by David Lucin
Maria slapped Gary’s shoulder and scolded, “Don’t think like that! There’s only one way to find out if you can win. You’ll never know unless you try.”
He reached up and set his hand on his wife’s. “Okay, okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Great,” she said. “Now, there’s some kale in the back yard that’s ready to be eaten, so how about you pick us some?”
A stomach grumbled. Val’s face went pink. “Was that you?” Jenn asked.
“So what?” She showed her palms. “I’m excited for kale.”
“You might be the first person in history to admit that.”
“It’s not much,” Gary lamented. “But it’s green, which is more than can be said about most of what we eat these days.” Dutifully, he headed outside. Like an eager puppy, Allison trailed closely behind, maybe to pick Gary’s brain about gardening.
Maria eased herself into his vacant seat. “Should we be expecting Sam for dinner tonight?”
“He told me he’ll be here,” Jenn said. “But who knows? Carter might make him stay late again.”
Maria laughed. “That Carter. He certainly is a hard worker, isn’t he?”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
* * *
The headstone was plain, exactly what Philip Grierson’s mother would have wanted: a single piece of rock with a chiseled cross and an engraving.
Faye Sarah Grierson; July 11, 1997, to May 15, 2062.
“Five weeks,” said Philip’s father, Vincent, his hands clasped in front of him. He’d aged years since the bombs. At sixty-five, he could have passed for eighty. Every hair on his head was white, and the wrinkles around his mouth ran deep. Sometimes, for Philip, looking at Dad was a lot like looking in the mirror. Both had long chins, round faces, bushy eyebrows, and, as Mom always joked, no lips. Thick necks, too, though Philip’s was adorned with an elaborate tattoo of a Celtic knot.
“Yeah,” Philip agreed, not knowing what else to say. “Gone by quick.”
“Hard to believe,” Dad added. “The longest I’d ever been away from her was a week when she went to Costa Rica with her parents.”
“Costa Rica? When was that?”
“Shortly after we met. We would have been twenty, possibly twenty-one. I distinctly remember pushing for our relationship to be exclusive before she left.”
Philip had a laugh at that. “Yeah, probably a good call.”
A light breeze rustled a nearby pine tree. With it came the smell of cows, even though half had been slaughtered earlier this month. Overhead, the sun burned angry and red. They’d buried Mom at the ranch, next to Philip’s grandparents and great-grandparents. This land had been in the Grierson family for almost a hundred years, and when Mom and Dad married, the former city girl from Los Angeles took to her new life like she was, in Dad’s words, “born in a hayloft.” Within a year of her moving in, the ranch was as much hers as anyone else’s. Her mark was everywhere: the fence around the goat pen, the new chicken coop, the gardens, the greenhouse. She made this place what it was today.
“I miss her more every day,” Dad said. The muscles in his jaw tightened and bulged, along with those in his neck. A vein throbbed in his temple. “It didn’t have to be this way, you know. It could have gone differently.”
A rush of emotion struck Philip, but he buried it deep inside him, where it belonged. He first learned how when he was seven or eight and fell off his bike in the driveway, scraping his knee and banging his head. Mostly because the spill had spooked him, he broke into sobbing. “Quit it,” Dad had scolded and jerked him hard to his feet. “Grierson men don’t cry.” He even threatened to take away Philip’s bike if he didn’t stop. Back then, he hated his father for being so short with him. Now, some twenty-five years later, he was thankful that Dad toughened him up at such a young age.
Dad laid a bundle of flowers at the base of the headstone. They’d come from Mom’s own garden. “I’m sorry, my beautiful. I’ll make things right. I promise.”
A familiar tightness gripped Philip’s chest. Mom died of a ruptured appendix. That was all. In her mid-sixties, she was as healthy as a forty-year-old. She ate well, drank almost no alcohol, save for the odd beer or glass of wine, and kept active: for ten hours a day, minimum, she was out with the ranch staff, feeding the chickens and the goats, caring for the horses and the cows, and tending to her flowers and vegetables. Timely surgery would have saved her. Even with only emergency power and limited resources, the hospital was more than equipped to handle a procedure like that.
