Starting Point (Doomsday Preppers)

by Elle Aycart

  “Your friend Jess wasn’t too attached to her books.”

  “No, she wasn’t.” It was not as if Jess could take them to where she was going. “Anyway, I plan to spread that pile all over the country. I’ll leave one in every motel room I stay in. Right alongside the Bible. It’s tradition already.”

  She didn’t want to talk about Jess—or herself. Too much of a downer. “Say, what about that kid who always followed you around—what was his name?”

  “Sean. Still around. We co-own a wildlife adventure company.”

  “Wow, very well-adjusted, our Bonehead. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would have bet good money you’d end up in jail.”

  He didn’t seem to take offense. As a matter of fact, he laughed. “I thought so too. The army straightened me out.”

  “Did you like it in there?”

  “Yes,” he answered right away. “It gave me a sense of purpose. Structure. Rules. And an outlet for my… restlessness.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “Fergus passed away and Heather needed help. Believe it or not, this is my place in the world.”

  “I’m happy for you,” she whispered.

  “What about you, boss? Did you find your place in the world?”

  There was no need to put up a show, not for Bonehead. “Not really. The last ten years in particular didn’t go as planned.” And boy was that an understatement.

  “You wanted to be in the Olympics, if I recall correctly. And travel to Europe before going to med school. Wait, no. Nursing, right?”

  “Right. That plan went south pretty fast, though. Too much in and out of hospitals.” She’d gotten sick during college, so her studies had gotten fucked too. It was years before she could make up the classes online and graduate. “I did get into nursing school, and I was pretty good, but I got those looks.”

  “What looks?”

  “The pitying looks. The ones that scream, ‘Poor girl, she’s done for. We might as well give her good grades.’” No one wanted to be responsible for upsetting the dying chick.

  His brows furrowed. “There are looks that scream that?”

  “You bet there are. So I dropped out after a couple of semesters.” Which in hindsight had been a good call, because she’d soon developed an aversion to hospitals and their smell, so her dream career would have gone out the window either way.

  They were quiet for a long second.

  “That’s a kickass cancer survivor tattoo,” he said, motioning to her chest.

  She turned to him, her eyes trained on his. “And who said I survived?”

  Technically, the doctors still called what she had “breast cancer,” though she didn’t have breasts anymore. The cancer didn’t care. With her breasts gone, the mofo had decided to go sightseeing, spreading the joy around. God knew it had been so much fun to spend the last frigging decade with it.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” Alec continued. “That’s survival in my book.”

  She shrugged. How nice. In her book, survival was something more like ‘not dead yet but almost’.

  He frowned. “Ink and MRIs don’t go well together. Any medical procedure that—”

  “It’s a good thing I’m done with medical procedures.”

  After eight years of battling cancer and all the shit that came with it, she’d been told she was in remission. She couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t dared to, but she’d made it to the one-year mark. Then eighteen months. She’d just began to breathe easy, to believe she had a future, when the whole shit came tumbling down at the two-year mark. The cancer was back with a vengeance, and she was at square one again. Worse. There was nothing like lowering your guard, daring to hope, and then getting sucker punched.

  “I see,” he said quietly. “Is that why you were so blasé about freezing to death?”

  “I was doing tequila shots instead of lemonade,” she mumbled.

  “What tequila shots?” he asked, not understanding her.

  She waved it off. Her thoughts too. “I was just rolling with the punches. What about you?” She pointed at the ink peeking from his sleeves. “Weren’t you concerned about medical procedures when you got all of those?”

  He chuckled. “I always thought I’d die from a gunshot. The closest I’d get to a medical procedure would be a fellow soldier digging the bullet out with a combat knife. Or DIY surgery.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Oh, there are plenty of opportunities to drop dead in this town under mysterious circumstances.”

  “Like what?” she asked, frowning.

  “How much do you remember about the locals?”

  She pondered for a second. They had spent the whole summer by the lake. They hadn’t gone into town more than maybe a couple of times. “What do you mean? They were… country folk,” she said, going for polite.

