by David Lucin
Rachel Chernoff bounded down the front steps to the house at a half-jog. She was a year older than Philip: thirty-four. They’d known each other since they were kids, though they only really became friends in the past eight months. Her blue eyes were almost silver, and her blonde hair was up in its standard loose, messy bun. She was a long-time employee at the ranch and one of Dad’s most trusted people. At home, she had a wife and young son. On the first Sunday of every month, Mom would invite them over for dinner. In Rachel, Philip saw some strange, alternate version of himself who’d taken the job his mother offered him when he came back from school.
“They’re coming,” she said and leaned next to him on the SUV. “Your old man’s still packing up his stuff. Should be down in a few. Esteban’s up there, keeping him focused.”
“No worries. Nobody’s ever accused the guy of moving fast.”
She fiddled with the hoop through her left nostril. “Yeah, he’s always been like that. Drove your mom nuts.”
Philip recalled a scene when he was no more than eight or nine: Mom waiting by the front door, tapping her foot and checking her watch, then calling upstairs for Dad to hurry. He said to Rachel, “Kind of a funny role reversal there. Isn’t it usually the wife who’s supposed to be slow? I’m surprised you and Wendy ever get anywhere.”
A derisive sound came from her nose. “Man, she’s worse than your dad. Hundred times. In what universe does it take an hour to do your makeup?”
Rachel, Philip noticed, was wearing none. She hadn’t worn any before the bombs, either. “You’re complaining about that? Your wife wants to look her best for you. What a hard life.”
She made another sound, this one closer to a laugh. As she spun her plain silicone wedding band, she added, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I shouldn’t complain. There’s probably a whole whack of stuff about me that bothers her just as bad.”
“Like how this is a mess?” He flicked her bun with a finger, then went to poke the ring in her nose. “Or how you still rock this? What are you, some moody, rebellious teenager?”
“Okay, buddy,” she scolded and leaned away from him. “Wasn’t expecting you to point out all my flaws this morning, but thanks.”
“Just doing my part. When’re you gonna bring the old ball and chain around, by the way? I haven’t seen her since Mom died.”
A muscle in Rachel’s cheek twitched, and she kicked a stone on the gravel driveway. “She doesn’t go out much anymore. Not handling all this that well.”
“All this?”
“Yeah, this,” she repeated like what she’d meant was obvious. “End of the friggin’ world, starvation, hordes of whoever wandering in from all over the Southwest. Add that to the fact that I’m here all the time now, and Brandon’s starting to ask questions about why he can’t use his tablet or talk to Grandma and Grandpa in Florida. How do you even explain that? ‘Well, kiddo, your grandparents are dead because a bunch of strangers on the other side of the planet decided to wipe us clean off the map.’ Wendy deals with that all day. Needless to say, she’s a little stressed, Philly.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
She spun her wedding ring some more. “Don’t apologize. Between you and me, I’m stressed, too. I just can’t see how we make it through winter, not when we have so many more mouths to feed. Brandon’s hungry literally all the time.”
“Talk to my dad,” Philip said. “Let him know what’s going on. He’d help you out. You’re as much family as I am.” More, he thought but didn’t say aloud.
“Nah,” she droned. “It’s not fair if we take more. We’ll manage. Just a rough adjustment. But I guess it could be worse. If you asked me a year ago whether I’d think we’d be alive eight weeks after a full-blown nuclear war, I probably would’ve laughed in your face. So we have that going for us.”
“Forever the optimist, aren’t you, Rach?”
The next sound from her nose was very much a laugh. “Wendy might disagree with you there.”
Faint chatter floated over from the chicken coop, where some ranch hands went about feeding the animals. From the goat pen, a guard’s radio squawked. At the lull in conversation, exhaustion hit Philip like a semi truck with no brakes.
The drum of Rachel’s fingertips on the hood of the SUV drew his attention. She was eying him suspiciously. “Speaking of stressed out,” she started. “You doing all right? Since the other day, you’ve been . . . well, not you.”
