Page 11 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
I fight hard not to laugh. I do feel for her—no woman wants to be sprawled on the floor with her dignity hanging by a thread—or in this case, a not-that-large towel— in front of a stranger. On the other hand, she looks so damned funny I can’t help but see the comic side. Half tragic, half furious, entirely adorable.
I decide a cheerful tone might work best—it usually does. I offer her my hand.
"Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. You’ve got a towel to cover yourself, you’re nice and clean now, and Southpaw’s obviously taken a liking to you, since he’s following you around."
"Like I care."
"Well, we’re all impressed."
"What? Why?"
"Normally, he doesn’t like strangers at all. He just ignores them. But with you? He’s actually seeking out your company. You must have the call of the wild in you." I grin. She scowls, eyes sharp enough to cut me down where I stand. Still, she takes my hand. I help her up, even turning my gaze politely away when her towel slips at the worst possible moment.
"Oops."
"Shut up." "Yes, ma'am. Now… where to? Back to your bedroom for a nice lie down? Mmm… you smell lovely. You used that apricot and vanilla shampoo, didn't you? Delicious."
"Shut up." But despite her words, the edge in her voice softens; a flicker of humor sneaks through.
"Shutting up, ma’am. Bedroom, yes?" She nods. "By the way, you never told me your name. We can hardly keep meeting like this when I don’t even know what to call you."
"It’s Luna. Luna Wildchild."
"Loony, what now?"
"No," she snaps, eyes flashing. "Not loony. Luna. L-U-N-A. Luna Wildchild, as in wild and child. Got it?"
"Luna Wildchild, huh? Wow. Who’s your daddy, Frank Zappa?"
"What? Oh! No, I wasn’t born with that name. My parents named me Laura, and my real surname’s Wilder, like Gene Wilder. But since I joined Kill Climate Change, I changed it. Needed something that better reflected who I am."
"Oh yeah. That when you dyed your hair pink, too?"
"It might have been." The glare’s back—a warning. I change the subject.
"Well, good to meet you, Luna. Good to meet all of you, in fact."
I scoop her up—light as a feather—and carry her back toward her room. Her arms curl around my neck, her skin warm from the shower, that sweet apricot-vanilla scent drifting over me. She feels soft and firm all at once in my arms, and truth be told, I don’t want to put her down.
Truth be told, what I really want to do is kiss her.
CHAPTER 5
Luke
It feels good to be outside again.
The storm was short but brutal. From what the radio says, we must’ve been right in the epicenter. They’re already calling it the worst summer storm since 1967.
This one had less rainfall than the storm back then, but the winds were just as fierce, and the number of downed trees across the hundred-mile area has caused absolute chaos. Roads are blocked, and telephone lines are down. Cell towers have either been damaged or—in one or two cases—completely blown away. Rivers are jammed with debris, causing localized flooding.
The local radio stations keep us posted as to what's happening. The death toll’s already climbing: drownings, car accidents, people crushed under trees or hit by flying debris, even two direct lightning strikes. On top of that, pregnant women can’t get to hospitals, and the sick and elderly can’t reach the care or medication they need. Almost everyone’s affected. Kids can’t get to school, workers can’t reach their jobs, and stores can’t restock. There are runs on bread, milk, meat, vegetables, and even toilet paper. Emergency crews are working around the clock, rescuing people and clearing roads.
All in all, it’s a big fucking mess. I’m glad we’re isolated enough to avoid most of it. Well… “glad” is relative. We still took a hit, but at least we only have to clean up our own mess.
It’s still breezy, and drizzle lingers in the air, but nothing like last night. Temperatures are back to normal for the season. Stepping into the yard, I see the dumpsters have been blown clear across the concrete lot, now piled in a twisted heap at the base of some larches. The fence is down in a few places—not hard to fix.
A couple of shutters are torn from their hinges, lying cracked on the ground. One or two roof slates are shattered near the main lodge. Luckily, we’ve got a whole stack of spares. Some poor bastard will have to climb up there to replace them. It won’t be me—I’m too heavy for roof work. With any luck, Jack will send Toby up instead. Chimney looks solid though, so we've no issues with the stove or the central heating boiler.