  He took a chug of the beer. “You mean rednecks.”

  “Okay, rednecks. With tons of junk on their lawns. I guess we’d call them hoarders nowadays?”

  “That’s one way of putting it. They like being self-sufficient. And they would strongly object to the word junk. They’d call it… misunderstood resources.”

  “You agree with that?”

  “Well, yeah, mostly,” he conceded, amused. “Although sometimes junk is just junk. Anyhow, people around here are peculiar. They love DIYs, to stay off the grid and give their addresses in GPS coordinates.”

  “And they keep caches and secret tunnels,” she muttered. “Oh, and let’s not forget booby-trapped cabins.”

  “They like to be prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “Anything, actually.” He grinned.

  She wasn’t sure if it had to do with the fact that the disgusting tea was working—or perhaps that it was poisoning her—but she felt damn comfortable talking with Alec.

  “You know, I was telling the truth when I said that locking myself out was an accident. Time is precious. I would never intentionally shorten it.” She knew. She’d wasted enough of it being sick. Ten years, actually. She wouldn’t turn down a relatively quick and painless death—what terminal patient would?—but orchestrate it? No.

  “Good to know,” he said, looking relieved.

  “You recognized me yesterday, didn’t you? Before you checked my reservation.”

  Alec nodded. “Your eyes gave you away. I spent a whole summer staring at them. I’d recognize you anywhere, Meg.”

  His cell buzzed. He frowned at the screen. “Hold that thought.” Then he took the call. “Fiona is in trouble, right?”

  Whatever the person on the other end was saying, it made his frown deepen.

  “There in ten,” he said and closed the call, adding, “damn cow.”

  Ouch. “I don’t know this Fiona, but women take offense at being called cows.”

  His smirk was as sexy as it was aggravating. “I’m sure they do, but Fiona is a cow. A fifteen-hundred-pound pregnant cow having difficulties birthing.”

  “Oh,” she said as he stood up. “My bad. I thought you were being a misogynistic ass.”

  He winked. “I’m a total feminist, believe me. Come on, we need to go.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “We?”

  He motioned at the empty beer bottles. “I’m on my third. You only had hangover tea. It’s your civic duty to make sure I don’t drink and drive. Besides, there’s no veterinarian available, so we’ll need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “You studied nursing, no?” he asked.

  “Did you hear the part where I dropped out after a couple of semesters?” Not to mention nurses treated humans, and the last time she’d seen a cow in real life was… never?

  “Well, that’s a couple of semesters closer to a diploma than anyone around here. Let’s go.”

  Oh God.

  Chapter 3

  Unfortunately, “oh God” didn’t even begin to cover it. After five hours Megan was sweaty, covered in filth, and watching through bleary eyes a
s two hunks, muscles strained from the effort, wrapped a chain above the hooves peeking from Fiona’s butt.

  “You guys are traumatizing me,” she mumbled. Not to mention the poor cow.

  “Okay,” said Marc, the owner of the farm, as he grabbed the chain and Alec did the same. “On the count of three, a nice, steady pull. This calf is running out of time.”

  Yep, totally traumatizing. Not even the two bare-chested, tattooed hunks were improving the experience.

  Megan was sure the cow agreed too.

  “This is going to work, right?” she asked.

  Marc’s frown wasn’t promising. “It has to. She’s been in labor too long; she’s run out of strength. We need to get the calf out now or we might lose both.”

  She looked at the chains around the hooves, barely out. Man, she was sooo never going to eat meat again.

  “Okay,” Marc said, turning to Alec. “One. Two. Three. Pu-u-ull!”

  This time, thank God, it seemed to work, because the calf started to emerge. Trying to prevent it from hitting the ground, she reached—but it was too slippery, and when the calf slid out in a rush, it caught her by surprise, throwing her on her ass as some liquid splashed all over her.

  The calf struggled to get up. Megan flung her head between her knees. “Thank frigging God.”

