We’d Rather Fight than Eat

By Jay McGrath

Society has fallen.

And now the struggle for survival has begun.

This action-packed adventure brings childhood friends back to their isolated hometown, a rural community on an island in the Atlantic Ocean, where they find refuge. Among the ashes of the apocalypse, the people of Beckford must band together if they hope to stay alive.

Meanwhile, a new empire has emerged from the smouldering wreckage of St. John's, once the capital city of Newfoundland. Its leader, an enigmatic figure whose rise to power was paved with violence, has established a new world order. She plans to rebuild humanity according to her vision.

But the town of Beckford stands in her way.

As the will to protect Beckford from the people of St. John’s intensifies, it will take everything Jack, Megan, Sarah, and Brooke can give to ensure their survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781774571439

Jay McGrath

Jay McGrath is an emerging author, originally from Branch, and currently residing in Mount Pearl, Newfoundland and Labrador. Born into a community of storytellers, Jay has been putting pen to paper his whole life and enjoys writing speculative fiction.

Book preview

Cover image of We'd Rather Fight Than Eat, a novel, by Jay McGrath. A person wearing a large hooded jacket, carrying a rifle, walks down a rocky laden path toward a dark, yellow sunset.

We’d Rather Fight Than Eat

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Jay McGrath

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Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Copyright

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: We’d rather fight than eat : a novel / Jay McGrath.

Other titles: We would rather fight than eat

Names: McGrath, Jay, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230446051 | Canadiana (ebook) 20230446094 | ISBN 9781774571422 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774571446 (PDF) | ISBN 9781774571439 (EPUB)

Classification: LCC PS8625.G7245 W43 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

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© 2023 by Jay McGrath

all rights reserved.

No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well. For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

Printed in Canada

Cover Design by Graham Blair

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Flanker Press Ltd.

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Paradise, NL

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We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Arts and Recreation for our publishing activities.

Dedication

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To Grace & Emily, Seth & Darian, Raya & Giana.

Dream.

Then pursue it.

Love, Uncle Jay

Prologue

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The smell hits Chad first, carried on the wave of a southwesterly wind. Harsh, but familiar.

The closest comparison he can find for the smell is the dead moose he once found in the woods. He poured a bit of gas onto the carcass and lit the match. He almost caught the bushes nearby. The fright of nearly starting a forest fire wasn’t what turned him that day—it was the smell of the moose. It stuck with him for days, staining the inside of his nose. That seemed like a long time ago.

This smell is worse, though. Grander.

Chad is ahead of the others, so he has time to stop his quad. He needs a leak. He checks his load—it isn’t much, some sheets of plywood, a few two by fours, and a bag of nails. The big prize from this trip, though, is a bunch of books he found. Mostly children’s books, but a few autobiographies and a couple of classics, too. He wrapped them in an old blue sweater and put them under the plywood. Out of sight. He doesn’t want to explain to the others why he took the books—he doesn’t want any teasing.

The load is secure. He takes his rifle with him into the trees. He flicks up his hood as the drips from the sky turn to heavy rain again. The pine needles shelter him from the worst of it, but nothing can lessen the smell. He remembers spilling milk in the back seat of his first car. By the time he realized it, the milk had soaked in. He tried everything to get rid of the stench of sour milk. He scrubbed it, shampooed it, he used a large bottle of vinegar and baking soda. It lingered. The best he could do was keep new air fresheners hung on his rear-view mirror. The pine fresheners were the only scent that didn’t give him headaches.

He hears a noise nearby. Slight, but it is there, under the rumble of the quads that are catching up. Slowly, Chad buttons his jeans and raises his rifle. He spots a rabbit about thirty feet ahead to his right. It is on the move, but he knows that he could get it. Knows that, within seconds, he could put a bullet into this little creature. It would be sudden, painless. That is the assumption, anyway. Shooting comes naturally to Chad. He shot his first partridge at eight, and he’s been winning skeet-shooting contests since he was thirteen. But in this moment, he chooses life. He scuffs his feet to scare the rabbit off into the woods.

