Skies of Fire (Surviving Earth Chronicles)

1. Ava

ONE

AVA

Call Dr. Jameson’s office.

Call Hospice.

Check bank balance.

Pick up prescriptions.

Grocery shopping.

I run through my mental checklist of to-dos before my second shift, but it’s suddenly forgotten the moment I see Lars through the diner window. He has new tattoos, apparently. They creep up his neck and disappear into the fringe of his greasy black hair, and he wears his holey Hill Country Militia t-shirt like it’s a badge of honor.

I don’t know if the plastic cup in my hand is actually dry before I set it aside and pick up the next one. Idly, I wipe it down, too fixated on whether Lars plans to enter the diner with his band of thugs trailing behind him. They’re a ragtag crew of cretins, and having gone to school with most of them, I know they only look terrifying. Lars, on the other hand, has always set my teeth on edge.

Leroy, a daily morning patron, clears his throat a few stools down, but I barely notice, too transfixed by the scene out the window. The tension leaves my shoulders as the guys pass the diner, headed for Lars’s old Dodge across the street. Good. It’s too early in the day to deal with their hostility.

Smoke billows from Lars’s mouth as he opens the driver’s side door, takes a final drag from his cigarette, and flicks it toward a passing car. His eyes narrow on the diner window, though, and I hold my breath. He sees me. The devilish upturn of his mouth tells me as much, but after a few heartbeats, he looks away.

I exhale only to grab the countertop as a familiar floor-shaking rumble fills the diner. The lights start swinging above the tables, rattling as the entire building trembles. But it’s not a tremor this time. It’s a low-flying Osprey, the first flight of many that will pass over us today.

As always, my eyes shift to the crack creeping farther up the wall. It grows bigger with every earthquake and thundering aircraft.

“Excuse me?”

I glance at a patron in the nearest booth, peering at me over the brim of his glasses.

“Can I get the check, please?” There’s a tinge of irritation like this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention, but he says it kindly all the same.

“Of course.” Wiping the sweat from my brow, I flash him an apologetic smile and hurry over. “Sorry about that.” He nods as I slip his ticket onto the table and collect his syrup-covered plate and empty juice glass. “Let me know if you need change.” The patron opens his wallet, and I head for the kitchen to discard the dirty dishes.

Like most morning shifts at Bev’s, I’m on autopilot. Today, however, I’m foggier than usual. Probably because I barely slept last night, looking after Mavey. And I didn’t sleep a lick the night before that, wondering if Mitch and that temper of his might turn up again outside my house. It was only a matter of time before he went on another bender and trekked all the way to the trailer park to unleash his verbal wrath on me for all the neighbors to hear.

I set the dirty plate and glass in the tub inside the kitchen for Felix to add to his dish duty. He doesn’t even notice as he drums his index fingers against the lip of the sink, rocking out to whatever noise blares in his earbuds. “Working hard, per usual,” I mutter.

Pulling my vibrating phone from my back pocket, I pray it’s not hospice calling with an emergency, but I’m only slightly relieved when I see an emergency alert.

Use caution on roads due to increased seismic activity. Stay indoors if possible.

Yeah, right.

It’s only one of a dozen alerts I’ll receive today, and I ignore it like I do every day. Do they really think people have the luxury of staying home and hunkering down for eternity? If I listened to every alert, I’d have been indoors since I was five, never seeing the sun.

Exhaling the heaviness I can’t seem to shake these days, I escape the kitchen’s heat. I could remind Bev that there must be labor laws about making us work in what will undoubtedly become sweltering conditions by noon, but I know she doesn’t keep the air off because she’s cheap. All we need is another rolling blackout; the entire diner would have to shut down, and neither of us can afford that. She has three kids to put through school, and I—well, I have Mavey to worry about. Resolved to deal with the heat, like most summer days, I tighten my ponytail higher atop my head to give my neck a breather.

The door dings as I step back behind the counter. A woman shuffles inside and peers around the diner. She’s one of a few homeless regulars.

Bev spots her immediately and slips a patron’s ticket onto his table with a thank you before addressing the woman. Her greasy blonde waves are pulled back, accentuating her gaunt face. I remember her, back when her cheeks were fuller and her jeans didn’t hang off her body the way they do now. I know the shameful burn of hunger, how it erodes the pit of your stomach, and I empathize with the woman as much as I applaud her courage coming in here. Especially when half the jobs in Texas have withered away, just like spring has.

I continue wiping down the counter from the morning rush. The butter packets are already melting in their dishes. It’s only a matter of time until they resemble Bev’s potato soup, so I stick them in the small refrigerator beneath the counter.

“It’s not just the coastal cities that should be concerned, though,” a man says on the television. I glance at Tom, another regular sitting in the middle booth, where he sips his third cup of coffee for the morning. He sets the remote down on the edge of the table, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“The increased seismic activity throughout the entire country is a glaring indicator that the time has finally come,” the interviewee continues matter-of-factly. He’s yet another scientist, sitting across from Maryann Climmons. She’s been the biggest name in the news world this side of the Mississippi, at least as long as I’ve been alive, and, well, she looks it. But lately, Maryann has become the face of every investigative report having anything to do with Gerty the asteroid and the surmounting effects she’s had on Earth since her debut.

