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We’ve been driving for a few minutes—fairly slowly, it’s not difficult to keep my balance—when Burgundy catches my eye. “You’re Lilah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Burgundy. And that’s my brother, Micah.” She gestures to the big, pleasant-looking man who’s positioned near the cab beside Deck.

Micah gives me a brief, two-fingered salute, but his focus is obviously on our surroundings. He and Deck are both fully on guard, searching for threats.

As far as I can see, we’re the only people for miles around, but I understand the instinct to be wary. No one without that instinct would have stayed alive this long after Impact.

Violence erupted all over the country immediately following the announcement about the asteroid’s impending approach more than two years ago. At first the riots and looting were limited, occurring primarily in large cities and halfway contained by law enforcement and the national guard.

After I was sent home from college, my family and I would watch the chaos on the news every evening.

My mother got real quiet, and my father tried to reassure us that things like that happened in cities but not in small towns like ours.

People in our region of western Tennessee emptied stores of their stock of toilet paper and started buying more guns, but we all assumed we’d never have to deal with the same kind of violence as the big cities.

We were wrong. Of course we were wrong. People are people no matter where they live. And when they get scared, some will get mean.

A local militia group had always been holed up about thirty miles from our town. They were small and weird and isolated, and no one paid much attention to them. In the first month after the asteroid was announced, they tripled in size. And by the second month after Impact, they started raiding.

After they attacked and wiped out a nearby discount store distribution center, more people joined up with them.

Those who opposed them—including my parents and seventeen-year-old brother who all took their hunting rifles to help defend the borders of our town—were killed.

Hal’s family lived two blocks from mine.

He went to defend the town too and barely got away. He came to find me.

Hal and I stuffed whatever food and supplies we could fit into our backpacks and ran into the woods that bordered my family’s property just in time to avoid the group of militia who were hitting and looting every house on our street.

We ran and kept running.

For a full year we ran, squatting in any shelter we could find, scavenging food from abandoned houses, stores, and restaurants, and defending ourselves primarily by staying out of sight.

The main highways were too dangerous to risk traveling on, full of roving gangs and even larger groups that people called droves, so we stuck to hiking trails and back roads.

Last year, when travel of any kind became too treacherous, we found the Walmart and stayed, scraping by on the remainder of our scavenged food and anything we could sneak from groups moving through the area.

It wasn’t much, but it was a life. There were some good times amid the bad.

But that life ended when Hal died, and all that’s left for me is this .

“How old are you?” Burgundy asks. When I hesitate, she adds, “I’m twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-four.” I glance up toward Deck for some reason, but he’s not paying any attention to me.

“Were you in college?”

I know exactly what she’s asking. “Yeah. Second semester of my senior year. I was almost done.”

“I was in college too. Majoring in education.” She gives a wry huff. “I wanted to be a first-grade teacher. ”

It’s a poignant, bittersweet thought. A future that died with everything else.

I know the feeling.

“I was in prelaw. I was going to be a lawyer.” This time when I feel someone looking at me, I turn my head quickly and catch Deck’s eyes moving back to the hills on the horizon. “Oh well. Now we’re this.”

Burgundy smiles. She’s remarkably sweet. The smile goes all the way to her eyes. “Yes. Now we’re this. Oh wait. Micah has a gun for you. Logan said you’d need one.”

Thus summoned, Micah lowers his rifle and pulls a small pistol out of an ankle holster beneath the leg of his jeans.

He smiles at me—warm but not as sweet as his sister—and says, “Like this.” He shows me how to insert the magazine, take the safety off, and pull the trigger.

I’ve used guns before—mostly Hal’s hunting rifle, which was the only weapon we had until it fell as we were crossing a river—but I’m not any sort of expert. I’ve survived by being smart and safe. Not by fighting or killing anyone.

I’ve never killed anyone, and I hope to never be forced to.

But using the gun is clearly necessary in this group, so I don’t hesitate. I practice a few times until I get the hang of loading it, and then I aim at passing trees to make sure I can handle it.

I don’t pull the trigger. One thing no one ever does anymore is waste ammunition.

When I glance back, I see all three of them watching me. Micah gives me a quick, approving nod, and Deck levels a sober stare at me before he turns away.

Burgundy smiles. “You’re going to do fine,” she tells me.

I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s still nice to hear.

By my best guess, considering the number of vehicles in the caravan and the poor condition of the roadway, we only average about twenty-five miles an hour for the rest of the afternoon.

We drive a few hours and pass a couple of abandoned buildings that are quickly checked and dismissed as scavenging targets, and the only sign of living people we encounter is a farm in the distance.

It’s a relatively small farm with a makeshift wall around it and guards at the gate. In the fields, they’re clearly attempting to grow fruits, vegetables, and grains despite the layer of dust in the sky thrown up by the asteroid impact that is still affecting climate and sunlight two years later.

My stomach clenches as Logan’s vehicle slows down in front of the turnoff toward the farm. There are clearly people living there. Trying to survive. Yes, they likely have food and provisions, but that doesn’t mean they’re ours to loot.

