Dandelions

By Shauna Granger

At fifteen years old, Gwen’s world has ended. Not because she’s gone through a break-up. Not because her parents are ruining her life with a lame curfew. Not because her grades are struggling. Not in the way a fifteen-year-old’s life usually ends.

At fifteen years old, Gwen has burned the dead bodies of both her parents and fortified her home against the plague-spreading monsters who killed them, waiting for her sister, Maggie, to make her way back home in the apocalyptic landscape that is the world now.

At fifteen years old, Gwen’s world has ended, but she’s not giving up. She’s not giving up on life, her home, or her sister. Because all you have left when the world ends is hope, so that’s what she’s got, a BB gun and hope.

Hopefully it’ll be enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shauna Granger
• Release date: Apr 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370934027

Shauna Granger

Shauna Granger lives in a sleepy little beach town in Southern California with her husband, John, and their goofy dog, Brody. Always fascinated by Magic, Shauna spent most of her teen years buried in books about fairies, elves, gnomes, spells, witchcraft, wizards and sorcery. When she's not busy working on the next installment of the Elemental Series she enjoys cooking, entertaining, MMA fight nights, watching way too much TV and coffee. Lots of coffee.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The attic is getting too damn hot during the day. It’s great at night; the heat gets trapped under the sloping roof, keeping me warm after the marine layer comes back. But during the day, I feel like I might die. Like, literally, from sweating. And the smell. My makeshift bathroom is a bucket with a toilet seat Mom bought for our earthquake kit. It’s tucked into the far corner, but I can never get far enough way to escape the smell, even if I do dump it every morning in the backyard.

I blink and rub my eyes to wipe the sweat from my vision just as a drop of the salty stuff hits the page of my open journal.

Ugh, I groan, staring at the tiny mark staining the page. I try to wipe it away with my thumb, but I only manage to smear the drop, making it way worse. Damnit.

Slamming the book closed, I toss it behind me on the mattress and tuck my pen into the topknot on my head.

Sorry, Maggie, I say to the closed journal. We’ll have to catch up later. I’ve got to get out of here. I set the journal next to my dead cell phone on the box that is my makeshift nightstand. Keeping the phone seems stupid, I know, but the electricity could still come back on. I could charge it again. I have so many pictures stored on that phone. Pictures of Mom and Dad, of us together. Pictures of Maggie. Of my friends. So many pictures of my lost friends.

I just can’t let it go.

I slip off the bed and crawl over to my bag propped against the wall. Inside is a warm bottle of water, half a granola bar, a Maglite flashlight that doubles as a club, and an extra pair of socks. Next to the bed is a plastic container full of canned goods and stuff from the pantry that won’t expire for another year, and every day, I have to convince myself not to dig into it. I have to save it as long as I can. I’ve made the box of granola bars last longer that I thought I could. Like, forever already.

In the front pouch pocket of the backpack rests a BB gun full of tiny metal pellets. It isn’t deadly by any means, but it looks like a real gun, so at least it gives the impression of danger. And Mom always said the thing could blind someone, so who knows, maybe it can be dangerous.

Sitting on my knees, I pull the bag around and slip my arms through the straps. I grab the hatchet from the floor and slip it into the loop under my left arm. It isn’t much of a hatchet—really just one of those camping axes you could’ve picked up at Target—but it’s sharp and the handle is sturdy and it makes me feel better to have it. When winter comes and I need firewood, I’ll be happy for the small axe.

I crawl over to the hatch in the floor and press my ear to the seam to listen. Dust coats my cheek and I have to hold my breath to keep from sneezing, but I have to make sure it’s clear before I drop the ladder to climb down.

Attics aren’t common in California. They’re more like crawlspaces for extra storage, not a bonus space you’re supposed to use for living. So when the world came crashing down in flames and sickness, the first thing I thought about was the attic. As Mom and Dad ran around boarding up the windows downstairs and filling the two tubs with water, I came up here and started planning.

There aren’t any windows up here to break, but there is a slatted vent that looks out onto the street below. It gives me a good vantage point without anyone being able to see in. Unless I kick out the vent and jump, the only way in and out of here is the drop-down stairs, so as long as I have them drawn up with the pull string, it’s secure.