  She was covered in dirt, hay, and some other slimy, bloody stuff she didn’t dare speculate too much about. Amniotic fluid, maybe? Jeez, that was the proverbial cherry on top the cake, really. In hindsight, trying to catch the calf hadn’t been her sharpest move.

  “You okay, boss?” Alec offered his hand to pull Megan to her feet.

  “You get the honor of naming her,” Marc said.

  That didn’t seem right. “Giving them names… doesn’t that make you more attached to them? What about when it’s time to—”

  “We don’t slaughter our cows. Or exploit them for milk, for that matter.”

  “Oh, okay. Let’s see. Do you have a theme going on? Like princesses?”

  “Not particularly, no. We do have a Shrek already, though.”

  “Hmmm… Seeing how long it took to get her out, what about Elastigirl?”

  Marc laughed. “Very appropriate. Elastigirl it is.”

  She took a peek at Alec. He was looking a bit worse for wear, but not bad compared to her.

  “Sorry to interrupt your evening, guys,” Marc apologized. “Fiona, Elastigirl and I thank you.”

  Megan bowed. “Our pleasure. No need to apologize.” She gestured to Alec. “He was the one who dragged me here.”

  “I had three beers in me.”

  She snorted. Marc did too. “Three beers in two hundred and fifty pounds of man. That’s nothing. I doubt even a breathalyzer could find the alcohol in you.”

  “He’s a stickler,” Marc replied.

  “I think he’s just afraid of leaving me alone,” she told Marc.

  He looked intrigued but let that go. “Let me treat you guys to supper.”

  “No, thank you,” Alec said promptly.

  “Let me at least give you a change of clothes, then. A shower would also be a good idea.”

  Megan inspected herself. She didn’t want to impose, and she could stand the dirt and the weird smell as long as she didn’t think too much about where it came from, but Alec’s truck would never recover.

  She nodded. “Lead the way.”

  “Where did the cutie come from?” Marc asked, handing a clean towel to Alec.

  Alec shrugged and washed his arms. “She’s one of Heather’s renters.”

  “Really? Since when do you spend time with Heather’s customers, never mind how cute they are? And since when do you give them nicknames? ‘Boss’? You only got in yesterday from that hunting trip. That’s fast.”

  “I used to know her.”

  Marc cocked his brow. “Really? She doesn’t look anything like your typical hookups. Kinda plain, if you ask me.”

  Alec all but growled. “Don’t talk about Megan in those terms.”

  Marc backed down with his hands up. “Copy that. The chick is off-limits.”

  Damn right. Alec cracked his neck—one side, then the other—and tried to regain his composure. “She’s someone I met almost twenty years ago, in my thug days.”

  Marc’s eyes opened in disbelief. “She’s that chick? The one you meet that summer?” Alec nodded. “What were the chances, huh? You only had her first name, not even a surname.”

  “You tell me.”

  At that moment, Megan came down the stairs. “Ready,” she said, a plastic bag of clothes hanging from one hand.

  Her hair was wet and spiking out every which way. She was wearing a flannel shirt that reached her knees, and even though the sleeves had been rolled up several times, her hands were barely visible. The dark-green overalls were three sizes too big, and he’d bet the rubber boots she wore were even more outsized. She was a mess, and God damn, she took his breath away.

  “Thanks for the clothes,” she said to Marc. “I’ll wash them and get them back to you.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no hurry,” Marc said. “Do you want something quick to snack on? A couple of protein bars?”

  “No, thanks,” Alec jumped in, giving his friend the evil eye. He was all about fattening Megan up, but prepper protein bars were not for the faint of heart. “We’d better get going. It’s pretty late.” He all but pushed Megan into the driveway as she waved at Marc.

  Once they reached the truck, she stopped before the window as if assessing her reflection. Then she burst into laughter and looked up at the sky. “You’re loving this, right?”

  “Who do you talk to when you look up?” Alec asked once they got in the truck. “God?”

