by Stone, Kyla
One was curled up in Quinn’s usual kitchen chair. Two more darted over, tails high, already preparing to rub all over their new visitors. A fourth one watched them from his perch on top of the cat tree in the corner, tail twitching.
It seemed like twenty but was only five.
“Oh!” Milo squealed, his dark eyes lighting up. “Can I pet them?”
“This is Odin, Loki, Thor, Valkyrie, and Hel, ruler of the underworld.” Quinn pointed them out. “That orange one is Thor. He’s whiny and always begs to be petted. The fat lazy one who loves to climb on people’s laps is Odin. He spends his life sleeping. The tabby with the cunning face is Loki—he’s sneaky, mischievous, and always getting into trouble. That sleek black one over there is Valkyrie. She’s the hunter who brings us mice and rats and leaves them on the back patio.”
Quinn bent and petted the last one as he rubbed against her leg with a welcoming meow. “And this white fluffy hellion is Hel, ruler of the underworld. He’s too stuck up for anyone and hates to be held. But sometimes, you can lure him out of hiding with a treat.”
Milo plopped down on the rug on the floor and was instantly covered in furry creatures. They arched their backs and pressed against him, several tails in his face all at once. Loud, contented purring filled the room.
“They like you,” Gran said kindly, a strange look on her face as she watched him, that deep sadness back in her eyes. “They don’t like just anyone.”
Milo’s grin widened.
The table was spread with old newspaper and Gran’s canning supplies—mason jars, lids, a funnel, tongs, and stirring sticks. A large stainless-steel pot and canning rack sat on top of the woodstove. The room smelled of firewood, candle wax, and delicious, home-cooked meals.
Quinn moved aside a large wicker basket full of zucchinis and took a seat at the table. Gran was canning all the fresh food they’d gotten from the store and from her winter garden—carrots, onions, potatoes, and winter squash.
Fat, fluffy Odin leapt into her lap and spun in a circle, his claws kneading Quinn’s thighs.
Gran sat in her customary chair and patted her thigh. Thor disentangled himself from Milo’s arms and settled himself in Gran’s lap. He’d been particularly attentive to Gran ever since Gramps hadn’t come home. Almost as if he knew something had happened, and Gran needed extra love.
Gran scratched him absently behind the ears. “How’s the world holding up out there?”
Noah pulled a pencil and a small notepad out of his pocket as he sat down beside Quinn. “Friendly’s is no longer so friendly. And they’re completely out of bottled water already. Some people were smart and filled up their bathtubs and sinks, but that’s running out, too.”
“On my way to the store, I saw some people collecting snow,” Quinn said. “And a few dragging buckets from the river.”
“Snow is fine.” Gran clucked her tongue. “If those folks drink dirty or contaminated water, they could get diarrhea, dysentery, cholera, typhoid. Water-related diseases still kill over three million people a year around the world.”
“I think we’re about to drastically increase those numbers,” Quinn said.
“I hope not.” Noah glanced down at his notebook. “So we should tell people that if they need to get water from the river, they should boil it first.”
Gran shook her head. “It’s a waste of precious fuel to boil so much water. All you need is ordinary Clorox bleach. A three-quart bottle of six-percent sodium hypochlorite costs about two dollars, and will treat nearly forty-eight hundred gallons of clear water. A drop per pint is the recipe.”
Noah scribbled in his notebook. “Okay, we’ll add this to the list to disseminate to the neighborhoods.”
“Remember, that’s clear water. For cloudy river water, tell ’em to filter it through a clean cloth like a T-shirt first and double the bleach. Then let it sit for an hour or so. But why are they going to the river? Sixty to seventy percent of the homes in Fall Creek are on well water, aren’t they?”
“Most people don’t have hand or solar pumps, so they can’t access that water.”
Gran shook her head. “Bullocks! You sure as heck can.”
“We have a hand pump,” Quinn said. “I know because I pumped five gallons this morning in negative five-degree temperatures. It was practically child abuse.”
“Which you can now use to wash the dishes for that snark,” Gran snapped, but not harshly.