Well, it should have been, had it not been flooded with refugees from Las Vegas. They came in waves. The first appeared only four days after the bombs. Within two weeks, there were almost a thousand of them. Over 150 arrived on the morning of May 12, the day of Mom’s hospitalization. Most were half-starved and dehydrated. Many were stricken with acute radiation poisoning.
The hospital was overwhelmed, and chaos reigned. By the time the doctors had found a bed for her and were ready to operate, it was too late. Philip wasn’t much of a science whiz and flunked out of the biology course he took in his first year of university, but he remembered that Mom had peritonitis, a result of harmful bacteria infesting her abdominal cavity. Antibiotics were at a premium, and Mom, the saint that she was, insisted that they be saved for someone younger, someone who had a full life to live. Dad tried convincing her to accept the treatment. So did Philip. But the woman was stubborn. Three days later, she was dead.
She shouldn’t have had to make that decision. If the police had done their jobs, turned away the refugees, and protected Flagstaff, she wouldn’t have had to. That spineless Mayor Andrews deserved a good chunk of the blame, too, for hiding out at city hall and twiddling her thumbs while the town was overrun. Mom should have lived, and those who were responsible for her death had to be punished. Philip had never been so committed to a cause in his life.
Dad rose to his feet, wincing. After brushing off his slacks, he said to Philip, “All is in order, I presume?”
Philip tugged on his plain white T-shirt; his chest and back had suddenly begun to sweat. Had he remembered everything? He’d handpicked his team, the best of the ranch’s security staff, the armed wing of Citizens for Flagstaff. He’d decided on a target: the Go Market off I-40 on the east side of town. He’d run through the plan with his people more times than he could count. He’d even tracked down black ski masks to cover their faces.
Was he missing anything? He didn’t think so. So why was he so nervous? This was his bread and butter. Or it used to be, before a failed armed robbery of a meatpacking plant down in Phoenix sent him to prison for three years. But that was a fluke. How was he supposed to know that off-duty cops worked there a few hours a week for extra cash? Maybe he was anxious because he hadn’t gotten his hands dirty since his arrest. Maybe it was because he’d promised his mother that he was done with his old life. For the thousandth time, he told himself that what he was doing was necessary—that it was for Mom.
“Yeah, we’re set,” he said with an embarrassing squeak in his voice. He always got the jitters before a big job, but today, they were worse than ever. Usually, the objective was tangible: drugs, medicine, food, weapons. This time, the goal was to send a message, to make a point, and Philip felt out of his comfort zone. It was easier to justify violence when that violence was a means to an end rather than the end itself. Get it together, Philly.
“What about weapons and ammunition types?” Dad asked. “The physical evidence is what matters most. The police absolutely must believe that the attack came from a disorganized and haphazardly armed mob.”
“I told the guys to leave their ARs at home. We got hunting rifles, a few pistols—”
Dad raised a hand. “I trust you’ve given the task as much thought as Heather would have.”
Ouch. The mention of Philip’s younger sister felt like a dull blade to the ribs. Dad probably didn’t mean anything by it, but all Philip heard was, I wish Heather was here instead of you.<
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He couldn’t really blame him: Dad and Heather were inseparable. When she was little, he’d pick her up from school and bring her to his meetings around town. In her teens and early twenties, she’d help him run the booth at the farmer’s market. She was his protégé in every possible way and was being groomed to take over the family business. Then the war began. Heather, always naive and a bit of an idealist, enlisted in the Navy. She died a year later when her ship was torpedoed by a Chinese submarine somewhere in the Pacific.
“Yeah, Dad,” Philip said. “We’re ready to go.”
“I’m glad.” Dad’s gaze was still locked on the headstone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone with your mother for a while.”
The blade in Philip’s ribs twisted and sank deeper, but his father didn’t mean that as an insult. Philip hoped not, anyway. “Sure, yeah. No problem. You want to do dinner again tonight? Job’s not till late.”
“Wouldn’t you think,” Dad began, “that your time would be better spent preparing?”
