by Harley Tate
The man backed up another step.
“Last chance. Put the gas down and walk away or I’m going to shoot.”
The man didn’t say anything.
Leah counted to ten. Then she aimed for his head. As her fingers tightened around the trigger, the sound of an engine stilled her hand. A single headlight lit up the road and the man standing in the middle.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
GRANT
Rose Valley Lane
Smyrna, Georgia
Sunday, 1:00 a.m.
Grant had been driving for hours, trying to navigate the clogged streets of Atlanta without constantly using his headlight. The more he used it, the more he risked drawing attention to himself. One of these days, he’d draw the wrong kind of attention.
But with the middle of the night upon him, he’d given up and flicked it on. As he turned onto his street, the headlight lit up a man standing in the middle of the road. He clutched a gas can to his chest.
Grant slowed. Is he standing outside my house? Grant looked up. An old beater of a truck sat in his driveway. Grant didn’t have a clue what was going on. He reached for his Shield with one hand as he eased the bike to a stop.
The dog leapt from the milk crate and her ears flattened against the back of her head. Grant killed the engine and her growl filled the silence.
Grant walked up to the man. “Donny, is that you?”
The other man turned to Grant. “Hey.”
“What’s going on.”
Donny hesitated. “I—I—didn’t know you were home.”
“I wasn’t. Is that your truck?”
A voice carried out from around the other side of the truck as a shape emerged from the dark. “No. It’s mine.”
Grant almost fell to the ground. A woman stood in the light of the single headlight, head shaved and swollen with a nasty gash that looked infected. Dark circles ringed her eyes. A set of scratches marred her cheek.
But to Grant, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Leah?”
“Hey, honey.” She smiled over the sight of a rifle. “Tell Donny to give me back my gas.”
Grant turned to the man. He looked first at the gas can, and then the hose trailing out of the top, and finally, Donny’s face. “Were you stealing her gas?”
“I—I need it.”
“So does everyone. What made you think it was okay to take it?”
Donny clutched the red plastic tighter. “I’m out of food. I’ve got to get to a store.”
“We all do. But stealing from a neighbor’s not the way to make it happen. Give me the can.”
“No!” Donny gripped it so hard, the plastic dented.
Grant glanced at his wife. She was straight out of an action movie and just as bad-ass as any female heroine. He smiled before turning back to the thief and lifted the Shield into view. “I’ve got eight rounds of 9mm that say you will.”
“You wouldn’t risk it.”
Grant took aim. “From here, I’m a dead shot. You’ll take your last breath before you hit the ground.”
Donny’s head swiveled back and forth between Grant and Leah. At last, he released his grip on the can. “Fine. Take it.”
Grant kept the gun trained on Donny as he reached with his free hand to take the can. As soon as he cleared it, he jerked his head toward the road. “Go home. And don’t ever try to steal from us again.”
Donny took off at a lumbering jog down Rose Valley Lane and out of sight. Once Grant was sure he was gone, he turned to his wife. “Let’s go inside, huh?”
Leah didn’t respond. The gun sagged in her grip.
“Honey? Are you okay?”
Her hand reached for her head as the gun slipped. It clattered onto the pavement and Grant darted forward.
He slipped an arm beneath Leah and caught her before she hit the ground. “Oh, babe. What’s happened to you?” Grant kissed her bald head and scooped her limp body up into his arms. He opened the front door and carried his wife to the couch before laying her down. He checked for a pulse: weak, but steady.
Grant exhaled and the dog sat down beside him. He turned to the dirty little thing. “Watch her for me. I’ll be right back.”
He ran out of the house and scooped up the gas can and Leah’s rifle. He frowned at its weight. It wasn’t the hunting rifle he’d assumed at first glance. She was risking her life with nothing more than an air rifle? They barely shot more than birdshot.
It would never have stopped a man Donny’s size. Grant shook his head in amazement. He’d always known his wife possessed a quiet strength, but tending to the sick and dying was a far cry from pointing a toy of a gun at a man twice her size.
Grant rushed the things inside before hustling back out to the motorcycle. He wheeled it up the driveway and over the steps and into the entryway. There was no time to put it in the garage. Leah needed him.
After shutting and locking the front door, Grant rushed to the hall closet. He dug out the trauma kit Leah always stored in the house and found the flashlight clipped to the front. He ripped it off and clicked it on before heading back to the couch. The little dog moved back to give him room.
“How is she?”
Grant glanced at the dirty fluff ball. She spun around in a circle and laid down.
“Is that good or bad?”
He didn’t have a clue. Grant stared at his wife’s limp body. She was the nurse in this relationship. Grant could take care of cuts or scrapes or a headache, but passing out was outside of his wheelhouse. He reached forward and put a hand on her forehead.
Burning hot.
Grant leaned in to inspect his wife’s head. The wound was swollen and angry with yellowed crust all around the base. Did that mean infection? Probably. Grant peered at the gash. Something clear caught the light.