He lays his rifle onto the back of his bike when four other quads slow behind him.

What the fuck did you stop for? his Uncle Clarence yells, letting his quad idle.

You smell that? Chad asks.

Yeah. I smell the four of you shit hawks sat around in the wet, slowing me down from getting home. Come on. Clarence’s bike roars again. Mud and dirt flick onto the bike behind him. The trolley that he pulls rattles, then steadies.

They’ve been gone for almost a week. A scavenging trip, which takes longer and goes farther now. Chad hadn’t wanted to go on this one. He is tired of his Uncle Clarence, tired of these hunts. But he supposes someone has to go. What else is he going to do?

They are close to home. But it isn’t really home anymore. They just don’t know it yet.

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Jack

I light the lamp and haul the chair out from my kitchen table. I sit, looking out the window as the rain stops and the sun falls. Sarah places a steaming cup in front of me. I try to remember the last time I used a fresh tea bag.

Sometimes I just miss stuff, like vanilla soy milk, I say.

Sarah rubs Bella, my German shepherd, behind the ears and sits down. She takes off her slippers and folds her legs underneath her, fixing her blonde hair into an unruly ponytail and rolling her sleeves up her arms, revealing a portion of her phoenix tattoo. Bella’s mouth snaps shut as she finishes her yawn and lies on the floor between us.

I’ll be sure to ask around, see if anyone has any. Sarah smiles. Have you ever even had vanilla soy milk, Jack?

Oh my God, no. I smile back.

But I do miss things. Sometimes odd things. Like the background noise of cars on a busy street. The other day I caught a whiff of something and it reminded me of dryer sheets, then I missed those for a while. I miss the feeling of leaving work on Fridays, and even driving to work on Mondays. Things you don’t think you could miss. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think about things I’ll never do again. Fly on a plane to an all-inclusive vacation. Splurge on a latte. Walk around a bookstore.

I can’t stand tea, and I could never take milk or sugar in my coffee, either, she says.

Doesn’t surprise me.

She explains she took some of the medical supplies back to her house. Some people are going there instead of the makeshift clinic.

I know.

Brooke told me a few days ago. Even though Brooke is the most experienced member of the medical team, most of the people in Beckford prefer seeing Sarah if their problem isn’t too serious. Brooke, despite being my wife, is an outsider, and Sarah is, at least, from here. But Sarah doesn’t feel like one of them. She told me this once, admitted it, at a wedding in the community centre. She told me she felt like an insider sitting on the outside. We watched the same people dance to the same songs they’d danced to at all the other weddings. I bought her a drink, laid it in front of her on the scratched wooden table, and sat on my plastic chair with the hard plastic back. Then I admitted the same thing. Our families are from here, we grew up here, but a rift was created when we left for university ten years ago. We are back now by necessity, not choice.

Next week we’re going to teach some of the kids first aid and stuff.

I know this too and nod.

Too bad the rain stopped.

A minute or two passes before I lean forward, clasp my hands together, and press them into the table. The leather strap of my watch feels tight on my wrist. I’ve always worn my watches too tight. I start tapping my thumbs.

What’s wrong? One minute you’re making soy milk comments, the next you’re staring off into the universe.

Sorry. Just thinking about how much we needed the rain, thinking about the winter that’s coming, about the council meeting a few days ago. I brush my foot against Bella. Thinking about Dad. Thinking about how Brooke’s back is doing and if it’s healing properly.

That’s a lot to be thinking about.

I know. I feel Bella sit up and hear her sniff the air. I might get you to cut my hair tomorrow. I need a trim.

Yeah. You do. Few greys coming in on the side. She leans over and touches the right side of my head above my ear.

Dad started to go grey in his late twenties, too, but it was years before it all turned. Think he was nearly fifty.

How’s your dad doing, anyway?

