Sudden Independents Read online

  Dedication

  Early August

  One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve

  Middle of November

  Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two | Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five | Twenty-Six | Twenty-Seven | Twenty-Eight

  Late March

  Twenty-Nine | Thirty | Thirty-One | Thirty-Two | Thirty-Three | Thirty-Four | Thirty-Five | Thirty-Six | Thirty-Seven | Thirty-Eight | Thirty-Nine

  Fourth of July

  Epilogue

  Preview: HUNGRY INDEPENDENTS

  Acknowledgments

  About Ted Hill

  Copyright

  For Michelle

  Hunter shattered the minivan’s window with a broken chunk of asphalt and shoved the dried-husk of the driver aside. Dust from six years of slow decay rose in the sweltering heat, reflecting sunshine in a cloud of golden glitter. Waving off the floating remains, he reached inside and found the lever that released the fuel door. He grabbed a pair of Ray-Bans off the dash and licked them clean before sliding them on. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he checked out his new look and then smiled at the dead man. Nothing beats a nice pair of shades on a bright, sunny day.

  Hunter removed the gas cap with a pressurized pop—a good thing—and fed his siphon hose into the minivan’s tank. He filled a small cup and checked the quality. Free of floating particles, the fumes and the taste also passed inspection; thankfully the gasoline remained pure enough to run his motor. He siphoned again and topped off his Kawasaki two-wheeler. Without the empty tank problem, the trip back home to Independents would be a cinch.

  He screwed the gas cap back on tight for the next time he rode this way and left the tangled bones strewn about the front seat. Hunter sped his motorbike parallel to Interstate 80’s buckled pavement through the untended farmlands of central Nebraska. He slowed across a bridge spanning the Platte River, and picked up speed heading south on State Highway 10.

  Long miles of travel wore on, his body roasting in the August heat under the midday sun. Sweat trickled off his brow and streaked across his new sunglasses. Riding alongside an empty irrigation ditch, he spotted the invitation of cool shade beneath a solitary cottonwood tree. He turned and was coasting to a stop when someone sprung up from the tall grass.

  Hunter veered left, barely missing the person, and rolled straight for the tree’s massive trunk. He laid the Kawasaki over and landed on his feet, fists clenched.

  His nostrils burned from the harsh exhaust blowing out the Kawasaki’s tailpipe; his faulty throttle was stuck again. Gas still revved through the fallen motorbike and the rear wheel spun in the air, creating a deafening roar.

  A little blond girl stood close by with her hands pressed against her ears.

  Hunter killed the motor and returned to his fighting stance.

  The girl uncovered her ears and stretched with a mighty yawn before rubbing the sleep out of the corners of her blue eyes. She wore jeans, and her white T-shirt was impossibly clean for someone taking a nap on the ground. Her feet were covered with grass stains, especially over her toes—as if green was their natural color.

  “What the hell were you thinking jumping up like that?” Hunter said with his adrenaline still amped up high. Her frown caught him off guard and he felt stupid for yelling at a little girl. He took a deep breath, unclenched his fists and combed his fingers through his hair.

  “Sorry about that,” he said in a calmer tone. “Are you out here all alone?”

  “I’m not alone, silly. She’s been keeping me company.”

  His heartbeat raced again. Hunter whirled in the direction the girl pointed, expecting trouble, but found only the cottonwood and more grass. “Who’s out there?” he called, scanning the prairie for motion not related to the wind, anticipating an ambush any moment.

  “I was talking about my tree, silly. My name’s Catherine.” She ran over, wrapping her arms around Hunter’s waist and squeezed. “Thank you for finding me.”

  Hunter twisted away, struggling to break free. He straightened his shirt and his composure. “I wasn’t out here to find you. You almost got ran over. Are you from Cozad?”

  She scrunched up her face. “What’s a Cozad?”

  “It’s a town about eighty miles northwest of here.” Hunter pointed, unsure if Catherine knew which way was northwest.

  Her eyes followed the direction of his finger. “I’ve never been there.”