Are those stitches? He swallowed and sat back on his heels. Had his wife shaved her own head and stitched herself up?
Grant didn’t know what to do for infected sutures. Should he dig around in there and cut them out and irrigate the wound? Should he leave it and hope for the best?
He remembered her talking about people dying from secondary infections. A kid would scrape her leg while swimming in a river and rinse it off. A week later, she’d be barely breathing in intensive care, a staph infection wreaking havoc throughout her body.
Grant turned to the trauma kit. Taking up an entire military surplus backpack, Leah had stuffed it with everything she could use in an emergency and then some. There had to be something in there to bring her back.
With a deep breath, Grant unzipped it and stared. Leah had grouped all the supplies by type, stuffed them in gallon zippered bags, and labeled them. He rummaged through bandages and burn treatments and suture kits until he found the medicines.
Apart from ibuprofen, what would Leah use for a head wound? Antibiotics. But those weren’t shelf-stable. Grant frowned as he popped the medicine bag open and dumped the contents on the floor. He pushed the Benadryl and the Tylenol PM and tens of other medicines aside, searching without direction.
A bottle with brightly colored fish caught his eye. Fish Mox (Amoxicillin) 500 mg. Grant swallowed and turned the bottle around and read the warning specifically against giving the medicine to humans.
He looked at his unconscious wife. They didn’t own any fish. Leah didn’t even like tuna. Why would she keep it in the trauma bag if she didn’t mean for them to use it?
Grant pinched his lower lip between his fingers. He knew all about the problems with over-prescribing antibiotics and bacterial resistance and what giving the wrong medication could do. Leah talked about it often.
But she never discussed what to do in a situation like this. Grant opened the bottle and popped the silver safety seal. He poured out a single pill and held it in his hand. “What should I do?”
The dog perked up and Grant turned toward her. “Do I give it to her or not?”
She stood up and padded over to Grant, sniffing the pill in his hand, be
fore turning to look at Leah.
“Is that a yes?”
The dog barked once.
Grant shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m taking advice from a dog, but here goes nothing.” He stood up and grabbed one of his last bottles of water from the kitchen. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”
He lifted his wife’s head in his hand and forced her lips apart. As he gritted his teeth, he shoved the pill down her throat and followed it with a sip of water. Leah coughed and sputtered, but swallowed.
Grant eased her back down and resumed his position on the floor beside her head. He glanced at the dog. “It’ll be all right. We just have to have faith.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
LEAH
2078 Rose Valley Lane
Smyrna, Georgia
Sunday, 10:00 a.m.
Leah rubbed her eyes. What a dream. First, she’d stolen a truck and busted through a fence to escape a crazy town, then she’d faced off against a gas thief, and finally fallen into her husband’s waiting arms. She’d had a few doozies now and again, but this dream topped them all.
A whine echoed through her brain and she almost laughed out loud. She’d forgotten about the mystery dog, too.
“Something funny?”
The sound of her husband’s voice made her blink. She sat up and looked around. Whatever she was expecting to see, the dingy face of a little dog wasn’t it. Leah tried not to panic. “What’s going on?”
“You passed out last night on the street.” Grant strode into the living room, holding a bottle of Gatorade and a bottle of pills. “I caught you before you hit the ground.”
Leah blinked again. “You’re real.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Were you expecting something else?”
She ran her fingers over her lips. “I thought I was dreaming. You, the dog, coming home. All of it.”
“Not a dream. I’m real.” He smiled at the dog. “And so is she.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Not yet.”
Leah reached out her hand and the dog rose up to sniff it.
“I didn’t think you wanted a dog.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice. She sort of came along for the ride.” Grant eased down onto the edge of the couch. “I was thankful for the company.”
“I’m thankful you’re home.”
“Same.”
Grant leaned over and planted a small kiss on Leah’s lips and the part of her that had held it all together over the past week fell apart.
Tears leaked from her eyes and she snuffed back a sob. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. Where have you been?”
Grant shared the story of his journey from first hearing about the threat in the Hack-A-Thon in Charlotte, to hot wiring the Cutlass in the airport parking lot and driving a rental car employee home, to camping out with a bunch of long-haul truckers on the Georgia state line.
“That’s incredible.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “You’re lucky to be here.”
“I know it.” He handed her the Gatorade and Leah eased up to a sitting position. Her head ached but it didn’t throb. She took a sip. “What’s in the bottle?”
Grant turned it around until a pair of fish came into view. “I found it in the trauma bag and I forced you to swallow one last night.”
Leah took the bottle and dumped another pill into her palm. “I’d forgotten I put these in there.”
“It didn’t kill you.”
“It probably saved my life.”
“So, I was right to give it to you?”
Leah popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed it down with some Gatorade. “Definitely. Fish antibiotics aren’t as good as people ones since they aren’t regulated, but my thinking is clearer, and my head doesn’t feel like jackhammers are forcing their way through my skull.”
