It’s the first time I’ve lied to anyone in the coalition since becoming a prepper. I didn’t say a word to Rémy until today. Mr. Whitlock had already made his assumptions. Correct assumptions, but not with intel from me. Is that why they smoked his car?
“You guys could have hurt someone with the flash-bang grenades,” I add. “Mr. Whitlock could have been inside his car.”
Annalise rolls her eyes. “They’re loud, but mostly used for smoke and distraction. But don’t tell me, let me guess.” She taps her naturally swollen pout with her index finger. “Your problem is you think Mr. Whitlock can be trusted. Elkwood High’s new teacher of the year.”
“I don’t know what I think of him. But having my sister target his car was stupid. It was also your idea, Annalise. So what’s your next move? Are you gonna keep ratcheting things up around Outsiders? Because eventually, someone will get hurt and it’ll point back to you.”
She stares at me hard. “You don’t get what we’re doing, do you? Food storage and milking goats aren’t the keys to survival. We’re trying to figure out ways to survive when complete chaos hits, without hurting anyone, because they’ll do it to themselves. But we will take bigger action if needed. The world is populated with zombies willing to execute on whatever someone else tells them. We’re the ones who have to think.” Annalise taps her temple. “And act. There can’t be any weak links. Especially among ourselves.”
It’s unnerving sometimes that blond, freckle-faced Annalise, looking like someone straight out of a commercial for a pure and natural facial cleanser, can be so power hungry and vindictive.
“We will all fall together,” Blue interjects.
All for one and one for all. That’s when a spark of truth hits me. “The light I saw in the woods. Did you follow your brother to the treehouse last night?”
“I don’t need to spy on Ansel. He’s the most predictable person I know.” She stands taller, thinking I’ll back down.
“So it’s me you’re keeping tabs on. Why? I wasn’t even part of the stupid flash-bang grenade mission.”
“I don’t think we can trust you. Any of you.” Annalise swipes her index finger at us, and I can’t help thinking she’s implicating Mother at the same time.
I don’t mention that I’ve never broken a single compound-wide rule until Ansel asked me to meet him at the treehouse. One, because I don’t need to justify myself to Annalise. And two, because I don’t know what Ansel has told her.
“Is this really about your dad making our Mother the leader of The Nest? I didn’t say anything to him about you shooting me with an arrow, but I could have.”
“Our dad,” Annalise says. “Correct. None of you know your place. But go ahead, run to our father with your complaints. I dare you. You have no idea who my father is, but it’s not like you can run to your own dad for answers.”
That would be hitting below the belt for most people. But considering we don’t remember our father, I’m unfazed.
“You sound like a six-year-old, Annalise. Nobody wants to take your daddy away, especially not me or my sisters. And not that it’s any of your business, but you’re right. We don’t know much about our dad, so it’s impossible to have him in our lives. If that’s okay with us, why should you care? You don’t need to know anything about us beyond our ability to train and prep and be ready for whatever comes. Trust, in that context, is implied.”
“I know more about all of you than you think, Honey Juniper.”
That’s virtually the same thing Mr. Whitlock said when he told us to get our EDCs and go home.
Ansel tugs his sister’s arm. “That’s enough. Let’s go.”
His gaze flits to the school and mine follows. Sure enough, Mr. Whitlock is holding one of the doors open, watching us. I’m curious how much of our conversation he read on our lips. Maybe we’re too far away.
Annalise gives me a sardonic smile. “My brother’s right. Get into that sardine can you call a car and get back to the compound or you’ll be next. This conversation is over.”
On that point, Annalise is dead wrong. This conversation is far from over. She doesn’t know me at all if she thinks I’m intimidated by scare tactics. My sisters and I hold our ground while they climb into their truck and pull away, watching Ansel stare back at us through the sideview mirror. Maybe we’re closer to something than we appear, as the mirror decal implies. Something that is eroding our coalition.
“You want me to drive?” Birdie says. “You look like you want to punch something.”
