by Kyla Stone
“Can we fix them?” Hannah asked.
“Probably not,” Liam said. “It’s too risky. The General will watch the repeaters, ready to spring a trap.”
“At least it’s not all of them,” Perez said. “The ones set up in town are still working—well, most of them. There’s that.”
Liam looked south across the barricade, brow wrinkled, his lips pursed.
Hannah shivered. “Will the Syndicate cross the border?”
Perez shielded her eyes. “I freaking hope not. Like one deadly enemy isn’t enough. We need two, now? I feel like we’re caught in a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.”
“It’s Murphy’s Law,” Liam said. “Anything that can go wrong, will.”
Perez glanced across the street at Jonas, Whitney, and Milo and lowered her voice. “It’s like a hurricane. Or a tornado. You know it’s out there, heading straight toward you, but there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it.”
Hannah watched Liam. A wind gust kicked up a swirl of half-rotted leaves and trash detritus heaped along the curb. It was abruptly ten degrees colder.
Liam didn’t speak. He didn’t take his eyes off the horizon, as if he could see what lay beyond it simply by looking hard enough.
The multitude of enemies amassing against them, just out of sight.
The fate that awaited them all.
25
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Nine
Quinn bent over the long rows of seedlings inside the greenhouse and groaned.
“I’m the old one in this equation,” Gran said. “If I’m not complaining, why are you?”
Quinn grunted. “Not complaining. Just expressing my feelings.”
“When I was your age—”
“I know, I know. You walked five miles to school uphill both ways. In the snow. Barefoot.”
Gran cackled. “You forgot naked.”
“Uh! Gran! Now I’ve got that mental picture locked in my brain. Thanks so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Gran deadpanned.
Quinn rolled her eyes. At least the swelling had gone down enough to see.
Her AR-15 lay next to her within easy reach. Just like Gran’s Mossberg. They never went anywhere without protection, not even their own backyard.
Though there were now twenty greenhouses scattered throughout town, Gran wanted her own. The enclosed space would keep precious food growing year-round, even during Michigan’s bitter winters.
Quinn and Jonas had made it happen. He hung around a lot. She didn’t dislike it.
Picking a flat, sunny spot, they’d constructed a twelve-by-twenty-four greenhouse using mostly two-by-fours and polyethylene plastic sheeting. They used two layers of the plastic, the inner and outer shells creating an air gap to act as an insulator.
Since they would transfer seedlings soon, they’d planted them in plastic grocery bags hung on poles of PVC pipe. This way, it would be simple to move them without damaging the fragile roots. They’d planted lettuce, Swiss Chard, radishes, potatoes, and broccoli.
Through the greenhouse walls, the sun beat down on her head, warming her back and shoulders beneath her long-sleeved flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. She’d shed her coat for the first time since the Collapse.
The nights were chilly, but the days were warming up. Buds sprouted on the trees. Grass turned green, weeds springing up in the cracks and potholes in the roads. No surprise there.
Quinn stretched, trying not to wince. Her bruises had faded to an ugly yellowish-green. Her cuts had scabbed over.
Her back was stiff. The muscles of her arms and legs—hell, her entire body—ached from her dawn training sessions with Liam. He’d gone easy on her, as they were both still battered from their escape from Vortex.
She’d never been more sore in her life.
But it was a good sore. It meant that she was still here, still alive.
She was getting stronger. She was fighting back.
Liam and Bishop were off somewhere coordinating the town’s defenses. Milo and the babies were with Travis and Annette at the middle school.
Several volunteers taught mathematics alongside survival skills like map-reading, using a compass, and orienteering. Yesterday, they’d worked on reading, writing, and fire starting.
Hannah and Dave were busy in talks with the farmers, discussing boring stuff like production areas per person, crop rotation, irrigation, and preventing pest infestations. Where, how, and when to plant mainstays like potatoes. Et cetera, et cetera.