The only drawback is not being totally sure it’s safe to go down.

After I mentally count to a hundred and haven’t heard a sound, I push away from the rough floor to unknot the rope that’s looped over a rafter that I’d set up as a lock to prevent anyone from prying the stairs open. Even though I keep the pull string up inside with me, someone could notice the hatch in the ceiling. They could try to jamb something in the seam and work it open to get to the stairs.

These are the things you think of when the world comes to an end. How can someone catch me? How would someone kill me? How can I prevent that? How can I kill them first? Not that I’ve ever killed anyone.

Once I have the rope unknotted, the stairs settle against the hatch door and I push it open with a foot. When the hatch slowly opens, I hesitate again, keeping out of sight as I strain to listen for any kind of reaction to the sudden appearance of the lowered hatch. After a few tense moments of silence, I slip one arm out of my bag to swing it around to my front and dig out the BB gun. Once my bag is settled on my back again, I release the safety on the gun and take a step down the ladder to get my foot under the second half and kick it free.

The bottom half of the ladder swings down, landing with a thud on the carpet.

I stand still, mentally counting, with the gun in both hands and aimed at the floor below me. My shoulders start to burn, and I know I’ve counted high enough. If the house isn’t clear, then whoever is inside is doing a damn good job of staying quiet.

Climbing down the ladder is stressful enough to tie my back into knots, and I’ve yet to master the ability to walk down the steps face forward without holding on. So I climb down as quickly as I can one-handed, keeping my gun clutched in the other hand. When I hit the floor, I instinctively fall into a crouch and twist on the balls of my feet to do a sweep around me.

But I’m alone.

Even pushing the hatch closed, with the pull string swinging above my head, doesn’t draw anyone out of hiding. By the time I hit the ground floor and make it to the front door, I’m confident no one has breached my home.

Not surprising really—I haven’t seen another person around the neighborhood in weeks. But just because I don’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t here. I’m careful no one sees me, so it’s very possible there are people hiding all around me and just as scared of me as I am of them.

But until there’s a cure for the pox, until the government stops bombing cities, until we find a way to kill the monsters, we’ll all stay in our little hidey-holes and only come out when we have to.

Though honestly, I come out more often than I really have to.

If I stay cooped up in my crawlspace for too long, I start to go stir crazy. Never mind the heat and growing smell; it’s the silence that bothers me the most. I have my books to keep my mind busy and my journal where I write to Maggie every day, waiting for my sister to find her way home from college, but it isn’t enough.

Before the world ended, it was so loud and bright with media and voices and screens and cars, and now… there’s nothing. For a while there was the sound of screams and wails followed by the flash and roar of flames, but like everything else, that faded away with the dwindling population.

About thirty pages back in my journal is the entry telling Maggie about Dad and me burning Mom’s body in the street after she died. Two pages later is the entry about me burning Dad’s. I’d thought that entry would be much shorter, just: Woke to find Dad finally dead. Dragged him out to the same spot where we laid Mom. Waited until the flames died away before I went back inside. But then, as I was struggling to drag him across the front lawn, Beto from down the street jogged up. After setting down a can of lighter fluid to free up his hands, he picked up Dad’s feet and helped me walk him to the middle of the road.

Each new event makes the entries that much longer. I never want to forget anything, so I write it all down in letters to Maggie, telling her my story.

Beto’s older brother, Jose, was carrying their mother’s body wrapped in a light blue sheet with tiny white flowers all over it. A much too cheery sheet for what was happening.

Both brothers had matching black bandanas over their faces, making them look like old-fashioned outlaws. My face was half covered by a handkerchief I’d gotten out of Dad’s dresser, but it wasn’t nearly as thick as the boys’ bandanas and didn’t come down as far.

The three of us stood together as we watched our last parents crumble into ashes. It took hours.

Where are you going? Beto asked me as we stared into the flames.

What? I looked up to make sure I hadn’t suddenly started walking off without realizing it.

You’re alone now, right? he asked.

I hesitated, dashing away a tear, not sure I wanted to answer. I’d known Beto and Jose most of my life. We all met in fourth grade—Jose in fifth—and went to middle school and started high school together. I had no reason to fear them, but admitting I was all alone felt like something I shouldn’t say out loud.