  Hunter found his Ray-Bans lying in the dirt. He frowned at the scratch across the left lens and stepped under the shade. “Well, how did you get here?”

  She smiled up at him and patted the tree. “I was born here, silly.”

  A blood vessel started throbbing in Hunter’s head. The girl beamed at him and moved forward with arms wide for another hug, but Hunter planted his hand on her forehead. She stopped pushing after a couple seconds.

  Hunter fixed her with his serious face. “What were you doing under the tree?”

  “I was sleeping, until that thing woke me up.” She gave the Kawasaki a disgusted glance.

  Hunter looked over at his fallen ride with concern. Hopefully his bike wasn’t trashed. “That’s how I get around,” he said. He righted the motorbike on its two wheels, settling it against the tree. “If it breaks down, then I’m walking.”

  “I like walking.”

  Hunter clamped a hand over his own sweaty forehead where his pulse pounded. This was the reason he never babysat the younger kids back home. “Do you have a brother or sister, or are there any other kids nearby, maybe somebody older who takes care of you?”

  “Nope, it’s just me.”

  Hunter knew that wasn’t possible. The only survivor settlements nearby were Cozad and Independents, and they were divided by a hundred-sixty miles. Maybe she got separated from one of the caravans that sometimes rambled through, going from one coast to the other. Whatever happened, someone brought her along this far. No one survived out here alone—especially not little girls.

  He knelt, getting eye to eye with Catherine and growing more irritated by her infuriating grin. “You’re what, six, maybe seven?”

  “I’m six or seven what?”

  Hunter rubbed his hand over his face. He hated his next question before he asked it, but this conversation wasn’t getting any easier. “Do you remember your parents?”

  “Sure I do,” Catherine said, looking up to the sky. “Father’s in Heaven.”

  He’d already guessed that answer, figuring he knew the next one as well. “What about your mom?”

  Catherine smiled at him and patted the tree. Its leaves ruffled in the breeze as if the tree acknowledged its status as the little girl’s mother.

  Hunter shook his head and walked back into the heat. He picked up a rock at the edge of the irrigation ditch and threw it far, not caring where it landed.

  Now that he was two days overdue at Independents, Jimmy would be having a fit, and this stop was delaying the unavoidable confrontation. His older brother wanted him to stick to a schedule, but Hunter didn’t need that crap. He’d had a dad once.

  Hunter picked up another rock and flung it hard.

  “Do you have something to eat?” Catherine called from the shade. “I’m hungry.”

  Hunter side-armed one more rock and watched it sail over the tall grass before he returned into the comfortable shade. He removed his bag from the back of the Kawasaki and sat with it between his legs. Catherine plopped in front of him. Dragging out the last of the flatbread and beef jerky, he offered Catherine the bread. She clapped her hands, apparently pleased with the meager meal, and ripped into it like a starved kitten, taking big bites and swallowing chunks. Hun
ter chewed on the sinewy stick of meat, hoping he wouldn’t chip a tooth.

  “So what’s your name?” Catherine asked.

  “I’m Hunter.”

  She leaned up on her knees and inspected his face closely. The scrutiny made him uncomfortable. “You look like a Michael.”

  Hunter blinked. “How did you know that?”

  Catherine tapped the side of her head.

  He looked away. “Well, I’m Hunter now. I hunt for stuff. My parents named me Michael, but they’re gone.” Hunter choked down the lump that always caught in his throat when he mentioned his parents. He made fists to keep his hands from shaking.

  Catherine patted his knee the way his mother used to, surprising him out of the dark spiral of his thoughts. He remembered his parents less every day. He hated revisiting the nightmare of their last moments. Catherine scooted next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. A secure happiness overcame him, which he couldn’t explain.

  “I like it under my tree,” Catherine said. “Don’t you? It’s nice and shady. She’s a good tree, full of life and happy memories. I like her bark the best. It’s so big and knobby. Here, feel.”

  She grabbed Hunter’s hand and placed it on the tree. The bark felt big and knobby, just like she said. He smiled.

