The Reverse of Everything Read online

  There are rules in the new world. Rules you have to make up as you go along because everything changes. I don’t like change but I force myself to adapt. Except where other people are concerned. If there’s one thing you want to avoid in the new world, it’s other people. Other people make you weak—I’ve seen that too. When you love someone, you’ll make stupid choices that are more like risks. Those risks get you dead, but in the new world, dying doesn’t mean you stay dead. Nothing’s a guarantee anymore.

  Everything about the new world is already a risk, and I wasn't born to this world. I've had to learn how to move around quietly in it, how to sit still, and how to be one with the things that shuffle along, waiting for someone to make a poor choice. When everything goes the wrong way, you have to close yourself off from it.

  I have mastered that. I’m the master of not caring.

  I know what I need to do to live. I have lain amongst the dead. I have run through the woods in the dark, my eyesight clearing like a wild animal’s might. I have embraced the darkness.

  I have learned how to live without. Not just things but people and comfort.

  Because that’s the new world.

  I have one place that reminds me of the girl I was supposed to be. That place is all I have left of the world before, and so I treasure it and keep it secret.

  I creep out into the beam of dust lingering in the air, sparkling from the sunlight that found its way down two stories into a dark cellar. I lift my fingers into the light, letting it touch me and make just one spot tingle with warmth. The beam of light almost makes me smile. I admire its determination at finding its way into the darkness, no matter what. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, that gives me hope. Hope I must shake my head at, to bring my thoughts back around, to take my first step toward the stairs and leave this dark place.

  The explosions never destroyed this home in any way. It’s far too high on a lonely mountain, in a range of lonely mountains. The stairs are in one piece which has become a bit of a novelty. Thankfully, the old farmhouse is just too far from any major center to have even been aware of the problems, at least maybe in the beginning.

  The blood smears on the white siding outside prove that the horror of the infection has touched every inch of this world. Even a lonely place such as this.

  The hardwood creaks under my first step. I hold my breath and hope the creak went unheard. I take a breath and execute the second step slowly, allowing my body weight to shift onto it softly. I hesitate taking the third, giving the sounds space and distance of random noises a farmhouse would make. My heart beats like it might attempt to get free from my constricted chest. I wait a moment longer—it's another rule: never leave when you feel it's safe. Always wait one more second. Safe is an illusion, and once you believe the illusion, you lose everything.

  I put my feet to the far sides of the stairs, where the nails attach the boards to the frame. Shallow breaths make sounds in the new world, in the borderlands anyway. I have not ventured out of the borderlands. I don’t know what the rest of the world looks like, just what I’ve heard from people in the towns. They say the cities are demolished but still crawling with the infected that didn’t die. The roads are blocked with cars that didn’t make it out of the cities in time.

  My car is there somewhere, lost along the dead highway with the remains of those I left behind.

  But here, there’s a silence that could drive you mad. No electricity, no cars, no phones, no buzz. The world sits quiet as if sighing and taking a long inhale after what seemed like forever with mankind and the noise pollution. I swear to the God everyone used to pray to, the earth is taking it all back. Mother Earth probably just wants us gone—us and our evil.

  I don’t think there’s any good left in us anyway.

  Every decision I make out here pushes me one step further away from good. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself out here. I get lost in surviving and forget to just be a girl. A girl Granny and my dad could be proud of.

  Thank God for Leo and home. I’m at peace when I’m home, but here in the open world, I’m one of them. One of what is left, that scrambles to survive, most of the time separate from anyone else. We all understand the hard truths of this place. The good die and the strong do what they have to, to survive. The best we can hope for is a place that brings us peace.

  I focus my thoughts back to the task of getting home—getting back to my peace.

  I peek through the cellar door and try to keep my anxious heartbeat low and my breath quiet. My body needs to make some noises, but others can be controlled.

  The house is simple and plain, but it’s a typical farmhouse and they’re the best houses. They always sit a long ways off the road, not that roads matter. And farmhouses always have canning and pickling reserves that would outlast any human. They always have safety supplies and extras of everything. Farmers lived the longest, just like my father always said they would. The farmers and the people who were already bad. Seems like that’s all that’s left in the world. If I could just meet one person worth knowing, I might not be so dead inside. But that could make me weak. Dying for someone else would negate all the things I have done to stay alive.

  Leaving the basement always brings the same thought to my mind. I wish this place could be my peace, my place that makes me calm. It has everything and it’s centrally located to the towns at the base of the hills. Supply runs would be so much easier if I could live here. Two supply trips a year is rarely enough, but if I travel any more than that, I’ll be caught.

  I have come close so many times.

  And that’s the reason I stay at my place. It’s too far for anyone to care about one girl at the top of a mountain.

