Page 32

chapter thirty-one

Tuck

I had to hand it to Emily. She’d come through on the fly. Why hadn’t I considered bargaining with information? It was just about the only commodity we had, and she’d thought of it, and suggested the trade with a charming smile, even with a shotgun pointed squarely at her midsection. Once again, she deserved my respect and my gratitude. She’d earned it in this case because here we were, sitting in the comfortable living room of a farmhouse, the soft cushions of a couch beneath my ass. Damn, it felt good.

“My name’s Tom Pritchard and this is my wife, Jane,” the farmer said, extending his hand toward the woman who’d joined him on the couch across from where I sat. She was about the same age as Tom, fortyish I’d guess with long blond hair pulled back into a bun and kind blue eyes.

“Emily, right?” Tom asked, looking at Emily, who’d sat down in an easy chair to my left.

“Yes, Emily Swanson.”

“And Tuck?”

I nodded.

“Oh, forgive my manners. Can I offer you a glass of water?” Jane asked.

“That’d be great,” Emily said.

“Thanks,” I added as Jane stood and left the room.

“We’re from California,” I told Tom. “Our plane crashed in the wilderness in Illinois. Like Emily said, we eventually made it to a small town named Silver Creek n Missouri, and then walked or caught rides from there to here. We’ve mostly taken back roads, traveling during the day and camping at night.”

Jane came back into the room carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and three glasses and set it on the coffee table.

“Their plane went down, Jane.”

She’d started pouring but now paused and looked up at us. “Oh my. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“They’ve been walking and camping since then,” he told her before looking back at us. “This isn’t the best time of year for camping.”

“No, it’s not, especially with very limited supplies. But we have to get back home, and as you’ve probably noticed, the only vehicles that are running seem to be pre-1980 models.”

“Sure did. If the power doesn’t come back on soon, those are going to become real valuable.”

“They already are valuable, and probably getting stolen left and right. We’ve hitched a ride a couple of times, but everyone is being very cautious, which is understandable.”

He gave a nod, his craggy features troubled. Jane handed a glass of water to each of us, and we all drank. The preteen who’d held us at gunpoint wandered in with a boy who looked to be just a couple of years older and they stood by the stairs. “Kyler, Luca, you go on. This is an adult conversation.”

The boys’ faces dropped, but they turned to leave the room. “Actually, sir,” I said, “they’re your boys, but if I can be blunt, you’re going to need all hands on deck for what’s heading your way.”

Tom Pritchard glanced back at his sons, who had stopped and were looking at their father eagerly. He sighed and gestured that they should stay in the room. “Call Uriah too.”

The older of the two boys leaned toward the stairs and called their brother, and a minute later, footsteps sounded and a boy who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen descended into the room.

I told him the short version of what had happened to us so far and included what I’d talked to Sheriff Goodfellow about.

Tom and Jane exchanged looks, their expressions registering the same stark disbelief that mine had when I’d been told about the outage extending all the way to Pennsylvania, and possibly beyond, and about the fires and the likely exodus, that so far seemed to be a trickle but would pick up as food and water disappeared. “My God,” Tom murmured, running his hand over his sparse hair. “Okay. What else?”

I gave them a brief description of what Isaac had told us about his experience, and then what we’d learned from Hosea, leaving out that 90 percent statistic that I still couldn’t believe was accurate. There was no reason to terrify people unnecessarily. “The grid won’t be back up for a long time, potentially years. People are going to be coming from the cities and eventually, some of the towns,” I said. “We’ve seen foot traffic pick up quite a bit. Right now, it seems like folks heading specific places—namely to family—but I’d imagine that soon it will simply be people escaping hopeless situations. Like Emily said, the stores are emptied out by now. In a few weeks, most pantries will be dry. I don’t know about everywhere, but in these parts, farms will eventually be in possession of the last of the food. And that eventuality is fast approaching if it’s not here already.”

Jane took Tom’s hand between them, and the three boys moved closer to where we were seated.

“Your chickens will become more precious than gold. I’d work with neighbors you trust to have them guarded around the clock. I’d also gather your neighbors and form a perimeter. Moving as many of your garden plants inside and starting to preserve seeds. Families will come here looking for help. There’ll be children, and babies. You’ll have to turn them away because if you don’t, your own family will die. Some won’t ask, some will be prepared to take, and you’ll have to be ready for that too.”

Tom glanced at his sons and then met my eyes. “We have ammunition.”