  Hunter stuffed the leftovers into his backpack. “Catherine, would you like to go to Independents with me?”

  She bounced beside him like a loose ball. “You mean to live with you?”

  “Well, not with me, but with the other kids there. I can’t leave you here all by yourself.” Hunter gauged the sun’s position. “We better go now if we want to make it home before dark.”

  “Don’t you think home is a cozy word?” she asked. “Home, home, home. How will we get home?”

  Hunter thumbed at his motorbike. “I’ll give you a lift on my two-wheeler.”

  “I need to say goodbye first.” Catherine jumped up and turned toward the cottonwood. She gave the tree a big hug. “I love you, tree, but Hunter is taking me home. Be good. Make sure you get lots of water and plenty of sunshine. Maybe someday we can come back for a visit.”

  She looked back at Hunter with wide blue eyes.

  Hunter shrugged. “Sure.”

  He helped Catherine climb up behind him, and then he started his Kawasaki and told her to hang on. She fastened her arms around his waist and squeezed like she was giving him the Heimlich maneuver. Hunter groaned at the long trip ahead, but hoped finding Catherine would spare him from Jimmy’s anger when they reached Independents.

  Jimmy stood in the middle of the cabbage field outside Independents, working his shovel and feeling the sun solidify his farmer’s tan. A late-afternoon breeze kicked up, cooling the sweat on his skin. His stomach growled as suppertime approached. He removed his hat and scratched an itch he’d been trying to ignore for the past hour, hating his nagging worry that the irritation might be related to the plague. Every little itch, soreness, or cough terrified him. He was tired of being scared, but he wasn’t ready to die.

  Jimmy’s thoughts shifted to his brother. He wished Hunter would come back home. It was one thing to lose his parents, but his anxiety reached a whole new level at the thought of losing his little brother.

  He slapped his hat back on top and drew his forearm over his cheek to clear off some dirt. Sweat transformed the dirt into mud smearing across his face. He lifted up his shirt to wipe away the mess. The shirt smelled like hard work and manure.

  Farming required hard work; manure came with the job. Work was a four-letter word most kids—including Jimmy—never wanted to hear before the plague. Then, when he was eleven and his brother was nine, his parents suddenly died. Everybody’s parents died. Everyone around the world over the age of seventeen trembled, convulsed, vomited and died, leaving behind a bunch of kids who didn’t understand why.

  Jimmy and others realized they had two choices: work or follow their parents.

  Six years later, Jimmy provided fresh food for more than a hundred kids living in Independents. It was a lot of hard work, but they all liked to eat. Jimmy hoped that wherever his parents were, they’d be proud of him.

  He finished wiping his face, lowered his shirt and caught sight of the missile hurtling at him a second too late. The mud-ball hammered his chest with excruciating force and clung there.

  “Ouch! What the…!” He bit his tongue and tolerated the pain in silence.

  “C’mon, let it out just this once. You know you want to.”

  Samuel smiled from among the cabbages fifteen feet away. Jimmy couldn’t believe the boy snuck up on him decked out in a tie-dyed shirt and red bandanna headband. But there he was, his best friend with a muddy hand.

  The mud-ball rolled off Jimmy’s chest and plopped back to earth, leaving behind a splatter trail staining his shirt. He stabbed his shovel into the ground, arched over and hauled up mud. Cold and wet, they oozed between his tightening fingers as he launched one handful and then the other.

  Samuel ducked the first, but Jimmy anticipated that move and slung the second low, hoping it would tag his opponent’s head or where it hurts. He’d be satisfied with either target.

  It slammed him where it hurts. Samuel’s eyes widened more than Jimmy thought humanly possible as he sunk to his knees in the muddy field.

  “Holy shit!” Samuel screamed and doubled over.

  “I wish you wouldn’t swear like that. One of the little kids might overhear you using that kind of language.” Jimmy yanked his shovel out of the trench where water now flowed, tipped his hat back and smiled.

  Samuel looked up, red-faced and furious. His eyes watered. He inhaled several deep breaths, blowing them out with gigantic jets of air. “All I wanted… was one little cuss word… Why’d you aim for my nuts?”

