In the Meantime: Times of Trouble, #1

By A. R. Shaw

In Silverdale, Washington the survivors of a worldwide apocalypse are preparing for the coming winter storms. But just as they're stocking away the last of the fall harvest, they make a disturbing discovery - someone has pilfered the food supplies! Long-time neighbors Irene and Hilda Jo might be considered "frenemies." Despite their differences, however, they'll have to put their heads together to unearth the thief before winter buries them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apocalyptic Ventures, LLC
• Release date: Jan 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215622087

A. R. Shaw

USA Today bestselling author, A. R. Shaw, served in the United States Air Force Reserves as a Communications Radio Operator. She began publishing her works in the fall of 2013 with her debut novel, The China Pandemic. With over 15 titles to her name, she continues the journey from her home in the Pacific Northwest alongside her loyal tabby cats, Henry and Hazel and a house full of books.

Book preview

One

Irene lowered the back of the pickup truck and caught one of the smaller pumpkins as it tried to roll over the edge. The whole load shifted slightly, as if the escapee had triggered a domino effect amongst the cargo of ripe, fleshy fruit, and, despite her petite frame, Irene spread her arms like a scarecrow ready to catch any others that threatened to fall.

Will you be making your pumpkin pie again? Sylvia asked. The younger woman hung back, rubbing her hands together and blowing into them to keep them warm.

It wouldn’t be a feast without it. When she was certain the load was stable, Irene gestured to Sylvia to help her start unloading the pumpkins into the barn. We’ll can and pickle the rest to see us through the winter.

Irene was unsure how it had happened—it had been a gradual evolution, she supposed, a role she’d gravitated towards as one of the older members of the community—but she secretly liked it when the younger folks looked to her for guidance or expected her to provide all the answers.

When she was younger, if anyone had suggested that this might be where she ended up, in her hometown of Silverdale, Washington, harvesting fruit for the winter and discussing her famous pumpkin pie with the end-of-fall feast in mind, she’d have dismissed it without a second thought. Irene learned all her traditional skills from her grandma, who maybe envisaged more than she ever let on. Baking. Sewing. Knitting. Young Irene had the patience to learn such hobbies, because while she was sitting quietly with Grandma inside the cozy house, she didn’t have to worry about friendship groups that she was always too intimidated to wriggle her way into. Jigsaw puzzles: another pastime high on the older woman’s list of favorites. She loved to read too, and it scared the life out of her to think that once she exhausted the supply of books in the local library, she’d never again experience the joy of reading the first page of a new story.

Sylvia glanced at the Olympic Mountains with their snowy hats in the distance and shivered as she reached for one of the larger pumpkins. There’s a bite in the air already, she said, eyes lowered. I don’t remember it being this cold this early last fall.

Well, I recall adding a little extra spice to the soup when I prepared the first batch. Maybe this was why Irene was a natural matriarch—she didn’t pander to the whims and worries of the youngsters. Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it together, same as we always do.

She nudged open the barn door with the heel of her boot and inhaled deeply as she stepped inside. Irene loved it when the barn was filled with the food they’d cultivated during the summer. Even if she closed her eyes, the smell of earthy potatoes, bulbous rutabagas, crunchy carrots, and parsnips, and all the other vegetables and fruit they’d already stored in here ready for winter preparations, filled her with warmth and satisfaction. She’d felt the same way when her son David was a little boy and she watched him devour his favorite meal. Providing food for others was the most gratifying feeling ever.

I remember mild winters from when I was a little girl. It confused the animals that were supposed to be hibernating, so they didn’t know whether to cozy up or stay awake. Nature has its seasons for a reason. Irene lowered the pumpkins gently onto the barn floor beside a heap of fat sweet potatoes. Why do you think all this food harvested in the summer is perfect for winter fare?

I guess. Sylvia shrugged. I look forward to winter food more. Pies. Soups. Broths.

Irene straightened and smiled. That’s just your body’s way of dealing with the lower temperatures. Comfort food. There’ll be plenty of that with this lot.

They stepped back outside to collect more pumpkins from the truck. The truck’s paintwork was starting to rust in places she noticed, the red over the wheel arches corroding and turning mottled, fiery orange and dank green. Winter colors.

