Chapter 1

Year Nine after Impact

Grandpa wasa prepper back before Impact. One of those hard-core nutjobs always muttering about the end of days.

As a kid, I secretly believed he was fun and fascinating—and smarter than my parents would ever admit. He would show up a few times a year to our big house in Bentonville, Arkansas, with its manicured lawn and shiny appliances, and he'd tell me about his adventures in stockpiling necessities and the latest self-sustaining innovations he'd installed in his cabin.

"Chloe, doll," he'd tell me, "the world is hanging on by a thread. It's on its last legs. Don't you feel the end in the air?"

I would close my eyes. Sniff the air. Try to recognize the doomsday vibes he could so clearly sense.

I never could.

He lived deep in the sparsely populated hill country in southern Missouri. Ozark born and bred. My mom always laughed and said that one day her father would disappear into the woods and never emerge again.

My parents were wealthy, intelligent, and successful. They loved my grandfather but never took him seriously. My dad was an executive for a multinational retail corporation, and my mom was a college professor. They finally had me in their late thirties after years of failed attempts and fertility treatments, and they treated me like a gift from on high.

From the cradle, it was understood that I would be as cultured, educated, and privileged as my parents. That I would care about my grandfather because he was family but would never let his eccentric, conspiracy-loving worldview infect me. I learned early that as long as I was a good girl, I would be given anything their love and money could provide.

Yes, sometimes I'd daydream about giving up our boring, vanilla life and running away to live with Grandpa, but I would always keep those imaginings secret. I never genuinely believed they could possibly materialize, and even if they could, I wouldn't want to give up my parents or my friends or my pretty room or all my stuff.

But life likes to spin us around just for fun. When I was fourteen, my silly daydreams came true.

One random Friday, the president announced that an asteroid was on a collision course for Earth. My world and everyone else's—the entire planet—fell into chaos.

Everything that was capable of collapsing eventually did.

My grandfather showed up the next day as stores were being ransacked and riots were erupting in the streets. He begged us to run. Escape to his survival-adapted cabin in the middle of nowhere where he'd stored up years' worth of food and provisions.

My parents finally agreed, but they insisted on taking the time to pack all their favorite possessions while Grandpa and I waited impatiently in his old truck.

The delay was a mistake. Large groups of violent looters were already hitting the wealthy neighborhoods in town, plundering houses and killing anyone who resisted.

My mom and dad didn't resist. Neither of them had ever thrown a punch or loaded a gun in their lives. But they were killed anyway, and Grandpa and I barely made it out of there alive.

By then the interstates and highways were impossible, clogged with cars and roadblocked by aggressive militia groups whose day had finally arrived. Grandpa took us on smaller back roads, shooting at or running over anyone who tried to stop us, until we reached his remote cabin and left the remains of civilization behind.

We stayed there—living off everything he'd stored up and using the self-sustaining energy and plumbing systems he'd installed—for more than eight years.

A couple of years ago, as our supplies were running low, we realized we'd finally have to leave the safe isolation of our home long enough to scavenge for food and provisions. This region of the Ozarks was abandoned a long time ago as the protected forests and uncultivated wildland overtook the former pockets of residents, but there are still plenty of abandoned buildings remaining.

We've lived on anything we can salvage from the wreckage of the former world as well as on the goodwill of the occasional passing stranger ever since.

It's the ninth year after Impact on a cold, gray afternoon in late autumn, and Grandpa and I are on another quest for food.

He hoarded gasoline as well as food, and we still have some in reserve, but we've switched to taking his side-by-side ATV everywhere. His truck uses too much gas, and it's no longer drivable through the overgrown dirt roads and trails of the wilderness surrounding his cabin.

Most of these roads weren't paved even before the asteroid hit.

In the past two years, we've found and searched every abandoned hunting cabin, backwater shop, and outdoors outfitter within fifty miles of the cabin, so we're having to go farther out now for successful scavenging trips.

Today we've driven east and had very little luck. Every damaged remnant of the old world that we come across has already been looted.

