“Blow out your candles,” Justine said, “but make a wish first. A good one. Don’t waste it.”
Justine Carmichael, his closest friend—and a lot more than just a friend—was standing beside him in her purple hooded sweatshirt. Her long black hair spilled out of the front of her hood on either side of her face and hung down like strange tassels. The only survivor of her family, she’d moved in with the Healys after her parents and sister were killed by the corrupt former mayor, Gene Marshall Filmore. She’d taken over the upstairs guest room, and as far as Darryl was concerned, she fit right in. It felt like she’d always been there.
Darryl leaned over, but he couldn’t think of a good birthday wish. He wanted to ask for something specific, something meaningful, but long seconds were passing and everyone was staring at him. For a better future, he thought finally, then he blew out the candles. Everyone applauded, as if he’d accomplished something, and he smiled, embarrassed.
“Seventeen years old,” Horace Bouchard said. The old man was the only one sitting down. He’d taken one of the padded chairs and pushed it back into a corner of the dining room. “Almost old enough to vote.” Horace had been the nearest neighbor to the Healy ranch for years—a crusty but kindhearted old Canadian Armed Forces veteran—but once violence broke out in town, he’d moved in with them as well. As a double amputee, he depended on a pair of prosthetic legs to get around. Though the legs were old and uncomfortable, he never complained.
“If there even are elections by the time he’s eighteen,” Darryl’s mother said.
She cut the first slice of cake and tipped it sideways onto a plate.
She handed the plate to Darryl, but he passed it to Justine, who accepted it with a nod and dug in.
“There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask,” Justine said, through a mouthful of cake. “So, you’re just now turning seventeen, but you’ve got college textbooks on your desk upstairs. What’s that all about?”
“He skipped a grade,” Marion explained, cutting a second slice of cake. “Just like me. Got started on college early.”
Darryl’s dad spoke up. “Skipping grades runs in the family, on Marion’s side, not my side.”
“Well, now, Greg, let’s not forget, your father skipped three grades,” Tabitha said.
“That’s because he dropped out of school to take care of the family farm,” Greg said.
“It still counts as skipping,” Tabitha said.
“If you say so.”
Darryl finally accepted a slice of cake. His mother made sure he got an enormous slice. He dug in with the fork and found that the texture wasn’t quite right. It was dense as a pound cake, and when he tasted it, he realized it wasn’t sweet enough. Still, it was cake, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten cake.
And this might be the last time ever, he realized. A world without birthday cake! How awful.
As if to confirm this thought, his mother said, “I guess for the next birthday, we’ll make waffles or something. I don’t know.”
“Wow, what if this is the last bite of cake I ever eat in my life?” Justine said, holding up the last small chunk of her cake on the end of her fork. “I guess I’d better burn it into my memory, like I did the last time I ate a slice of fresh pineapple. Gone forever. I’ll only eat cake in my dreams.” And with that, she plunged the cake into her mouth and appeared to roll it around on her tongue.
Watching her eat, with his whole family standing around the table, Darryl had a sudden realization. Even though the world had changed, even though they struggled every single day, and even though he might be eating the last piece of cake he would ever eat, he was still happier than he’d ever been. Before the EMP, he’d been struggling to find enough motivation to make it through college, just sort of drifting from day to day, but now he had purpose. He had work to do, people to care about.
By the somber look on Justine’s face, he assumed she didn’t feel quite the same way. She was mostly staring at her empty plate now, as if she were already reminiscing about the lost cake. He nudged her with his elbow, and she blinked rapidly, as if pulling herself out of her thoughts. Then she set the empty plate on the table.
“It was decent,” she said, softly.
“It won’t be the last cake ever,” Darryl’s sister said suddenly. There was a sharp edge to Emma’s voice, as if she found the idea offensive. “We’ll make another one somehow. Just you wait and see. Heck, we’ll grow our own sugar cane if we have to.”
“Not sure we can grow sugar cane in this environment,” Tabitha said, “but there are other kinds of natural sweeteners. Plenty of maple sugar, for example.”
