Page 37 of Wildflowers

The tank and one of the other military type vehicles that were facing off against the blockade are now parked on the street outside our house. Dean is living the dream. Watching him figure out how to steer the tank was entertaining. All of the stopping, starting, and swerving was reminiscent of a student driver figuring out a stick shift for the first time. Sophie laughed so hard she almost fell over. I can see the tank out my bedroom window, along with some charming trees.

Meanwhile, the school bus and other tractors have been moved to the side of the road heading into town for now.

We opted not to move all of the vehicles, however. They’re useful, security-wise. Not for stopping people from gaining entrance. They can still enter on foot or if their vehicle is big enough to push a pair of sedans out of their way. But the small blockade should be useful, in theory, for slowing people down and perhaps giving us a chance to assess if they’re friend or foe. And at least they’ll make some noise and alert us to their presence.

Some of the fresh produce in the market can definitely be saved. Potatoes and pumpkins and corn and such. Oneweek or so without electricity hasn’t much affected the hardier vegetables. I start loading some into a cart, ready to push it out to the vehicle waiting in the parking lot.

Our deceased neighbors owned a nice midsize SUV, which is coming in handy for jobs around town. It feels sensible to stock the house with supplies. Say a week’s worth, just in case we need to stay inside. And we need to restock the food in our backpacks in case we have to leave in a hurry. Which I really hope is not going to happen. But you never can tell these days.

“Can I go check out the candy aisle?” asks Sophie.

“Sure. Just don’t leave the store or go out back without letting me know, okay? And don’t eat a heap and make yourself sick,” I say. “Once I sort out some vegetables, I’m going to head back to canned goods, then take this load out to the car. But definitely don’t go somewhere else without letting me know. We still need to be security conscious.”

I am not a helicopter-mom-slash-guardian type of person. I just sound a hell of a lot like one sometimes.

She nods and wanders off into the shadows of the store. Her footsteps and the bouncing of the ball are the only sounds.

It doesn’t take long to fill the cart. On my way to the front doors, I call out, “I’m heading to the car, Soph.”

Sunlight blinds me as I step outside. Clear blue skies all the way. The vehicle is pulled up right out front for convenience sake.

And standing beside it are five strangers in damp clothing.

Starting with a middle-aged Black woman with her hair in locs, then a lanky young white man in his twenties, a woman around my age with long red hair and botanical tattoos, a forty-or-so-year-old man with brown skin, and finally the most important person of all: an Asian-American girl around the same age as Sophie, with short hair and friendship bracelets on her wrists.

Their weapons are lying on the ground in front of them, sending a definite message. Without being asked, they’ve disarmed themselves. Small streams of water are running from their clothing.

They don’t mean me any harm. I know this because the first thing their designated leader, the beautiful Black woman, says is, “We don’t mean you any harm.”

My walkie-talkie and weapon remain on my belt, just in case. Because I am wildly outnumbered here. Sophie needs to stay safely inside the store for a while. None of them seem sick, but I keep a careful distance. “You came in across the creek?”

“That’s right,” she answers. “We wanted to talk to you alone. See how receptive you were to new people. Your man carries a lot of weapons and seems quite handy with them.”

“He can be intimidating.”

“Then there’s the tank parked outside your house.”

“Would you believe me if I said that was more in the way of a garden ornament?” I ask. “How did you find us?”

“We were passing and heard the shooting at the bridge. Saw you with your daughter and knew we had to meet you,” she says. “My name is Reema. And this is Charlie, Naomi, Avan, and Hazel.”

“Astrid,” I say with a cautious smile.

Avan has his arm around Hazel. There’s no expression on her face. Just a sort of weariness it hurts to see in one so young. There’s no way she’s going back out on the road if I can help it. None.

“We’re looking for a home,” says Reema. “Somewhere safe for the child. One with others near her age, preferably. But we needed to know if you and the girl were here of your own volition. That this is a safe place.”

Dean would not like this. Me interviewing new people alone. But these people aren’t giving me any bad vibes. “Where did you come from?”

“We escaped Bakersfield on Wednesday,” says the redheaded woman, Naomi.

“Escaped?”

Reema nods. “There used to be eight of us. Soldiers were rounding up anyone they could find. Taking them to the military base outside the city.”

“That must have seemed like a natural flow-on from martial law.” I frown. “They weren’t worried about the virus?”

“They had respirators,” says Reema.

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