Apocalypsis 04 - Haven

thinking about him. I felt like crying when I realized I couldn’t remember for a moment what his face looked like. I stopped walking and closed my eyes, focusing hard on one of my distant memories: my dad sitting across the dinner table from me, staring me in the face. Blue eyes, crew cut, square jaw … scar just above his lip on the right side. “Bryn, you can’t stay here. A garden’s out of the question.”
    “What does having a garden have to do with staying anywhere?”
    “You’ll see. When you start a garden and nurture the seedlings into strong plants that will bear fruit and feed you … you become attached. They mean something special to you. You become part of the land in a way. And you cannot afford to become attached to this house, this land. It will become dangerous here, mark my words.”
    I’d scoffed at him; I’d been so naive. “You’re crazy. I know all the kids in this neighborhood. They’d never do anything to hurt me.”
    My dad had frowned at me then, getting angry. “You don’t know what people are capable of when they’re desperate. All the things you think are important now … most of those things will cease to exist for you. The only thing that will matter is finding food, shelter, and clothing. The basics. Survival of the fittest. You have to be smarter and tougher.”
    I smiled at that. “I’m already smarter and tougher.”
    “Yes. You are.” His stressed look dissipated a bit. “But you’re kind-hearted too. And while that might be a weakness to some degree, I hope it will become one of your greatest strengths. If this world has a chance of continuing on and starting over, it will need people like you making decisions.”
    I laughed. “You make me sound like the next president of the United States.”
    All humor disappeared from his expression. “There will be no more United States. No more president. No more structure of any kind. Remember that.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Geez, Dad. No need to be so melodramatic.”
    “Come on,” he said, standing. “Let’s go do some drills out in the back yard.”
    “Again?” I whined. “Can’t we just take a break just this once?”
    “No. No garden, no break. We practice every day until I’m gone.”
    I still remembered the feeling that statement gave me. Fear. The day my father walked out the door for the last time was the worst day of my life. Even now, after having battled canners and thought more than a couple times I was going to die, that day was still the worst.
    “Hello? Earth to Bryn, earth to Bryn. Come in, Bryn.” Rob was waving his hand in my face.
    I blinked a few times and jumped back to the present. “Oh. Sorry about that. I was wandering down memory lane.”
    Rob nudged me forward. “I don’t recommend that trip. Too many regrets lying in wait.”
    I nodded. “Totally. But I was thinking about my dad, how he said you shouldn’t plant a garden until you were in your final place. The place you could be safe in and become attached to.”
    “Is that here?” Rob stopped walking as we arrived at the door to the lobby.
    I looked back at the group still wandering near the pit we’d dug and the other kids setting up water catchers. The long weeds swayed in the wind that had picked up as the storm grew closer. The land outside the barbed wire fences spread out wide and green as far as the eye could see.
    “Yeah. I think this is the place.”
    “Good.” Rob opened the door for me. “I’m tired of running, and I’ve only come from Kahayatle.”
    “Speaking of which,” I said, stepping through the door, “let’s make our plan for going back and getting the tribes out of there.”

CHAPTER THREE

    I SETTLED DOWN TO SLEEP in a far corner of the lobby, near the alcove that held Fohi and his tribesmen, Peter on my left and Bodo on my right. It was dark in the lobby and the sounds of the continued pouring rain and thunder kept our conversation private. One of the kittens was curled in by my stomach as I laid on my side facing Peter, and Buster was doing everything he could to get a lick in on its furry face. It batted him away with a hiss every time he got too close, but it didn’t dissuade him in the least.
    “How’s Fohi doing?” I asked Peter, absently rubbing the kitten’s cheeks. Its purr machine was running strong.
    “He’s better, but still not out of the woods. We have antibiotics, but they can only do so much. And we’re going to run out of them soon, and then we’ll have kids