I’ve still got Maggie, I finally said.

Maggie had been at college, all the way in Indiana, when the world started to crumble. She’d called before the cell towers went dead and said she was coming home. But Indiana to California is a long road trip under normal circumstances, and now? Who knows.

Is she back? Beto asked, looking over his shoulder at my house, as if he expected to see her watching from a window.

Why did you think I was going somewhere? I asked, dodging the question.

We’re leaving, he said, motioning with his chin to Jose, who was sitting on the curb, his arms on his knees, his eyes glassy and distant as he stared at the fire without really looking at it.

Why? I looked back to Beto.

His hands were in his pockets, and he kept turning his head back and forth, looking up and down the street. The heat from the fire made the brown skin above his bandana red. Nothing here to stay for. We’re gonna run out of food eventually—water too. We gotta get somewhere better fortified for this.

Like where?

Not totally sure yet. We’re taking Dad’s camper and driving south. Maybe to a lake? We can fish and boil the water.

What if the fish are infected?

I don’t think it works that way, he said with a laugh when his head swiveled back in my direction.

Not that any of us really knew how it worked. But I hadn’t heard of any animals dying, so who knows, maybe the fish were fine.

I gotta wait for Maggie, I said, finally admitting I was, indeed, alone.

Beto nodded. He’d never leave Jose and Jose would never leave him, so he understood why I would stay here alone. The neighborhood was covered in the ashes of our dead and echoed with silence. If I wasn’t waiting for Maggie, I might’ve asked to go with them.

If Maggie never makes it home, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but at least I have shelter and some food and water.

After our parents were nothing more than piles of ash and black scorch marks on the asphalt, Jose stood and walked back to their house.

Be careful, Beto said before he turned to follow his brother.

You too, I said, still staring at the ground.

Hey, Gwen?

I turned to see Beto turning back to me, pulling something out of the back pocket of his jeans.

That handkerchief isn’t going to do anything for you. He held out an olive drab bandana, still perfectly folded into a triangle.

When I took it, I could feel how thick and sturdy the material was—far superior to the thin cotton tied across my face. By the time we realized we needed to start covering our faces for fear of contracting the airborne virus, the stores were completely out of medical and dust masks. The hospitals had been passing them out, but when the epidemic became uncontrollable, even that stopped. Dad said the government was keeping them for themselves, leaving us to figure it out on our own.

Thank you, I said.

Beto gave me a press-lipped smile then jogged off to catch up to his brother, leaving me alone in the street.

As I press my shoulder into the side of the heavy couch, shoving it out of the way of the front door, a trickle of sweat runs down the side of my face to be absorbed into the dark green bandana tied around my face.

Lifting up onto my toes, I check the peephole to make sure the street is clear before I turn the deadbolts to unlock the door. I’m going on a supply run. Nothing in particular in mind that I need—other than food and water, because I need as much of that as I can get—but it gives me something to do and a chance to see if anything has changed on the street.

The street is clear, so I finally open the door to the apocalyptic world beyond. The note to Maggie nailed to the front door flutters with the movement. It’s written in code to tell her where she’ll find me and how to get there, or where to wait if I’m not here when she finally shows up. And how long she should wait before giving up on me because I might never come back. That is always a possibility with leaving the house.

When the lights first went out and the lootings began, people who left their houses in search of supplies didn’t always come back. Our neighbors dwindled, sometimes because they died from illness, sometimes because they chose to leave, and sometimes because they went out looking for supplies and never made it back. That’s when Dad boarded up our windows.

The page is starting to yellow and the ink is fading, bleached from the sun. I’ll have to write a new note. At least that’s something I can do later when I get back.

I close the door, locking it behind me, and turn to head out.

Chapter 2

Midday is the best time to go outside—it’s bright enough that the shadows are short so no one can hide in them and the monsters are sleeping. Of course that also means there are no shadows for me to hide in, but I’m so familiar with our neighborhood that I know every single hiding place and can disappear in a second if I need to. All those years of childhood hide-and-seek have really paid off in the apocalypse. Who’d’ve thunk it?

I practice diving for cover when there is no danger, hoping to build muscle memory in case of real danger so I won’t freeze up if—when—the moment of truth comes.

