Lost Song (The Wild #1)

Chapter 1

My marriage lasted eleven months, fourteen days, and six hours.

After news broke of the asteroid that was going to crash into Europe, decimating the continent and devastating climate, economy, and stability around the globe, my family was darkly gleeful, reveling in the hope that all the people they’d always hated would finally get what they deserved.

They truly didn’t believe any of the destruction would reach our tiny corner of the world in the Ozarks.

Back then, I was still dating Jesse, my high school boyfriend, a pleasant, freckled boy with good shoulders and a sense of humor.

His family wasn’t as mean-spirited as mine, but like most in our community, they kept going about their business, stocking up on ammunition, toilet paper, and canned goods but doing nothing else in response to the impending disaster.

Life in our region had shambled along mostly the same for a hundred years. An event across the globe wasn’t going to change it.

I was only nineteen, working at a local diner and taking community college classes part-time. But I listened to the news. Heard what all the experts were saying.

And believed them.

I was scared. Increasingly so as the weeks passed and as the asteroid got closer and closer. My family was convinced I’d lost my mind, that I was under the sway of the corrupt press and the even more corrupt DC politicians.

Finally I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t breathe.

And Jesse always followed my lead. So we eloped.

Spent our combined savings on a used camper and moved deep into a nearby forest where we could live on our terms, hunting and fishing and growing a garden and not letting the chaos of the rest of the world drag us down.

It worked for almost a year. Until Jesse started talking about joining a militia group on the edge of the woods.

They’d always been there, stockpiling weapons and glaring at outsiders, but after Impact, they quadrupled in size.

They spread through the surrounding communities like a disease, looting at will and killing anyone who opposed them.

My older brothers joined up with them early, after my parents both died of the flu.

(The flu. Because the local hospital and every nearby medical facility had been ransacked of supplies and there was nothing left to treat them with.)

I told Jesse no. Absolutely not. In no world would I ever join a militia whose whole purpose was taking what they wanted by force. Like always, Jesse backed down, said fine, and agreed we would make do on our own.

Then one morning, a couple of weeks shy of our first-year anniversary, he packed his bag and walked out.

I was hurt. How could I not be? But in the two and a half years since that day, I’ve gotten along just as well as I did with him here.

I know how to shoot a gun and aim a crossbow.

I can hunt and fish as well as he ever could.

The forest has grown unchecked for years, providing an effective barrier between me and the outside world.

And now no one knows where my camper is, still tucked away in a vast expanse of nearly impenetrable woods close to a large, fishable creek.

I’m fine. Even though nothing else in this world is.

It’s a normal morning in early spring three and a half years after Impact when I get up before dawn. Animals used to overrun these woods, but they’ve been hunted to a dangerous point recently. The only time of day there’s even a chance of finding one is in the cool dark before sunrise.

My camper was made in the eighties. It has a small bed, a table with booth-style seats that convert to a second bed, a minuscule kitchen I only use for storage, a built-in lounge, and a number of small storage compartments.

There’s no water, power, or sewer anymore.

I use the outhouse Jesse and I constructed shortly after we moved here, and candles or battery-powered lanterns provide light after dark.

This morning, I use one of the lanterns to pull on my jeans and sweatshirt, braid my long, brown hair and wind it into a tight bun to keep it out of my way, and then pour out some water I boiled yesterday for me and Molly.

Molly is a springer spaniel. She showed up at my door a year ago, half starved and bleeding from several shallow cuts.

Rationally, having a second mouth to feed might not be a good decision, but I couldn’t find it in me to turn the poor creature away.

So she’s been my only friend for a year, and both of us are much happier.

After we drink, Molly runs outside to do her business while I check the perimeter to make sure no one or nothing approached our camper last night. The thick foliage and all my warning traps appear untouched.

Molly has returned by the time I go to the bathroom and wash up quickly in the barrel of rainwater, so I grab my crossbow and a sheath of arrows and head out to hunt.

