Less Than Perfect

By Kelly Jensen

Less Than Perfect by Kelly Jensen

Mikayla's read every book in her collection of post-apocalyptic novels at least twice. She thinks she's prepared for aliens taking over Earth. She's not.

Nor is she prepared for the attention of a good-looking refugee named Reg.

All Mikayla and Reg want is a safe place to see out the end of the world, hidden away from the aliens that call themselves The People, but cities of the depopulated United States not infested with The People are rife with gangs, the detritus of civilization and disease.

On a mission to restock their supplies, Mikayla and Reg are captured by The People and prepared for the procedure that will make them perfect, but no longer quite human. In order to escape, they need to rely on each other...if Mikayla can trust a man who seems too good to be true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781622663330

Kelly Jensen

Born in Australia and raised everywhere else, Kelly Jensen now lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, daughter and herd of four cats. After disproving the theory that water only spins counter-clockwise around drains north of the equator, she turned her attention to more productive pursuits such as reading, writing about reading and writing stories of her own.

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Less Than Perfect

Kelly Jensen

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Kelly Jensen. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Charlottle Christian and Kaleen Harding

Cover design by Frauke Spanuth

Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-333-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2013

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Twinkies, A Wrinkle in the Skin, Alas, Babylon, Mickey Mouse, Starship Enterprise, Upperdark, Dungeons & Dragons, Girl Scouts of America, Boy Scouts of America, Oreo, Volkswagen Beetle, Jeep, A&P, Laundromat, La-Z-Boy.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Petra

Chapter One

Reading a medical text won’t make you a surgeon, but reading a cookbook will help you make a meal. It’s a relative thing, I suppose, how we can prepare for some things, but have to train for others—experience the feel of a scalpel in our fingers (not me, I faint at the sight of my own blood), see how the egg whites stiffen and peak beneath a whisk.

When it comes to aliens, though, particularly the sort that invade (another relative term), I had sort of considered myself an expert because I’d read a lot about them.

I’m not.

A sound interrupted my thoughts. I tilted my head to the side, a lock of red hair whispering across paper.

Mikayla!

I jerked around and swallowed a squeal as Hiram’s distinct outline, including a long-barreled gun, moved through the door. His light step had not been the sound I heard.

Something’s coming up the road. Quick, he said.

A low rumble, separate from the illusive quiet of the farm, tickled my ears again. I jumped off the bed, hissing as my journal followed, dangling from my hair. A panicked jerk parted the journal from my hair and at least one strand from my head. I thrust my most precious possession, that notebook, into the backpack sitting at the foot of the bed.

We all kept packs ready. The end of the world had turned us all into Girl and Boy Scouts; we were prepared. I slung the straps over my shoulders and slid my feet into boots. Then bent to collect my second-most-precious possession: a box of books.

Mikayla.

Hiram was a man of few words, but I clearly heard his intent.

I’ll carry it.

They won’t be looking for books.

They wouldn’t. What remained of the human population of our planet probably wouldn’t but, damn it, I loved these books, useless as they were.

Box isn’t heavy, I’ll be fine. My arms already hurt.

We didn’t have time to argue. He turned, his large, square form filling the doorway again before he ducked back into the hallway. I dithered. Two steps put me at the door, another one pulled me back into the room. The something coming up the road became the obvious roar of engines. Swallowing a whine, I knelt down and pushed the box under the bed, then leaped up and followed Hiram down the hall. Beth, Hiram’s mother and master of our current domain—Happy Valley Orchards—met us at the entrance to the cellar.

I had mixed feelings about stuffing ourselves into a hole. If found, we would be, well, stuck in a hole. When the fourth member of our party melted out of the darkness, my feelings mixed a little further. Tall, dark, and good-looking in an unassuming way that just made him even more attractive, Reg inspired giddiness best left in the old world.

He gestured toward the open hatch.

The rumble of the approaching cars had the ominous feel of a thunderstorm. Anticipation prickled the back of my neck. After glancing over my shoulder, I edged toward the black hole in the pantry floor…and imagined the intruders discovering my treasure, my box of books, and flinging them around. Pulling covers off. Tossing them into a fire….

My books. I turned and ran back through the kitchen.

Mikayla! Hiram called after me.

I’ll be right back!

My shoulder connected with the doorframe as I swung into my bedroom and pain shot down my arm. Undeterred, I continued to the bed and dropped to my hands and knees. The roar of engines rattled the window and brakes squealed. I tugged at the box. Car doors creaked open, boots crunched the gravel of the drive.

C’mon, damn y—

My furious whisper ended with me rolling backward, a piece of torn cardboard in my hand.

Footsteps thudded across the front porch and the screen door screeched. Mentally mapping the distance back to the cellar, I knew I wouldn’t make it back, box or not. Rocking forward again, I dove beneath the bed got caught halfway as my backpack scrunched up against the frame. I bit my lip to keep from whining, pulled my arms out of the straps, and scooted all the way under just as boots pounded down the hall.