It was peaceful. The sky was solid blue like a child’s painting, the fir trees tall and majestic, the water smooth as glass. Irene loved the peace, wore it around her shoulders like a fur-lined cloak, buried her head in it sometimes. Like now. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Sylvia. The winters were harsher now, last winter the coldest so far, and she sensed the chill in the air too. But it was all about perspective. They had a barn full of food—well they would have once they finished unloading the pumpkins—a couple of the men were out there now chopping logs for firewood, the whump-whump of their axes as comforting as the peace they were disturbing, so they’d have warmth too. What more could they possibly want?

Sylvia’s face was turned toward the sky. Her nose was pink. She wore a sweater beneath a flannel shirt, but Irene noticed the way her collarbones protruded above the neckline of the sweater, the way her bony fingers twitched in the cold. She couldn’t help herself. She felt responsible for keeping the younger members of the community happy. She still had wool. When she was done preparing food for the end-of-fall feast, she would start knitting a scarf for Sylvia and maybe some mittens. Her patterns were so old that she could barely read the words on some of the pages, or maybe that was because she needed new prescription spectacles, and she’d felt the first twinges of arthritis in her swollen thumbs last winter, but she’d take her time. She might even ask her next-door neighbor Hilda Jo if she could tease a few strands of glitter from some of the cocktail dresses she still clung to in the hopes that, one day, she’d be invited to another party where she could out-sparkle the other guests. Sylvia would appreciate that, she hoped anyway.

They worked up a sweat shifting the cargo from the back of the truck, Irene secretly squeezing the fattest pumpkins and setting some aside to make pie.

I remember carving faces out of pumpkins when I was a little girl, Sylvia said. Mom would put tealight candles inside and we’d place them all around the house. The scarier the faces, the better. We’d give them fangs and bat wings and everything. The younger woman’s face lit up with the memories. I remember she made special spooky suppers. She made me put my hand on a slice of bread so she could cut around it, and then she’d chop off the ends of the bread fingers and trail ketchup from them like blood.

Irene laughed. I remember adding red food coloring to soup and floating plastic eyeballs in the bowls to scare David. One time, he must’ve been around six or seven, he dressed up as a zombie to go trick-or-treating, and he refused to take that costume off for a week after.

Did that make her son sound precocious? She hoped not. At the time, she’d battled with him to get the tattered costume off and get him into some decent, clean clothes for school, but her memories were rose-tinted now, and all she could see was his chubby face and his perfect smile and how she’d pretended to be scared when he gave her his best zombie impression.

Sylvia picked up on the older woman’s reminiscing. My mom dressed me up like Wednesday Addams one time, she said. Bought a black wig with long black pigtails and dressed me all in black, then she made me promise not to speak or smile or react to anything. I just had to stand dead straight when I knocked on folks’ doors and stare them out until they got spooked and handed over some candy.

Irene faced her, adding a tiny pumpkin to the pile in the other woman’s arms. Did it work?

I think so. I remember my mom laughing all the way around town and telling me that I was destined for the stage. Sylvia waited for Irene to gather a pile of pumpkins into the pouch that she’d made from her jacket, before heading back inside the barn.

Maybe that’s what they were missing, Irene thought. Why couldn’t they combine the feast with a Halloween celebration? They could spare some of the smallest pumpkins for decorations, and she was certain Hilda Jo would want to jump on the bandwagon and provide the costumes and makeup if it gave her a chance to shine. Sure, things had changed, but it didn’t mean they had to give up on whatever made them happy. Life was still for living, right? Or else, what was the point?

She didn’t say anything to Sylvia in case the others dismissed the idea without a debate, but she could picture it already, the feast alive with flickering candlelight, the table heavy with hot food, and flowers, and even some of the mayor’s wine. She might even carve hand shapes from toasted bread, like Sylvia said her mom used to do, just to put a smile on the young woman’s face.

Smiling to herself, she finished unloading the truck.

Two

With the truck emptied, the two women set about chopping up the pumpkins. Irene had brought a large basket from home, and it soon began to fill with large chunks of juicy flesh. Setting the seeds aside for replanting, they discarded the stringy parts of the flesh to leave out for the wild animals to feast on. Irene was a firm believer in making everything count, and the creatures were only trying to survive too, so why shouldn’t they get their own end-of-fall feast? She’d already prepared the jars for canning. They sat in a row on her kitchen counter, spanking clean, and waiting to be filled.