Grandpa has been steering us between the thick trees and through the overgrown foliage covering an old hiking trail, and I gasp when the familiar deep woods suddenly break into a clearing.

Not a clearing.

An old parking lot.

"Must've been a trailhead," Grandpa says, just as surprised as I am.

The pavement is crumbling and filled with potholes, but there's still occasionally a faded hint of the painted lines from parking spaces. "Look—there's a sign."

When he shifts into park, I jump out and hurry over to lift the toppled sign. Most of it is unreadable, but enough remains to prove it used to be a trail map and instructions for hikers.

I let the sign drop because several bugs are crawling on it, skittering too close to my hands.

"Think this musta been part of the national park or somethin'," Grandpa says. He's a small, lanky man with untrimmed gray hair and a long, wiry beard. I've always encouraged him to improve his hygiene and self-care, but he insists there's no point anymore. "Look, got a building over there. Get back in and we'll check it out."

I climb into my seat, wiping my hands on my jeans, which have stretched and thinned so much over the years that it now feels like mere threads are holding them together.

They're the jeans I was wearing when I left Bentonville at fourteen. I was a little chubby back then, having developed hips and boobs early and disliking exercise. My calorie intake dropped drastically after Impact, and my activity level increased. So even though my body has changed and matured over the years, I can still wear the same size. I do have other clothes that I've managed to scavenge, but none of them fit as well as these old jeans. I dread having to give them up.

Grandpa drives us over to the small building—half of it has collapsed from the elements and disrepair—and I slide behind the steering wheel as he gets out to investigate.

He taught me to drive early on, and we never leave our vehicle unattended if there's any choice.

I look around at the parking lot as he disappears around the back in search of a usable entrance. There are a couple of abandoned cars. And on the far side of the lot, there's an exit onto an old road.

A paved road.

This is all new to me. The scene feels foreign. Alien. We haven't emerged from the safety of these woods for nine years.

Grandpa returns in a few minutes, grumbling that it's hopeless and the building looks to already be pillaged anyway.

"Should we try the road?" I ask him, pointing toward the exit.

"S'pose so. Looks like this area mighta been more developed, so maybe there's more supplies around here."

"Maybe there're people."

That's not a hopeful statement. It's an anxious one. We have occasionally encountered travelers or other holed-up inhabitants in the woods, but they've always been more a threat than a promise. Grandpa had to kill a couple of men who liked the looks of me too much, and one couple took off with a whole box of supplies we'd found. A few we encountered were nice. Grandpa has always told me to flutter my eyelashes and act helpless so they might feel sorry for us. It sometimes works, but it's always felt like a risk.

I'd rather stay away from people if possible since they can so rarely be trusted.

Grandpa is over seventy now. I try not to think about what will happen to me when he dies.

I've never been on my own. I've always had someone to take care of me.

I drive us out of the parking lot and onto the rough pavement of the damaged road. The surrounding area is still partly wooded, but it's different. Not as thick and impenetrable as we're used to. When we get to the top of a big hill, I can actually see out into the distance. Trees and fields and hills and old roads and even a couple of actual towns that are probably abandoned now.

Beyond that, it looks like farms. More settlements.

It's hard to tell from this distance, but they might not be deserted.

Maybe people live out this way. Not just hermits and stragglers but actual communities.

I'm honestly not sure they exist anymore.

"Don't know about this, Chloe, doll." Grandpa is frowning as he squints out at the expansive view.

"Yeah. I know. Should we turn around?"

"Think so. Looks like people live out this way. Can't trust 'em."

I'm already making a U-turn. It feels scarily open here without the shelter of the forest. I don't like it. I want to get back.

After a minute, I hear a sound behind us. I don't immediately recognize what it is because it's so out of context.

An engine. A loud one.

I glance back and see a motorcycle on the road behind us. My hands grow cold, and my heart drops into my gut.

"Faster," Grandpa mutters after he's glanced back too. He always goes soft rather than loud when he's urgent. "Chloe, doll, faster."