Philip winced. “Right. Good call. I’ll head back to the compound, hang out there.” He waited for a goodbye, but after a few tense, silent seconds, he left the grave.
Dad’s black Dodge SUV was one of the few vehicles in Flagstaff to survive the EMP attack. The ranch had off-grid solar, too, so Philip had an electrician rig up a makeshift charging station. With panels running at low capacity thanks to all the smoke in the atmosphere, it took days to stock up enough juice for a full charge, but at least CFF was mobile without having to rely on Minute Tire.
He drove to the end of the long driveway, where Esteban Ortiz, an AR-15 slung across his chest, opened the gate. The broad-shouldered son of Mexican immigrants, Esteban had a wide face with neatly trimmed stubble and a tall forehead. He wore round, thick-rimmed glasses, reminding Philip that he was once a fifth-grade teacher.
Esteban joined CFF’s security staff, along with about sixteen others, in early May. Even before the bombs, hungry people desperately wanted what the ranch had; now they would fight to get their hands on it. For the most part, the guards were reliable, and Philip trusted them. He would have brought Esteban tonight if the man hadn’t had a wife and kid at home. This job was too risky for a guy with a family.
“Heading out, sir?” Esteban asked when Philip rolled to a stop beside him. As usual, his cadence was soft yet deliberate. A good voice for children.
“That’s right,” Philip said. Many CFF people called him “sir.” He wasn’t sure why. Vincent was a “sir,” not Philip. “Don’t let my dad stay out there too long. He’ll stand around at that grave all day until someone drags him away. It’s not good for him. And get him to eat something for once.”
Esteban gave him a tight smile. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
“Much appreciated.” He nearly drove off, then snapped his fingers and reached into the glove compartment. Inside was a fist-sized stuffed unicorn. The pink was so bright that it might have glowed in the dark. Esteban’s brow knitted together, so Philip said, “Here, I hope this isn’t weird, but I got this for Ophelia. Her birthday’s next week, right? She’s turning six? Figured with all that’s going on, she could use a pick-me-up, and I heard you mention to one of the guys that she has quite the collection of these plushies.”
“Regrettably so,” Esteban said. “And it’s not weird at all. Thank you. How’d you get this, by the way?”
Philip handed him the unicorn. “I randomly found it in a trunk upstairs when I was going through some of Mom’s old stuff. Must’ve been Heather’s, and I figured Ophelia might like it. I cleaned it up as much as I could. Hopefully she doesn’t care that it’s used.”
Esteban took Philip’s hand in a firm shake. “She’ll love it. I’ll make sure to bring her by so she can say thanks.”
“No worries,” Philip said. “We’re a bit out of the way down here.”
“She’s been asking all about where I work now, so this is the perfect excuse to show her.”
“Then I look forward to it. Have a good one.”
“You too, sir.”
As Philip drove, headed to CFF’s compound—an old, abandoned warehouse that remained a secret to all but Dad’s inner circle—he ran through the plan yet again: sneak up under the cover of darkness, fire some shots, leave behind the evidence, and get out before backup arrived. Simple. A lot easier than walking out with some loot and making a getaway. Really, the job was only half a job. The easy part. So why did thinking about it stress him out so much?
It’s all for Mom, he told himself again.
If he succeeded, the cops would think they were attacked by a group of opportunists, not some organized army like that of the rumored Major in Phoenix. Dad would do the rest, pointing the finger at the refugees, whipping up public opinion in favor of CFF, and precipitating a crisis in Flagstaff. With any luck, that snake Andrews would panic and resign, leaving the door open for Dad to take over at city hall. By winter, all nonresidents would be gone and in New River, where they should have ended up in the first place. Then Chief Morrison and all the top brass at the police department, those who let the refugees in, would be replaced by people loyal to Vincent Grierson and Vincent Grierson alone. Next, the borders would be closed, and Flagstaff would finally be safe.