  “I thought that was where you kept your brains.” Jimmy walked over, held out a muddy hand and hoisted him up.

  Samuel squawked and teetered until he reacquired his balance, then glared at Jimmy. “That was not cool, man. You might have caused some serious damage and ruined my chances to help repopulate the world. Next time, think of all the things my future children will accomplish before you throw low.”

  “I was trying to do the world a favor by stopping ignorance at the source. But then again, you do make a pretty decent field hand.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d rather be a spoiled rich kid with a swimming pool, rubbing sun lotion on my sexy girlfriend.” Samuel motioned out towards the field. “By the way, the cabbages are saturated. Good job.”

  Jimmy shrugged like he hadn’t spent the better part of a broiling afternoon sorting out his irrigation problems. “How’s the greenhouse? Were you able to patch the holes?”

  “It’ll hold until the next hailstorm, but we need more plastic panels before winter.”

  Jimmy nodded and added plastic panels to his ever-growing mental list. “Are you ready to head back home? I have to try and find a clean shirt before supper.”

  Samuel made a minor adjustment to his pants. “Sure, let’s go before I start swelling.”

  He seized the shovel from Jimmy and slung the long, worn handle over his shoulder. They dragged their boots out of the muddy field and headed for the white painted houses and brick buildings of Independents.

  “Looks like we can pull them soon,” Samuel said, nodding toward the cabbages. “That’ll make Brittany happy. She loves cabbage in her meals. Of course everyone else will throw a fit.”

  “Oh, they don’t mind. They like having fresh food to eat.”

  Samuel patted Jimmy on the back with his muddy free hand and gazed skyward. “Greg would be proud.”

  Sadness wedged its way inside Jimmy, probably in the exact location where it settled in Samuel after Greg died. Samuel rarely spoke about his brother, but Jimmy knew he missed him.

  “He left us in pretty good shape,” Jimmy said.

  Samuel nodded. “Yeah, but you really made this farming thing work. He knew you were the one smart enough to handle it. He told me
so.”

  When the plague struck the planet, Samuel and his older brother were living in Independence, Missouri. Soon after all the adults died, Greg rounded up every kid he could find and led them to the small, deserted Nebraska town they eventually renamed Independents.

  Samuel looked just like him.

  Jimmy gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. “I don’t do it all alone, you know.”

  Samuel smiled. “I’m just the help. You’re the Man. Everybody in town looks up to you, but that’s probably because you’re the tallest.”

  And there it was, the fear rising in Jimmy again. “And the oldest.”

  Samuel’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head. “Come off it, Jimmy. You have to stop thinking that way. The plague isn’t around for you to worry about anymore. You don’t have a cutoff date.” Samuel jabbed the shovel into the ground and leaned hard on the handle while Jimmy struggled under his intense stare. Intense usually wasn’t Samuel’s thing. “You’re not going to die on your eighteenth birthday.”

  “It’s seven months away, you know?”

  “Of course, I know. Who has been smashing and fermenting grapes since your last birthday? I’ve got Scout and Hunter searching every Wal-Mart they come across for balloons and streamers. I’m even trying to get one of the Brittanys to fall in love with your sorry butt so you can pass on to manhood with a bang.” Samuel winked. “Pun intended.”

  Trying to laugh his worry away, Jimmy grabbed for the shovel and watched Samuel do his best keeping his balance before stumbling to one knee. “All right, that’s enough fooling around,” Jimmy said, helping Samuel up again. “Let’s get going before we miss supper.”

  “Okay, but I’m serious about one thing. That wine will be good.” Samuel snatched Jimmy’s hat. “Yuck! This thing’s wetter than a dirty mop.”

  “Serves you right, now give it back.”

  Samuel tossed the hat and Jimmy fumbled the catch, feigning a charge in Samuel’s direction, laughing again as his friend stuck up his hands like he was going to throw a karate chop. “Take it easy, man. I’ve been reading about Tae Kwon Do.”