Grant smiled. “Tell me about where you’ve been. I ran into a Doctor Phillips who said you had a car, but that’s not what’s in the driveway.”
Leah lit up. “You found Andy? He’s alive?”
“Helping out at a midtown pop-up nursing station.”
Leah leaned back on the couch in relief. “I should be there, too.”
“You have a nasty head wound. You’re not going anywhere.”
After another few sips of Gatorade, Leah explained everything that happened after the EMP from the double shift at the hospital to the old man obsessed with Seinfeld to her escape from Hampton.
“I’m sorry about your sister.”
“It’s okay. I’ve come to terms with it. Maybe once things calm down, we’ll be able to visit.”
Her husband focused on his hands. “I’m not sure anything is going to calm down.”
“Have you see any signs of the government? And aid?”
“None. Have you?”
“No.” Leah leaned forward on the couch. “Doesn’t that seem weird to you? Why isn’t there a repeating broadcast on the radio or a line of Humvees rolling through town?”
Her husband scratched his head. “I don’t think there’s a whole lot of functioning government left.”
Leah shuddered. “So, we’re on our own?”
“Sure seems that way.”
Leah couldn’t think about any of that now. What mattered was that she was home with her husband. Together at last. They were alive. They had shelter.
They could survive.
Grant gave her another kiss on the temple before standing up. “You should go back to sleep. The more you rest, the faster you’ll heal.”
She smiled. “Yes, nurse Watson.”
He chuckled. “I learned from the best.”
Leah laid back down and watched her husband walk away. She didn’t know what they would do from here on out. If the power never came back on and the government didn’t swoop in and assist, millions of people would begin to starve.
Riots. Looting. Mass chaos. It would all play out like a zombie movie without the reanimated dead. Soon there would be more bodies than living, breathing Americans.
But Leah couldn’t think about any of that now. She had her husband. She had her home. That would have to be enough. They would find a way to not only live through the coming days, but to thrive. There would be an America after this.
Somehow. Someway. Grant whistled for the dog and Leah closed her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
GRANT
2078 Rose Valley Lane
Smyrna, Georgia
Sunday, 12:00 p.m.
Even bald and wounded his wife stole his breath. She was the warrior in their pairing, not him. Grant reached down and scratched the dog as she bounded to a stop by his side. “Let’s finally give you a bath, huh?”
He called the little thing up the stairs and into the master bathroom. After filling the tub with soap and water he motioned for her to hop in. The dog stared at the bath in trepidation.
“Oh, come on. You’ll be happy to be clean.”
She didn’t move.
Grant blew out a breath. “If you get in the bath, I’ll give you some jerky I pilfered from the sporting goods store.
The dog stepped forward and Grant shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.” He helped her clear the edge of the tub and set to work, rubbing lather along her back and rinsing the soap again and again. With every cup full of water, the dog’s fur lightened.
After a few minutes, Grant leaned back. “Well, I’ll be.” Where a dingy gray dog once stood, a bright white dog now beamed. With her mouth open and blue eyes shining, she might as well have been smiling.
Grant ruffed her fur and the dog hopped out of the dirty water. He tossed a towel on her back and she shook from tip to tail. After he dried her off, the little dog’s fur stuck out in all directions like a perfect snowball from fresh powder.
“She’s beautiful.”
Grant glanced up to find his wife leaning against the door frame, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Do you think she’s a Samoyed?
”
Leah shook her head. “Too small. One just like her won best in show of the toy group. She’s an American Eskimo Dog.”
Grant scratched at his head. Fancy name for a stalwart little thing.
“Have a name, yet?”
He stared at the fluff ball, so happy to be free of dirt. He thought about all the times she stood by his side. So patiently waiting for it to be her turn. He glanced up at his wife. “Faith. I think her name is Faith.”
Leah lowered into a crouch and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Faith.” The dog scampered over and gave her hand a lick.
Watching the pair of them laugh and snuggle broke the last bit of pain free from his heart. His wife was alive. They were together again. He pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from crying. “What are we going to do now?”
Leah looked up with a solemn smile. “Take it one day at a time. It’s all any of us can do now.”
Faith’s ears pricked as a banging sounded downstairs.
“What’s that?”
Grant stood up and listened. “It sounds like someone’s knocking on the front door.”
“Should I stay here?”
Grant shook his head. “No. Let’s all go. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”
Discover what happens now that Grant and Leah are reunited in Survive the Panic:
With no help in sight, could you make the hard choices?
After risking everything, Grant and Leah Walton are finally reunited. But it’s no happy ending. Without food, water, or any serious defenses, they’re starting from scratch while their neighborhood falls apart. Will they have the strength to survive the ensuing panic? Or will the chaos of post-apocalyptic America be their undoing?
The attack is only the beginning.
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