She asks me this even though she knows, adamant to make me talk. As I lift my cup, I pause to let the steam hit my face. There is still a faint sweet smell to it. Before I can answer her, before the hot, sweet-smelling water hits my lips, the front door bursts open. Bella barks, springing to attention. It’s Stevie. Uncle Stevie, as we call him, is supposed to be with Ryan at the lookout post. Yet here he is, in my kitchen, trying to catch his breath.

Uncle Stevie hunches over, and between breaths, he manages, Someone’s coming.

I glance at Sarah and don’t wait to hear anything else. I grab my jacket hanging from a nail near the door. Stevie continues—a car, slow, damaged, Ryan wants me with him when it arrives. As I leave, I hear Sarah.

Me and Stevie will dart to my place, grab some supplies.

I hear Bella bark as Sarah slams the door, and I run the short half-kilometre from my house to the edge of the community. I climb the stairs to the lookout post two steps at a time. When I reach the top, about twelve feet off the ground, my breathing is heavy. I have a habit of holding my breath when I’m in motion and then wondering why I’m short of breath so often. Two chairs are overturned on the plywood platform that’s supported by large wooden posts and miscellaneous pieces of scaffolding. Ryan leans on the railing and looks out into the early evening darkness. The road stretches out in a straight line two kilometres from where we stand. Both sides of the road are surrounded by the stumps of thousands of trees stretching all the way to the ocean on one side and all the way to the river that runs through town on the other.

When society fell, clearing the land here was the first thing the people in Beckford agreed to do.

Below the structure, a web of power lines, mingled with barbed wire and supported by birch posts on either end, forms a five-foot-high barricade covering the only road into town. Three vehicles—two pickup trucks, one white and one black, and a red Jeep—sit outside the barricade. The vehicles criss-cross, creating an additional blockade for any new visitors; the keys are stored in a box on the lookout platform in case anyone needs them. The idea is that no one can enter town unnoticed. Then again, nobody has tried—until now.

Less than a kilometre away, whoever’s driving the car is barely keeping it from going off the road into the land of tree stumps.

Ryan passes me the binoculars. It’s hard to say for certain, but it looks like a small car, like a Corolla or something. Or at least what’s left of it.

I take a quick look. Even if it was broad daylight, I wouldn’t know what type of car it is. That’s not what I’m looking for. I pass the binoculars back to Ryan. My breath is settling, but my heart is not. I rub my hand across my forehead, and it comes down wet.

That car’s not going to make it, Ryan says.

I try to be hopeful that new people means good news. The last time someone arrived in Beckford, it was Brooke—not by car, but by boat. I can’t say for sure how long ago that was, because I don’t think about weeks and months anymore. I track the days by the activities going on in the community. Today is Friday because there was a knitting class earlier this evening. Tomorrow is Saturday because there’s breakfast in the community centre.

The car stops a few hundred feet beyond our parked vehicles. Someone falls out of the driver’s side. A man. He struggles to his feet, opens the back door, and drags a second person onto the ground. A woman. He tries to help her stand, and when she can’t, he hooks his arms under hers and starts pulling her down the road, walking backwards toward Beckford.

I can’t decide between yelling and running to help them. So, I do neither.

The man falls again, this time in front of the car’s headlights. I feel my heart sprint as I raise the binoculars to be sure. Seconds later, I know Ryan sees the same thing.

Is that . . . I trail off.

It’s Mike, Ryan confirms.

We grew up together—me, Ryan, Mike, and Sarah—went to school together, got in trouble together. My mind tries to process all the reasons Mike could be back.

Stay here. Just in case, I say as I turn toward the stairs.

Ryan grabs my arm and reaches behind his back with his free hand. He pulls a handgun out of the waistband of his jeans and hands it to me. I think back to the last time I was offered Ryan’s gun.

Just in case, Ryan says.

I take the handgun—the only gun not listed in the community’s inventory—stuff it into the back of my jeans, and flip my sweater down over my butt. I jump the last few stairs, and by the time I position myself past the wooden post supporting the wire barricade on the shoulder of the road, Mike is on his feet with the woman propped up again. The woman is Mike’s wife, Kate, has to be. Mike manages to drag her a few feet when I reach them.

Mike!