  “No. Jess. She would have loved all this. The cabin. The cow. Small-town America was her weak spot. She used to make me watch all the small-town America TV shows, even the reruns. We were supposed to do this trip together, but we never got the chance.”

  He turned the engine on. “What happened to her?”

  “What happens to everyone who battles cancer one too many times.” Her voice didn’t waver.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” She took a deep breath. “So, about Marc. Is he a local? Because all those tattoos and scars kind of clashed with the image I had of a farmer.”

  “I see. While we were trying to save the calf, you were busy ogling my friend?” he asked, pretending to be appalled. The truth was, he’d spent his share of time ogling her while she was trying to calm the cow. Megan had had hay on her head and mud up to her knees, and yet she’d looked fucking adorable, blowing her hair off her face and wiping sweat with her forearm.

  “Couldn’t avoid it, dude. I had to concentrate on something else to block the monumental trauma I was suffering.” She winked. “Don’t feel left out. I ogled you too. You have nothing to worry about—you’re even better than Marc. I have the tactile proof still fresh in my mind.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

  He laughed. “Okay, back to Marc.” Much safer topic. “He’s not a local. Marc was part of my unit during my army days.”

  “That’d explain it. Didn’t he go back to his family?”

  “There are two types in the military, boss: those who have sweet wives and kids waiting for them, and those who have no one but their fellow soldiers. After years of risking your neck and trusting your life to your buddies, you end up bonding. They become your family. It’s hard to find a place in the civilian world once you get out, so we tend to go nuts or stick together. When Marc was done with the military, he came looking for me and decided to settle here, along with several other buddies from our unit.”

  “Makes sense,” she said, assenting. “By the way, what does he do on that farm of his if he doesn’t slaughter the cows or produce milk?”

  “He doesn’t go for traditional. He’s more the alternative type.”

  “You mean he runs a CSA farm? I’ve read about those. People pick up veggies and eggs from him?”<
br />
  “Not exactly. Although some of the locals get cheese from him. Sometimes.” He’d better distract her from this subject. “You cold?” He cranked the heat up.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” A big, bright smile spread across her face. “God, can you imagine how the truck would have smelled with the heat at the max if I hadn’t showered?”

  “Pfft. It would’ve been fine. We’d just drive with the windows down.” In December.

  “The mud, manure and hay I recognized. The liquid that splattered over me not so much. Tell me it wasn’t placenta, Bonehead.”

  “It wasn’t.” No way to soften the blow. “It was amniotic fluid.”

  She laughed softly, her elbow on the door, her head propped on her hand. “Of course it was.” She looked through the window and didn’t speak for a long while. “It’s beautiful out here. All that landscape blanketed with snow. So peaceful.”

  “Wait until the next snowstorm. That’s a totally different ball game.”

  “I suppose,” she murmured.

  The radio was playing some ballad. Between that, the constant hum of the motor, and the heat, Megan fell asleep in no time. He glanced at her, wincing as he noticed her head hitting the window at every bump in the road. It was too far away for him to do anything about it, so he stopped the truck. Thanking all the gods that he’d bought a bench seat, he slowly slid her to him and laid her head on his arm. She didn’t wake up but curled against him, burrowing her face into his coat.

  She looked so small. And she was probably exhausted after the cow ordeal. He was, and he was a big, strong guy.

  And why the fuck he was getting an erection, he couldn’t fathom. Well, he could, but it was totally inappropriate—not that it mattered to his dick.

  He restarted the truck. Afraid she was going to fall forward amid all the bumping, he slipped his right arm around her shoulders and held her tight. Which did nothing to solve the problem down south. Whatever. His dick could kiss his ass. Nobody died from blue balls. He lowered his face to her hair and breathed deep. Damn, she smelled so sweet, although mingled with her natural scent was Marc’s, which pissed him off immensely. If he had a say, he would strip Marc’s clothes off of her, but he didn’t have a say, and stripping her without consent would be difficult to explain.