Gran had gone with her and Dave on most visits, interviewing those with the old knowledge and taking notes, devising planting schedules. Blah, blah, blah.
Hannah had spent hours pouring not only through Gran’s books on the kindle, but also farming, homesteading, and survival books she’d cajoled the teens to collect from the nearest library.
Few people looked to libraries for crucial tips on surviving the apocalypse. It wasn’t just the non-fiction sections they should check, either.
Quinn had an entire list of skills and ideas she’d gleaned from her favorite post-apocalyptic novels crowding her bookshelves.
Namely, how not to die from sheer stupidity.
“Gardening isn’t really my thing, you know,” she said.
“Hogwash.”
Quinn snorted. “You’re delusional, woman. Last week, I killed at least four potato plants with accidental over-watering.”
Her AR in her hands, or her sling shot. Tramping through the woods in search of rabbits or hunting deer with Gramps’ rifle. Standing watch, alert for any threats to her people, ready and willing to fight to the death—that was her wheelhouse.
Even so, Gran made her spend occasional afternoons sticking her hands in the dirt, attempting—and usually failing—to keep the fragile green sprouts alive.
“I suck at this.”
“Knowledge is power,” Gran said. “Especially now. Anywhere you go, whatever happens, you need to know how to survive, how to feed yourself.”
Quinn rocked back on her heels and glared at the dirt beneath her fingernails. “I know how to feed myself. I shot that buck last week, didn’t I? That’s why we’re having venison stew tonight, and we’ve got jerky drying in the solar dehydrator on the back porch.”
She’d field-dressed the deer herself, just like Gramps had taught her, saving the rump for the jerky, which had been both her and Gramps’ favorite. Ghost’s too, apparently.
He kept sniffing around while she applied the black pepper and a bit of Hannah’s pink Himalayan salt. He was so tall, he could easily reach across the table. At every opportunity, he snatched a piece, gobbling it in a single swallow. If they weren’t careful, the dog would eat the whole deer himself.
Quinn had offered him the organs in a big bowl, which he’d slopped up messily with joyous grunts and snorts. She’d never seen a dog slobber so much.
Quinn glanced across the yard at the Orange Julius sitting in the driveway. She missed him. She missed riding in that rickety tin can with Gramps, how it smelled like grease and his favorite pho soup, like Gramps.
Now it just smelled stale.
“Man cannot live by meat alone,” Gran quipped.
Quinn blinked. “Try me.”
“Ever heard of scurvy? You need vegetables. Fruits. Green things! Canned food is already getting scarce.”
“I am sick to death of nasty canned green beans,” she admitted.
Gran had a years’ supplies hidden in her basement behind the secret door. It used to be more. Fact was, they’d shared a lot.
Maybe that was a mistake. In this case, Quinn didn’t think so.
More people alive in their community meant more hands to help with planting and harvesting, chopping wood, digging latrines, scavenging supplies, fixing stuff that broke, making biodiesel fuel, tending to livestock, and running security patrols.
The list went on and on, forever and ever, without end. Hallelujah and amen.
Once upon a time, Quinn had
romanticized the lone survivalist making it on her own in a tricked-out cabin deep in the woods.
Reality was far different.
There were aspects of survival she’d never considered until she was forced to live them. The smells. The itchy scalp. The blisters from handwashing your own clothes. The constant gnawing ache of hunger. The fear and stress.
And the spiders. They were everywhere. As soon as humans disappeared from a building, the bugs took over. It was disgusting.
Their new nanny goat ambled around the corner, busily chewing grass. A collar and rope tethered to the house ensured she didn’t wander far.
Because she was white with black splotches, Milo called her Oreo, which just made Quinn hungrier every time she called the damned goat’s name.
Gran glanced over at Oreo and grinned. “Better than a mower.”