“No. I’m fine. I could rip her head off with my bare hands, but I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“You want me to kill her?” Blue asks on the way to our car. She points above the breast pocket of her T-shirt where she stitched the words Cute, But Psycho, But Cute in bright blue thread. “Just saying. I think she underestimates me.”
“At times, I think we all do,” I tell her. “But thanks for the offer. I’ll remember that if I change my mind.”
We pile into the station wagon with Birdie calling, “Shotgun.”
I should take us straight home. I should. But I’m still white-knuckled over Annalise using Rémy to get whatever heat off the rest of us. I can’t face Mother right now, not without laying into her, too. I can barely face Birdie for getting us embroiled in something that’s trickling down to other people.
I take the turn to Main Street.
“Where are you going?” Birdie asks.
I fish inside my EDC for our cellphone and toss it into her lap. “Call Mother and tell her we’re going to AMVETS to look for a new pair of jeans for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I ripped them crawling through the air shaft to get to you,” I snap.
“Sheesh. I just wanted to get home and see if Daniel got back early.” She wraps herself in his coat. “Jeans with ripped knees are what everyone wears anyway. You should know that since you’re the one who always wants to dress on trend.”
“Can you just go along with me for once?” I know it’s not entirely Birdie’s fault, but I need her to stop asking questions for the time being.
“I could use some new T-shirts to embroider,” Blue says. “Do you have money?”
“I have the emergency fifty I keep in my EDC, and I don’t care if I spend it.”
Blue meets my eyes in the mirror. “Our attachments will one day reveal the cause of all our suffering.”
She’s on a roll today, to be sure, but what Blue said shouldn’t be taken at face value. Our attachments to one another challenge what other people consider a normal life. Going to college, entering an art competition, going to a coffee shop after school with someone who isn’t related to me. That one was oddly specific, I know. But I am worried I’ll face more consequences over my relationship with Rémy. However that’s defined.
The AMVETS thrift store in Elkwood is a concrete eyesore. It’s only a few steps away from the colorful row of the Main Street shops gentrified by yuppie newcomers. This kind of refurbishment only used to happen in cities. Now, even the smallest towns are falling victim to commercialized coffee shops and overpriced handmade goods. All because of a pervasive need for areas of urban escape without the loss of luxury and convenience. Most people don’t realize that urge to escape is their gut instinct warning them of the likelihood of urban collapse. They feel the tug, but they’re not paying close enough attention, so they wrap it up in getaways designed to help them unplug, turning offline into their new luxury. It’s a blatant catch-22. We take their money. They take other people’s money. The only ones truly winning are the banks, with added “interest.”
I pull into the parking lot and we head inside, ready to scan the clothing racks that occupy the center of the room. The whole place smells like a mothball stew, steeped in discarded memories and buyers’ remorse. Shelves with discarded small appliances, tacky holiday decorations, and cheap glass vases line one wall behind mismatched furniture and rear projection TVs that weigh hundreds of pounds and could sur
vive an atomic blast. The shoe racks are one thing I always avoid and can’t bring myself to buy secondhand. Clothing can be washed, altered, stitched with sayings by Blue. But shoes have a personal history mashed into the soles. I don’t want to step into someone else’s shoes unless I’m in a situation where I have no choice.
I’m hoping to find a decent pair of jeans for around ten dollars, telling myself that having the right skinny jeans is part of my personal camouflage for surviving high school. I scrape hangers to one side and discover Birdie is right. Most of the women’s jeans are distressed or ripped on purpose. The best ones still have the threads across the openings. I sling a promising pair over my shoulder. They’re twelve dollars, a decent brand that’s nicely faded, and most important, the right length. I spotted a small dot of red nail polish near the seam on the left hip, but most of my shirts will cover it.
I make my way over to Blue. She shows me a couple of white button-downs and a black T-shirt. “I was thinking about embroidering the collars on these. What do you think?”
“I like that idea. You can tie them at the waist and stitch something on the collars or the sleeves.”
“Yeah, like … Not on one collar and Yours on the other.”
