Uncle Fred wheeled his wheelchair into the bedroom, his paralyzed legs a gift from the time he’d served overseas. He returned with a lock box and opened it to reveal a gleaming black revolver.

Hannah knew how to use a gun. Her father had taught both his daughters young, saying the best way to respect firearms was to know how to use them and see firsthand what they could do. She stuffed the gun in the glove box of her SUV and drove to Brody’s house.

Heart hammering, she knocked on the front door and waited for an answer. When none came, she entered. Minutes later, she raced from the house and fell to her knees in the long grass.

She’d arrived too late.

She told her uncle of what she’d found, the tears rolling down her face as she dealt with yet more horror. One that could have been prevented.

Her frequent trips to town yielded no more sightings of people. She brought back food and filled gas cans with fuel, thanking the gods that the pumps hadn’t been converted to the newer electric ones. She picked up spark plugs for the generator along with kerosene lamps and all the full propane tanks she could find for their camp stove. The list of supplies she and her uncle thought of boggled the mind, but fear of what the winter might bring made them want to be safe rather than sorry. While they stored the food in the house, cellar, and every empty room they could spare, fuels and gases were stored in an old weathered barn at the far end of the property. Even then, she kept a wary eye on it, expecting it to spontaneously combust in a huge ball of flames.

Tiny flakes of snow began drifting down the first week of November. By December, the roads were impassable, and they huddled in, their wood stove pumping out the heat, keeping them from freezing. Cooking became the chore no one wanted. To prevent carbon monoxide poisoning, they had to shut the door that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house and open the kitchen window and outside door. Talk about freaking cold. They often made do with canned soup warmed on the wood stove.

The winter passed slowly. For entertainment they played cards, board games and, once a week, they fired up the generator and watched a movie. Oddly enough, flicks like Mad Max and Waterworld became favorites. They would laugh at the primitive conditions those heroes lived in and pretended to thank their lucky stars. But in the dark of night alone in her bed, Hannah cried. How she wished she’d left with Brody and enjoyed a few more months of passion and happiness before everything ended.

Spring arrived, the world waking refreshed and full of signs of life, plant life, that is. The roads eventually cleared of the snow and ice. Hannah prepped herself for some new scavenging trips. She installed a hitch on the Jeep and, using a trailer a neighbor no longer needed, she drove to the next township.

Nervous, she’d kept the gun in her lap the whole time, her eyes darting and searching the derelict buildings. She only saw stray cats and dogs. Apparently the deadly flu had not affected the animals. She briefly wondered if they’d ever get desperate enough for meat that they’d eat cat or dog like some overseas countries did.

She shuddered. Not while she had some chickens she wouldn’t. If she had any cowgirl skills, they could have beef. Cows now roamed the fields while horses whinnied as they galloped, their manes flowing behind them. If the animals talked, it would be like living in George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

Pulling up in front of the Wal-Mart, her one-stop shop for all the supplies they’d need, she hopped out and initially tucked the gun in her waistband, but the heavy, cold metal made her uncomfortable and kept sliding down. Uncle Fred is too paranoid. She opened the glove box and shoved the weapon in.

Unlike her hometown, the door of the store here remained intact and locked. Not for long. A large rock helped her in entering and, after she’d widened the space so she could get a cart in and out, she pulled her list from her pocket and went to work. With the aid of a large spotlight, she went back and forth ‘til her Jeep and trailer groaned under the weight of the goods. She’d return but with gas dwindling, she had to make each trip count.

Driving back through the town on her way home, she spotted a bookstore and stopped. She had little room left, but a few paperbacks would be welcome to wile away the long hours. Arms laden with books, she emerged from the bookstore with a smile and began cramming them into the open spots she found in the Jeep.

The arm that snaked around her waist and yanked her backward made her scream. “Help!”

Chapter Two

Flailing, Hannah rammed an elbow back and heard a grunt. The grip around her loosened, and she broke away, whirling to see a vagrant. He leered at her through the wild hair that hung in his face. As he came toward her, the stench of his unwashed body and the clear intent in his eyes made her cringe.