I wrap my arms around him from behind and then help get Kate to her feet. As I bear Kate’s weight, Mike collapses to his knees. I signal to Ryan to come help us, lay Kate on the ground, and grab Mike by the shoulders.

Are you okay? Mike?

Mike collapses into my arms and whispers, I’m sorry.

We struggle to get Mike and Kate back to the community. As we near my house, Sarah and Stevie run to meet us. Stevie gets here first. He’s at least thirty years our senior and a big man—he works out with Ryan daily. He takes Mike and throws him over his shoulder.

Go back to the lookout. Keep an eye out, I say as I stop to face Ryan. I’ll come back as soon as I can. I hand him the gun, and he takes it and leaves without objection.

Holy fuck, Sarah says as she helps me with Kate. She’s in rough shape.

Kate’s face is bruised and cut, but her face is the least of our worries. As Stevie’s pace toward my house increases, we try to keep up, but Sarah falls under Kate’s weight and we have to stop to readjust.

We’ll need Brooke. I’m only— Sarah starts.

Don’t.

I hate when Sarah classifies herself as only an LPN. She’d almost been a nurse, but after losing her husband, Simon, the other member of our childhood clique, she never finished the program. Tonight, though, she is right, we will need Brooke.

Jack?

I know, Sarah, I know.

I can’t say it. Saying it makes it real.

Kate is very pregnant.

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When I get back to the lookout, Ryan is standing on the plywood platform looking out at the road. I tell him that both of our visitors are still unconscious, but Sarah isn’t worried about Mike, only Kate. Stevie is helping Sarah get set up in my living room, and then he’ll come back here.

One of us can go for Brooke, then, I say, knowing Sarah wanted me to get her right away, but I insisted on checking in here first.

"Well, she’s your wife."

I look at him, smirk, and shake my head before telling him what Mike whispered before he passed out.

What the hell is he sorry for? He’s done a lot of shit, but he’s not the apologizing type, Ryan says as he walks a rut into the plywood.

And there it is. The first sign of discontent between Ryan and Mike. It took less than half an hour. Ryan and Mike spent their lives fighting and bickering with each other. Sometimes it was serious, but most times it wasn’t. Girls, basketball, video games, and booze usually kick-started the arguments. They stopped punching each other around the time Ryan got serious about studying mixed martial arts. I’ve spent my life in the middle, so I’m accustomed to it. Some would even suggest I relish it.

Well, I’ve been saying this place needs a new arsehole, Ryan adds.

Listen. I raise my hand in the general direction of the thousands of tree stumps. Do you hear that? I know the sound of an all-terrain vehicle, even from a distance. When was the last time I’d gone a whole day without hearing the sound of an ATV?

This one is in a hurry.

Barely a moment passes before it charges out of the distance. Even in the dark, I can see dust spread into the air. The driver hits the gas, covering most of the cleared space between us in no time, finally slowing to a stop just past Mike’s car. The man slowly removes his helmet, brushes his long hair from his face, and climbs off. He stands in the light of his quad and takes off his jacket and gloves, turning 360 degrees with his arms stretched out. He pauses and, when we don’t say anything, spins around again. He turns the pockets out of his jeans.

It’s a little chilly, hope you don’t mind if I put my jacket back on, the man says, his voice raised. And how are you tonight?

Reasonably well, Ryan answers. Who are you and what do you want?

My name is Walter. My friends call me Wally, but I hate it when they do. And I’m sure you can guess what I want. Earlier, a friend of mine drove that car to that spot. He points to the car that Mike left abandoned. I’d like him and his wife to accompany me back home.

Walter raises his arm, and a gunshot rings out from the distance. Ryan grips his gun but keeps it lowered out of sight. I imagine the scene back in my living room, wondering if Sarah is comfortable enough to send Stevie back here.