Dad had told Rachel that Philip killed Valeria Flores. As far as Philip knew, the three others who hit the Go Market with him had kept their mouths shut, which was good, because otherwise, word might spread and eventually reach the police. And if it did, Philip would certainly wind up back behind bars, CFF would be done for, and Mom would never be avenged. Rachel, however, was a part of Dad’s inner circle, so she was one of the first to find out.
“I’m fine,” he countered. “Just tired. Sleep schedule’s all screwed up without power.”
She made a popping sound with her lips. “Nobody’d blame you for being a little put off by what happened.”
“Told you, it’s all good,” Philip lied. “Not really sure what else I can say.”
“Okay,” she said defensively and lifted her hands. “My point is, what you did? It was part of the job. That woman—”
“Valeria Flores,” he heard himself blurt out.
Rachel gave him a side-eye. “Valeria Flores. Right. My bad. Yeah, but she knew the risks when she signed up, and like your dad says, this could end up going our way.”
Valeria worked for the Beaumonts, and Philip hadn’t expected any of their people to be at the Go Market that night. Neither had Dad. Yet his father considered their presence a stroke of good luck. Perhaps, he’d mused, losing one of her own would convince Sophie Beaumont that more had to be done to make Flagstaff safe. If he played his cards right, he might even be able to persuade her to throw her weight behind CFF. Combined, their number would exceed that of the police, making Vincent Grierson the most powerful person in town.
That was the hope, anyway, and the reason they were driving to the Beaumonts’ farm today. There was a touch of irony in asking Sophie to back CFF after CFF killed one of her employees. He was never under the impression that avenging Mom would be bloodless, but a sense that he’d made a mistake lurked in his mind. Luckily, he had plenty of practice ignoring his conscience. A useful tool of his former trade, he supposed, like a mechanic’s ability to diagnose car trouble by simply listening to it drive. He chose to focus on Rachel’s logic instead: in the end, they might point to Valeria’s death as the defining moment for CFF.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Philip said and grunted to clear his throat.
They stood in silence for a minute or two before Dad and Esteban appeared in the front door of the house. Esteban led the way, pistol on his hip and looking impatient, while Dad, dressed in his usual slacks, polished shoes, and gingham button-up, trailed behind. The skin on his face had more color today, and those thick Grierson eyebrows seemed a little tamer.
“Good morning,” he chirped from the porch. “My apologies for the delay.”
“He’s chipper, isn’t he?” Rachel whispered. “The heck is wrong with him?”
Philip knew why—he was happy because of Valeria Flores. When news arrived that she had died, Dad congratulated him on a job well done. He even shook his son’s hand for the first time since he was released from prison. Philip assumed that seeing the man so proud would ease the persistent ache in his guts and make the memories of what he’d done go away, but he was wrong.
“No clue,” he lied. “Probably just happy to see your smiling face.”
She frowned at him. Then, to Dad as she thrust herself off the hood of the SUV, “Good morning, Mr. Grierson. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, Rachel,” he said as Esteban opened the rear driver’s side door for him. “Nothing at all. Thank you.” Before stepping inside the vehicle, he nodded in Philip’s direction. “Son.”
On his face was a glimmer of something Philip couldn’t quite place. Respect? Philip had a long way to go in that regard; he had always suspected that shelling out the money for his legal team was mostly his mother’s idea. No, he knew it was, though Dad hadn’t outright said so. Whatever it was, Philip wouldn’t complain. Dad was in a good mood, which was rare since Mom died.
“Morning, Dad. Sleep okay?”
“Perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.”
He slipped inside the car, and Esteban shut the door behind him. “Ready to head out, sir?” Esteban asked Philip.
“Let’s do it,” he said and slapped his thighs. “See if we can’t get the Beaumonts in our corner.”
The drive to the farm took twenty minutes. Fifteen of them passed mostly in silence until Rachel piped up from the back seat with, “You think Sophie’ll go for it?”
“She has no reason not to.” Dad looked up from a stack of loose-leaf papers in his hands and peered over the top of his reading glasses. Pine trees zipped by as they left town and headed north. “Our goals are aligned. Both of us want safety and security. She must understand that neither of those are possible with the city’s current open-border policy.”
