Chapter 10
Day twenty-two. The thing I'd been dreading finally happened.
I was on the roof watering the peppers when I heard it—an engine. Not a military vehicle; those had a deep, rumbling growl. This was lighter. A pickup truck.
I dropped flat on the roof and crawled to the edge.
A dusty Ford F-150 had pulled up to our gate. Four men inside. The truck bed was loaded with what looked like supplies—stolen, probably. Canned goods. A generator. Jerry cans.
The driver got out. Big guy, sunburned, baseball cap. He had a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
My blood went cold.
These weren't desperate scavengers testing doors. These were organized. Armed. And they were studying our property like shoppers at an open house.
The driver pointed at our solar panels on the roof—visible despite my best efforts to camouflage them. Another man pointed at the steel shutters. They exchanged words I couldn't hear.
I slithered back from the edge and dropped through the roof hatch into the house.
"Mom!" I hissed. "Basement. Now."
She didn't ask questions. She grabbed the emergency bag and we descended the stairs in seconds.
On the monitors, the four men were circling the property. One tried the gate—held firm. Another tested the wall, looking for weak spots.
Then the driver did something that made my stomach flip.
He cupped his hands and shouted, "We know someone's in there! Solar panels don't install themselves! Open up and share, and nobody gets hurt!"
Silence from our end.
He waited. Tried again. "Last chance. We've got guns and we've got time."
Mom's face was white, but her hand was steady on the hunting knife.
"The fake security recording?" she whispered.
I shook my head. "They're not kids with crowbars. They won't fall for it."
I watched the monitors. The men were huddled by the truck, discussing. One of them pulled out bolt cutters from the truck bed and headed toward the gate.
My mind raced. We had the crossbow, a hunting knife, bear spray, and a flare gun. They had at least one shotgun and four able-bodied men. In a direct fight, we'd lose.
But I hadn't spent two lifetimes dying to go down easy.
"Mom, remember what Grandpa did during the wars? The false walls?"
"Yes?"
"We're going to take it one step further." I grabbed the walkie-talkie and sprinted upstairs, staying low.
I positioned myself at the top-floor window—the one with the thinnest gap in the shutters—and aimed the crossbow through the slit. Then I keyed the walkie-talkie to its loudspeaker setting and held it near the window.
In my deepest, roughest voice, I barked: "There are six of us in here and we're armed. You cut that gate, we start shooting. Your call."
The man with the bolt cutters hesitated.
From another window, Mom—following my lead—banged a metal pipe against the steel shutter three times. It sounded like a gun being racked.
The driver looked up. Looked at the shutters. Looked at the cameras pointing down at him—the little red recording lights blinking steadily.
"Not worth it," one of the other men said, tugging his sleeve. "Place is a fortress. Let's try the next road."
The driver stared at the house for a long, terrible moment. Then he spat on the ground, turned, and climbed back into the truck.
They drove away in a cloud of dust.
Mom and I collapsed on the basement floor, gasping.
My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't hold the crossbow anymore. I set it down and pressed my palms to my eyes.
Mom crawled over and wrapped her arms around me.
"It worked," she whispered. "Your crazy plan worked."
"Today it worked," I said. "They might come back. Or others will."
Mom pulled back and looked at me with those fierce, reborn eyes.
"Then we'll be ready again. And again. And again. However many times it takes."
That night, neither of us could eat much. I managed a few crackers and some peanut butter. Mom had a cup of soup.
But before bed, Mom brought out the chocolate truffles she'd been saving.
We each ate one in silence, letting the rich sweetness melt on our tongues.
"We're alive," Mom said.
"We're alive."
And that was enough.
---
I was on the roof watering the peppers when I heard it—an engine. Not a military vehicle; those had a deep, rumbling growl. This was lighter. A pickup truck.
I dropped flat on the roof and crawled to the edge.
A dusty Ford F-150 had pulled up to our gate. Four men inside. The truck bed was loaded with what looked like supplies—stolen, probably. Canned goods. A generator. Jerry cans.
The driver got out. Big guy, sunburned, baseball cap. He had a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
My blood went cold.
These weren't desperate scavengers testing doors. These were organized. Armed. And they were studying our property like shoppers at an open house.
The driver pointed at our solar panels on the roof—visible despite my best efforts to camouflage them. Another man pointed at the steel shutters. They exchanged words I couldn't hear.
I slithered back from the edge and dropped through the roof hatch into the house.
"Mom!" I hissed. "Basement. Now."
She didn't ask questions. She grabbed the emergency bag and we descended the stairs in seconds.
On the monitors, the four men were circling the property. One tried the gate—held firm. Another tested the wall, looking for weak spots.
Then the driver did something that made my stomach flip.
He cupped his hands and shouted, "We know someone's in there! Solar panels don't install themselves! Open up and share, and nobody gets hurt!"
Silence from our end.
He waited. Tried again. "Last chance. We've got guns and we've got time."
Mom's face was white, but her hand was steady on the hunting knife.
"The fake security recording?" she whispered.
I shook my head. "They're not kids with crowbars. They won't fall for it."
I watched the monitors. The men were huddled by the truck, discussing. One of them pulled out bolt cutters from the truck bed and headed toward the gate.
My mind raced. We had the crossbow, a hunting knife, bear spray, and a flare gun. They had at least one shotgun and four able-bodied men. In a direct fight, we'd lose.
But I hadn't spent two lifetimes dying to go down easy.
"Mom, remember what Grandpa did during the wars? The false walls?"
"Yes?"
"We're going to take it one step further." I grabbed the walkie-talkie and sprinted upstairs, staying low.
I positioned myself at the top-floor window—the one with the thinnest gap in the shutters—and aimed the crossbow through the slit. Then I keyed the walkie-talkie to its loudspeaker setting and held it near the window.
In my deepest, roughest voice, I barked: "There are six of us in here and we're armed. You cut that gate, we start shooting. Your call."
The man with the bolt cutters hesitated.
From another window, Mom—following my lead—banged a metal pipe against the steel shutter three times. It sounded like a gun being racked.
The driver looked up. Looked at the shutters. Looked at the cameras pointing down at him—the little red recording lights blinking steadily.
"Not worth it," one of the other men said, tugging his sleeve. "Place is a fortress. Let's try the next road."
The driver stared at the house for a long, terrible moment. Then he spat on the ground, turned, and climbed back into the truck.
They drove away in a cloud of dust.
Mom and I collapsed on the basement floor, gasping.
My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't hold the crossbow anymore. I set it down and pressed my palms to my eyes.
Mom crawled over and wrapped her arms around me.
"It worked," she whispered. "Your crazy plan worked."
"Today it worked," I said. "They might come back. Or others will."
Mom pulled back and looked at me with those fierce, reborn eyes.
"Then we'll be ready again. And again. And again. However many times it takes."
That night, neither of us could eat much. I managed a few crackers and some peanut butter. Mom had a cup of soup.
But before bed, Mom brought out the chocolate truffles she'd been saving.
We each ate one in silence, letting the rich sweetness melt on our tongues.
"We're alive," Mom said.
"We're alive."
And that was enough.
---