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do next.” 

Here’s another thing I hated about Jason Vanderbilt. He truly believed nothing could go wrong. Right up until the bitter end, he honestly expected to come out on top, whatever that looked like. Never in his personal universe could he fathom an alternative. Me, I spent the whole time convinced I was going to die, which is probably the only reason I’m alive.

 

Copyright © 2025 by Elizabeth Brooks