“Maple cake,” Emma said, making a disgusted face. “No thanks. Maple belongs in cookies, not cake.”
From his seat in the corner, Horace Bouchard accepted the tiniest sliver of cake. “Can’t eat much more than this,” he said. “Never was much one for sweets. I’m more of a steak and potatoes guy.” And then he proceeded to pick up the entire slice and cram it all in his mouth. Horace was a tough-looking old guy. Though he was in his late sixties, Darryl could still see the hard edges of the old soldier. Firelight from the living room flickered faintly on the metal poles of his prosthetic legs.
“Now, steak we have,” Tabitha said. “We’ve got more salted beef down in the root cellar than we know what to do with. You’ll get your wish come dinner time, Horace.”
“That suits me just fine,” Horace said. “You put me to work, and I’ll earn that meal.”
“Oh, Horace, you’ve earned your keep around here and then some,” Tabitha said.
Darryl thought his grandmother looked tired, and he considered saying something. She also served herself a rather large piece of cake, which surely wasn’t good for her diabetic diet. Darryl worried about her health, and he kept an eye on her constantly, looking for signs or symptoms of a deteriorating condition. She pushed herself too much, and she’d been standing around all morning. Fortunately, she soon pulled a chair back and sat down, fanning herself with her hand.
After cake, Darryl grabbed his coat and made his way onto the porch, brushing off one of the rocking chairs before sitting down. Deep snow covered the front yard, hiding the driveway and piling up on the fence posts. After a minute, Justine joined him, having changed into ski pants. When she settled into her seat, she didn’t bother brushing off the snow.
“I like that feeling,” she said, “when you sink down into the snow. It’s sort of comforting.”
“Isn’t it cold on your butt?” he said.
“Sure, but I don’t mind the cold,” she replied with a shrug. She jammed her hands into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and gazed off toward the fence. Darryl heard a soft crunch as she slowly sank deeper into the snow of her seat.
Darryl rocked quietly for a minute. There was a profound silence, the piles of snow making the whole world feel insulated and still. Fortunately, the rest of the family took a hint and didn’t join them on the porch right away. He heard them moving around inside. Someone was stoking the fire in the fireplace. Someone else was headed upstairs.
Justine had pushed her hood back just enough to reveal her face. Dark eyes, round cheeks, jet-black hair—he’d grown very fond of that face. However, there was something downcast in her eyes, something distant in her gaze. She seemed upset, though he couldn’t imagine why. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. What if she didn’t want to talk about it? Still, he hated to see her like this, especially on his birthday.
She wasn’t the only one. Darryl’s father hadn’t said more than ten words during the birthday celebration. Heck, he hadn’t said more than about twenty words in the last two days. Why now, after they’d done so much to recover from the attack, from the tragedy, from all of the awfulness after the EMP, why now were some sliding into despair?
Talk about it later, he told himself. For now, just try to enjoy the day. You’re seventeen. It’s your birthday, and things aren’t so bad anymore.
2
Eventually, everyone else made their way onto the porch. At first, Darryl thought they were just being nosy, but then he saw that his grandmother was carrying a big ceramic bowl of what appeared to be pink ice cream. His mother brought smaller bowls and spoons, and Horace Bouchard had a roll of paper towels.
“Whoa, where did you get ice cream?” Darryl asked.
“Made it with snow, of course,” Tabitha said. “Emma set a big bowl out early this morning to catch the snowfall, then we added some fresh cream, used the last of some sweet cherry flavoring I had in the kitchen, and here you go. Don’t worry, the snow is clean out here. This isn’t big city snow.”
She set the big bowl on the table between the chairs. As Marion began scooping ice cream into smaller bowls, Darryl rose from his rocking chair and offered it to Horace. The old veteran was standing at the railing, looking uncomfortable and leaning heavily on his crutch. When Darryl waved him toward the chair, he first shook his head, but then he seemed to think better of it. With a grunt, he lowered himself into the chair. The old man couldn’t bear his weight for long, and when he was tired, he could hardly stand at all.