  I tiptoe into the country kitchen, and as always, I’m amazed at how pristine it is. All the dishes are put away and the counters are clear. It reminds me of my granny’s house. Everything is still in its place, just as it was the first time I came here. Now though, layers of dust have found their way into the home, along with the bits of weeds growing through the cracks. With no busy little granny to buzz around dusting and tidying, everything shows its years of abandonment. Vines creep up the sides of the house like all the houses. As always, I stand against the doorframe and put my hand at the top of my head as a measurement. I turn and note how much higher it is than the mark I once foolishly put there.

  That mark was put there by a little girl who didn’t know anything. She knew loss but that was it. For every inch I have grown, I have learned something else I wish I didn’t have to know.

  I turn away from the mark, pushing away the memories of the little girl, and remember who I am. I walk low to the ground toward the back door. I can't help but laugh inside at how I still feel safer leaving through the back door, even though there’s no front or back. There are only doors. They don't go anywhere anymore because there’s no direction.

  Nothing goes anywhere. Everything just is, and dead is just as awful as undead.

  I carefully position the heavy pack on my back. It contains jars full of heart and soul and survival. Each jar is like a kiss from the old lady who canned and pickled her own farm-fresh vegetables. I assume there are no preservatives, no added salt, and no colorings. There aren't any labels to contradict it. For all I know, she was using MSG in everything. I smile at the letters MSG; they meant something to me once. It meant we couldn’t eat in that restaurant because my dad said it would make me sick and weak willed.

  That was before.

  I fight back memories of nice old ladies and the world before. I have been to many worlds in my life and being nineteen feels more like fifty most days.

  I harden my heart and my instincts sharpen as the hate surges through me. I need to get back to him and we need to get home. I take a deep breath and creak the door open as if the wind has taken it and is playing with it. I close it again and open it as if the wind coming off the brown dry fields is playing with the door.

  My animal eyes focus on the dirt yard. Nothing moves beyo
nd the dust dancing in the light. I should be waiting for night to travel, but I’ve stayed too long this time. I need to get back. Things only live so long without being tended to. I know this well. My garden has died many times before.

  The old barn doors in the loft swing in the soft breeze, their creaking noises slipping out into the dry air. I listen for the other noises that should be here. The long brown grass sways adding a crunching sound to the soft trickle of the pebbles scuttling along the dusty driveway. Everything moves in sync with the wind.

  I had to learn how to spot this. I learned it from him. He sees everything all at once, a hunter’s instinct. When I met him I had the instinct of prey, but he has taught me to be like him.

  I pull the door open and cringe. This is always the worst part of the walk home, leaving this house. If I ever got my wish for anything in this whole world, I would stay here and make it mine. But I understand what happens to people who have things in this world: someone kills them and takes what they have.

  It doesn’t matter what I want.

  I close it off and let the mean settle in. The mean is what gets me home and keeps me safe.

  My eyes squint in the intense light of the sun as it tries to blind me. My pack feels like a ton of bricks, but I take my first steps, desperate for it to be over with already. I don’t jostle the pack too much. I don’t want to break any jars. I have learned that pickle juice is hard to get out and backpacks are even harder to find. That’s a trip to the towns or to the old subdivisions on the borders of the cities. I’ve taken that risk before.

  Going across the gravel and dirt driveway to the field is the worst. It's wide open to the yard. I scan the area, walking with my shotgun in my hand. At home I practice regularly with my rifle and silencer, but on the road I bring the shotgun.

  It's my lucky gun. The cold thick metal of it makes me feel strong, though I know what strength is.

  Strength is not pulling the trigger. At this point, I have yet to prove my strength to myself. I always take the coward’s path. Just like my dad told me to.

  My boots crunch along. I step softly, but some noises are unavoidable. The noise will last until I reach the huge wheat fields. Then I’ll be a whisper in the wheat, like the wind.

  I enter, not looking back.

  When I reach the field, I know the rule.

  My legs groan under the first steps. My arches ache at the push in the beginning, but after the first quarter mile, I start to warm up and my legs enjoy running.

  My back is the biggest issue. The pack is so much heavier than I’ve trained with. I grip the shoulder straps tight till my arms can’t stand it for another second. Even then I push it until I reach the forest.

  I run deep into the woods, always on the same side, never the same path, but always the same destination. The branches whip past me, the edge of the forest being the thickest and the light penetrating the least. As the forest clears I see him. He's smiling like always. He's calm. He doesn’t run and jump. He waits to ensure I’ve brought nothing with me. He’s seen them before. He knows how bad it can be. Together we’ve seen the people get swarmed and taken, usually women. Like I said, the bad people seemed to live through the hard times, somehow ready for this life of survival before the world ended.

