Authors: T. Michael Martin
What if Mom
did
make it to Richmond, and she’s still okay?
some small part of him thought.
Is that possible?
After the pain and terror of all his own false predictions, Michael tried to push
down the idea. Jopek had said the Safe Zone in Richmond was overrun.
But Jopek had lied about a lot of things. I don’t “know” for sure that things are
good . . . but maybe that doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re bad. I don’t know,
but I’m going to keep going, anyway.
And maybe that was hope.
“I . . . I dunno, Bub,” Michael said honestly.
Patrick nodded, his lips pulling into his mouth. He didn’t blink, but a moment later,
the half-light in the sky lit the trails down his cheeks. He clenched the vial tighter
in his small hands. How had the vial survived all Michael’s falls since the bank?
I mean,
How?
For some reason, Michael thought of what Patrick had said.
The deer. The deer knocked ’im down.
Bobbie could have been right, Michael supposed. There could be something watching
over them.
But if there is
, he thought,
I don’t think I could understand it in a billion years.
“If I give this to other Good Guys,”
Patrick whispered,
“it’ll really make everything all better?”
Michael found himself smiling. “I think it will.” He searched himself, and he found,
with a relief like warm wind, that he wasn’t lying. Or, he didn’t think he was.
“I m-m-miss Mommy,” Patrick said. “She’s a good . . .” Patrick blinked, frankly confused.
He struggled to find the word. “She’s
good
,” he finally decided.
Yes, she was good, Bub
. Is.
Maybe
is, Michael thought.
Holly was right: Mom’s weak. But not
just
weak. Yeah, Bub. She’s also good
.
Patrick stood up, placing his hands on the edge of the basket, and looked out. Holly
shifted again and cough-snorted in her sleep. It was kind of ridiculously cute.
Patrick whispered,
“Girlfriend, now?”
Michael blushed a little. Nodded.
“Wow,” Patrick said, pretending to be amazed. “I have a
girlfriend
.”
“Bub, jeesh!”
Patrick shrugged with one shoulder. Laughed a little.
I think he’s going to be okay. I can’t believe it, but I think he really is.
The Game was fake . . . but this was real.
He really got past
The End.
The first pale, fragile yellow of dawn was touching the mountains and the valleys.
A water tower loomed through the fog, drifting before being vanished. Silos, delicate
roads, a toy-size tractor in the white. Look at the world. Wonder: What is this place?
It seemed like a new earth, scarless, their sphere to shape. And even if Michael had
learned enough to know the lie in that, he couldn’t help but find it beautiful.
And he wasn’t scared.
Liar,
his mind whispered. Well . . . okay. Okay, he
was
scared, but just then he had a feeling he’d never quite had before: like the fear
didn’t encompass him. Like he was other things, too.
“Michael?” whispered Patrick.
“Yeah?”
“Low-five.”
Michael tried to slap his hand. Patrick pulled away. “Too slow,” Patrick said.
Michael laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lo—”
But he stopped when they both heard the sound. A hissy sort of sound, and his first
thought was that the hot-air burner was running low on gas.
But the sound had shaken Holly awake: it was that loud. And when it happened again,
she didn’t look up toward the burner. Her eyes slid down to the canvas bag. To the
long, rectangular shape inside it. Shaped almost like an old phone.
Holly whispered,
“What the?”
Patrick said, “Did that just—?”
The man on the radio, cutting off the white noise that had sent Michael off to sleep,
said:
“—broadcast zone—”
Michael, Holly, Patrick: gawping.
It was Patrick who lunged for the handheld walkie-talkie. He pounced down so hard,
it was almost funny: the balloon basket swung a few feet underneath them.
“—zone, please respond—”
said the radio. The voice coming through the waffle-fencing on the speaker sounded
crinkly, far-off, a tin-can sound.
Patrick pushed down the red
SEND
button on the side of the walkie, with some effort.
“Y’hello, baby?!”
he shouted into it.