“Are you ready to shoot a hungry mother who’s trying to feed her toddler or a child the same age of one of your sons?”

Jane let out a small sound of distress, and Tom scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not telling you what you have to do—I’m only telling you to be prepared.”

Jane gave a jerky nod. “Yes. We understand.”

“How soon do you estimate?” the oldest boy named Uriah asked.

“Isaac was among the first to leave the city. He was alone and kept moving. If you’d been on his route, he’d already be to you.”

“We’ve seen some travelers out on the road, and a few have come this way, which is why Kyler was on the porch watching for trespassers when he spotted you. But…”

“I don’t know exact timing, but I’d estimate you have about a week until the numbers increase. Whether that’s a little or a lot depends on many factors.” Routes from cities. The locations around them where folks might stop first. If I were these people, I’d sit down and calculate it all out, but we’d given them the information. The rest would be up to them, because we’d be gone by morning. Tom seemed deep in thought, and I fig ured it was a good bet that he was already doing some calculations. He looked at his oldest son. “Uriah and Luca, go see the Bensons, Ortizes, Perkinses, and Hillmans. Tell them to meet here at ten a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“What if they ask why?” Uriah asked.

“Tell them you don’t know, but that your dad has some information he’d rather share in person.”

Uriah and Luca left the room, and a moment later, the front door opened and closed.

“I’m gonna go guard our road from the porch again,” Kyler said enthusiastically.

“Just make sure to stay on the porch,” his mother said. “Come get your father if you spot anyone.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy skipped out of the room. To him, at least for now, this was an adventure, and I hoped it’d remain that way, though I was all but certain it would not.

Tom turned back to us. “The families I sent Uriah and Luca to are the neighbors I trust the most. We all have different resources. That will be important.”

I nodded, glad I was right that he was already planning.

“Okay,” Jane said, the word breathy and filled with worry, “we’ll get a plan underway in the morning. Right now, I’m going to go to the shed and start bringing in some pots to put in the back room. It’ll be our temporary greenhouse.” She stood, and I thought her legs trembled a bit. What we’d said had obviously scared her, and I was sorry for that, but I also wasn’t because if they weren’t scared, they weren’t living in reality, and they wouldn’t do what needed to be done.

“Can I help?” Emily asked.

“You can help by collecting the eggs from the henhouse,” Jane said with a wobbly smile. I sensed she needed a bit of time alone and couldn’t blame her for that. She was a mother with three children and she’d just learned that hordes of people would likely be arriving on their doorstep in the weeks ahead, not to mention that the situation was going to last several years. I still felt slightly dazed when I thought about that. Staying on the move was helping me cope, and ensuring it settled little by little.

“Sure. Of course,” Emily said with a smile.

“There’s a basket in the kitchen near the backdoor,” Jane said as she turned away. “And thank you.” Jane exited the room quickly, and Tom watched her with a frown.

“Emily, while you see what the girls left for us, I’ll show Tuck to the room you’ll be sleeping in.”

“We’re really perfectly happy in the barn, sir. We have sleeping—”

“Nonsense. I said that before I spent a few minutes with you. You’ve given us invaluable information and you’re obviously good folks. We have a guest room and I insist.”

I met Emily’s eyes as she stood, hers flaring slightly with something I couldn’t read. Discomfort, perhaps, and I could only assume it was because we’d have to figure out a sleeping arrangement. I didn’t mind taking the floor though. In fact, I’d been sleeping on the floor by choice since getting out of prison. And after bedding down on the hard ground, a portion of carpet would be a luxury.

Emily headed toward the kitchen where Tom pointed her, and then he helped me bring our backpacks and gear up the narrow set of steps. The room was small and cozy, a handsewn quilt covering the double bed, and a few more carefully folded over a quilt stand next to the dresser. “I’ll get you a few candles and a lighter,” Tom said. “There’s a bathroom in the hall and water in the bathtub, but the plumbing obviously isn’t working, and our water stopped running days ago. I hate to ask you to use the woods out back but—”

“Sir, we’ve been using the woods for a week. We’re grateful for the bed, and the roof over our heads.”

Tom nodded. “It’s going to get bad, isn’t it?”

He was looking at me man-to-man, a father with a family to protect and a community of neighbors he cared for. “Yes,” I said honestly. “It’s likely going to get very bad.”

* * *

I spent a few minutes arranging our stuff and setting up an area near the end of the bed where I’d sleep. Then I went downstairs and, finding the house empty, walked through the kitchen toward the back door to look for Emily and help her gather eggs if she needed it.