I accelerate until I'm driving as fast as possible given our vehicle and the condition of the road. I'm barely breathing now, and I couldn't even explain why I'm so scared.

We don't know this area. Maybe they have access to plenty of fuel. Maybe motorcycles are common. Maybe the guy behind us is out for a joyride or is in a hurry to do an errand.

Maybe he just happens to be going in the same direction as us.

But I don't believe any of that.

It feels like he's chasing us. Overtaking us. And if he catches us, it's not going to be good.

He's getting closer, and I can't go any faster. There are too many trees through here for me to get off the road where the ATV might give us an advantage.

"You're doin' good, Chloe, doll," my grandfather says. "Just don't stop."

Those are his last words. His very last.

A crack of sound behind us makes me whimper. I'm about to ask if that was a gunshot, but then Grandpa slumps forward in his seat. He stays like that, unmoving. After a minute, I realize there's blood gushing out of his neck.

My stomach clenches into a sickening knot. My vision blurs over. I'm still driving, but I have no idea how. I've ducked my head automatically. Another shot sounds, and a bullet whizzes past my ear. I can barely see in front of me since it feels so important to keep my head down.

But there's also someone in front of me. Standing on the side of the road ahead. I process his presence as part of my blur, and when I get closer, I see him aiming a gun.

They're working together. Trapping innocent travelers. One chases and the other ambushes. There's not a thing in the world I can do to protect myself except aim for the man, try to hit him with my vehicle before he gets a shot off.

I'm looking straight at him, incapable of noticing anything else, so I see when his aim shifts. He moves his arms and stance, redirecting the rifle so that it's pointing at the motorcycle behind me.

I wouldn't have thought I was capable of thinking and reacting so quickly, but the realization slams home in a matter of two seconds.

He's not with the guy on the motorcycle. He thought I was a threat, but now he must realize I'm not.

He might shoot the guy behind me before that guy kills me.

So I steer away from him abruptly, swerving around him instead of running him over like I intended.

The sudden move is automatic. Instinctive. That guy wants to help me—I know it—so I absolutely cannot plow him down. But it isn't a wise maneuver because of the rough road and the speed I'm driving.

I hit a big pothole and can't hold my vehicle on the road. Slamming on the brakes only helps a little. I end up in a ditch after a series of nauseating bumps and jerks that rattle my entire body.

But my instincts were right. As I'm bouncing off the road, there are three gunshots. And when I'm able to focus and turn my head, I see that the man on the road has shot the other guy off his motorcycle.

The engine is still running, but the bike's on its side, and the man would have been trapped beneath it if he hadn't already been dead.

It's the blood that reminds me.

With a gasp and a choked sob, I reach over toward Grandpa, carefully pulling him back into his seat.

His body is limp. Blood is everywhere. Soaking everything. Still coming out of the wound in his neck.

He's dead.

He was dead the moment he was shot.

The world darkens as I process this reality. The sight of all that blood. The smell of it.

It's all over my hands now. I sit in stunned frozenness and stare down at them.

A couple of drops of blood fall from my hands onto my jeans.

"Y'all right? Y'all right there?" It's a male voice. It's getting closer. It almost certainly belongs to the man who won the gunfight.

But I can't turn my head. Can't move my hands. Can't do anything but try desperately to breathe.

"Hey," he says, right next to me now. "Hey there, girlie. Are you hurt? Did you get shot?"

I try to reply. Try to turn my head. Can't do anything more than part my lips.

He's evidently not the kind of person to wait around for an answer. He reaches in and takes me by the shoulder to turn me around. He's not exactly gentle, but he's also not rough or violent. Efficient more than anything else.

He checks me out all over, and I let him. My head is throbbing and my body is shaky, but I don't think I'm injured.

But Grandpa is dead.

He's dead.

Which means I'm now entirely alone in the world.

"Can you stand up?" the man asks.

"Probably." The word comes out of nowhere. My brain is definitely not working well enough to come up with such an appropriate reply to his question.

He lifts me to my feet. My knees wobble but don't buckle.

