After the gas station, we hit two farms. The first was a quaint white house with an old couple inside who’d taken fate into their own hands by blowing out their brains. They were ripe, had likely killed themselves not long after the outbreak. Annoying flies buzzed around my head while I said a silent prayer for them.
“…Amen.” I tugged the shotgun from the old man’s stiff grip and went about my looting.
We’d gained some spices, home-canned foods, and much-needed canning supplies (even though neither Clutch nor I had any idea how to can), taking a load off our biggest stressor of not having any way to store food for the winter. The old couple had also been avid gardeners, but all the sprouts in the garage had long since wilted from lack of water. I’d found a few packets of squash and several gardening tools. It was a start.
At the next farm, the only sign of the outbreak were two graves with blades of grass just starting to break through the dirt. Hope pinged at my heart for the survivor who’d dug these graves. We’d spent several minutes calling out and searching, but no one answered.
Inside, we found the cabinets empty and little else in the house. Though, I discovered that the clothes in a teenager’s room were a near perfect fit, even though they were boy’s clothes. When I stripped out of my jeans, I paused in front of the mirror on the back of the door.
I had a solid farmer’s tan from spending nearly every day in the sun without sunscreen. Messy dark spikes did nothing to soften my blunt features. My curves had disappeared, leaving behind straight, hard lines. No wonder I could wear a boy’s clothes. Sure, Clutch had become leaner, too, but he’d been in good shape before so the change didn’t seem so severe. Me? Even my parents wouldn’t recognize me.
Mia Ryan truly was gone.
In a daze, I emptied the pockets of my old jeans, grabbed an armful of new clothes, and headed outside.
Frowning, I scanned the open area. “Clutch?”
He poked around the corner of a tin building, and he was grinning like a schoolboy. “There’s a fuel farm here. They’ve got an entire tank of gasoline. You won’t have to suck gas for a while.”
I couldn’t help but return his smile. Another backup plan to our backup plans. “I’ll mark it on the map. But you’re sucking gas next time.”
By the time we had everything unpacked at the park, it was time to cook my morning catch: two trout, one bass, and a small rabbit. It was a typical meal. Most days we burned more calories than we took in.
Every day, I’d wait until twilight to start a fire, when the darkness smothered the smoke, though I couldn’t do anything about the smell of fire attracting notice downwind. After a couple dismal failures in the first days at the park, I had finally gotten the hang of cooking meats so that they’d last through the next evening.
It was the first night in a long time we had seasonings for our meat. I closed my eyes. “Mm, I never knew salt could be so decadent.”
Clutch leaned back, rubbed his shoulder, and took a long swig of amber whiskey.
“Oh. I almost forgot…” I reached in my pocket and threw the can at Clutch. “Happy birthday.”
He frowned. “My birthday’s in December.”
I shrugged. “I had no idea when it was, so I took a guess.”
He looked at the can of chewing tobacco and smiled. “My brand, even.”
I smiled. “I know.”
He tucked it into his pocket.
“You’re not going to open it?” I asked.
“Nope,” he replied with a smile. “I’m saving it.”
After a moment, he came to his feet and stared out the window. The park office had no generator. The two-story A-line window of the cabin faced the west, so we had plenty of light up until sunset. After the sun went down, we either had to use precious batteries (we had even fewer candles) or get by in the dark. Fortunately, the days were getting longer, so sunset meant bedtime, or as Clutch called it, rack time.