“Buzz and Off would be funny if you add little flowers or bees or something.”
Blue nods with a grin and keeps flipping through the shirts on the rack. I turn to the rack behind her and search through the men’s shirts, trying to picture Rémy Lamar in something used. My hand stops on a pigment-washed, Prussian-blue Henley shirt. Not because I can see it on Rémy, but because I’ve seen something similar on Daniel.
I twist the tag inside out and find the initials DD written in Sharpie. It’s something Dieter suggested we do so our clothes don’t get mixed up when the day comes for us to spend an extended period of time in the bunkers. My sisters and I are okay with sharing, so we just write Juniper. Nesters don’t hoard clothes, and sharing helps us expand our options. It’s the same with the Burrow Boys. Limited wardrobes means less to pack and move when the SHTF. Limited being the operative word, which is why it’s hard to picture Daniel donating clothes. I take the shirt off the hanger, unsure whether to show Birdie or hide it from her.
“What’s wrong?” Blue asks. “Why do you look shell-shocked?”
“I think this shirt belonged to Daniel.” I keep sifting through the rack, trying to remember what Daniel was wearing all those times he showed up outside our window, or on the field for training. I come across a navy-blue and hunter-green flannel that makes my breath hitch when I examine the tag. I scan the store for Birdie. She’s fiddling with an old console-style record player, completely unaware her boyfriend’s clothes are selling for three dollars apiece.
Blue takes the shirts out of my hands and examines the matching tags. “Do you think making Daniel go with less was part of his punishment? Not on his solo mission, but in general.”
“That seems unlikely. Clothes can be used for bartering. They’re not worth as much as alcohol or cigarettes in trade, but people will need clothes, especially if the power grid blows. Maybe it was just those two shirts and he didn’t want them anymore. Should we look for anything else of his?”
“A net that will enmesh us all.”
That’s the least crazy thing she’s ever said. We stand there staring at Birdie, who’s moved on to the artwork people have donated. Velvet paintings of droopy-eared dogs, a couple of paint-by-numbers. She holds up a gold-framed oil painting of a woman with her same fringed haircut. Birdie and the subject of the painting are both staring at us over their shoulders with dark eyes, our middle sister mocking the expression of her doppelgänger until our delayed reaction strips the amusement from Birdie’s eyes and replaces it with curiosity. One eyebrow arches and disappears beneath her curtain of bangs.
I unfreeze, go around the other side of the clothing rack, and search through the men’s pants and jeans while Blue keeps sifting through the shirts. I’m flicking past dad jeans and corduroys, looking for the cargos Daniel always wears, when Birdie makes her way over to us.
“Did you see that painting? What are you two doing looking at men’s pants?”
“We found something,” I tell her.
“Me, too. I might have to dip into my own emergency money for that piece of Dorian Gray magic.”
Blue and I keep swishing hangers right to left and left to right, respectively.
“You should. She looks just like you,” Blue says, but there’s little to no enthusiasm in her voice. She drops one of Daniel’s shirts and crouches to pick it up fast, shoving it under her armpit to keep it concealed.
“What are you holding?” Birdie circles the rack to Blue. “Let me see what you found.”
Blue’s eyes shift to mine. I don’t know what to say. Birdie uses my hesitation to rip Daniel’s flannel shirt out of Blue’s grasp. When she sees it, she sucks in a breath so hard it creates a vacuum effect around us. Neither Blue nor I say a word when she rips the Henley away from her, too. Birdie stares at the shirts like she’s seeing ghosts then buries her face in the fabric and inhales. I guess I’d probably smell them, too.
“I was flicking through the rack and saw them,” I tell her. “I thought I recognized Daniel’s Henley, so I checked the tags and kept looking to see if it was a one-off before calling you over.”
“They’re his. I’d know without seeing his initials.”
Birdie riffles through the men’s shirts, sliding hangers at light speed. She finds another shirt and curses under her breath before coming back around to the pants section to whip hangers aside. She finds a pair of Daniel’s cargo pants and a ferocity crosses her face I’ve never seen before. “What the hell is going on here?”