“Patrick!” Holly called, her voice shaky with tension. Patrick smiled up at her and,
despite the suspense of the silence that followed, he looked pleased at making her
laugh.
“Bub, here, let me.” Michael took the walkie from Patrick’s hands.
Oh my God. Holy freaking crap. Is that a
person
? Is it really?
No. No, you don’t know. It might just be a recording. Don’t, Michael: don’t get your
hopes up.
But: why not?
some other part of him said, his hands shaking.
Seriously: why
not
?
And he was bringing the walkie up to his mouth—there was a brief burst of static and
feedback—when a man, on the crackling speaker, sounding shocked, replied,
“Hello?”
Michael’s finger eased up from the worn, red rectangle
SEND
button.
The moment hung in the air between them all. The sun peaked over behind a mountain;
Michael squinted, feeling dazed. The voice of a stranger, snatched from the air and
sounding from this thing in his palm . . . it was like magic.
“Repeat: Is anyone there? Come in.”
Holly put her arm around Michael’s shoulder and squeezed a couple times.
“Repeat: Sir, are you there?” said the man on the radio. “Over.”
Michael, gulping, stared at the walkie. . . .
And pushed down
SEND
.
“Y-yeah.” His voice felt fragile, like glass. “Here. Uh, over.”
He had barely let up the button when the walkie exploded, “Son of a
GUN
!”
Michael pictured a young guy falling back in his chair, hands flying to his headphones
with the amazement of a man who has just heard a miracle. “Whelp, you—
wow
!” said Radio Man, as Holly laughed in wonder. “Hell-
oh
! Hey! Pal! It is
good
to hear a voice out there in radio land! How the hell are
you
?”
Still nervous, Michael smiled a little. “Compared to what?”
He heard Radio Man guffaw: “Do I hear that? I sure do!” Muttering in the background
of the other end of the line. Michael pictured other people gathered around Radio
Man’s machine. He . . . he imagined soldiers.
“Ah, sir,” the walkie-talkie said: a more official, man-in-charge tone. “How many
are in your party, sir? Over.”
“Three,” Michael replied. It felt dizzying, the truth. “You?” Grinning hugely, Holly
mouthed to him:
over
. “O-over,” Michael said into the walkie-talkie.
There was a pause across the airwaves. And then Radio Man said, “More,” with his smiling
voice—his
beaming
voice, actually. “
More
than three.
“Three out there in radio land,” he said disbelievingly. “Oh, boy. Thank G . . .”
For some reason, he sounded nearly like he was going to cry.
“Hey, pal, your signal’s going out; let’s get your location info before we lose each
other, okay?” said Radio Man after a moment. “I’ve just got to ask: Who
are
you?”
Who are you?
Michael closed his eyes.
And while he rode the wind that carried them into his unpredictable dawn, he pushed
down the
SEND
button, and answered.
The End Games
is a work of fiction that contains some nonfiction elements. For example, Charleston
and virus mutations really do exist, but for the story’s sake, I’ve taken creative
liberties with both. Other aspects of the book are invented whole cloth, including:
Southern West Virginia Coal and Natural Gas, Coalmount, Atipax, and of course the
existence of Bellows.
Here is a truth about a novel (and perhaps especially a debut): The author’s name
is emblazoned on the jacket, but the story within is a kind of topographic map of
his past and his heart—and neither of those things can formed in isolation.
I’m grateful to many, many people for their guidance and companionship in creating
my particular map. Here are their names, with a few special explanations at the end.
Bridgeport
: Scott Faris, Brendan Gibat, Heidi Griffith, Charles and Joanna Kovalan, Amy Lohmann,
Alice Rowe, and Jeff Toquinto.
Family:
Everyone, but especially my grandparents (Bobbie and Jack Crouse, Tom and Louise
Martin), my wonderful second family (Rick, Abbie, Will, and Billie Layne, and Bill
and Jeanne McNamara), my siblings (Matt, Molly, and Patrick), and my uncle Jimmy,
who inspired my love of fear in the first place.
