Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(38)

Since they would transfer seedlings soon, they’d planted them in plastic grocery bags hung on poles of PVC pipe. This way, it would be simple to move them without damaging the fragile roots. They’d planted lettuce, Swiss Chard, radishes, potatoes, and broccoli.

Through the greenhouse walls, the sun beat down on her head, warming her back and shoulders beneath her long-sleeved flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. She’d shed her coat for the first time since the Collapse.

The nights were chilly, but the days were warming up. Buds sprouted on the trees. Grass turned green, weeds springing up in the cracks and potholes in the roads. No surprise there.

Quinn stretched, trying not to wince. Her bruises had faded to an ugly yellowish-green. Her cuts had scabbed over.

Her back was stiff. The muscles of her arms and legs—hell, her entire body—ached from her dawn training sessions with Liam. He’d gone easy on her, as they were both still battered from their escape from Vortex.

She’d never been more sore in her life.

But it was a good sore. It meant that she was still here, still alive.

She was getting stronger. She was fighting back.

Liam and Bishop were off somewhere coordinating the town’s defenses. Milo and the babies were with Travis and Annette at the middle school.

Several volunteers taught mathematics alongside survival skills like map-reading, using a compass, and orienteering. Yesterday, they’d worked on reading, writing, and fire starting.

Hannah and Dave were busy in talks with the farmers, discussing boring stuff like production areas per person, crop rotation, irrigation, and preventing pest infestations. Where, how, and when to plant mainstays like potatoes. Et cetera, et cetera.

Gran had gone with her and Dave on most visits, interviewing those with the old knowledge and taking notes, devising planting schedules. Blah, blah, blah.

Hannah had spent hours pouring not only through Gran’s books on the kindle, but also farming, homesteading, and survival books she’d cajoled the teens to collect from the nearest library.

Few people looked to libraries for crucial tips on surviving the apocalypse. It wasn’t just the non-fiction sections they should check, either.

Quinn had an entire list of skills and ideas she’d gleaned from her favorite post-apocalyptic novels crowding her bookshelves.

Namely, how not to die from sheer stupidity.

“Gardening isn’t really my thing, you know,” she said.

“Hogwash.”

Quinn snorted. “You’re delusional, woman. Last week, I killed at least four potato plants with accidental over-watering.”

Her AR in her hands, or her sling shot. Tramping through the woods in search of rabbits or hunting deer with Gramps’ rifle. Standing watch, alert for any threats to her people, ready and willing to fight to the death—that was her wheelhouse.

Even so, Gran made her spend occasional afternoons sticking her hands in the dirt, attempting—and usually failing—to keep the fragile green sprouts alive.

“I suck at this.”

“Knowledge is power,” Gran said. “Especially now. Anywhere you go, whatever happens, you need to know how to survive, how to feed yourself.”

Quinn rocked back on her heels and glared at the dirt beneath her fingernails. “I know how to feed myself. I shot that buck last week, didn’t I? That’s why we’re having venison stew tonight, and we’ve got jerky drying in the solar dehydrator on the back porch.”

She’d field-dressed the deer herself, just like Gramps had taught her, saving the rump for the jerky, which had been both her and Gramps’ favorite. Ghost’s too, apparently.

He kept sniffing around while she applied the black pepper and a bit of Hannah’s pink Himalayan salt. He was so tall, he could easily reach across the table. At every opportunity, he snatched a piece, gobbling it in a single swallow. If they weren’t careful, the dog would eat the whole deer himself.

Quinn had offered him the organs in a big bowl, which he’d slopped up messily with joyous grunts and snorts. She’d never seen a dog slobber so much.

Quinn glanced across the yard at the Orange Julius sitting in the driveway. She missed him. She missed riding in that rickety tin can with Gramps, how it smelled like grease and his favorite pho soup, like Gramps.

Now it just smelled stale.

“Man cannot live by meat alone,” Gran quipped.

Quinn blinked. “Try me.”

“Ever heard of scurvy? You need vegetables. Fruits. Green things! Canned food is already getting scarce.”

“I am sick to death of nasty canned green beans,” she admitted.

Gran had a years’ supplies hidden in her basement behind the secret door. It used to be more. Fact was, they’d shared a lot.

Maybe that was a mistake. In this case, Quinn didn’t think so.

More people alive in their community meant more hands to help with planting and harvesting, chopping wood, digging latrines, scavenging supplies, fixing stuff that broke, making biodiesel fuel, tending to livestock, and running security patrols.

The list went on and on, forever and ever, without end. Hallelujah and amen.

Once upon a time, Quinn had romanticized the lone survivalist making it on her own in a tricked-out cabin deep in the woods.

Reality was far different.

There were aspects of survival she’d never considered until she was forced to live them. The smells. The itchy scalp. The blisters from handwashing your own clothes. The constant gnawing ache of hunger. The fear and stress.