She loved the sight of jars filled with preserved food. Was it human nature? The world was filled with all these wonderful fruits and vegetables, in glorious reds and oranges and yellows and mauves, and the hours she spent filling the glass containers with food that she knew would see them through the winter were some of her happiest. She felt like a squirrel admiring a stash of nuts, knowing that she’d still be happily full when the world outside turned white.

Sylvia, she noticed, was a little squeamish when it came to chopping the fruit, flicking the seeds from her jeans, and picking the stringy flesh up between thumb and forefinger like it was something toxic.

Get stuck in, Irene said. She gave the younger woman a demonstration in how to get the best of the firm flesh. Don’t be afraid of it. It won’t bite.

The barn gradually filled with the sweet pumpkin aroma. One thing she had to say for nature, it always came through when humans needed it most.

Careful! A voice reached them from the barn entrance. Almost got me. The woman pulled a pumpkin seed from the red bangs framing her immaculately made-up face.

Sorry. Sylvia smiled up at the new arrival and immediately set about picking stringy orange flesh from her clothes and rubbing away the damp patches.

Hilda Jo had that effect on people. Even now, after everything, Irene had never seen the woman leave the house without lipstick and mascara, and who knew how she kept her hair that precise shade of red-with-a-hint-of-gold. She liked to imagine her neighbor brewing a red potion in the dead of night, a veil of cloying, devilish mist floating around a heavy, black cauldron … but maybe she was doing Hilda Jo a disservice. Maybe she was a natural redhead as she claimed to be.

You could always help instead of standing there making the place look untidy, Irene said. She brought the cleaver down heavily on a chunk of pumpkin and took pleasure in making the other woman jump.

I’m looking for George, Hilda Jo said.

Irene peered around the barn and lifted the largest pumpkin that remained to be cut up, gazing at the empty space underneath. Nope. Not seen him anywhere.

Hilda Jo rewarded her with a dazzling smile. Irene bet she’d been perfecting it in front of a mirror since she was old enough to talk. She could imagine the other woman as a child, stamping her dainty foot and demanding attention. Irene was born and bred in Silverdale, but Hilda Jo was raised on a farm in Kentucky, the only daughter of a horse breeder and an actress. She claimed to have six older brothers who taught her how to knock out a man with one punch by the time she was thirteen and milk a snake so that she could suck the poison from a deadly bite and cure it in the blink of an eye.

Irene didn’t believe the stories no more than she believed the hair color was natural, but others seemed to cling to Hilda Jo’s every word. Even now, Sylvia had abandoned the slimy knife she was holding and was watching the other woman, wide-eyed, taking in the clean, ivory pants, and the tasseled jacket that resembled an outfit from a glitzy, Vegas cabaret show.

Very funny, Hilda Jo said. My, what is that smell?

Irene instinctively tilted her face and sniffed. What? she said. What is it?

Hilda Jo wrinkled her nose, taking care not to reveal too much of her nostrils, and said, Oh, silly me, it’s the pumpkins. I’ve never gotten used to that sickly stench. It’s quite overpowering, isn’t it? It’s a wonder you two can breathe in here. She turned away so that she was facing the outside, leaned against the doorframe, and made an exaggerated gesture of sucking in great gulps of air.

Irene rolled her eyes. Always the actress; it was a wonder everyone still fell for it.

Sylvia laughed, her features coming alive. What will you be making for the end-of-fall feast? she asked.

I’ll be making my sweet potato pie as usual. The redhead’s smile was back. You can’t beat ‘em. Everyone said so last year.

Everyone? Irene’s eyes narrowed.

That wasn’t how she remembered it from last fall. Same as it wasn’t how she remembered it all through the winter either; everyone loved Irene’s pumpkin soups. And her pickled squash chutneys. The pear chutney always went as a treat over the holiday season, but she’d deliberately saved the new recipe, the squash and plum chutney, for the Christmas meal the community came together for. She recalled the praise she’d received as they stuffed themselves on George’s mature cheese and Irene’s squash chutney along with Hilda Jo’s spicy biscuits. Crisped to perfection, was the comment