Chapter 64
Rachel stood beside Sophie while her heart hammered against her ribs.
The encounter had lasted less than a minute, but it shook her more than a fight would have.
The woman wasn’t a predator or a thief. She was a mother with thirsty children, trapped in a line that couldn’t give her what she needed.
Rachel had seen the same pressure on the railroad, at the bridge town, and inside the Keller farm gate.
“What she did wasn’t right,” Sophie said.
“I know,” Rachel said.
“I get why she did it, though.”
Rachel looked at Sophie. The girl’s face stayed calm, but her fingers were tight around the water bottle.
She understood the woman’s desperation without excusing what she’d done.
That distinction belonged to someone much older than thirteen.
They refilled their containers and continued west. The road carried them past abandoned storefronts and boarded-up houses.
Handwritten notices pointed travelers toward farms and settlements farther west, proof that the old centers of community had shifted.
Rachel recognized a gas station where she’d once stopped for coffee during her morning commute.
The windows were broken, the pumps stood silent, and the inside held only overturned shelves and the stale smell of spilled fuel.
An older man approached from the roadside where he’d been resting against a fallen tree.
He was thin and weathered, with a canvas pack and a walking stick worn smooth by use.
He’d overheard Rachel mention Brenton while they waited at the water point.
“You’re heading toward Brenton?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Rachel said.
“Whole sections of that city emptied after the water and food failed. The east side went first. Then the northern neighborhoods near the industrial district. By the time I left, maybe a third of the residents were still there. Most of them were already planning to leave. The ones who stayed were too stubborn, too sick, or tied to something they couldn’t walk away from. ”
“Did anyone stay?”
“Plenty survived long enough to leave. That’s not the same thing as staying. Staying means you still believe things can get better. Leaving means you’ve stopped believing. What’s your last name?”
“Mercer,” Rachel said.
The man’s eyes sharpened. Recognition moved across his face, followed by a quick reassessment Rachel didn’t understand.
“Walter Mercer is your father?” the man asked.
The question stopped her in the middle of the road. She stopped so abruptly that Sophie nearly walked into her. The older man straightened from the fallen tree and reached out with formal care.
“Leonard Price. I lived three streets over from Walter on Maple Drive. He was a good man. Kept his property tidy, helped neighbors without being asked, and knew more about fixing things than anyone on the block. I recognized the name right away. Mercer isn’t common around here,” Leonard said.
Rachel shook his hand without feeling the motion. Her mind had already moved past the introduction and locked onto the questions that mattered. They came out too fast, driven by weeks of fear and the sudden chance that this man knew something real.
“When did you last see him? Was he hurt? Were Hannah and Caleb with him? How long ago was it? Which part of the city were they in? Did he say where he was going? Did he leave any message?” Rachel asked.
“Slow down. One thing at a time. Walter survived the EMP. I can tell you that for certain because I saw him the morning after everything stopped. He was helping the Jenkins family next door rig a manual pump to their basement well. He was never one to sit still during a crisis.”
Rachel’s hand closed around Sophie’s jacket sleeve before she realized she’d moved. Sophie didn’t pull away. She stood still beside her, eyes fixed on Leonard’s face and waiting for the next sentence.
“Hannah and Caleb were alive with him. Both of them. I saw Hannah carrying water buckets from the community well two streets over. She was strong and quiet, and she kept working even when the buckets pulled hard on her arms. Caleb complained about every job Walter gave him. He said it wasn’t fair that Hannah got easier chores, so Walter put him on firewood duty.
Caleb grumbled for two days, which was ordinary enough to make me remember it.
He sounded like a child who still felt safe enough to argue,” Leonard said.
Rachel made him repeat it. She needed to hear the words twice before she could believe them.
Leonard repeated the same details without impatience.
Hannah carried water. Caleb complained about chores.
Relief hit her so hard it hurt. For weeks, she’d refused to imagine either child dead because the image would’ve broken her and solved nothing.
She had carried the fear as pressure beneath her ribs, heavy and shapeless.
Hannah had been alive. Caleb had been alive. Walter had protected them long enough for someone to see them with his own eyes. Rachel pressed her hand against her chest and forced herself to breathe. Sophie stayed beside her, steady beneath Rachel’s loosened grip.
“How recently did you see them?” Sophie asked.
“Not recently. Walter didn’t stay in Brenton,” Leonard said.
The sentence settled between them. Rachel’s hand still rested on Sophie’s arm, but her grip had loosened.
The roadside seemed colder. The afternoon light hadn’t changed, yet everything ahead of them felt less certain.
Leonard watched Rachel carefully. He understood how much his words had changed for her.
He’d lived through the same collapse, watched his neighborhood empty street by street, and learned how cruel it could feel to offer proof and uncertainty in the same breath.