This was a good thing—Gran was acting half-normal again. Quinn would gladly do dishes for the rest of her life if it brought Gran back to herself.
“As I was saying.” Gran cleared her throat and turned back to Noah. “They can build an Amish bucket—a manual, hand-operated well bucket—out of four-foot-long by four- or five-inch wide PVC piping with a check valve cap on the bottom. Use a rope to drop it down and haul it up, and it’ll bring up about a gallon each haul.”
Noah bent his head and scribbled it down. Milo put down all three cats he was holding simultaneously, rose to his feet, and leaned over Noah’s shoulder. “Your handwriting looks like scribbles, Dad.”
“Yeah, I know. I grew up typing on the computer like everybody else. Guess you’ll have to teach me cursive all over again.”
“Sheesh. I hope not.” Quinn made a face. The only good thing about this whole EMP fiasco was the no school part. Of course, they were still technically on break and didn’t have school anyway, but Quinn couldn’t imagine classes starting up again on Monday.
No lights. No computers. And all her textbooks were online anyway. Who knew what was happening with the internet?
“Great ideas.” Noah chewed on his pencil. “What about food? We’ve got the emergency shelter at the high school and the pantry at Crossway church. Friendly’s Grocery will reopen once they get things under control. But if FEMA doesn’t show up soon, we’ll run out within a few weeks. Should we start hunting and trapping?”
“I can hunt,” Quinn said. Both Gramps and Gran had taught her how.
“Really?” Milo asked.
“It’s true,” Gran said proudly. “Quinn can hold her own. We made sure she knew how. But not everyone can. Still, I suppose people willing to learn can be taught. It’s those folks who have never shot a rifle and aren’t willing to do so that’ll be in the worst shape.”
“I have a Remington 700 in .30-06, but not nearly enough ammo,” Noah said. “I admit I haven’t gone deer hunting in a few years. Julian’s always bugging me to go with him, but . . .”
“Well, I’d say it’s damn time to get started, wouldn’t you?” Gran reached out a gnarled hand and patted Noah’s belly. “Though some people seem to have ample stores to last at least a few weeks, at any rate.”
Quinn snorted.
Noah blushed but recovered quickly. He gave a good-natured shrug. “Guilty as charged.”
Milo snickered. Gran snickered right along with him. Quinn smiled. And then she laughed out loud for the first time since Gramps had died right next to her.
It felt good. It felt right, like here in this warm, cozy room was where all the good memories of Gramps lived, not the bad scary ones. And for this one moment in time, the ache in her heart lessened a little bit.
27
Quinn
Day Four
Quinn hadn’t expected Octavia to return so quickly. She shouldn’t have been surprised at anything her mother did—and yet, she still was.
This time, Octavia brought Ray Shultz with her.
Quinn was in the kitchen stirring the stew she and Gran were making together. She’d hunted a rabbit with her .22 that morning. The rabbit provided the protein, and Gran was harvesting some kale, garlic, and onions from her garden for added flavor.
The fire crackled and popped in the woodstove. Steam from the almost boiling liquid heated Quinn’s face. Outside, it was freezing, but inside was warm and toasty.
Octavia barged in unannounced, demanding food. Quinn refused. She wasn’t allowing Octavia to steal from Gran right under he
r nose again. No way.
“Octavia!” The front door slammed open. “What the hell’s taking so long? Octavia!”
Ray Shultz stalked into the kitchen, his boots trailing clots of dirty snow and mud across the floor. He didn’t bother to wipe them off.
“Where the hell’s the food? We gotta get to Tommy’s. He’s got the H, but we’ve gotta bring him something, or he’ll keep all the good crap for himself. Nickel says it’s ’bout dried up. No saying when or where we can get more after this.”
Odin and Thor, who’d been curled comfortably in front of the woodstove, leapt to their feet and raced toward the living room, fur raised and ears laid back. Loki stayed under the table, hissing.
They could sense the threat that had entered the house and wanted to get as far away as possible. So did Quinn.