"We need to get out of here," he says. He's younger than I thought at first. His longish hair and beard are brown, and his face isn't wrinkled. He's a lot bigger than me. "Where the hell did you even come from? Why were you on the border?"

I have no idea what he's even asking. "The border?"

"The border." He sounds more impatient now. "It's dangerous here. Why the hell were you driving here?"

"We…" I lose my breath, so I have to try again. "My grandpa and I were… were looking for food and stuff. We've never been here before. We didn't know it's dangerous."

His eyes are dark, and they narrow as he peers closely at my face. "Where did you come from?"

I gesture toward the thick, vast, overgrown forest that's been my home since I was fourteen.

The man turns in the direction I pointed. His face changes.

The world is getting dark again, like the sun is suddenly hidden behind a cloud. I can't take a full breath.

Grandpa is dead.

I'm almost positive the man mutters in disbelief, "You came from The Wild?" just before I pass out.

* * *

I'm not sure how long I'm unconscious. It can't be for very long. But when I come back to awareness, everything is different.

I'm in the passenger side of the ATV, and the big, strange man is driving it.

Blinking a few times, I orient myself. Then I gasp and look around frantically for my grandfather's body.

"He's in the back," the man says, correctly guessing the source of my urgency. "We had to get away from the border, so I had to move him."

We are no longer on a road. We're driving through a field of long grass.

"What border?" He's said that twice now, and I have no idea what he's referring to.

"The border of The Wild," he says with a frown. It's clear now from the way he says it that the final words are capitalized. "The border is gang territory. It has been for years. No decent folk go there. You never shoulda been there."

"Aren't you decent folk?" I stare at him with wide eyes.

"Oh. Yeah. Sure." He clears his throat. "We take turns patrolling out this way every few weeks to make sure the gangs aren't encroaching any further. Today's my turn for patrol."

"I see," I say, although I don't. Not really. I have no idea who or what he's even talking about.

"You really from The Wild?" He keeps darting me little looks as if he can't believe I'm real.

"If The Wild is that forest, then yes."

"How did you even get in? Been blocked since Impact by the gangs."

I frown, thinking this through. "My grandfather and I were there before Impact."

"And you've been there all this time?"

"Yeah."

He stares at the blowing grass in front of us and says softly, "We never knew anyone was even in there."

I'm not sure how to reply to that, so I don't say anything.

After a few minutes of driving, he asks, "You got any other people besides your grandpa? Family or friends or whatever?"

I shook my head. "My parents died a long time ago. All I had was my grandfather. Now…"

I almost choke. On grief and shock and absolute terror.

How the hell am I even going to survive in the world? I can't get back home, and I have no one. No one.

Except this big, unfriendly man who has evidently decided he has the right to make decisions for me.

"Where are you taking me?"

He blinks, looking surprised. "Goin' back home." He pauses and evidently realizes he needs to give more explanation. "Not my home. My mom and dad got a farm. They got some extra room. They can help you out until you can get back home or… figure somethin' out."

I let out a breath. Parents sound safer than this strange man.

He's got holes in his jeans and a ripped seam in his shirt. His hair and beard really need to be trimmed and look kind of dirty. In addition to his rifle, he's got a pistol in a holster at his hip, and I see part of a smaller one on his ankle, not quite covered by his jeans. He doesn't smell as bad as Grandpa always did, so that's something. But he doesn't appear inclined to smile.

"What's your name?" I finally ask.

"Oh. I'm Jimmy. Jimmy Carlson. What about you?"

"I'm Chloe."

He stares at me for what feels like a long time. Then he shakes his head like he disapproves.

"What?" I demand.

He mutters, "Don't know what the hell your grandpa was thinking takin' you out here. You're way too little and pretty to be out here on your own."

My spine stiffens. A swell of indignation rises inside me. How dare he judge Grandpa? He has no idea about our circumstances or how well my grandfather took care of me. He doesn't know anything.

But I bite back my instinctive response.

I'm entirely vulnerable now. And this man is currently the only thing standing between me and some sort of dangerous gang members who might attack me.

I'm not going to get on his bad side.

