All That's Left in the World (All That's Left in the World, #1)

by Erik J. Brown

His smirk returns. “It’s the apocalypse and you decide to make enemies with Wile E. Coyote.”

What an adorable meet-cute that would be to tell our postapocalyptically adopted grandchildren!

And you have to picture Sandra Bullock when . . . You do know who Sandra Bullock is, right?” “The blindfold movie.” My jaw drops. That’s his Sandra Bullock movie?

But that’s what I like about them. They’re safe and predictable.

I don’t think Baltimore was super safe even before the bug.”

Oh my fucking God, is that adorable or are my standards apocalyptically lowered?

“Plus I feel it adds a touch of whimsy to the apocalypse.

It’s bigger than Bradley International in Connecticut, but isn’t this named after the dude everyone had such a boner for in the eighties? Shouldn’t the guy who killed thousands of gay people through inaction have gotten something a little more ostentatious from his right-wing fluffers?

Of course not. We’ve known each other for almost three months; he’s bound to realize there’s more out there for him than just nursing wayward gay boys back to health.

making me feel normal—as normal as I can, given the multiple circumstances we find ourselves in.

“I had a great time. This is the best apocalypse conference I’ve ever been to. Seriously! I mean, the Zombie Zymposiums never have fireworks displays. Did you hear what I did there, Jamie? I changed the s in Symposium to a z to make it alliterative and clever.”

I wonder if Fort Caroline realizes they’ve invented socialism.

He follows me into my room and I shut the door. I don’t know how to say this. How do I get through to him? But he speaks first: “We have to get the fuck out of here.”

“Where is your home?” Andrew asks. “Easton. It’s in Maryland. On the Eastern Shore.”

When he kisses me, my chest feels lighter again, like he’s taking on some of my sorrow but passing on some of his love. Evenly distributed like the supplies that have been in our packs during this journey. And I remember those first days out from the cabin when he was limping and I carried more. Or when I was injured and he carried everything. That’s how we’ve survived together.

What if people can’t speak out against injustice—or what was considered injustice before all this—because they need help from a community? What if everything continues to spiral downward and history repeats itself because the people who are here to write it choose how it’s written? They know what to put in and what to leave out; what to teach and what to ignore.