Odin and Thor darted around Ray’s legs to reach the safety of the living room. With a savage grin, Ray kicked at them.
Thor was fast enough to escape unscathed, but Odin was fat and slow. Ray’s boot connected with his fluffy backside. Odin let out a yowl, scrambled up, and fled after Thor. Under the table, Loki hissed louder.
“Leave them alone!” Quinn said.
“Just having a little fun.” Ray was a thin, wiry white guy in his early forties, his salt-and-pepper hair already balding. He wasn’t big and bulky, but he was mean and vicious, and that counted more.
It was his eyes that gave him away—deep-set, bulging like a frog’s, and shiny with whatever high he was riding and barely contained malevolence.
Anger slashed through Quinn. A raw, helpless fury she could barely control. She hated him. Hated his gross, bulgy frog-eyes, his thick blackened fingers, and the stink of grease that hung on him.
He was occasionally a mechanic, but mostly just a junkie, always drinking and playing card games with his high school dropout cousins and friends in Octavia’s filthy trailer at the Fall Creek Estates mobile home park across the bridge.
“No one said you could come in,” Quinn snapped. “Get lost.”
Ray whirled on her, amusement quickly flashing to anger.
“Get the hell out.”
Ray jabbed his finger at her chest. “Don’t you dare come home after this, you little slut.”
“I wouldn’t set foot in that hovel if you paid me.” She couldn’t help herself. She never could. The ugly words were out even before she thought them. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t pay me, since you’re too stupid and lazy to get a real job.”
Ray surged forward and grabbed a hunk of her hair, dragging her away from the stove. Her scalp stung. It would’ve been better to hold still and endure it, but Quinn had never been the weak, submissive type.
That was her mother.
She spun, wrenching away while simultaneously punching at Ray’s chest and face. Her fingers raked the skin of his right cheek. Her scalp burned as several strands of blue hair ripped away.
“Stop it!” Octavia shrieked. “Ray! Leave her alone!”
But her mother didn’t do anything, only cowered against the fridge like she always did. Behind the table, Loki hissed and yowled.
Ray shoved Quinn hard against the wall. Her head bounced dully and knocked the calendar to the linoleum floor.
Pain spiked through her skull. Fear blossomed in her chest.
She should shut the hell up. She shouldn’t antagonize him further. But it wasn’t in her to submit to anyone, let alone assholes.
Her scalp smarting, hot tears in her eyes, Quinn straightened, forced herself to meet his gaze. Gave him her best condescending smile.
Ray went for Quinn again, his hand raised to backhand her. Scorn and hatred radiated off him. His rage was a palpable thing, a menacing threat that filled the entire kitchen.
Heart slamming against her ribs, Quinn ducked, scrabbled sideways, and reached the counter. She pressed her back against the drawer with the kitchen knives.
Her gaze darted frantically around the room. Her slingshot was tucked in her coat pocket hanging on the back of the dining room chair on the opposite side of the kitchen. Her .22 rifle was loaded but stored in the coat closet in the living room. Gran’s Mossberg 500 was leaning against her nightstand in her bedroom.
The stew was boiling on the woodstove. Quinn could throw the boiling liquid at him if it came to that. But the pot was heavy and unwieldy, and she might miss.
She jerked open the drawer and pulled out a butcher knife. “I’m warning you.”
He leered at her. “Just what do you think you’re going to do with that?”
She kept it low, didn’t point it at him. Didn’t want to poke the bear, just let him know she wasn’t his prey. Wouldn’t be prey. “Touch me or Gran and I’ll gut you. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Ray!” Octavia shifted, nervous and twitchy. “Leave her alone. Let’s just get something to eat and go. Come on.”
Ray’s gaze stayed on her, his deep-set eyes slitted and gleaming with malice. He touched the scratch on his cheek Quinn had left with her aqua-painted nails. A smear of blood streaked his fingers.
He spat on the floor. “Not until I teach this little slut a lesson.”
Quinn adjusted her grip on the knife handle. Her palms were damp with sweat. “No, you sure as hell won’t.”