Oh my god. Fumbling at her waist, she realized she’d left the gun in the glove box. Her eyes darted around looking for something to use as a weapon. Seeing nothing, she turned and ran.

A heavy weight hit her from behind, and she fell to the ground hard. Momentarily stunned, she didn’t initially react when her attacker flipped her onto her back and pulled at her clothes. Her initial shock wore off, and she fought like a mad woman, thrashing and bucking underneath him.

“Get off me, you bastard!”

Her assailant said not a word, his eyes alight with a maniacal gleam. The sound of cloth tearing made her blood run cold. She screamed.

But of course no one heard her.

A glint to the side caught her attention, and she grabbed the shard of glass, slicing her fingers in the process. Without time to think, she jabbed wildly at her assailant’s face.

Her would-be rapist screamed and rolled off her, clutching his bloody face.

Horrified at what she’d done but thanking her lucky stars, she ran for the Jeep and jumped in. Gunning the engine, she roared out of town, the haunting screams of the man ringing in her ears.

After that incident, Hannah never wanted to leave the house. But the thought of her sister going out for supplies in her place goaded her into action. She made several more trips to other nearby towns, and she never left her SUV without her gun. But her precaution proved unnecessary as she never saw another living being.

Spring passed and so did summer. Unable to figure out how to get more gas when the pumps stopped flowing, her trips out of town stopped. Their house was packed to the rafters with supplies. They kept the remaining gas for things like the generator and the chainsaw she hadn’t yet managed to start, but she kept trying.

Their new life while not horrible made her ache with loneliness. Sure, she loved her sister and uncle but, if she’d been alone, Hannah doubted she would have fought to survive. What did she have to look forward to? The world had died. The only two other living people she’d seen apart from her family had gone crazy. Years of being alone stretched in front of her. Never again to be loved or touched. She dreaded the day her battery stash ran out. Her handy-dandy pocket rocket wouldn’t last forever. A hysterical giggle bubbled inside her. How could she think of pleasuring herself when billions had died?

Masturbation became her last escape, sometimes the only thing that reminded her she was still alive. In the quiet of the night, she let her fingers dance over her flesh, and she remembered better days. Or, more specifically, days spent with Brody, her first and only love. Rugged, dark-haired, and blue-eyed. Just looking at him had always made her breath hitch and her panties damp. His face still dominated her dreams and erotic fantasies even though she continued to hate him for what he’d done. When she touched herself, she would pretend he lay in bed with her, his mouth and hands pleasuring her.

But his phantom actions would never give her the family she longed for.

Part of her now wished she’d thrown responsibility to the wind and enjoyed those few blissful months with him before tragedy stuck, but who would have taken care of her family?

And why did gardening always make her thoughts turn to her memories of the past?

She ripped at the weeds that had cropped up in more aggressive numbers than the vegetables, an ongoing battle she used to vent her frequent frustration. Why do I bother? We’ve got enough canned vegetables to last us a lifetime. Hannah shuddered at the thought of eating mushy peas for the next forty or fifty years. With renewed vigor, she hacked at the thick root of a dandelion.

It took her a moment to register the sound in the distance. Like an audio mirage, her ears didn’t believe what they heard and when she did clue in, her jaw dropped.

That sounds like a motorcycle.

Pulling off her gloves and with a rapidly beating heart, she strode to the front of the house to see Uncle Fred peering at a cloud of dust fast approaching.

“Get the gun,” Fred said, his eyes squinting in the sun. “And help me get into the house.”

Hannah wanted to protest that they couldn’t be sure whoever approached meant them harm, but the wild eyes of her assailant in the spring floated in her mind and she might have whimpered.

Wheeling her uncle’s wheelchair quickly into the house, Hannah bolted the door and called for her sister. “Beth! Get down here.”

The long, tanned legs of her sister, followed by the rest of her, came skipping down the stairs. “What’s got your panties in a knot?” asked her blonde sibling. “I thought you wanted that bathroom clean.”

“I still do, but someone’s coming. Quick, get into the cellar and take Uncle Fred with you.” She grabbed the shotgun from its spot in the corner by the front door.