Dad was partially right. He wanted safety and security, yes, but he also wanted revenge, and so did Philip. Rachel might have suspected as much, but officially, everything CFF did was for Flagstaff. Philip didn’t question his father’s commitment to saving this town, though, nor was there any doubt that he would be a far better mayor than Andrews. After all, the Grierson family had lived in Flagstaff and helped build this place. Dad wouldn’t stand by and watch it come apart at the seams.
Rachel leaned to her left so she could see out the windshield. “I heard there’s a bunch of refugees on Sophie’s payroll.”
“A trivial matter.” Dad moved a sheet of paper from the top of the pile to the bottom. “Labor is now our most abundant resource. I presume she hired newcomers simply because they work for practically free.”
“Or she’s got a soft spot for them,” Philip spat.
He meant it mostly as a joke, but Dad shot him a cold stare. This look, sadly, Philip was more used to than the glimmer of whatever his father had shown him at the ranch. “Mrs. Beaumont is, if nothing else, a pragmatist. For years she sold her goods to the highest bidder, and not once have I seen her or her husband at any of the local markets. She’s motivated by profit and profit alone. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, in the end, she reneged on her commitment to sharing her crops with the town and demanded exorbitant payment in return.”
“Then why work with her?” Philip asked. “We don’t really need her, do we? Can’t say I like the idea of relying on Sophie Beaumont as a partner. Aren’t we best off going our own way?”
Dad let the papers fall into his lap, apparently frustrated by the question, though Philip couldn’t tell why. Admittedly, he was still getting to know his father after having been gone for so long.
“The Beaumonts are simply too powerful to ignore,” Dad said, “and for now, in these early stages, while we gather our support, I would prefer to have them as an ally. If not that, then a neutral party.” He pushed up his glasses, signaling that the conversation was over.
The trees thinned and gave way to farmland. On their right, neat rows of potato plants stretched across an open field. In another was a plant Philip didn’t recognize. Wheat, maybe? Beyond stood what might end up becoming corn. Before the bombs, not once did he think about the life cycle of food before it ended up on his plate.
As the vehicle passed, laborers watched them closely. Philip searched for guards with weapons. He couldn’t see any, but he had a feeling they were out there.
Esteban made a left, then another, onto a dirt road that presumably led to the Beaumonts’ house. Woods of tall pines flanked it on both sides. Soon, a two-story home appeared at the end of the driveway. Blue solar panels covered almost every square foot of the peaked roof, and a deck wrapped around the main level. On it stood a thin woman wearing a red plaid shirt, dirty jeans, and a mesh-back cap. Casually, she cradled a hunting rifle in her arms.
Sophie Beaumont.
“She’s armed,” Philip warned. “Do you think—”
“Quiet,” Dad scolded, then said to Esteban, “Pull up a few car lengths away from the deck.”
Philip spun around to face his father. “Dad, if she has a gun, maybe she isn’t too interested in talking.”
The lines bracketing Dad’s mouth deepened, and his thin lips pressed together. “I’m not concerned. You’d take similar precautions if a strange vehicle approached our home, would you not? Besides”—he tapped his window with a knuckle, and Philip remembered that they were tinted—“her guards likely have yet to identify us.”
Good point. Still, Philip touched the Ruger LCP in its holster on his belt. The pistol was Mom’s. Having grown up in California, for years she opposed firearms in principle until a vagrant broke into the house one winter when Philip was a kid. The next morning, she had Dad teach her how to shoot. Within a year, she’d become a real marksman. The Ruger LCP was her favorite because it was an ideal concealed-carry weapon for her trips into town. Typically, Philip preferred larger, more intimidating pieces, but the Ruger reminded him of spending time outside with Mom. They’d have fun shooting at cans and then cook hot dogs on the barbecue for lunch.
Esteban brought the vehicle to a stop. “I’ll step out alone,” Dad said and opened his door. “Stay inside unless I indicate otherwise. I’d like to avoid causing any alarm.”