If you can't be strong, you have to be smart.

That's what Grandpa always said.

* * *

Jimmy and I make the rest of the trip in silence. It only takes about half an hour, so I barely have time to adjust to my new situation.

The one without Grandpa. The one where I'm alone.

After a while, the vast stretches of emptiness transform into a community of small farms and houses. They're not like our neighborhood back in Arkansas—large new builds ordered neatly on neighboring lots. These homes are older and obviously repaired numerous times. Most have a motley collection of outbuildings.

But there are animals too. A lot of them. Chickens and pigs and goats and at least one big dog running out to bark at us on nearly every property.

In one pasture we pass, there are a few horses. And in another there's a large herd of cows.

"That's the Hurleys," Jimmy says, nodding toward the cows as I stare at them. "They're the only ones with cows around here. My folks had some, but they didn't make it even a year after Impact."

"Can't they get a few from the Hurleys?"

"Probably. Hurleys are willin' to trade. Had some folks come from the east a couple years back to get some since they lost all their cattle after Impact. They're planning to come back to these parts to trade next year. So it's not because the Hurleys are unwillin'. But tending cows is a big operation. They're not as easy as pigs and chickens. And my folks decided to put their energy into other things. They plant all the wheat and oats and corn around here. One farm with cows nearby is enough. We all get milk from them."

"Oh. Of course." I keep staring, feeling like I've been transported into a book about pioneers.

I haven't had anything except canned evaporated milk in nine years.

When I glance over, I see Jimmy looking at me as if he's expecting some sort of reaction. I'm going to need help. A lot of it. Since he clearly belongs to this community, it would be good to have him on my side.

So I smile at him as sweetly as I can. "It's real nice around here. Y'all have done a great job. I've never seen anything like it."

He drops his eyes and makes a harrumphing sound in his throat. I guess I didn't do so great at buttering him up.

"My folks live over that hill."

"Okay." I have no idea what else to say. Grandpa always said it's good to compliment people to get on their good side, but I'm not sure how I can say something nice about a place I haven't even seen. So instead, I say, "Thanks for helping me."

That attempt isn't successful either. He frowns with both his mouth and his eyebrows. "As if I'd leave a girl by herself on the border. Be a death sentence or worse."

I don't want to speculate about or imagine what the worse might have been. It's finally settling in the very real danger I was in after Grandpa got shot. It's an honest-to-God miracle that Jimmy happened to be there and knew what to do.

Something inside me starts to shake. I try not to let it spread to my fingers and knees. "Thank you," I whisper, looking down at my bloodstained jeans and letting loose strands of my long blond hair that's escaped my ponytail hang forward to hide my face.

He ducks his head down to see my expression beyond them. "Don't be scared, girlie. Good people in these parts. You're gonna be okay."

* * *

The evening passes in a chaotic blur. I'm not sure how I even manage to get through it.

Jimmy's mom is Greta Carlson. She's a tall, attractive woman who looks like she might be in her sixties. She gives me a warm welcome and chides Jimmy about how he must have scared me, whisking me away while looking like a big, raggedy bear. She's clearly an efficient person who likes to stay busy and expects everyone else to do the same. I never really understood what bustling meant when I read it in books until I see the word come to life in her.

Her husband, Ben, is big like Jimmy but is clean-shaven and has gray hair. He doesn't say much, but that must be his nature. He tells me he's sorry about my granddad and they'll bury him tomorrow in a field they've been using as a cemetery if that's all right with me.

Grandpa would rather have been buried in the forest he loved, but that's not an option anymore. I accept the offer with gratitude and offer to help dig.

Jimmy makes a sound in his throat like a laugh at that, and I don't appreciate it. I'm not big and strong, but I'm capable of digging. And that is my grandfather after all.

I meet some other people too. There seems to be an awful lot of them hanging around and waiting for dinner. Greta shows me a big room that can sleep eight people. She leads me to a twin bed in the far corner, and it looks perfectly fine to me. She shows me the outhouse and the basin and jug in the bedroom for washing up. Next on the tour is the kitchen, and she asks if I'll help with trimming beans.

