Page 1 of Protected

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Year Two after Impact

A caravanof vehicles arrives at the old Walmart late in the day as the sun is sinking low over the hills.

A midsize group. Two Jeeps, three large pickup trucks, and several ATVs of various size and quality. Mostly men.

Never a good sign.

I’m in my normal hiding place across the road. It used to be a Burger King, but the building has completely collapsed. There’s one sheltered spot where a piece of the roof fell on top of a larger counter and an overturned refrigerator. It’s stable. It hasn’t budged even an inch in the year since we discovered it. And amid the rubble of the old building, it’s completely out of sight unless you know to look for it.

The spot offers the perfect view of the Walmart, whichis the most tempting target for travelers for miles in all directions.

Everything worthwhile in the store has already been looted. Last year, Hal and I spent four days digging out all the remaining canned food. But the building is in relatively good shape for being abandoned after Impact, so everyone passing through thinks there might still be worthwhile provisions to scavenge there.

That’s their mistake.

A man in the Jeep at the front of the caravan steps out and starts calling out orders to the others. He’s got brown hair with gray in it, pulled back at the nape of his neck. He appears competent and mature—not bad to look at—and younger than the gray in his hair would indicate. He’s not huge or intimidating, but there’s something about him that makes me hesitate.

Like it’s a bad idea to cross him.

There are about twenty men and only four women, but the women aren’t captives. One is driving a pickup, one is on an ATV, and the other two are armed with similar weaponry as the men.

Trying to get the feel of this group, I watch a mountain of a man climb out of the bed of one of the pickups. He was standing up as they drove, a rifle at the ready, but now he has it strapped to his back. Physically he’s probably the strongest of the group. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a sweat spot on the back and army-green cargo pants. He looks kind of like Bigfoot joined the Army with his untrimmed hair and long, full beard.

When he approaches one of the women, I tense up, watching carefully. But all he does is lean over to pick up the gun cartridge she dropped and hand it back to her.

I let out a breath.

If the strongest man in the group behaves himself with the women, then it’s worth the risk.

I wait in my hiding place, growing still when Bigfoot scans my rubble. He can’t see me from where he’s standing, but it makes me nervous anyway.

He finally turns away, so I relax again.

The group spreads out to search the ravaged discount store, leaving only one guy to guard the vehicles. He’s up at the front, and my target is the Jeep at the back. It looks like it’s stocked full of supplies.

I move carefully through the ruins of the Burger King, making sure not to draw attention to myself. When the guard turns his back, I run from the rubble to the Jeep, silent and as fast as my (short) legs will carry me.

When Hal was alive, he never would have let me take such a risk. But he died four months ago from what I assume was food poisoning, and I’m entirely alone now.

It’s been a full week since anyone passed this way, and all I’ve had to eat in six days is a can of baked beans—one of the few cans remaining from our stockpile.

I need to get my hands on more food, or I’ll starve.

I’m small, both short and thin, but I know what I’m doing. I’m fast and nimble, and I’ve climbed into the back of the Jeep before the guard even turns his head.

As I hoped, the rear of this vehicle is filled with cratesfull of provisions. I grab some packages of beef jerky and stuff them into my bag, one of my mom’s old ones with a drawstring closure that has managed to survive two years of rough usage, followed quickly by some cans of tuna and creamed corn.

I’d like to do some more searching. Some of these other crates might hold even greater treasures, but time is an issue here, and the delay is not worth the risk. I pull the drawstring and hook the bag on my shoulder as I climb out of the Jeep.

Just as I’ve turned to run back to my hiding place, I’m grabbed from behind by an arm like a tree trunk. It lifts me all the way off my feet.

It’s Bigfoot. I know it even though he’s holding me in a position where I can’t tilt my head high enough to see his face.

He has both my arms trapped by one of his huge ones, but my legs are free. I kick out instinctively, flailing for all I’m worth in the vague hope of accidentally landing my heel somewhere that hurts him.

I don’t. I’m entirely helpless, lifted off my feet and unable to do more than writhe futilely. I haven’t felt such perfect desperation since the months around Impact, huddled with Hal as our neighborhood, our town, our region, the country, and the world crumbled irrevocably into chaos around us.

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