I was trapped under the bed with a box of books while my pack with a meager supply of survival gear lay slumped just beyond reach. I had abandoned the safety of the cellar for a box of books. Deep breaths stirring the dust bunnies, I tried to calm down, not cough, and think rationally.

The kitchen door banged and voices rose and fell. I heard one word out of every five.

Here…pie…far…chickens.

Did they know we were here? They’d found the pie, I got that part. Far? Chickens?

A faint squawk and second bang of the kitchen door provided a clue. They had found the chicken coop.

Footsteps traced the hall outside my bedroom again, paused at the door, and scuffed inside. Tucking my arm around the box of books, I held my breath and resisted the urge to close my eyes.

I should have closed my eyes.

Knees dropped to the floor beside the bed and a face swung into view. A woman with sallow skin and limp hair intent on escaping the wrap of a filthy bandanna. She was human; not clean and not perfect. She was still dangerous. Swallowing a scream, I met her dark gaze. Maybe if I remained perfectly still she’d think—

Well, well. What do we have here?

Just me.

She scanned the length of the floor under the bed as if to check the truth of my statement then asked, What’s in the box?

My books.

Where I had failed, she succeeded. After hooking a hand into the ripped corner, she dragged the box out, peered inside, and snorted before dropping back down to look at me. I had taken the opportunity to shuffle backward, toward the other side of the bed. She moved around to the foot, cutting off my escape.

Where is everyone else?

It’s only me, I said, knowing she wouldn’t believe me, but unwilling to give up the others.

Mm-hmm. Are they in the house, or out back somewhere?

It’s just me, I insisted.

I had to get out from under the bed. I scooted back again, aiming for the far corner.

It’s a nice setup you have here, the woman noted in a conversational tone as she shadowed my movements. Must be a lot of work. Maybe you need some folks to help you out.

Did she mean Beth and Hiram and Reg? Or her friends, the folks clomping around the kitchen and pantry in their heavy boots?

I’m not going to tell you anything, I said. I might be fool, but I would act like I was a brave one.

Just tell me how many you are and I’ll leave you here in your cozy hideout.

They have guns.

She had a ready reply. So do we.

They’re in the shed behind the chicken coop. I let the words come out in a rush, tumbling and breathless, which wasn’t that hard.

Let’s go check that out, then. The woman reached behind her, tugged at her belt and produced a gun.

I had no special skills. I did not study self-defense in my spare time. I’d never handled a gun. When not poring over engineering plans, I read books about the end of the world. I never expected to live out those stories, though. Become a gun-toting survivalist. So, at gunpoint, I edged out from under the bed and timidly raised my hands. My plan included leading her out to the chicken coop. From there, I thought I might be able to duck into the barn…or something.

A dark figure fell through the door, knocking the woman forward. She folded with a soft exhalation. The gun clattered to the floor, and I kicked it under the bed. Then I looked up and sucked in a breath. Reg had come to rescue me.

The woman remained still on the floor.

Is she dead?

No. Reg waved at the door. Come on.

I cast a quick look at my box of books, then at my pack, both on the far side of the bed, and then followed without stopping for either. That would be my punishment, I decided. I’d have to leave the farmhouse without either, depend on the others—whom I had endangered with my stupid sentimentality.

We didn’t leave the house. Moving quickly but quietly, we ran to the kitchen, ducked around the first corner and skidded into the pantry.

Reg tapped on the cellar hatch three times and said, It’s Reg and Mikayla.

The hatch popped up and I fell feet first down the ladder. Hiram caught me and handed me off to Beth. Reg thumped to the soft, earthen floor, and the cellar door banged shut. Hiram threw the bolt and handed Reg a gun before hoisting another, pointing the long barrel toward the dark panel of the hatch.

A thin shaft of sunlight fell through the narrow window set between the top of the wall and the low ceiling. Though the shortest member of our group, I felt compressed. Hiram had to duck his head, and Reg’s dark hair seemed to blend with the dusk, though he remained straight-backed. Beth’s softer frame filled a more comforting space.

I didn’t tell them you were here, I said. It seemed important I communicate that fact. Despite going back for a box of books, I had not betrayed my friends.

Beth put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed tight. I tucked my arm around her waist and squeezed back.

They know we’re here somewhere, Hiram said.

Let’s hope they’re more interested in food than…

We all silently filled in the gap left by Beth. My imaginings, fueled by my box of useless books, were probably a little more gruesome and fantastic than the others.

Not many found the long road to Happy Valley Orchards; the farm enjoyed the cover of three separate hills. Smoke from the woodburning stove in the kitchen occasionally gained attention. It had caught mine two months ago, Reg’s six weeks after that. We had both approached on foot, me more pathetically than the tall man standing beneath the cellar hatch. I knew what I had been looking for: sanctuary, a place to wait out the storm. I didn’t know if I could outlast this storm, though—the