  “Leo,” I whisper, out of breath but desperate to say one thing. Being alone in that basement for days makes me lose my senses sometimes.

  Instead of the warm greeting we both want, I turn around and hold my shotgun. I walk backward as Leo saunters over to watch the forest. We sit behind a tree and wait. After a few minutes I put the pack down and climb one of the huge trees. The thick branches are rough against my hands. The skin softens up over the spring when I don't have to chop wood. Spring ain’t what it used to be. It’s hot and heavy in the new world.

  “Not ain’t, Emma. Isn’t is what a lady would say.” I smile when I whisper it. It’s what she would have said. My granny had a thing for the word “ain’t.” She had a thing for sounding educated.

  I sit on a branch and look through my binoculars from the viewpoint.

  I have a view of the entire field of brown hay from here. In another weak moment I let myself imagine living in the farmhouse one day and harvesting the hay. Peering through the small holes of the binoculars, it’s easy to get caught up; they don’t let you see the rest of the world.

  My eyes strain. I try to find even a single strand of the long grass moving in a way to signify I’ve been followed. The farmhouse sits motionless and alone, and I hope it will sit that way until my next visit. I wait before I pull the binoculars from my face and let the breeze sway me on my perch.

  I wish for a second that I could fly away into the white clouds that appear the way they always have. They don't know the world has ended and that they don't need to make shapes for us anymore. There’s no us. Past the farmhouse everything moves just as it should. No one has followed me. I climb down, tired and eager for my own bed.

  When my feet touch the ground again I smile at Leo, his gentle yellow eyes confirming my findings. We’re alone. I drop to my knees to greet him as he bounds toward me. The large timber wolf licks my face and lifts his massive paws up to hug me. I hugged him so often when he was a baby that one day he hugged back. He's done it ever since.

  Sometimes you just need a hug. Sometimes I just need to cry. He understands that.

  I haven’t seen much good since it all ended, not in people anyway, but the animals are still good. They live the way they always did. I wish we spent our time trying to be more like them, instead of trying to survive this new world.

  I wish I could be more like them and need less of the world.

  Leo lightly nuzzles me and nips at my arms. I rub his soft ears and stand. I pat him gently on his huge gray head. "Ready?"

  He tilts his head meaning he is, so I pick up the heavy pack and adjust it on my back again. The hike home will take the entire day if I manage to keep a solid pace. Leo starts out for home by heading past the old broken oak tree.

  Our meeting place.

  Buy here - Born

  Afterword

  Small disclaimer: Anderson Cooper was forced into this novel by me, unbeknownst to him, and he has not said any of the things I made him say.

  Because the world isn’t ending.

  Not yet!

  Also I want to thank my Scream Queens for always being there and helping me out. You girls and Nick are the best.

  Other YA Books by Tara Brown

  The Roses

  Cursed

  Bane

  Hyde

  Witch

  Death

  Blackwater

  Midnight Coven

  Redeemers and Betrayers

  The Royals Series

  A Royal Pain

  A Royal Affair

  A Royal Wedding

  Crimson Cove Mysteries

  Pretty Girls Die First

  The Little Crimson Lies

  When The Lights Fade

  The Born Series

  Born

  Born to Fight

  Reborn

  The Light Series

  The Light of the World

  The Four Horsemen

  The End of Days

  The Last City of Men Series

  Imaginations

  Duplicities

  Reparations

  The Blood Trail Chronicles

  Vengeance

  Vanquished

  Valiant

  The Seventh Day Series

  The Seventh Day

  The Last Hour

  The Earth’s End

  First Kiss

  Sunder

  In the Fading Light

  The Reverse of Everything

  About Me

  I believe growing up in a really small town gives a person a little advantage when it comes to the imagination. You need one or you go mad.

  Needless to say, mine saved me. After it got me into trouble first, that is. That's the problem with a vivid imag
ination, all the lies you tell.

  According to my age, I am meant to be a responsible adult, but it isn't going well at all. I would still head off to Hogwarts tomorrow and I suspect there isn't a single wardrobe I haven't crept into, hoping to find the door to Narnia. And don't even get me started on the King's Road, I get lost.

  Fortunately, I am an international bestseller so I have wormed my way into a quirky or eccentric category.

  Thank God for that.

  I am happily married with two daughters.

  I have two giant dogs, two savage cats, and a penchant for a glass of red.

  I am represented by Natalie Lakosil from the Bradford Literary Agency and am published traditionally with Montlake Romance and Skyscape Publishing.

  https://www.tarabrownauthor.com

  http://TaraBrown22.blogspot.com