Page 53 of Insurgent

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Coffee in hand, I step into the shop. I place my coffee and keys onto the counter and remove my coat, hanging it on the coat rack. Firing up my Mac, I slide the stool over and search through my work emails as the heater kicks on, sending a cozy warmth throughout the shop. I have several order requests and some junk mail to delete and I need to talk with Billie.

I start on the order requests first, and before I know it, I’m immersed in my work. A lot of our clients are rich assholes from the city who fuck their secretary but make sure to do something nice for their wife once a week just so the wife knows how special she is.

It’s a shitty reality, but it is reality.

My day moves along quickly. Billie comes by with eggs from her chickens and brings me fresh garlic and herbs from her greenhouse.

“I know if there’s ever an apocalypse I’m coming to your house.”

She laughs. “You need to come out and have a glass of wine with me. Mike bought me some cows last week and we’ve got five pigs now.”

“Good lord,” I say. “I’ll take you up on that. Samuel will love to see it.”

After Billie leaves, I have a few walk-ins. Some chefs of the local restaurants in town and some customers I see once a week who want to replenish their own flowers throughout their home.

The afternoon flies and I realize I haven’t spoken to Samuel about supper. I think I’ll cook us some spaghetti with the fresh herbs Billie brought. I grab my phone, finding his name and hitting the call button. My eyes go to the six beautifully arranged bouquets I put together, ready for delivery as the phone rings. It’s his voicemail.

“Hey, honey. I wanted to see if you’d like spaghetti for supper. Call me back. Love you.” I put my phone down and grab my watering can before I go around the shop hydrating the plants when Don, our delivery driver, walks in.

“Good evening,” he says. “These ready to go?”

“Hey, Don. Yes. Those are for Mrs. Blanton on Cotton Avenue.”

“Great. I’ll get them over to her.” Mrs. Blanton loves fresh flowers in her home. There isn’t a room you’ll go in without seeing a vase or two.

“See you tomorrow,” I tell him, knowing that’s his last delivery for the day. He gives me a wave as he walks out with the crate of flowers. The shop phone starts to ring. I hop down from the stepladder and walk to the desk.

“A-Street Flowers,” I answer, holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I write a reminder to order some more vases and ribbons.

“Hello?” I say again, dropping the pen.

I narrow my eyes when I hear heavy breathing on the other end. Chills run down my arms, and my spine straightens when I get the odd sense of someone watching me. I turn to look out the window but see no one there.

“Hello?” I repeat.

The phone goes dead and I drop it from my shoulder, catching it with my hand. I narrow my eyes as I gaze out of the windows, and then I walk over to the door and lock it, putting the closed sign up quickly.

I’m probably just overreacting. It’s probably just some kids prank calling.

Do kids do that anymore?

I shake my head and take a breath, walking over to grab my phone when someone bangs on the door behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn around. I sigh in relief when I see it’s my husband. Slipping my phone into my pocket, I walk over to the door to let Samuel in.

“Jesus, you scared me.” I laugh as I place my hand on the lock.

He smiles. “Obviously. You closed up already?”

“Well, someone called and…” I look behind Samuel when a car rides by and my eyes grow wide when I see a masked man stick out a machine gun. Bullets ring through the windows, shattering glass.

“Samuel!” I scream, ducking.

“Get down!” he yells, covering his head, but there’s nothing to protect him, nothing to shield him from the firing bullets as they destroy the shop. I quickly crawl over to my desk, bowing my own head as I slide over broken glass to get behind it. I cover my mouth in horror as Samuel’s body jerks from the bullets hitting him. Potted plants burst, and soil flies into the air, showering my husband and me.

My eyes blur, and my hands shake as something is tossed into the shop before the car speeds off. The bullets stop, glass still rains down, and hanging plants swing in the air. I jump up. “Samuel,” I say, running over to him. There’s so much blood.

Too much blood.

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