Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(40)

Gran’s wrinkled face hardened. “You don’t always choose it, girl.”

Chagrined, Quinn’s mouth clamped shut. She knew exactly what Gran meant.

She thought of the horror stories coming out of Illinois; the Syndicate taking over FEMA camps and small towns, stealing and selling girls and women. Her stomach curdled.

Gran pointed at her with her gardening gloves. “You young people think you’re invincible. You’re not. You’re made of meat and bone, like every creature on this cursed earth. You’re not special. You can die just like anybody else.”

Quinn touched the scabbed tear in her lip. Evelyn had stitched it up—painfully, without anesthetic—but it would leave a jagged scar.

Memories of that night flooded back. The pain. The fear.

“I know, Gran. Trust me, I know.”

“Just making sure.”

She took a deep breath, steeled herself. “I’ve been stupid. I know that, too. That’s what I wanted to say. Lying to you was wrong. I’m done with that. I’ll be careful. I’ll be smart. That’s how you and Gramps raised me.”

Gran’s sharp eyes softened. “Contrary to popular opinion, I won’t be around forever. Gotta make sure you know what the heck you’re doing. Can’t have you running around despoiling the D?ng good name.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that!” Quinn muttered.

“It’s the truth. Everyone dies. No way to look at it but head-on.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to talk about it like that.”

Gran shrugged. “I don’t fear death. I know where I’m headed. My life is in the good Lord’s hands. So is yours.”

They worked for a while in comfortable silence. The air was still, the sun almost warm. Birds twittered in the trees. The goat snorted and munched grass, the bell around her collar jingling.

Valkyrie hunted along the edge of the tree line, stalking an unsuspecting chipmunk. Thor and Loki slept on the front porch. Thor wasn’t as fat as he used to be, though he was still fluffy, with thick orange fur.

Gran offered them scraps of table food, but cats were picky. Loki could hunt, though he was lazy. Valkyrie seemed to be keeping all five cats alive with the mice, squirrels, and occasional birds she deposited daily on the back porch. She also kept rodents from infesting the gardens or getting into the basement supplies.

The kitty litter was long gone, but the cats could go outside. Next winter would bring new problems, but they didn’t have to worry about that yet.

“You aren’t painting,” Gran said.

Quinn kept working, said nothing.

“Why not?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “No time.”

“That’s all?”

She couldn’t lie to Gran, so she remained silent.

“I think about those paints that Gramps bought you. How much you put into the murals in your room.”

Quinn’s stomach somersaulted. Gran had never cared about that stuff. Or noticed.

“You should get back to it, is all I’m saying.”

Her charcoal portraits of Noah and baby Charlotte remained half-finished on her dresser. She hadn’t drawn or painted a thing since Noah died. She hadn’t wanted to. It was like something inside her had shriveled and died. Even now, after everything, she wasn’t sure how to get it back.

She finished watering the row and moved to the last one. The watering can was nearly empty. “There are more important things to do.”

“Important is relative. Other things matter, too.” Gran’s mouth worked, her wrinkled brow furrowed like she wanted to say something more but couldn’t get the words out.

Gran hesitated.

Quinn waited.

She squinted at Quinn beneath her wide brim hat, watery blue eyes as sharp and perceptive as ever.

“The world still needs beautiful things,” she said gruffly, like talking about anything that even hinted of sentimentality gave her hives. “For every thousand people who kill and destroy, there’s one gifted enough to create, to make something out of nothing.”

Quinn stared at her, too taken aback to say anything.

The old woman stripped off her gloves, rubbed her hands on her thighs, then sighed. “Think about it. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay, Gran,” Quinn said. What she wanted to say was, I love you, don’t leave me. “I’ll think about it.”





27





The General





Day One Hundred and Nine





The General paced the wide expanse of the hotel suite.

Outside his windows, Lake Michigan gleamed a picturesque sapphire blue as the sun set in a fiery explosion of taffy pink, tangerine, and scarlet.

He barely noticed.

Anger radiated through him as he waited for the sat phone to connect.

In one hand, he swirled the Rémy Martin Louis XIII cognac in his crystal snifter. He swished the high-quality brandy in his mouth, relishing the rich, opulent flavors and the faint citrus zest.

Baxter had come through after all. The General didn’t know where he’d procured it; he didn’t care. He only cared that it was his.

The sat phone connected.

The General halted in his pacing, facing the floor-to-ceiling window. The orange glow of the sunset reflected off the glass. Ribbons of vibrant color streaked the clouds. The water rippled like liquid gold.