The back door swung open. Cold air blasted the kitchen.
Gran stood in her winter work gear, the Mossberg 500 pump-action shotgun stock pressed against her shoulder, one hand on the slide, the other on the grip, finger on the trigger. She aimed the barrel at Ray’s chest. “Don’t you dare touch my granddaughter!”
28
Quinn
Day Four
Startled, Ray faltered.
“Get away from her!” Gran ordered.
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want, you old hag.”
“Not in my house, you won’t. Get out. The both of you. I can’t stand to look at your pathetic faces.”
“Mom—” Octavia whined. “You don’t gotta be like this. We just wanted—”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? You just want and want and are never satisfied, not even when you suck everyone around you dry. Get out of my house so I can mourn my husband in peace.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, woman!” Ray flexed his fists, his face purpling. His hand moved toward the Smith & Wesson tucked into his belt. “You won’t really—”
CH-CHUNK! The distinctive sound of the pump-action shotgun being racked split the air. Gran took two shuffling steps into the center of the kitchen. “I will.”
Ray’s expression froze in surprise. His eyes bulged.
“You are going to leave,” she ordered. “And if you come back, you won’t particularly like how you’ll be greeted.”
Something changed in his expression. A hint of wariness. Of hesitation. Like maybe he was starting to realize that Gran was fully capable of shooting him.
Hands raised, he took a step back, away from Quinn, toward the doorway into the living room. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Don’t tell me what I want to do.”
Octavia pulled anxiously on Ray’s arm. “Come on. You said we had to get to Tommy’s. We gotta go before it’s gone.”
Ray smiled, revealing his crooked, yellowed teeth. As charming as a crocodile. “No need to be inhospitable. To your own family, too.”
“Get out of this house, Ray Shultz,” Gran said. “Right now.”
“We’ve got better things to do, trust me.” Ray glared at Quinn. “And you. I mean what I said. Don’t you even think about coming crawling home to beg for mercy. It won’t be mercy I give you. I can promise you that.”
Octavia just stared at the floor, said nothing at all.
Quinn opened her mouth to snap something ugly and sarcastic but managed to swallow it back. For once, she was smart enough not to egg him on.
He was finally leaving.
Quinn and Gran watched in tense silence as Ray turned and stomped out of the house. Octavia scurried after h
im, her head down like a shamed puppy.
A moment later, the Fourtrax 300 coughed and hacked to life. Octavia and Ray roared out of the driveway. Gran didn’t lower the Mossberg until the sound of the ATV had faded.
Quinn set the knife on the counter with a clatter. Her hands were trembling. She sagged against the cabinets, breathing hard.
She wanted to ask Gran if she was okay. She felt far from okay herself. They were both shaken. She could see it written all over Gran’s face.
There were some things too hard to talk about. She chose the safety of sarcasm instead. “Well, that was a treat. Ray can shove his mercy right up his rancid arse.”
Gran flashed her a weary smile, a hint of her old vitality returning. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, my dear.”
Quinn tried to return the smile, but it froze on her face. “They won’t stop. They’re going to cause trouble.”
Gran didn’t say anything for a long moment. She leaned the shotgun against one of the kitchen chairs, closed the kitchen door she’d left open when she barged in, and retrieved her cane.
The cats reappeared from their hiding spots, meowing plaintively. Valkyrie and Odin rubbed against Quinn’s shins, while Thor limped to Gran, begging to be picked up.
Loki darted out from beneath the table and jumped onto a kitchen chair. Even Hel made an appearance, peeking out from behind the fridge, his white tail twitching indignantly.
Gran scratched Loki behind the ears. When she spoke, her voice was rough. “Octavia’s caused trouble since the moment she left the womb. Ain’t nothing new under the sun, as your grandfather always loved to say.”
“I thought the shotgun was in your bedroom.”
Gran shrugged. “I decided I should keep it with me.”
“You should. Ray and Octavia aren’t the only ones hungry. We need to stay armed at all times.”
“Yes, we do.”
“We should hide the rest of the supplies.”
“Most of them already are.”