A few days ago, they’d visited Mr. Atkinson’s homestead on Snow Road to trade Gran’s jarred peaches for more honey. They’d also traded a bottle of fish antibiotics for a single female goat. Mr. Atkinson’s wife, Sherry, had contracted a bad urinary tract infection.
“You should have traded for that cute black Angus cow,” Quinn said. “I think they would’ve traded half their barn for those antibiotics.”
Gran clucked her tongue. “No reason to take advantage of folks in need. Besides, goats are easier to care for than cows. With a goat, we can still make our own milk, yogurt, and cheese.”
“Mmm, cheese.” Quinn’s mouth watered as she imagined freshly baked bread hot from the woodstove slathered in melting slices of scrumptiousness. “I love you already, little goat.”
“I’ll trade for a billy goat as soon as I can. If we can get a herd going, Ghost will guard them from coyotes and those cursed feral dogs that keep slinking around.”
Quinn glanced at Oreo again, blinking back the sudden wetness in her eyes. The stupid goat made her think of Milo.
She could feel him circling her warily, a satellite always close but maintaining a steady distance. Whenever she tried to approach him, he scampered off like a skittish colt.
She’d hurt him by pushing him away. Now, he was the guarded one.
She’d messed up, but she wasn’t sure how to fix it.
Lately, she’d messed up a lot of things with a lot of people.
Quinn put down the watering can. She blew her too-long bangs out of her eyes. Guilt nibbled at her. She’d made things right with Bishop, Hannah, and Liam.
Gran, though…
She loved Gran with her whole heart, but even at the best of times, the woman was prickly as a thistle. Still, it was time to talk.
26
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Nine
“Gran,” Quinn said.
Gran pretended she hadn’t heard.
Quinn knew she had. “Gran.”
Gran bent and watered the healthy green Swiss Chard leaves growing from the soil in the plastic grocery bag. Her ever-present Mossberg on one side, her cane on the other. “With the weather finally turning, these should be ready to transfer soon.”
“Gran—”
“How are you on feminine hygiene products?”
The question so abrupt that Quinn just looked at her.
“Pads? Tampons?”
“Yeah, Gran, I know. I have some from the store run after the Collapse. As soon as they’re gone, I’ve got the menstrual cup, like you told me. And those washable, reusable absorbent cloths.”
Gran nodded to herself. “Good, good. And birth control?”
Quinn balked. “What?”
Gran shot her a look and waggled her gnarled eyebrows. “I may be a church-going woman, but I’m neither blind nor senile. Girls are going to get into trouble, and there won’t be a thing I can say to stop it. So—”
Quinn sputtered, her face hot. “I’m not—!”
“I’ve seen how that Marshall boy looks at you. Figure it won’t be too long before you notice and start looking back.”
“Jonas doesn’t—”
“You can’t just run down to the pharmacy and pick up birth control pills anymore.”
“I’m aware of that fact.”
“I’ve stockpiled some pills in the basement for you. Spermicide, condoms. They won’t last more than a year or two, though.”
Horrified at the words coming out of Gran’s mouth, Quinn stared at her.
“There aren’t safe herbal alternatives. Some semi-effective natural preventative methods—”
Quinn clapped her hands over her ears. “La, la, la. I can’t hear you!”
Gran talked louder. “Be glad I thought ahead and stocked these for you. Otherwise, you’d be stuck making condoms out of pig intestines.”
Quinn about died right there. “Gran!”
Gran gave a casual shrug. “What? Blood and guts don’t get to you, but the birds and bees do?”
Quinn’s face burned. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. “I’m not gonna do that stuff. Okay? Not for a long, long time.”
Abruptly, Gran turned serious. “This is no time to be bringing a baby into this world. In sub-Saharan Africa, the death rate among women during childbirth is one in sixteen. That’s almost seven percent of all pregnant women. Are you hearing me? That’s where we are now. No prenatal vitamins or check-up visits. No ultrasounds. No C-sections.”
“Hannah—”
“Hannah almost died of pre-eclampsia!”