Film school
: Ted Ferris, Jordan Kerner, Laura Hart McKinney, Bill Mai, Joseph Mills, Tom O’Keefe,
Laura Hauser O’Keefe (who is also a talented designer/illustrator who helped me with
my website), Dale Pollock, Ron Stacker Thompson, and Andrew Young. Most of all here,
though, I owe a profound thanks to Dona Cooper, whose generosity of spirit and wisdom
shaped my understanding and love of storytelling.
At HarperCollins
: Alessandra Balzer, Molly O’Neill, Viana Siniscalchi, and Jon Smith.
Misc. people who have been nice/inspiring to me:
Pilar Alessandra, Leo Babauta, Brene Brown, Brook Bishop, Jack Canfield, Father Harry
Cramer, Paula Friedland, Seth Godin, Michael Hyatt, Harry Knowles, Robert McKee, Ammi-Joan
Paquette, Carson Reeves, Anthony Robbins, Craig Skistimas, and Gary Vee.
New Leaf Literary & Media
: Danielle Barthell, Kathleen Ortiz, Pouya Shahbazian, and Suzie Townsend.
Winston-Salem
: Tom and Sarah Jane Bost, Tanya Gunter, Caleb and Emily Masters, Ed and Pat Mayfield,
Michelle Reed and the Bagel Station Crew, and Jamie Rogers Southern.
Writer friends/supporters
: Bryan Bliss, S.A. Bodeen, Joshua Ferris, Ridley Pearson, Stephanie Perkins, Carrie
Ryan, R.L. Stine, and Nova Ren Suma.
YouTubers who inspired and/or supported me:
Ed Bassmaster, Elmify, LiveLavaLive, BertieBertG, Link Neal of RhettAndLink, and
the VlogBrothers.
And, especially:
My editor, Donna Bray, who I think is literally ingenious. Donna’s insights, patience,
and unbelievable
care
made me transcend everything I’d allowed myself to hope
The End Games
could be. Thank you so much, Donna.
My mom and dad, Kim and Mike Martin, whose steadfast support of my writing gave me
the strength to fight monsters in my stories (and my self).
My little brother, Patrick Martin. The “Michael and Patrick” in this novel are not
us
, but being the older brother of an awesome kid who loved zombies as much as I did
made
The End Games
possible. You rule, Bub.
My agent and best advocate, Joanna Volpe, who is a voice of calm in times of writer-y
confusion, and who understood
The End Games
from the beginning and did so much to make this dream become true.
Sara Zarr, whose kindness and friendship changed my life, and whose mentorship led
me toward the endgame of this novel. Here is another truth: Without SZ, there would
simply be no novel.
And finally, more than anyone else, I want to thank my wife, Sarah Louise Martin,
whose “Sarahpo” artwork delights me and whose love fills my life with light and hope.
There can be no overstating this: Having Sarah in my life is a miracle, and I love
her with my whole heart.
T. MICHAEL MARTIN
is a novelist and screenwriter who holds a BFA in filmmaking from the University
of North Carolina School of the Arts. He was inspired to write his debut novel,
The End Games
, by his own younger brother, Patrick, and their mutual love of zombie movies. He
and his wife, Sarah, live in West Virginia. You can visit him online at www.tmichaelmartin.com.
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Cover art © 2013 by Jon Smith
Cover design by Jon Smith and Ray Shappell
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
The End Games
Copyright © 2013 by T. Michael Martin
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martin, T. Michael.
The end games / T. Michael Martin. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: “In the rural mountains of West Virginia, seventeen-year-old Michael
Faris tries to protect his fragile younger brother from the horrors of the zombie
apocalypse”— Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-06-220180-5 (hardcover bdg.)
EPUB Edition MARCH 2013 ISBN 9780062201829
[1. Survival—Fiction. 2. Zombies—Fiction. 3. Brothers—Fiction. 4. West Virginia—Fiction.
5. Science fiction.] I. Title.