I don’t want to be part of a group who would do that to people who have done us no harm.

I blow out a long sigh when Logan makes a waving gesture out of his window, clearly indicating that we’re to move on. We aren’t going to hit that farm.

Whether it’s because the people there are innocent or because it’s too well guarded to risk, I still don’t know.

Otherwise the afternoon passes uneventfully.

Burgundy occasionally initiates a short chat, but our focus is supposed to be on guarding, so the conversations aren’t too deep or too long.

I keep rearranging to find a comfortable position where I can have a line of sight but not have to brace myself tensely to keep from falling over at every bump and turn of the truck.

I’m exhausted, sore from the tension, and slightly queasy when we come upon an old shopping center.

It’s not very large—none of the retailers in this rural region were—and it’s been abandoned like everything else around.

The grocery store and drugstore have already been pillaged.

Nothing worthwhile remains. But there’s gas in the underground tanks at the gas station.

I’ve gotten out to stretch my legs like everyone else, and I watch with interest as several of the others efficiently pry open the tanks and use commercial-grade siphon pumps to draw out all the gasoline into the large transfer tanks in the back of each pickup.

This is clearly how they operate. They travel only to find new sources of food, supplies, and fuel, and they stop to scavenge whenever they encounter a possible target.

Hal and I saw many such groups pass through by the Walmart.

At least Logan and his group don’t kill or assault everyone they meet like some do .

It’s fine with me to survive by scavenging. It’s basically what Hal and I were doing but on a larger scale.

One of the men I haven’t met calls out while they’re finishing with the gas, summoning us over to his discovery.

He found a furniture showroom with one side of the building collapsed but the other side intact and barely pillaged. Chairs and tables and made-up beds are still in position with only two years of nature creeping in to damage them.

We decide to stay there for the night.

It’s disorienting to be around so many strangers in unknown circumstances after being on my own for so long, but it’s also weirdly exciting. I watch wide-eyed as a few of them circle couches and easy chairs around a large grill in which one of the guys makes a small fire to heat up our dinner.

Our meal consists of a stew made of canned soup, canned meat, and a variety of additional seasonings they have in their stockpile. It smells incredibly good to me, but I’m nervous about taking one of the comfortable chairs. I’m new here, and I don’t want to look pushy or entitled.

So I wait until everyone has sat down except the four men posted as guards and Deck, who is lurking in the background.

Then I go over to take a seat on the edge of a bench near Micah and Burgundy.

I accept my bowl of warm stew happily and start digging in like everyone else. It tastes better than anything I’ve put in my mouth for at least a year.

I eat as much as I can, but my stomach has shrunk from deprivation. I can only get down half. I glance around when I’m done and see Deck still hovering behind me. Standing instead of sitting like everyone else. He’s already finished his bowl, so I pass him the remainder of mine.

He’s so huge he probably needs extra food.

He stares at me gravely but accepts the offer and starts spooning out the stew immediately.

Logan is on the opposite side of the circle of seats from me. I notice him watching me with a thoughtful expression.

It makes me self-conscious. I’d rather no one look at me. I’d prefer to fade into the background.

I’m about to get up to move out of sight when one of the several faceless men I haven’t made note of yet comes over and sits on the bench beside me.

He’s an average-looking man. Suntanned skin, regular features, and a lean, wiry body. He’s also got bad breath, body odor, and long, greasy hair. “I’m Pete,” he says, leaning toward me closer than is entirely necessary. “Welcome to the group.”

“Lilah,” I say, making an attempt to be polite even though I want to shrink away. Not just because of his odor but because he immediately creeps me out.

Everyone smells more than they used to. Daily showers are impossible. Hal and I used to wash in the creek, but we didn’t have any soap or shampoo. No one wears deodorant. If you’re lucky, you’re able to do a quick washup in the morning and evening.

But not everyone smells this bad.

I’m new, and I don’t want anyone to think badly of me. I fight against a wave of nausea and make an attempt at a smile.

“You’re awful pretty,” the man says, getting smarmier by the second. “How did you make it this far without a man?”

“I had one. He died.”

“Too bad for him.”

Maybe he intends the words to sound sympathetic, but they’re more like a slap in the face. I stiffen. Wish with everything inside me that Hal was here right now.

“I’ll be your man now,” Pete says, leaning toward me again. “I like ’em little and pretty like you.”

Trying not to gag, I edge away from him and say, “I’m okay. Thank you anyway.”

Pete opens his mouth to reply but never gets the chance. Deck has come around the bench with my now nearly empty bowl of stew and sits down between me and Pete.

Literally sits down. In a space way too small for his big body to fit. If Pete didn’t slide to the opposite side of the bench, Deck would have landed right on top of him.

Deck doesn’t even glance at Pete. Just scrapes the bottom of the bowl with his spoon to get the final bite.

“Way to be the third wheel, man,” Pete whines. “I was working something here.”

Deck ignores him. So do I.

So eventually Pete gets up to leave.