Quinn set her jaw. A stubborn, boorish part of her wanted to argue just to argue, but she pushed her frustration down. “I have no intention of—”
Gran’s wrinkled face hardened. “You don’t always choose it, girl.”
Chagrined, Quinn’s mouth clamped shut. She knew exactly what Gran meant.
She thought of the horror stories coming out of Illinois; the Syndicate taking over FEMA camps and small towns, stealing and selling girls and women. Her stomach curdled.
Gran pointed at her with her gardening gloves. “You young people think you’re invincible. You’re not. You’re made of meat and bone, like every creature on this cursed earth. You’re not special. You can die just like anybody else.”
Quinn touched the scabbed tear in her lip. Evelyn had stitched it up—painfully, without anesthetic—but it would leave a jagged scar.
Memories of that night flooded back. The pain. The fear.
“I know, Gran. Trust me, I know.”
“Just making sure.”
She took a deep breath, steeled herself. “I’ve been stupid. I know that, too. That’s what I wanted to say. Lying to you was wrong. I’m done with that. I’ll be careful. I’ll be smart. That’s how you and Gramps raised me.”
Gran’s sharp eyes softened. “Contrary to popular opinion, I won’t be around forever. Gotta make sure you know what the heck you’re doing. Can’t have you running around despoiling the Dũng good name.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that!” Quinn muttered.
“It’s the truth. Everyone dies. No way to look at it but head-on.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to talk about it like that.”
Gran shrugged. “I don’t fear death. I know where I’m headed. My life is in the good Lord’s hands. So is yours.”
They worked for a while in comfortable silence. The air was still, the sun almost warm. Birds twittered in the trees. The goat snorted and munched grass, the bell around her collar jingling.
Valkyrie hunted along the edge of the tree line, stalking an unsuspecting chipmunk. Thor and Loki slept on the front porch. Thor wasn’t as fat as he used to be, though he was still fluffy, with thick orange fur.
Gran offered them scraps of table food, but cats were picky. Loki could hunt, though he was lazy. Valkyrie seemed to be keeping all five cats alive with the mice, squirrels, and occasional birds she deposited daily on the back porch. She also kept rodents from infesting the gardens or getting into the basement supplies.
The kitty litter was long gone, but the cats could go outside. Next winter w
ould bring new problems, but they didn’t have to worry about that yet.
“You aren’t painting,” Gran said.
Quinn kept working, said nothing.
“Why not?”
Her breath hitched in her throat. “No time.”
“That’s all?”
She couldn’t lie to Gran, so she remained silent.
“I think about those paints that Gramps bought you. How much you put into the murals in your room.”
Quinn’s stomach somersaulted. Gran had never cared about that stuff. Or noticed.
“You should get back to it, is all I’m saying.”
Her charcoal portraits of Noah and baby Charlotte remained half-finished on her dresser. She hadn’t drawn or painted a thing since Noah died. She hadn’t wanted to. It was like something inside her had shriveled and died. Even now, after everything, she wasn’t sure how to get it back.
She finished watering the row and moved to the last one. The watering can was nearly empty. “There are more important things to do.”
“Important is relative. Other things matter, too.” Gran’s mouth worked, her wrinkled brow furrowed like she wanted to say something more but couldn’t get the words out.
Gran hesitated.
Quinn waited.
She squinted at Quinn beneath her wide brim hat, watery blue eyes as sharp and perceptive as ever.
“The world still needs beautiful things,” she said gruffly, like talking about anything that even hinted of sentimentality gave her hives. “For every thousand people who kill and destroy, there’s one gifted enough to create, to make something out of nothing.”
Quinn stared at her, too taken aback to say anything.
The old woman stripped off her gloves, rubbed her hands on her thighs, then sighed. “Think about it. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Okay, Gran,” Quinn said. What she wanted to say was, I love you, don’t leave me. “I’ll think about it.”