But today I’m not going far, so there are only two places for me to scurry to on my way. I have to force myself not to hum the Mission Impossible theme because I need to be quiet, but it’s difficult as I start out at a duck-run. I battle roll to hide behind the Coopers’ garden wall that separates their driveway from the Reids’ property. The rose bushes are out of control, full of stickers and thorns and thick suckers that keep the flowers from being as big and rich as they were once upon a time.

After counting to one hundred, I creep out past the edge of the cinderblock wall and check the street, but it’s totally clear. My back is sweating under the weight of my pack and the bright sun, but I don’t dare slip it off. If I let it hang by one arm, it’s louder and will give me away and, if I have to hide, it’ll be in the way. So I try to ignore the stickiness of my shirt as it clings to my skin.

Two houses down, I duck behind Declan’s monster truck wheel. The thing is so obnoxiously big that I only have to squat to be perfectly hidden. If I needed to, I could crawl under the truck, which, in case you’re curious, is better than getting into the bed of the truck. I know that seems like a great hiding place, but one: you gotta climb into it, which exposes you; and two: you’re stuck in there with nowhere to go if you’re spotted. No, under the bed of the truck is better than in the bed.

Someone tried to steal Declan’s truck during the lootings—the same time Mom’s car was stolen right out of our driveway—but Declan’s truck had a kill switch he’d engaged. So when the looter tried to hotwire it, the truck became an epic-sized rock that refused to move. Unfortunately for Declan, his dad made the command decision to leave before giving his son a chance to bring it back to life, so they’d left it behind. Too bad—the thing looks like the perfect addition to a Mad Max caravan. Exactly what you want in the apocalypse. I can’t imagine how pissed Declan was to leave it behind.

Another mental count to one hundred followed by a sweep of the street and I dart across to Mrs. Goldsmith’s house, rushing through the side gate that leads into her overgrown backyard. I have to pause to close the gate as silently as possible, making sure the latch catches without making a metallic noise to give me away.

Now I slip off my bag and let it rest by my feet, but I keep the hatchet in hand as I slowly walk forward. Keeping my back against the house, I slide along, straining to listen for any noises, even holding my breath to hear better.

When I get to the edge of the house, the backyard spills out in front of me. Weeds and dandelions are sprouting as high as my knees and the grass is almost as tall. But my eyes go directly to the back corner that’s been sectioned off by a low chain-link fence meant to keep out Mrs. Goldsmith’s corgis. But there are no squat and funny-looking dogs left to attack the garden now.

The backyard is deserted, so I go back for my pack, slip my hatchet back into its loop, and hurry across the yard to the garden.

It’s rich and vibrant. The scents of leaves and earth are pungent and refreshing after so many months of breathing ash and smoke and spending my nights cooped up in the stale air of the attic. This is my little sanctuary. This is where I come when I’m hungry. This is what has been keeping me alive so I don’t have to venture too far to find more food. I have cans and jars of food at home, but I’m trying so hard not to open those so Maggie and I can have supplies when she finally gets home. We’ll need stuff to eat when we set out together to find a new place.

Because that’s what you do when the world ends and you’re left all alone; you leave and find a safe place with nice people.

Or you build. Maybe Maggie and I will build some walls around the houses on our street and be the safe place other people look for.

I wonder where our neighbors who left on their own accord ended up. If they ended up anywhere and didn’t just die eventually.

Those thoughts drift through my mind as I lay on the ground, my pack acting as a pillow, while I pick sugar snap peas from the over-grown vines above me. They’re sweet and bitter at the same time and I can’t remember ever eating them before or ever wanting to—I mean, c’mon, peas?—but now they’re refreshing and quiet the rumbling in my stomach. At the very least, they distract me from the dark track my thoughts had diverted to.

The sun is bright and warm, and I close my eyes against the glare. My bandana hangs around my throat. I lick the sweetness from my fingers before draping an arm over my eyes.

It’s safer to move during the day to avoid the monsters, but it’s safer to move at night to avoid other people. It’s stupid to fall asleep outside no matter what time it is.

The metallic noise of the gate latch catching wakes me from my unplanned nap. My eyes flash open, and all