I say yes. Of course I do. But I don't actually know how to do it. Any of it. Grandpa's cabin had a solar generator that powered lights and the basic appliances we needed. He also rigged up the plumbing so I could pump well water into the sink or into the toilet or into the shower.

None of it works the same way here. As the sun gets lower, they light candles and lanterns. They can pump water into the kitchen sink but not any of the other rooms. And I've never trimmed beans in my life, but a younger woman named Nicky shows me how.

I'm exhausted. Still shaky from a drop in adrenaline. And I haven't even come close to processing the fact that Grandpa is dead.

When I cut my finger as I work on the beans, the drop of blood reminds me of the blood gushing from my grandfather's neck.

I'm hit by wave after wave of dizziness and nausea. A tidal wave of grief that I'm barely holding at bay. My fingers tremble so much I have to stop using the knife for fear of doing even more damage.

I breathe slow and deep. I need to get it together. Greta asked me to do these beans, so I've got to finish them. If I don't earn my keep, I might get turned out into the dark with nowhere to go and no one to help me.

"Why the hell are you doin' that?" The question is gruff and right behind me. So sudden it makes me jump.

I turn around dazedly and see Jimmy glowering at me. I swallow hard so I can answer. "Your… Your mom asked me to…"

He reaches out to take the knife out of my limp hand, then drops the bean I was holding back into the big bowl. "You can't be doin' chores right now. You can barely stand up."

"I can too!" I've resolved to myself not to argue with anyone. To just go along with everything anyone says or wants me to do so they'll like me and hopefully keep me safe. But this is outrageous.

I'm on the verge of collapse here, and he's bossing me around.

"You been through trauma." He's still frowning deeply, but I can't tell if I'm really the target of that expression or not. "You're white as a ghost. You're gonna faint again any minute."

"I am not!" My tone is far more confident than is entirely warranted. Fainting feels like a real possibility.

He ignores me. He strides to the door of the kitchen and sticks his head out, calling, "Mom, Chloe's sick. I'm taking her outside!"

I make a gurgling sound. A couple of tears slip out of my eyes and run down my cheeks. I try to resist when he turns me around and puts a hand on my back to push me toward the back door that leads outside from the kitchen, but I have neither the strength nor the will to resist.

He makes me sit down on the back stoop and pushes my head down toward my knees.

My whole body starts to shake, and there's no way I can make it stop.

I manage to keep my sobs silent, but Jimmy's got to know I'm crying. He's sitting right there beside me, and he keeps his hand flat between my shoulder blades.

He doesn't say anything or expect me to talk to him. I'm not sure how long I cry like that, but it has to be at least several minutes.

When I've finally quieted down, he mutters, "Mom's always believed that staying busy helps. That's why she gave you those beans to do."

"I was doing them fine," I choke out. It's ridiculous—nonsense—that I feel so obsessed about that fact, but I can't help but defend myself.

"Don't matter. You shouldn't have to. Not today."

I don't know what to say to that. I wipe my face with the sleeves of the zip-up hoodie I'm wearing and finally manage to straighten up.

"I'm not helpless," I tell him, once again focused on that irrelevancy.

"Never said you was."

"You were thinking it."

"You really think you can read my mind?"

No. I can't. He's a stranger to me still, and it's hard to even read his face beneath so much hair. I sniff a couple of times. "If your folks are gonna give me a place to stay, I want to work to earn my place."

"Plenty of chores to do. But you don't gotta do 'em today. Be better to get your bearings and… and process stuff."

He's probably right. I do feel better sitting here on the stoop, away from the cheerful voices and hustle of the house. Like I can actually breathe.

I don't say anything, and he doesn't either. We sit there together like that until a bell starts clanging.

"That's dinner," Jimmy says, stretching his back as he stands up. "You think you can eat somethin'? I can bring a plate out here if?—"

"No, I can go in." I already shirked my bean duty. I'm not going to act snobby or antisocial as well. After all, these people are the ones who can keep me alive. "I can eat."