“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.