Go on now, go get Mike and bring him here. I’ll wait, Walter says. We don’t respond. No? I figured. Tell you what, you’re probably not allowed to leave your post unattended. I get it. We’ve all got posts we can’t leave. Personally, I don’t really care about either of them. I could try to make up some story about an accident and their car in a pond or something. Walter shakes his head in disagreement with himself. But the woman who sent me after them wouldn’t buy the story, and that wouldn’t be good for me. She’d send a hundred people, two hundred, maybe, and they’d burn every shack in this shithole town until they found them. And when they found them and found out you tried to hide them—well, again, it wouldn’t be good.

Walter zips up his jacket and puts on his gloves.

So, I’m going to jump back on this quad and drive back a little way. You talk to whoever you need to. But by sunrise, Mike and Kate should be ready for pickup at the edge of your little clearing. If they aren’t, well, we’re going to have an issue.

Walter, you expect us to hand over these people and then we’ll never hear from you again? Ryan asks.

I can’t quite see Walter’s grin so much as I can feel it.

I don’t assume anyone is stupid, not anyone who’s still here. Well, actually, I do wonder about anyone still living in places like this, but whatever. So, no, I do not expect you to believe that. Him arriving here tonight has shagged you people in a way you don’t yet grasp. But you have a choice as to how this goes. Choose well. Walter gets back on his quad. It was nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll see you soon, one way or the other.

We watch him drive out of sight and listen until we can’t hear anything. I worry about how Mike is doing and worry about the mess he dropped on us.

---

A memory flashes into my mind. When Mike snuck into the staff room on a dare, from Ryan, I think. The French teacher’s filing cabinet was damaged, that’s how the principal knew someone had been in there. They figured someone tried to steal the final exam. The principal was furious. She gave the guilty person until the end of the day to come forward. I knew we’d be the prime suspects, and I watched the clock accordingly that afternoon. Mike left early for a dentist appointment. Ryan and I were kept behind and spent an hour in her office answering questions, repeating our alibis. The French filing cabinet was a decoy—Mike stole the biology final, copied it, and put it back in place. We all got A’s in biology that year. That turned out okay, maybe this will, too.

A long time passes before either of us speak.

Ryan breaks the silence. What do they want with Mike?

Does it matter? He’s one of us, I say. Offending Ryan was not the intent, but it is the result. I see it on his face.

Here he goes with the ‘we are a community,’ ‘Beckford strong’ bullshit.

No, I cut him off, "he’s one of us."

I straighten my back and roll my shoulders in the hope that it will relieve the stress in my body. It doesn’t. I try rubbing my hands over my face.

Sunrise, I think with a deep exhale. I don’t think Walter is bluffing.

Buddy was a bit much, though, wasn’t he? Ryan says as he resumes his pacing back and forth.

We stand in silence for a while longer. The wind is breathless. The ocean, to our right, barely moves. Behind us, in the community, the noise is scattered—an ATV, dogs barking. Business as usual. Every second Friday there is a concert in the community centre—singers, dancers, a few skits. This is an off week. There won’t be much action in the community tonight.

I don’t want to wait for sunrise. Waiting gives those people time to plan, time for others to show up. Waiting for sunrise is Walter’s idea, but he’s not in charge here. This is our place.

There is only one option I can think of, and I don’t like it. But it’s the only plan I have.

I want Ryan to go after him.

No one knows the woods around Beckford better than Ryan. If he can track them, he might be able to sneak up on them, get them in his crosshairs, and maybe bring one of them back here. It wouldn’t be Ryan’s first kill. His first happened the day he came back to Beckford, the day he offered me his gun. But I can’t ask him to go after Walter. Eventually, Ryan suggests it himself.

I’ll go. I’ll head to the coast, circle around them, Ryan says. His hand grips his gun. That little boat still down on the beach by your place?

Tucked away on a rocky beach down the hill from my house is a small motorboat. I discovered it while looking for a nearby place where I could throw sticks into the water for Bella. I asked around, and nobody could say for certain who owned it. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for its moment.

Yeah, I only used it once. I couldn’t get the motor to stay going, I say.

I don’t mind you, you struggles to use the toaster, Ryan responds.

What I’m saying is I have no idea if it’ll work or not.

It’s a boat. I’ll row it.