“Which, to be fair,” Maryann counters, tilting her head expectantly, “many would say you’ve been claiming for years. In fact, while we’ve just marked Gertrude’s fifty-year anniversary, we’ve surpassed the nation’s debt ceiling, not by billions but by trillions of dollars because of decades of preparation.”

I glance down at my crumb-wiping and the coffee rings on the countertop. “Everything is theory until it happens, Ms. Climmons. The best we can do is prepare for when it does.” When I look up again, the scientist in the tweed suit pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Dr. Adriel Lightfoot, Southwest Environmental Research Specialist , flashes on the screen beneath him. “Scientists used to think something like Gertrude was improbable. They thought an asteroid would need to be much larger than six miles wide to do much damage to a moon over three hundred fifty times its size. They thought that if something did happen, life would cease to exist on Earth, or we’d fall into another ice age. Yet, here we are. The fact of the matter is, everything is an educated guess because that’s all we have.” Dr. Lightfoot pauses for effect. “People are so worried about accumulating debt, but if we aren’t as prepared for what’s coming as we can possibly be, we’re dead. Debt seems a small price to pay, given the alternative. And as morbid as it may be, it won’t matter how in debt we are if extinction is how this ends.”

On cue, the lights in the news station flicker, and Dr. Lightfoot points to his glass of rippling water, his tanned features narrowing. “Each tremor—each quake and unnatural surge of water—is a chain reaction. Life on this planet is precarious. There’s a balance, and that balance has been shifting for years. As unpredictable as things are now, it will get far worse. The future is here and it doesn’t care about debt.”

Maryann has the decency to look slightly more humbled as Dr. Lightfoot crosses his legs. He looks as if he’s settling in for a story. “You seek more proof?” he continues. “It’s in the numbers—in New York’s scramble for sandbags during last year’s unprecedented monsoon and the parts of Florida buried in snow the past three winters. This week alone, entire communities along the Gulf of Mexico are being relocated. We’ve already had record flooding, so it’s not some radical conspiracy— these things are happening. These things are not hypothetical. So do we continue to squabble over money or do we continue to prepare for the inevitable? Because the one thing all scientists have been able to agree on since Gerty hit is that life on this planet is forever changed, and if people aren’t prepared for it by this point, it’s their own fault.”

I roll my eyes. Not because I don’t believe Dr. Lightfoot and the many scientists who have come before him, but because not all of us have the time and money to pour into preparations; not all of us can be preppers when we’re simply trying to survive as it is.

“Christ.” Leroy grumbles my shared sentiment from his stool. “Turn that shit off, would you?” He glowers at the television. “Just another Moon Maniac posing as a scientist.” The wrinkles around Leroy’s tired brown eyes deepen, and he rubs his stubbled chin. Unlike him, I don’t remember life before Gerty hit the moon, so the Moonies, preppers, and doomsday scientists are all I’ve ever known.

The shift of the moon’s orbit after the impact has been the topic of conversation and most headlines since I could read. Yes, the shift will eventually send humanity back into the caveman days. But the longer it takes, the less imminent it feels. Here we all are, years later, still scrimping to survive. It’s easy for climatologists to tell us to prepare for the end of the world that “will happen one day,” but actually doing it when every day is already a struggle is another matter entirely. It’s all most of us can do to make ends meet and get through the week with a semblance of sanity still intact.

I eye Leroy’s folded newspaper on the counter— Sutton County militias at an all-time high— then give him a sidelong look, sure he’s part of one because everyone is. Not only is this Texas, but everything here is falling to shit, more than most states, because of the influx of seismic activity over the years. Tourism is non-existent, and the people who can afford to leave have already fled. Those remaining are too stubborn to leave, no matter the cost, or are waiting for it to get worse before uprooting everything they’ve ever known. I’m neither, just someone stuck in this hellhole.

“More scare tactics,” Leroy grumbles. “More hypocritical bullshit.” I don’t typically agree with the grumpy old man about much of anything. He’s constantly muttering and cursing at the world, but I find my attitude is oddly similar this morning, which means the world really is ending.

I pull out my notepad and clear my throat. “Breakfast?”

He meets my gaze, something he rarely does because his best friend is Mitch Bennett, and it’s no secret Mitch wants me to crawl back into whatever hovel he thinks I came out of.

“You know,” Leroy starts, ignoring the notepad in my hand, “when this shit happened back in ‘73, it took years for the chaos to die down.” He gulps the last of his coffee and runs his bottom teeth over his graying mustache. “People hoarding food and water, abandoning their jobs and disrupting supply and demand—the economy still hasn’t recovered. And don’t get me started on those sons of bitches looting my gun shop. It’s not like we’re in for the zombie apocalypse! All this talk is doing is stirring shit up again. And all of those prep facilities, evacuation centers, and water treatment plants the government is pumping money into—where are they at? Cause they ain’t here.”