I shrug. I’ve been asking myself the same question. I don’t tell her here is not the place we have to worry about, but that’s what I’m thinking. Something is off about Dieter sending Daniel out alone and Annalise suddenly having her claws in everything.
Birdie takes Daniel’s clothes to the register and I try to stop her. “What are you doing? You’re not gonna buy those?”
“Five times three for the shirts and ten for the pants. Yep. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” She plucks the jeans I was planning to buy off my shoulder and adds them to her pile on the glass checkout counter before removing the emergency fifty she keeps in her own EDC. When the cashier hands her thirteen dollars change, Birdie turns to us and says, “There’s no way Daniel would sell that flannel shirt. It belonged to his father.”
“But the initials were DD,” Blue says.
“For David Dobbs.” She tosses me the skinny jeans. “Sorry about the pair that got ripped.” Then she marches out of the store to the car, leaving me no choice but to follow. Once Birdie has her mind set on something, there’s no stopping her.
Birdie nods once at the blond-bearded homeless man sitting against the building. He’s wrapped in a fringed plaid blanket, holding a cardboard sign asking for money for food or a ride to San Diego. “Did you serve?” she asks him.
“Yes, ma’am. Three tours. Lost full use of my left arm, but not my marbles.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” She hands him five dollars. Then she digs a protein bar, a water bottle, and her dog-eared paperback copy of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road out of her EDC and hands them to him. “I hope these make your weekend better.”
Everything she handed over is easily replaceable or I’d object. There will be so many people just like him on the outskirts of society when the SHTF, and we’re not being trained to hand out supplies. But today, in the land of plenty, if that’s what makes Birdie feel better, who am I to stop her?
“Thank you. God bless you, ladies.” The man looks at us with eyes so clear and blue they reflect the clouds. The kind of skies I hope he’ll find in San Diego. A sick feeling swells in my stomach as the military-style Bivy sack Achilles brought us pops into my head. A blanket meant to keep someone like this homeless man dry and insulated from inclement weat
her. Ochre brown, so it must belong to someone from The Burrow. We should have opened it up and looked at the initials inside before giving it to Dieter.
JIT
JUST IN TIME
BIRDIE TOSSES ME my jeans and gets to work rolling Daniel’s clothes up into tight bundles that she shoves into her EDC. The pants are thick, but only make her bag bulge a little more than normal. Giving away some things to the homeless man made extra room for Daniel’s clothes, which leads me to believe my sister was working on a plan before we got into the wagon to drive home.
“Don’t say a word about the clothes to Mother until we know if Daniel is back,” she says.
I put my hand on her arm, stopping her from fleeing too quickly. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. What are you thinking, Birdie?”
“The truth is something to be found not believed,” Blue answers.
I keep my hold on Birdie and turn to look at the weirdest Juniper in the back seat. “Meaning?”
Blue shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s what came to me.”
“She’s right, though,” Birdie says. “Somehow, she’s always right. And if Daniel isn’t back, I’m gonna find out why.”
“Okay. But not alone. Never alone. We stick together no matter what.”
Mother is lowering mason jars into a pressure cooker. Judging by the disarray of the bay window where she keeps her supplies for research into medicinal extractions, I’d say canning applesauce wasn’t Mother’s top priority today. Especially when I spot a rattlesnake head in a closed jar next to her microscope.
“You’re home. Good. Just in time. I need to tell you girls something before you go out to do your chores.”
“Did you extract venom from the rattlesnake I shot?” I ask, without letting her finish. My eyes flick to Blue. She told me to give the snake to Mother. She looks at me blankly. No need to say I told you so.
“Yes. But that’s not what I wanted to say. I had to give Dieter one of our goats for research into antivenom. Apparently, there’s a shortage, and if we can create a supply, we can circulate it among ourselves for use as needed, use it as a weapon in extreme cases by putting it on arrows or bullets, as well as selling or bartering opportunities when the SHTF. A single vial of antivenom is worth thousands of dollars.”
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