Page 1 of Beacon

1

Year Ten after Impact

I’m hidingout in a burned-out quick shop with Rachel when I hear crunching on the broken pavement outside.

It’s probably Cal. He left us here to scout out the last half mile to the border, but the footsteps sound louder than he ever walks. I meet Rachel’s eyes across collapsed shelves whose stock was looted years ago.

We pull our guns out of their holsters simultaneously and back into a more protected corner near the side door so we won’t get trapped in this building.

I met Rachel more than five years ago, and she’s become my best friend. She and Cal are married, but they haven’t had children like most of the other couples in mycircle of friends. They’re still free to travel, helping people in need and exploring parts unknown. My friends with kids can’t pick up and leave home in the same way, and they’re less inclined to take unnecessary risks.

Understandably.

The world was broken ten years ago when a large asteroid crashed into Europe, decimating the entire continent, destabilizing infrastructure and governments around the globe, and sending the world into a descending spiral of chaos, violence, and deprivation. Only in the past few years have communities been able to do more than simply defend themselves and (barely) feed their people. Now that there exist safe places where food and shelter is available for those willing to work, it’s natural for couples to want to start families, have babies, and in that way participate in building this new world on the ashes of the old one.

I’m all for it. Sometimes I wish I could do the same. And only occasionally do I miss the freedom my friends used to have.

Only occasionally do I feel like I don’t quite fit anymore.

Cal and Rachel are still always the first to help in a crisis, so a few weeks ago it was them I asked for help in finding Mack. My friend. My former no-strings-attached lover.

Mysomething.

That’s why we’re here—more than a hundred milesfrom the hard-won safety of our home region in what used to be Kentucky.

Right now we’re in the Ozarks where last year Mack traveled to trade with a nearby farming community for cattle. He did successfully get us some cows, but then he disappeared into a vast, deep, dangerous forest they call The Wild.

That was almost six months ago, and no one has seen him since.

Things are getting worse around here—on the loose border between the settled farming region and The Wild. It’s always been populated by gangs of criminals and ruffians, but they’ve gotten more organized recently.

Someone is controlling them. Someone has united them. Someone has given them a purpose beyond looting and pillaging. And that’s made it much more dangerous to pass through this region and get into The Wild to search for Mack.

When the crunching outside stops, I realign my pistol, keeping it aimed at the entrance. But when motion in the door reveals two rough-looking men—strangers—neither one of us shoots.

A lot of people look rough and grungy nowadays. Cal himself is big with an unkempt, intimidating appearance. You can’t shoot someone because they look scary, or you’ll be shooting almost everyone.

I learned that a long time ago.

The first lesson is that you must be willing to shoot to kill or you’ll never survive in this world.

The second lesson is you can’t shoot everyone simply because you’re scared.

I was scared for a long time. I still am, if you want to know the truth. But my hand is steady as I hold my gun level, and I don’t squeeze the trigger before I know it’s the right thing to do.

The guys who just entered are most likely part of the border gangs since those are the only people around, but they clearly aren’t looking for trouble at the moment. They’re distracted, talking about whether this is the place where supplies were left.

I don’t think they have the right spot. We haven’t run across any food or provisions. It doesn’t matter though. As soon as one of them turns his head in our direction, he stiffens and reaches for the shotgun strapped to his back.

The other looks over too, and his face transforms with an ugly expression I well recognize. “Well, lookie here. It’s our lucky d?—”

Rachel shoots the man in the head before he even finishes his sentence. I’ve been aiming at the second one and get him square in the chest before he’s leveled the shotgun.

Their bodies both drop to the dingy floor, one right next to the other.

I meet Rachel’s eyes again, and she gives me a little shrug.

We gave them a chance. They didn’t even pretend to be decent people, and giving violent assholes even a minute to find an advantage is the minute that’s likely to kill you.

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