Philip wanted to tell him no, that he would make sure it was safe first, but before he could work up the courage to speak, his father was already on the gravel outside, hands out and open for Sophie to see.
“Mrs. Beaumont,” Dad said cordially and took a long, cautious step toward the house. “Please excuse my unannounced visit.”
Philip rolled down his window, and Rachel did the same with hers as they both scanned the woods around them. Nothing yet, but the Beaumonts likely had guards out there, ready to open fire if this meet went pear-shaped. He would have preferred to stand outside the vehicle, where it would be easier to bring his weapon to bear. Not that the Ruger would do much against a target a hundred yards away.
Sophie shifted her weight and adjusted the rifle in her arms. “What do you want, Grierson?” she asked sharply. “I’m a busy woman.”
“I understand, and it’s not my intention to take up any more of your valuable time than is necessary. May we speak privately inside?”
“Out here’s just fine.”
“Then perhaps we could sit together so we’re not shouting,” Dad suggested and lowered his hands.
“I’m quite comfortable with shouting, Mr. Grierson. I do a great deal of it.” She gestured to the truck with an errant wave. “I see you’ve brought some friends. How nice.”
“I mean no offense. My son, Philip, is here, along with my driver and one of my employees. Very rarely do I travel alone these days. I’m sure you can understand.”
Sophie answered with an exaggerated roll of her shoulders. “The more the merrier, as long as they stay in the car.”
Philip didn’t like this woman’s tone. Dad had been nothing but polite and honest, and immediately, without reason, she was acting hostile. Why? He’d heard she was crass, but this was extreme. The possibility that she somehow knew CFF was involved in the murder of Valeria Flores crossed his mind, but he forced it away. If the cops didn’t know the truth, neither would she.
Even so, he eased the Ruger out of its holster. Esteban saw his move and laid his own pistol across his lap. From the back, Rachel hissed, “Man, is she for real? What a cow.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Philip said.
Sophie casually patted the stock of her rifle. “So you feel like telling me why you’ve decided to stop by, uninvited, with three armed guards? If you’re looking for work, I should inform you that I’m not really accepting any new applications.”
Dad continued forward until he was a few yards ahead of the bumper. “First off, I want to express my sincerest condolences. It’s come to my attention that you lost one of your own in the callous attack on the Go Market. Valeria Flores.”
Again Philip saw Valeria collapse behind that pickup truck. With every flashback, he made out more details: the little bump in the bridge of her nose, the painted fingernails when she grasped at the wound in her torso, the way she yelped in pain when the bullet tore through her vest.
“That’s very kind of you,” Sophie said sarcastically. “Alas, we continue to dance around the issue of what you’re doing here.”
“My apologies.” Dad paused, and a bird whistled. “This terrible incident has shed light on the unfortunate reality of our situation here in Flagstaff. Violence is only increasing, and I’m hoping we can work together to find a solution.”
Sophie threw her head back and barked a humorless laugh. “You asking me to join your little after-school club?”
“After-school club?” Rachel whispered. “Seriously? This is a waste of time. What are we even doing here?”
Dad ignored the insult. “Indeed, Mrs. Beaumont. Indeed. We all know the Flagstaff Police Department’s policy for handling our current crisis: maintain the status quo.” His posture drooped, and he shook his head. “Always the status quo. The tragic loss of Valeria Flores is evidence that the status quo is not the answer. We need change. We need strong leadership. Together, we can—”
“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Grierson,” Sophie interrupted, a hand raised. “The refugees aren’t the issue here. A little bit of basic arithmetic should lead you to that conclusion. They’re a blip, nothing more. The issue—the real issue—is that everyone’s going to starve this winter unless we start pulling our weight and growing as much food as humanly possible.”
Philip knew what Sophie meant by “we,” and he resented it. She could grow all the corn and potatoes she wanted, but people still needed protein: eggs, milk, meat. The ranch could provide that. It already was and had been for the better part of a century. And unlike Sophie, who Philip suspected would demand payment in return for her produce, Dad had agreed to donate everything he could to the city’s rationing program. Just last week, without hesitation, he offered up two of his six cows.