I can’t help but laugh, which triggers Ryan’s laughter. Besides, I have to check my snares, anyway, Ryan adds.

I won’t bother suggesting someone else go with him—there aren’t many people in Beckford who can keep up with Ryan in the woods. He is better off on his own tonight.

They’ll be watching out for us. How many of them are there, do you think? I ask.

Hard to know. Two for sure. Maybe more. Can’t see them having a big crowd, though. They would have made more of a show, wouldn’t they? Ryan says. His eyes dart in all directions. There’s a few spots they’ll probably be. A couple of cabins, the gravel pit, maybe.

Don’t push it. Come back if you need to, we need you here. But we can’t have those people showing up at daybreak. I pause, trying to decide if I should continue. And if this woman is going to send more people here, like Walter says, we need information about who the fuck they are.

I know, Ryan says as he looks through the supply box. He tucks a knife into its holster and ties it around his waist. He grabs some rope and a flashlight. He finds a pair of gloves at the bottom of the box. They are his—he dropped them into the box when he finished building the post. He checks his handgun and secures it in his waistband.

Things weren’t good, but it was peaceful enough. Couldn’t last, I suppose, I say, not expecting an answer.

It’s always Mike, though, isn’t it? Ryan responds.

I measure my response. Not always, no. There isn’t a person in this community without baggage from before, but I don’t want to discuss it any further tonight.

When Stevie comes back, I’ll send him to get Dad and Brooke, I say.

You can trust Uncle Stevie. He’s not as cracked as people make him out to be. I mean, he’s a little bit of a lunatic, especially when he’s drinking, but you know what I mean.

I know. And if you trust him, I trust him.

My eyes focus back on the road out of town.

Ryan stretches. Nice night for it, anyway.

I wonder if Ryan is delaying his departure. Part of me wants him to call it off, part of me knows he won’t.

If you aren’t back by mid-morning, we’ll come looking for you. And if Walter and the others show up before you do—well, I’ll just wing it.

We both smile uncomfortable smiles.

Thanks for doing this, I say, looking Ryan in the eyes.

I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, Ryan says, looking away.

That doesn’t mean you have to—

That’s not why I am. Now, if I don’t come back—and this is important—log into my computer, the password is kittykittybangbang1984, all lower case, and delete my browsing history, Ryan says with not a hint of a smile.

Will you stop? Will it be the last time Ryan jokes like this? The thought walks into my mind, unstoppable, unshakable.

Remember the Internet? He laughs. Never trusted it, and I was right. Okay, I’m going. Besides, I wouldn’t want anyone else to be the hero, Ryan says and makes some final adjustments to his gear.

I watch as Ryan stands still for a moment before climbing down off the platform and heading to the coast.

It isn’t long before Stevie arrives back at the post. He has nothing new to report on Mike or Kate, and before he can consider sitting down, I ask him to get my father and Brooke.

I need to stay here, Stevie. It would be better if no one saw you get them. If someone does, don’t tell them anything about what happened tonight—lie if you have to. Tell Brooke that Ryan is sick, and she should come look at him. Tell Dad that I need him to take Ryan’s place at the lookout post but to take the horse and not the quad. Tell them both to come here first.

Stevie speaks, acting as if he didn’t hear what I explained. Where’s Ryan?

He went to check on something, I say, convincing myself it isn’t a lie. I don’t think I’ve convinced Stevie, though.

Everything okay?

Yeah. I’m not ready to explain our visitors to Stevie, but I’m especially not ready to explain why Ryan went after them.

Are you okay doing what I asked you to do? I ask.

Yeah.

I am not convinced, but I don’t have a choice. Stevie has been invaluable over the past year, despite his social awkwardness, his fondness for alcohol, and his rare but sudden bursts of anger—like when he tried to kill the priest after Mass. When he wasn’t drinking, he was rigging up solar panels, maintaining the community’s vehicles, or working on radio transmissions. Dad described him as the type of fella who could put an arse in a cat—he also described him as a fella who was a few bakeapples short of