A lot had to go right for Dad’s plan to play out, but who was Philip to question him? Dad graduated with an MBA from a fancy West Coast school. Philip flunked out of the University of Washington in his first year. Really, his greatest accomplishment came in November, when he convinced a parole board that he wasn’t a threat to society anymore. So he would defer to his father’s judgment. Besides, he didn’t just owe the man his loyalty; he owed him his life. If not for Mom and Dad nearly bankrupting themselves to pay for an all-star legal team, Philip’s sentence would have been much longer—five years at the minimum, probably seven or ten. Either way, if he hadn’t gotten out when he did, a hydrogen bomb would have vaporized him while he sat in his cell in Phoenix.
Philip wondered what his mother would think. Would she want this? Dying was her decision, and she willfully gave her life to save a stranger. Not once did she cast blame. “God has a plan for us all,” she’d said as she lay in her hospital bed, her grip weak in Philip’s hands, her face a milky white. “And it’s my time. I know you, Philly. I know how you can be. I see it in your eyes. Please don’t be angry. This isn’t the end. We’ll be together again someday. I promise.”
But he was angry. Angrier than ever. So angry that he could barely sleep at night, and whenever he did, he woke up sweating, every muscle in his body tense with rage. She was the only one who didn’t see him as simply a collection of flaws. When Philip slunk home after failing out of school, she said, “Not being good at tests doesn’t make you any less intelligent. Some of us are better with our hands.” Without a second of hesitation, she offered him a job on the ranch.
He should have taken it, but the shame was too fierce and his father was too angry, so he left to blaze his own trails in the city. Not a smart idea during the depression. Still not ready to face Mom and Dad but wanting desperately to stay out of modular, he started taking risks, but a pickpocket here and a mugging there quickly spiraled out of control. Before Philip knew it, he was storming meatpacking plants with semiautomatic rifles and a team of five. Even after all that, Mom picked him up from the prison and gave him a hug. She didn’t care about how he’d soiled the Grierson name or cost the family six figures in legal fees to get him out. Having her boy home was enough. It was all she ever wanted. Leaving had been selfish, he realized, but it wasn’t too late to be the son she’d always deserved.
They had six months together. Six. That was all. Philip had expected a decade or more. Mom’s death never should have happened. The mayor, the police, the refugees—it was their fault, and Philip vowed to make them pay for letting his mother die, even if it was the last thing he did. He only hoped that Mom, wherever she was, would forgive him for his methods.
5
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Val lived alone in a two-bedroom duplex near the police station. The other unit was empty, so Jenn sometimes joked that Val should knock down the wall and bring in a pool table. Thus far, the wall remained standing. No pool table, either.
It was 7:30 p.m. on Monday. Their shift at the Go Market began at 8:00. Bryce was also working and would meet them there.
“Ready to head out?” Jenn asked when Val answered the door.
Val wore dark pants and a dark long-sleeve top, her hair tied into a tight ponytail. She yawned like she’d recently woken up. Probably she had. At four in the morning, Jenn would regret not having slept all day. “Yes, one more second. Come inside when I finish.”
Jenn had been here several times before, but Val’s house always surprised her. Prior to her first visit, not long after Phoenix, she imagined something spartan: concrete floors, a military-style cot, a hot plate for cooking, a stainless-steel gun locker in the corner. It couldn’t have been more different. Next to the two-seater couch was a healthy plant. The bookshelf was filled with paperbacks, mostly romance. On the coffee table, a candle burned low, bathing the space in warm orange light. Jenn imagined herself snuggled up with her book and a blanket. It was all so cozy, and she couldn’t believe that Val—who was, by any measure, a gruff, experienced killer—had put it together.
She ran her fingers along the spines of some books, thinking about what she should read after Rainwater, while Val disappeared into her bedroom. A minute or two later, she returned, backpack in hand. Jenn said, “You’re going to miss this place come winter.”
“What’s this?”
“Winter,” Jenn repeated. “I assume you aren’t staying here.” She gestured to a gas fireplace. “I don’t see a wood stove. You’ll freeze without power.”
Val picked her keys out of a bowl on the coffee table and led the way outside. “Sophie’s invited me to stay at the farm.”