Darryl joined his father at the handrail, gazing off across the snowy yard toward the fence. When initially constructed, they’d worked so quickly that the fence was an ugly, ill-designed mess. In the past few weeks, they’d done quite a bit of work reinforcing it, but it still looked much better when it was partially hidden by snow. As Darryl was considering this, his mother handed him a bowl of ice cream and handed another bowl to Justine.
“I know it sounds weird with all the snow we get around here, but I’ve never had this before,” Justine said, staring at the pink ice cream. “My parents never bothered to make it. They didn’t like it when I used to pluck the icicles off the house and eat them.” For a second, Darryl thought she might cry, but she merely sighed, shook her head, and scooped up some snow ice cream.
Darryl took a bite and found that it was decent. Not quite the texture of ice cream, but close enough. At least as good as the cake, and he didn’t have to fear that it would be the last time he would ever eat it. Still, he savored every bite.
“What do you think, Dad?” Darryl asked his father.
His father was mostly just holding his ice cream and staring off into the distance. When his dad didn’t answer right away, Darryl almost dropped the attempt, but too many people were around them. It was awkward, so he cleared his throat. Finally, his dad took another bite of ice cream and turned toward him, moving suddenly like a machine that had just been switched on.
“It’s pretty good,” he said. “I mean, personally, I always preferred Chapman’s Cherry Chocolate, but this is the next best thing. Good job, Mom.”
“The next best thing. What high praise,” Tabitha replied sarcastically.
Once again, Darryl’s sister, Emma, was standing in the front door and beaming. She’d probably taken the initiative to make the ice cream. She wasn’t even eating any herself. Apparently, watching others enjoy it was enough. Darryl was just about to say something—both complimenting her and picking on her the way only an older brother can—when he heard a sudden loud crack and snap.
He turned around, seeking the source of the sound. It sounded like a tree falling over. Everyone on the porch reacted as if they were under attack. Justine lunged to her feet. Marion and Tabitha stepped in front of Emma. Horace began struggling to his feet.
“What was that?” Darryl asked.
He turned toward the barn and saw movement beyond the tree at the far corner of the fence. As the initial crack turned into a cascade, a section of the fence crumbled onto the ground beside the tree. It looked like someone had given it an almighty shove from the other side, splintering the fence right down the middle and knocking over eight or nine boards.
“Quality construction,” Darryl noted, watching the boards collapse in a pile. He hoped the embarrassment didn’t show on his face. After all, he’d built that particular section of the fence all by himself. “Call the contractor and complain. We got ripped off.”
“It’s been a stormy winter,” Horace said. “Lots of high winds. Even a sturdy fence can get knocked over.”
Darryl’s dad gave a big harrumph and set his bowl of ice cream down on the handrail. He’d only taken a couple of bites. “Yeah, but we just finished reinforcing the fence. I don’t see why a big section of it would just topple over all of a sudden, even with the wind. The weight of the snow isn’t nearly enough to account for it.” He tossed his spoon into the bowl and headed for the porch stairs. “I’d better investigate. It’ll need to be fixed right away. The rest of you stay here and enjoy the party.”
He started down the steps, tromping through the deep snow with his boots.
“Dad, you can fix the fence later,” Emma called out. “We’re having Darryl’s party now. I have other activities planned. We’re going to play some games.”
“You go ahead and have fun without me,” Dad said. “I’ll be along in a little bit.”
“The ranch can wait,” Emma said, pushing past her mother. “It’s more important to celebrate Darryl’s birthday and spend time together.”
Marion stepped up beside her daughter. “I agree with Emma, Greg. Family needs to be celebrated, especially after all we’ve been through. Don’t worry about the fence. There will be plenty of time to fix it later.”
Greg paused a moment, stomping his boots deep into the snow. “Look, that’s a nice sentiment, but we’re nothing without this ranch. Safety must come first, always. Always. We know what’s out there in the world.”
