The End is Coming

Chapter Seventeen

She hadn’t meant it—not wanting to damn him—she loved him. But always—he was always the one who was right. No other opinion mat-tered—never—nothing. “Damnit,” she snarled, hitting her little fist into the fence crosspiece. The crosspiece rattled.

She heard movement beyond the barn—it would be Jack. It was his tour on guard— “Just me, Jack,”

she hissed loudly into the night.

After a moment, she heard him call back, “Right, Mrs. Rourke!”

She started walking along the fence.

Her hair was up—the first time she’d had it up since the attack on the Mulliner farm. She had taken the blue denim skirt from her pack, the only skirt she had—she wore it still, with a blue chambray shirt like the ones her husband habitually wore—this given her by one of the Resistance men. It was too big for her, the sleeves rolled up above her elbows, all but the top button buttoned and still showing more neckline than she liked, and it bloused like a balloon around her waist inside the waistband of her skirt. She only had track shoes—she looked like a clown, she thought. Like an over-age urchin. And she had her belt around her waist with the holster for the Trapper .45—trying to dress up for her husband, she still hadn’t been willing to abandon the gun.

The spare magazine for it was in the left side pocket of her skirt—she remembered that as she stabbed her hands into her pockets now, walking still beside the fence.

Why did he have to be like that?

He’d come after her—they’d argue, she’d give in. “Shit,” she whispered. She looked up—lightning illuminated the scat-tered clouds, the moon bright—almost bright enough to read by.

She kept walking.