The chickens were situated a few hundred feet behind the house, a cobblestone path leading from the back door to the red coop. The sun shone down, and for the first time in a week, the sky appeared somewhat normal, fluffy white clouds dancing amidst a purply blue. I spotted Emily inside the pen, her back to me as she reached inside the coop and retrieved the eggs, setting them gently in the basket next to her on the ground. As I moved closer, the scent transported me back to the chicken coop on Honey Hill Farm, Emily’s golden hair shiny under the sunlight. A yearning filled the space between my ribs so suddenly that it made me suck in a breath. I hadn’t felt a longing for home like that in years.

Or maybe I just hadn’t allowed myself to. But now, standing here, breathing in the animals and sunshine and the fresh, open air, and seeing her among it all, the way she’d once been, I let myself feel it. Let myself remember what it’d felt like when a home like this had been mine.

Emily opened the gate and walked through, her face breaking into a smile when she saw me. Pleasure radiated inside me. It always felt so damn good to make you smile. And the moment made me remember exactly why.

I met her near the gate. “Walk with me?”

“Haven’t we done enough of that?”

I chuckled. “A stroll. Just to check out the property.”

She smiled and then shaded her eyes as she looked across the back field. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

“It is.” We turned and meandered across the grass, and then stepped onto a flagstone path that led to a firepit surrounded by portions of tree stumps fashioned as seats. Emily sat down on one, closing her eyes and tilting her face to the sun, a ray of light washing over. She was free of makeup, her long hair held back in a ponytail, and she looked young and fresh and beautiful. She looked more like the Emily I’d once known, and because of it, my heart squeezed. I remembered the way I’d stared at her across our family campfires or through gaps in branches as we grasped oranges in our palms…the way I used to fantasize about planting my lips on hers. I let myself stare at her now the way I had then, my gaze moving over her luminous skin, to her light brown lashes which were thick and feathery, and down to her pillowy lips. And even when she opened her eyes and focused her crystal blue gaze on me, I couldn’t look away. I swore the scent of orange blossoms tickled my nose and that yearning stirred again. “You always did wear sunshine well.”

Her eyes grew soft, and her lips parted as she took in a deep breath, closing her eyes again. She tilted her head back a bit more. And for a few minutes she was silent, but I didn’t mind because it gave me even more time to study her to my heart’s content, to reacquaint myself with each freckle and feature. Perhaps it was pointless, and even unwise, but drinking her in felt like feeding a different kind of hunger, and one that had gone mostly unacknowledged but was there all the same.

“Before we started on this journey, I’d forgotten what quiet is like,” she finally said, opening her eyes. “I didn’t realize how loud the world had become. My world anyway. And I… I’ll miss the hustle. It will be hard giving that up. But this has reminded me to seek out the quiet sometimes too. It’s reminded me what peace really feels like.”

I stepped over to the tree stump seat next to the one she was on and sat down. “Hey, Emily?”

She turned to me. “Yeah?”

“I owe you an apology too.” I squinted out to the fields and the rolls of hay behind her for a moment and then met her eyes. All day, I’d been thinking as we’d walked, going over everything that happened since we’d crash-landed in the middle of Nowhere, Illinois. “I’m sorry for what I said, about you being a sellout. You worked and climbed and didn’t give up, just like you took control of a speeding horse and buggy. I was wrong and I’m sorry. You didn’t end up where you were because of anything other than your talent and tenacity.”

Her cheeks flushed and she smiled, and it was almost shy. “Not that it matters now. All that… It’s over.”

The sun shifted, hitting my eyes and I squinted at her. “You still have the telethon,” I said. “And the marathon…”

I’d said it to make her smile and it did, but the smile didn’t last. “Do I? That’s beginning to feel like a pipe dream too.”

“That was my point. You’re good at making pipe dreams a reality.”

“It might not be up to me,” she said. “But I would like to find some way to help. Or maybe perform. Even if it’s only for a few people. Or… I don’t know. Military bases once they get set back up. If they do.” She sighed. “Maybe there’ll be an opportunity for me to be useful too.”

I watched her. Ah, she felt useless and without value. And I had certainly contributed to that. Hell, at the time, I’d believed it. But I didn’t believe it anymore. Emily was brave when she needed to be. She had gumption and nerve, and she was quick on her feet. She had the charm I didn’t and enjoyed putting it to use. Little Showboat. “I guess we’ll see when we get there,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess we will.”