Nobody spoke for a few seconds, and Darryl felt the tension in the air. Personally, Darryl thought his dad was right. They had plenty of time to sit around and eat snacks, birthday or not, but any chink in their armor put them at risk. Some passing bandit might see the broken fence as an opportunity, and they’d heard plenty of stories of banditry from neighbors. Still, Darryl wasn’t going to be the first to agree, not when he could see Emma scowling out of the corner of his eye.
Fortunately, Grandma ended the awkward silence. “I helped plan the party and all, but I’m afraid Greg is right. Let’s get that fence repaired. We have to stay on top of things. I mean, family can only thrive if we focus on survival. I’ll go get the tools and bring them to you at the fence.”
And with that, Grandma slipped past Marion and Emma and went inside.
“Yeah, I guess I’m with Grandma,” Darryl said. “We can still play games later, Emma, and the snow ice cream will stay cold out here on the porch, but we’d better fix the fence. Thanks for everything.”
Still, he couldn’t make eye contact with her as he headed down the steps toward his dad. Greg resumed trudging across the yard, dragging his feet as he went so that he left a long, deep trail behind him. As Darryl followed, he heard Emma give a low, grumbling sigh under her breath.
3
The snow was so deep against the fence, Greg would have to shovel the area before he could work. The boards had fallen beside the tree, and he stooped down to pick them up, leaning them against the trunk. Mostly, it just looked like shoddy construction. The old wood, scrap from a dismantled shed, had lacked enough support, and the little bit of extra weight and pressure from snow had finally pushed it over. As he was picking up the boards, he glanced in the direction of the porch. Emma and Marion had retreated back inside, leaving the big bowl of snow ice cream sitting on the table.
I wasn’t cranky or rude about it, he thought. I explained my reasoning in a calm manner. Why did Emma get so bent out of shape? She’s old enough to understand what’s most important, especially after all we went through in the wilderness.
His son, Darryl, was approaching, looking a bit sheepish, as if he were afraid to get too close to Greg. On the porch, Justine and Horace remained.
“I figured you could use some help,” Darryl said, kicking through the snow. “After all, I built the stupid fence. It’s my fault if it’s falling down all of a sudden.”
“You did the best you could with the resources at hand and limited time,” Greg said. “Do me a favor, son, and go get the snow shovels from the barn. We’ll have to clear this area.” He gestured at the deep snow drift against the fence.
“Sure,” Darryl replied. As he set off toward the front of the barn, Justine hopped up from her chair and came down the porch steps to intercept him. Even Horace looked like he was struggling to get up and join them, reaching for his crutch.
With a sigh, Greg resumed picking up the fallen boards, pulling out some of the loose nails with his bare hands. It felt like he’d ruined everyone’s day. Of course, his family didn’t know everything that he knew. They didn’t know about the animal tracks on the other side of the fence, evidence of at least one big cat that had tried to find an easy way over.
After a minute, Darryl and Justine reappeared, coming from the direction of the barn with large snow shovels in their hands. Greg approached and reached out to take the shovel from Darryl, but his son shook his head.
“I’ve got it, Dad,” he said.
“You sure?” Greg replied. “On your birthday?”
“Yeah, I don’t mind.”
Greg relented and stepped back while Darryl and Justine went to work clearing snow along the fence. They worked well together, quickly falling into a rhythm where one dug in while the other turned and dumped. They made an interesting pair. Greg was happy that his son had found someone to spend time with, but Justine Carmichael was such an odd girl. She would spend long periods of time just quietly staring at things from under the shadow of her hood, and then she would be taken with fits of talkativeness. It was almost like she was two people. He’d noticed she wore the same style of hooded sweatshirts practically every day, and she liked to keep the hood up.
She’s helpful, and she rarely complains about anything, he reminded himself. Plus, she pretty much saved my family from that awful Mayor Filmore and his cronies, and she’s a decent shot at medium range.
EMP: Return of the Wild West | Book 2 | Survive The Attack Page 2