Page 1 of Dating After the End of the World
Chapter 1
2009
My dad says the world’s going to end, and we’ll be the only ones ready for it. That’s why he’s got me out here on a Saturday afternoon digging holes for a perimeter fence and a barricade, whatever that means. The kids at school get to have fun on the weekends, but not me, because my dad’s a prepper. And apparently, that makes me one too. At least until I turn eighteen and can get the hell out of here. Only five more years, but who’s counting?
It’s nearly the end of September and fall should be approaching, but that wet Wisconsin-summer heat still lingers in the air. It’s sweltering, having overstayed its welcome. Most people don’t think of heat when it comes to the Dairy State, but our summers are hot and sticky, or maybe they just feel that way because of how brutally cold and long our winters are.
The sun’s rays beat down on my skin, making every pore on my body ooze sweat. My arms ache and the palms of my hands sting, thanks to a spatter of blisters. Some are freshly formed bubbles, ready to pop. Others are torn open, exposing the raw, tender skin beneath. I’d wear the pair of work gloves tucked in the back pocket of my overalls, but they’re too big and they slow me down, which is the last thing I need. I just want to be done for the day, and I know that’s not possible untilthe work is finished—as my dad always says,Pearsons don’t quit until the job is done.
I pause, let out a heavy sigh, and glance over at Dad. He sports a damp white T-shirt and an old pair of ripped jeans, complete with a focused gaze and a firm-set mouth. That’s how he always appears: determined. I’d find it admirable if it weren’t so annoying. Gripping both handles of the post digger, he plunges it into a hole I previously started, stamping it into the soil a few times before clamping it closed and excavating a hefty scoop of dirt. I lean against my shovel and wipe my arm across my sweaty forehead while my dad continues to work. Obviously, I don’t have the stamina or strength he has. I’m a hundred pounds soaking wet, whereas Dad is at least 6'3" and built like a brick shithouse. His words, not mine. To me, he looks more like a lumberjack, thanks to his thick beard and burly frame.
“Are we almost done?” I place a hand over my eyes, shielding them from the sun so I can see his facial expression.
Dad drops the post digger into the hole and uses the bottom of his shirt to soak up the sweat that’s amassed on his face and neck.
He looks over at me, his mouth still set in a hard line. “It’s not even noon yet, Casey.”
That doesn’t answer my question.
I tighten my ponytail and push back several baby hairs clinging to my forehead. “But we started at seven.”
“Yeah, an hour later than I wanted to,” he says, raising a brow.
I roll my eyes and groan, throwing my head back dramatically. “Why are we even doing this?”
“To keep us safe.”
I mouth the words at the exact same time he utters them and then snap my head forward, glowering. “That’s all you ever say, Father.”
“Because it’s all I ever mean, daughter.” The corner of his lip perks up in amusement.
“Can’t we ever do anything fun? Most dads take their kids to the park or to the movies or out to ice cream. You just make me work.”
“It’s not work. It’s prep for the end—”
“Of the world,” I cut him off, mockingly reciting what he’s repeated to me every day for the past three years. When he first told me we had to prep for the end of the world, I thought it was exciting, like we were embarking on our own supersecret, fun adventure. But after a couple of years, that excitement wore off, and now I’m just tired, longing for a normal life ... not whatever this is.
I toss my shovel in the grass and put my hands on my hips. “What if it never ends, Dad? Then what? We just wasted all this time prepping for nothing.”
He scratches at his beard. “Well, I really hope it doesn’t ... but it’s going to because everything eventually ends, and that includes the world.”
I know you’re supposed to believe your parents, trust what they’re saying, and I have. I’ve believed every word my dad has uttered since I learned what words meant, but now I’m not so sure anymore. I stopped believing in Santa when I was nine years old, and I feel like I’m gonna stop believing in my dad one day too. Maybe I already have.
“If it does, why would I wanna stick around? I’d rather die along with it.” I raise my chin defiantly.
“No, you wouldn’t, Casey.”
“Yes, I would. I hate it here.”
Dad lets out a heavy sigh. “Let’s just get the rest of these holes dug, and then I’ll make us some sandwiches, and we can enjoy them under the apple tree.” He seals his offer with a smile and goes back to work, plunging the post digger into the ground.
“And then what?” I practically yell.
He glances at me while excavating a scoop of dirt. “Then we’ll install the posts, the fencing, and the barbwire. You know that, Casey.”
My bottom lip trembles and tears well up in the corners of my eyes. I turn away to hide my frustration and kick the handle of the shovel before plopping down in the grass. Pulling my knees into my chest, I try to make myself as small as possible. The post digger thuds againstthe hard soil, followed by Dad’s work boots crunching over dried grass. He kneels in front of me, lifting my chin with his thumb and index finger, forcing me to meet his gaze. I’m not one to cry, and he knows that. But it’s all too much.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
