“It sounds great,” said Claudia. Peter nodded.

Jason was less than trusting. “How do we know this isn’t just a trap?” he said in a low voice. “How do we know they won’t kill us once we drop our guard?”

“We need to be cautious,” Rachael agreed. She thought for a moment, then said, “Alice, Peter . . . wait until we’re far enough for you to follow at a distance. Stay out of sight. Once we find out where Happy Valley is located, go back to the school and tell Brett what’s going on, and where we are.”

Jason still didn’t look happy, but he nodded in reluctant agreement.

“Sounds like we’re going to be here for a few days, at least to help out,” continued Rachael, “but maybe they’d be willing to let us all stay for a little while after we’re done training them. Maybe we can share in some of their luck.”

Walking back over to Heather and Allens, Rachael grabbed the shovel off the pile of weapons and handed it to the woman. As the Happy Valley folks collected the rest of their weapons, Rachael noticed that Jason didn’t remove his hand from the knife at his belt.

She couldn’t blame him. She wasn’t sure how much she trusted these people either, but if they were telling the truth, she would be more than glad to help them protect themselves.

— 13 —: THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

— 13 —

THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

As it turned out, the old lady was a former middle school librarian named Abigail Smith. Thin as a rake handle but tough as steel. Shrewd-eyed and stern, but those were exactly the right qualities for this kind of survival. While the others cleaned and cooked the sheep, Abigail and I sat on roadside rocks and drank from a little bottle of bourbon she pulled out of a pocket.

I sniffed the whiskey, nodded, took a sip and was, for a moment, in a very happy place. Although Top and Bunny would likely label me a “beer guy,” I could appreciate a fine whiskey. As I wiped my mouth after a second sip I caught Abigail studying me.

“You look like you have a story to tell,” she observed, accepting the bottle back and taking a hellacious pull.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Some more than others. You military? You have the look.”

“Used to be.”

Abigail shook her head again. “No. That’s not you.” She gave me such a calculating and intense stare that I wanted to check for dirt under my fingernails and pay any late-book fees she might ask. “Some people come home from duty, take off the uniform and go back to being who they were before. Most, maybe. Others always look like they’re wearing that uniform.”

“You’re sharp. You ever serve?”

Another shrug. “I was one of those who went back to being who I was.”