I enjoy this part of the morning. The crisp predawn air. The near silence, broken only by the faint song of a bird or the shuffling of a critter in the underbrush. Molly has learned to keep close, sniffing out trails and staying quiet so she doesn’t scare off targets.

We’ve been hunting for an hour and only found a couple of squirrels so skinny they wouldn’t be worth the time and effort of skinning and preparing when the trees break into a small clearing and I catch a doe unaware.

She’s munching on the leaves of a vine she found amid the dead branches and debris. She’s completely clueless that Molly and I are now in range.

I shoulder my crossbow and aim. It’s been a while since I’ve killed a deer, and the meat could keep me and Molly fed for a long time.

But before I let loose the arrow, I notice her belly. She’s pregnant. Visibly so.

I lower my crossbow without hesitation and tsk my tongue to summon Molly, who’s pointing silently in the doe’s direction.

Only the worst kind of asshole would kill a pregnant doe.

I’m not sure I could make myself do it even if I was starving to death. And I’m always short on food, but I’m not that hungry.

The deer hears the soft sound I make. Freezes momentarily before she bounds off into the thick shelter of the trees.

Molly looks between me and the fleeing doe, clearly baffled by our letting potential prey get away.

I shake my head at the dog and turn in the opposite direction. Molly follows along happily, trusting my lead with the absolute devotion I’ve only ever witnessed in dogs.

I hunt for another hour—until the sun is high enough to cast broken rays through the canopy of trees—but find nothing else.

So Molly and I return to the camper with nothing to show for our efforts except the faint hope that the doe will be able to give birth safely and the deer population won’t completely die out in these woods.

Instead of fresh meat, Molly and I eat a breakfast of the last of our eggs and the remainder of a can of baked beans I opened yesterday.

While Molly runs off to supplement her meal with whatever she can scavenge in the woods, I meticulously tend the plants in my garden, which I started again for this year last week.

When the asteroid hit, the initial impact was so devastating it sent a layer of dust and debris into the atmosphere that’s clouded the sun for the past three years. This year is the first time I’ve seen signs of it lessening.

The sky isn’t blue like it used to be, but it’s not always such an oppressive gray.

The only vegetables I’ve had any luck with are carrots and kale, but I’m always trying for more.

Maybe this year I’ll get some tomatoes and potatoes.

Squash and peppers. And maybe one day I’ll know the taste of fruit again.

I haven’t even been able to scavenge canned fruit in months.

When I’ve done what I could in the garden, I prepare my backpack and the small cart I always pull behind me when I scavenge, call Molly, and reset all my perimeter warnings so I’ll know if anyone comes this way while I’m gone.

Then Molly and I hike south.

Last month, I found a small, abandoned township that the rest of the world has forgotten, and I’ve been able to scavenge more food and supplies than I thought existed anymore.

There are still half the buildings left to search.

It takes us three hours to hike there, and the sun is so warm by then that I take off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. Molly runs around excitedly while I head to what used to be a one-pump gas station.

There’s still gas in the underground tank, I’m pretty sure, but I have no way to siphon it out and transport it. The only vehicle I have is the old pickup we used to haul the camper, and it hasn’t been turned on in three years. So I ignore the gas and check the building.

Between the weather coming through the broken windows and the insects and wildlife, most of the food and supplies that used to be kept here are either gone or unusable. I search through the mess and eventually dig out some canned soup and an untouched can of Coke.

I stow that in my backpack and keep searching, pushing overturned shelves out of the way so I can get into the back supply room.

There, I finally hit pay dirt. Still sealed boxes from the shop’s supplier filled with toiletries and over-the-counter medication.

It’s like gold. Even more valuable these days.

Always wary, I peek outside to check the surroundings before I haul two of the boxes out of the run-down building.

The world is as silent as it always is nowadays. Nothing but a few buzzards circling in the distance and a couple of crows having a loud discussion on the gossip of the day.