Chapter 62 - Luna
Gigi wraps the scarf around her neck twice, tucking the ends into a stylish curl with a tight little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
"I'll be back before sunset," she tells me, patting the little gun tucked into her pocket. "Keep that shotgun close, Peach. Just in case."
I nod, my heart feeling like a clenched fist in my chest. "Be careful, please."
She shoots me a wink and climbs into my Jeep that’s loaded with gas cans, and then pulls out of the driveway.
I watch her until she disappears around the corner, that tight flutter of anxiety picking at my insides.
The moment the garage door closes, the silence slams into me, thick and oppressive, but I don’t let it paralyze me.
Instead, I start working. There’s still food cooling from this morning’s canning session and more vegetables that need to be washed and set for freeze-drying.
I keep moving so I don’t spiral. Keep chopping, sealing, storing.
Gigi says we might have to run, that things are getting worse out there.
I prep like we will have to leave, and hope she can find more gas so we can take the motor coach that I’ve been filling with boxes of supplies.
It’s the smartest thing to take as it will give us shelter and room to pack as much as possible.
It’s an all-in-one if we need to leave here.
When the last jar is labeled and tucked away, I wipe my hands and head for the bedrooms. One by one, I pack bags for all of us.
I don’t want to think about the idea of having to abandon this house, the home we’ve built from the ruins of our grief, but if it comes to that…
I’ll be ready. I’ll make sure we all have what we need to survive.
Tears sting my eyes as I fold one of Atlas’s old hoodies into my bag.
In the garage, I find the moving boxes the guys used when they moved in.
I tape them together, folding them into place, and start filling them with more of the food.
Freeze-dried bags, sealed jars, whatever I can fit.
I want it easy to grab and go if we need to move fast, so I stack boxes by the man door in the side of the garage next to where the coach is parked.
My muscles ache by the time I finish, but it doesn’t matter; the pain is a good distraction from my fear.
I add the photo albums last. I can’t leave them, I won’t.
When I glance out the kitchen window again, the sun is already on its way down and there is no sign of Gigi.
I stare out the back windows that overlook the town, chewing my bottom lip in indecision.
Every part of me wants to run after her.
Take the shotgun and go find her. But what if she’s just been delayed?
What if we pass each other on the road and I’m not here when she comes back?
I pick up my phone from the counter and want to throw it to the ground and stomp my foot on it when it still has no damn service.
I hate this. I fucking hate this, but I stay and I wait for her to come back, for all of the people I love to come back.
I turn every light on in the house, grateful that our town has an independent power supply from the rest of the province’s grid and pace.
Then I sit. Then I pace again, unable to settle for more than a few minutes at a time.
Penny whines at me as she picks up on my anxiety and I move to pet and cuddle her until she falls asleep on the couch.
When darkness takes over and the shadows lengthen across the floor, I finally curl up next to her on the couch in the living room with the shotgun across my lap to face the night alone.
I don’t sleep a wink. Every creak, every groan of the house is a possible threat.
Every sound outside is someone coming to break in again.
My fingers stay locked on the shotgun, my heart stuttering through the night as I wait.
My mind screams that I can’t do this alone, so I chant over and over in a broken whisper, “She’ll be back. She has to be back.”
And I promise myself, if she’s not here by morning, I’ll go find her.