I don’t know what it’s like in big cities, but here, in Texas, towns are bled dry by the military, and our roads are nearly too pitted to drive on from years of neglect, so again, it’s hard to argue with the old coot.

I rest my hip against the counter. “So, no breakfast today, then?”

Leroy is about to respond when the door dings again.

Dread fills me the instant I look up. “Fuck,” I rasp as Mitch Bennett steps inside. The ease of the diner siphons away, and my stomach roils.

Mitch rarely comes to the café. So why today, of all days, when I’m already an exhausted mess, is he here? He glances around as I refill Leroy’s coffee mug. I don’t want to be standing here when he sits down.

Shoving the coffee on the warmer, I turn back to Leroy. He scratches his jaw, perusing the daily specials written on the wall. “Get me a fried egg sandwich on wheat.” I’m about to turn away as Mitch approaches. “Oh!” Leroy growls. “And bring me some of that Tapatío I know Bev has back there somewhere. None of that Cholula shit.”

I busy myself, scribbling Leroy’s order down as I scan the room for Bev, praying she notices Mitch so she can deal with him while I take an extended break. But she’s still in the back, getting food for the homeless woman, completely unaware of our newest patron.

Panic, hot and loathsome, flushes through me as I brace myself.

Two nights ago, when I saw Mitch, he was in a drunken rage outside my trailer, cursing my existence and waking Mavey from her medically-induced sleep. And that will continue to be my reality until I can finally get away from this town because the cops won’t do anything other than drive him home when he gets like that. The Bennett family is untouchable—they are a legacy in Sonora. And Mitch isn’t only the patriarch, his reputation as the biggest asshole in the state of Texas precedes him, and those two things combined give him a free pass for just about everything.

Turning my back to the counter, I clip Leroy’s order to the carousel. I gather what little politeness I can muster, inhale a deep breath, grip my pen until it’s biting into my hand, and turn around to face Mitch as he pulls out a stool beside Leroy.

Mitch’s dark eyes meet mine before he shakes his friend’s hand. He’s in Wranglers and his typical Bennett Family Ranch t-shirt—not a single wrinkle or sweat stain, though I’m sure he’s been up for hours.

For a man in his sixties, he’s terrifying—tall with salt-and-pepper hair that pokes out from beneath his hat, broad shoulders, and the same menacing glare his son Knox inherited. But I don’t show my fear, I refuse to—I don’t even blink. Instead, I stare right back at him, pen poised on my ticket pad.

Mitch removes his Stetson, setting it on the counter beside him, and his cloying aftershave wafts toward me. His gaze, dark as coal, shifts to me again, hard and unrelenting.

Generally, I have no problem throwing shade back at people who disrespect me—who try to intimidate and bully me. But Mitch is different. He has been the exception to every hard and fast rule I’ve adopted over the years in order to look out for myself: give no shits, and never be someone else’s punching bag. But deep down, part of me can’t blame him for hating me. His reason for being angry at the world is valid, and though I know it’s not my fault, I’m tied to his past whether I want to be or not.

He taps his blunt finger on the countertop, silently commanding a cup of coffee.

Glad he’s refraining from further unpleasantries, I tuck my notepad into my apron and flip a clean mug up from the stack to set on the counter. With surprisingly steady hands, I fill his mug to the brim.

“Where’s that boy of yours?” Leroy asks, but I don’t wait to hear what they say next as I set the coffee back on the warmer and push the kitchen door open, disappearing into the back. My hands are clammy, and I can feel sweat thickening on my brow.

“I’m taking ten,” I call over my shoulder, though Felix is too busy air drumming, and the cooks probably can’t hear me over the ventilation fans and sizzling griddle.

Grabbing my messenger bag from the hook near Bev’s office, I hurry out the back door and into the sunny morning. It’s barely eight a.m., but the dry heat is already suffocating.

A gust of hot wind swirls around me, tugging at my ponytail as a plastic bag flies out of the dumpster and plasters itself against my leg. Only half aware, I peel it off, my pulse pounding far too quickly for comfort as my feet begin to tingle.

“No—no. Not now,” I groan. Mitch always makes me uncomfortable, but this is different.

Hurrying to the rickety picnic bench by an ash tree, I frantically search my bag for my meds. When I hear the pills rattling around, I allow myself a bit of relief. Popping one into my mouth, I pull the water bottle from my bag, take a gulp, and then another, washing the pill down. It’s already too late, I know that, but maybe I won’t be a complete zombie when it’s over, so I can make my afternoon shift at the farm store.

As my entire body prickles with unease and sweat breaks over my skin, I fumble to untie my apron, pull it over my head, and ball it up to use as a pillow. Leaning my head down, I wait for the chills to spread and the world to fade to black.