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Year Three After Impact
I comeup with a plan in the middle of the night, and I’m ready at dawn to make it happen.
Everyone in the area calls him Boss. I don’t know his real name, and I don’t really care. All that matters is that he can keep me alive, and he goes to the river first thing every morning.
It’s the only way I’ll ever catch him alone.
I’ve been wearing nothing but T-shirts with yoga pants or leggings since Impact. Dad never let me leave our property, so there was no reason to even wear a bra. But I have most of my old clothes from back when the world was normal, back when I graduated college and started the first year of a master’s in library science and had friends and dated and could step out the front door without the threat of being raped, captured, or killed.
Back when I had two parents who loved me.
Now I have none. Nothing. So I choose a casual, boho-style dress with a scoop neckline and a short, loose cut in a floral print. I slide on my cutest ankle boots and brush my hair, leavingit unbound and spritzing on some product to give me the big, beachy waves that were in style before the asteroid hit.
I study myself in the full-length mirror of the room that’s been mine since the day I was born. I’m not anything special in the looks department, but I’ll do. My hair has always been my best feature—hanging almost to my waist in a vibrant champagne color. I’ve lost a lot of weight because of the forced rations over the past three years, and college-age me would have been thrilled by the result.
Now the shape of my body only matters in the way I can use it.
The urge to keep primping is difficult to overcome, but it will only stall the inevitable. So I go downstairs—forcing myself to look away from the recliner in the living room—and take a quick peek outside to make sure no one is around before I leave the house.
The river borders the south edge of the four acres of our property, so I use the back door and walk across the wide lawn of mostly dead grass to the stretch of trees that line the riverbank, nimbly avoiding every single booby trap my father set up over the years.
The only time my father would let me out of the house was early morning, and I was never allowed to leave our land. So I would walk rings around the property line each day, which is how I know Boss will be at the river right now.
It must be a couple of miles’ walk from Boss’s home base, the old motel where his gang holes up. He walks the distance, no doubt to avoid wasting valuable gasoline. Then he washes up in the river and sits on a rock, doing nothing for a long time—sometimes for nearly an hour—before he heads back.
I happened to catch a glimpse of him one morning last year, recognizing him immediately since I often saw him from my bedroom window on the street in front of our house. My dadexplained he was the leader of the local biker gang that grew, organized, and formed an alliance with the town to provide protection after Impact. Since the first time I saw him by the river, every time I’ve looked in the early mornings, he’s been there.
He’ll be there today too.
He has to be.
Despite my repeated internal reassurances, I release my breath in a loud gust when I see his broad shoulders and the back of his head as I approach the property line I haven’t crossed in years.
I step closer. I’m not aware of making any sound as I move, but he hears or senses something. With a violent jerk, he grabs the shotgun resting near his right hand, jumps to his feet, and whirls around.
I freeze and blink at the barrel of the weapon trained on me. I’m still at least twenty yards away.
When he processes my identity, he lowers the shotgun and scowls. “Get back on your land. Right now. And thank any fuckin’ god still around you stumbled on me and not someone else.”
He’s not a friendly man. He’s not even a nice one. I might not have been able to get out and about for these past years, but I’ve watched the world crumble through my window. I’ve seen Boss kill people in the street. I’ve seen him beat the shit out of his own men. I’ve seen how everyone remaining in town ducks behind cars and tries to disappear into corners whenever he passes through.
I’ve never once seen him smile.
So I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, and I’m not fazed by his rough tone or his expression. “I didn’t stumble across you. I came here on purpose to talk to you.”
“That kind of mistake is gonna get you killed. Or worse. So get the fuck back home before your daddy decides to firebomb the hell outta me and mine for even lookin’ twice at you.”
Despite the fact that I haven’t left our house and property in three years, everyone in town knows who I am. A lot of them knew me from before Impact, and everyone else has seen me sitting in the window seat in my bedroom for hours.
“My dad is dead.” I speak the words—as horrifying as they are—bluntly without even a wobble.
The man twitches slightly. “What happened?”
“Nothing. It was a heart attack, I think. He was sitting in his recliner like normal after dinner last night, and he suddenly grabbed for his left arm. He kind of shook for a minute or two. Then he was gone.”
“Fuck,” he breathes out. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t say anything.
