It was the light that kept her moving, like a moth: it was necessary for navigating but might also lead to her death.

But it was light.

Artificial light.

It had been fourteen months since she’d seen any sort of manufactured light; back when she still had working batteries; back when her flashlight proved more valuable than her rifle in keeping her alive.

She stopped at the edge of the tree line. The small wooded hill had been her home for three nights as she peered into the valley below, looking for some sign of ‘friend or foe’ to become clear. She had originally assumed the light had been from some small campsite—some idiot apparently trying to get robbed and murdered—or worse—by leaving his light on like a shining beacon to all the worst of who was left.

Or it was a trap: An angler fish trying to coax her in through desperate curiosity.

Either way, she stayed where she was until daybreak, bag still packed, shoes still on, rifle across lap.

What she saw that first morning took what remained of her breath away (the ever present Haze having taken some if it already). As the sunlight began to penetrate the still-oppressive layer of dust-ash, she saw not a small campsite or even a tiny village but an entire town! Hundreds, maybe thousands (who knew?) went about their daily routine as though the world hadn’t changed at all. She watched as what she assumed were farmers brought crops in from the field in the backs of pickup trucks converted to horse-drawn carts. From her vantage point she couldn’t see clearly what crops were being harvested, save for the load of carrots that were brought in on the second day of her reconnaissance. They were small, thin, but they were indeed carrots.

She also saw fish—big, thick trout and salmon—brought up from the northern river.

A hunting party brought back an elk. It was small, almost like a deer, but still with a couple hundred pounds of meat.

By the third morning she had started to recognize people, routines. Mr. Baseball Hat brining in fresh milk. Mr. Denim Shorts fixing the fence around the pigs. Mrs. Denim Shorts showing a small child how to hand wash clothing. Little Denim Shorts trying to reach up and hang the wet clothing on the a line twice his height, his mother laughing and picking him up. Hawaiian shirt bringing her daily catch to market. Old Man Cane-Walker leading a gaggle of little ones to what she assumed was a school house.

She watched as the familiar, everyday life of this miracle town continued on and on as though The Event never happened, as though these seemingly normal, lovely townspeople were merely a relic of time before, placed in a strange new world and making the best of it.

She had longed to make herself known, to run down the side of the hill toward the front gate and plead with the sentries to grant her access. She would work hard for them. She had skills. Before The Event she had been an artist—which meant nothing now—but her hobby was making her own clothing. She could sew, mend, create. She had also worked in a kitchen for years during college, learning to cook large quantities of food, as well as how to keep it safely stored to avoid illness. Moreover, in the nearly two years since, she had learned many skills that would be a benefit to the group: trapping; hunting; foraging; trotline fishing. Or she’d volunteer to stand watch. She was a tack-driver with her .270 and still had plenty of ammo.

She would work. She would contribute.

She just wanted to be part of something normal. Something… communal.

Her only companions for so many long months had been the few books she was able to carry in her pack. She’d wanted to take the whole small library when she decided to leave the blue house, but the weight made that untenable. She opted instead for some small, pocket-sized hardcover books that were part of a Classic Literature set from Barnes & Noble. Huckleberry Finn. Sherlock Holmes. Alan Quartermaine. Captain Nemo.

She had read and reread them so many times that she almost felt the characters were real, alive, just beyond her reach. She had laughed to herself one night, realizing she was desperately close to talking to a volleyball with a bloody handprint on it. But she knew those books were as much responsible for her survival as food and shelter. They had kept her mind working, had given her a Something to Do at the end of a successful day of not dying. (Though, ironically, there was the one close call when she realized she’d drawn attention to herself when sunlight had glinted off the gold leaf pages of Monte Cristo.) Now, though, they merely felt heavy in her rucksack.

She needed to once again be part of a society.

She cared not how, or at what level. She’d empty the toilets or dig the ditches or burn the refuse—whatever was required. She just wanted to be part of the group.

And on the morning of Day 3 she decided to make the leap of faith, to override the very survival instincts that had carried her though.

She started down the hill, at first creeping along, darting from ‘cover to cover’ as she had become accustomed to. But after thirty feet or so, she stopped, stood up straight, and walked. Why look like a threat? She had committed to it, whatever that risk was. She slung her rifle over her shoulder, forced a placid serenity upon her countenance, and walked slowly, confidently toward the gate.

————-

“This is really good.”

Cheryl, the woman the leaders had assigned to assist her, ladled another scoop of stew into her bowl. It felt amazing to be washed—with real soap and shampoo—and dressed in clean clothing. To use real toothpaste again. To drink coffee again!

“Thank you,” Cheryl said, “the recipe is my mother’s. It tastes a bit different, we have no way to grain feed the cattle yet, but I have to say I still find it quite good myself. How did you find your accommodations?”

It took her a moment to get down a massive mouthful and she felt embarrassed, telling herself to slow down, to eat like a human again. “Oh, it’s very nice.”

“I imagine you have had to sleep in some pretty terrible places during these long months. How did you survive the winter, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Her instinct was to remain silent, not to give anything away. But something about all this, about Cheryl, the warm stew, the clean, homey feeling, made her feel safe. She told Cheryl the major beats, about those first desperate days and weeks, about stumbling on a yet-untouched country market, about feeling guilty—even then—about taking so much food and hiding it in the forest, about the sprained ankle that nearly killed her.

She told her most of the story, leaving out only the mundane or the too-too personal thoughts of ‘ending it all.’ The time she had to kill. Not yet. Maybe she’d share that later, when they knew her better.

Cheryl wiped away tears. “You’re something else. I don’t know if I could have made it a month on my own.”

“How did you all survive? How did you create this? And how can I be part of it? What can I do to earn my keep? I don’t want charity.”

Cheryl paused, gathered herself. “Well, that’s a great question. We survived initially because we all had plenty. See, we, this community, well, we all had garages full of packaged food, hygienic supplies, electrolyte powders, even cosmetics—which, let me tell you, made a big difference in feeling ‘normal’ again.”

“Yeah, I see what you’re saying there for sure. But, how did you have all that? Are you all, like, survivalists or something? Preppers?”

Cheryl laughed. “Us, oh no, not at all. No, we’re something even better. See, we all were part of an amazing company—a family really—and when everything fell apart, well, we were okay because we were just chocked full of everything we needed.” Here, Cheryl leaned in, “And we want you to be part of that family, too.”

There was something not quite right in the way Cheryl said it. Something unsettling. Suddenly, the stew felt heavy in her stomach.

She looked around the room, her eyes settling on the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner.

Cheryl continued. “See, and this is the best part, you not only get to thrive here, but you get to be the creator of your own success story! You get to be the boss of your own life! It’s simple. You work in what’s called my ‘downline.’ What that means is that I’m here to help and support you build your business by providing you with goods at wholesale prices. Then, what you do is you find new people who will purchase those goods from you at a small profit. From that group, you want to cultivate entrepreneurial spirits to start their own businesses, and they become part of your ‘downline.’ And that’s when it gets just truly amazing…”

The boxes. They were all the same. She felt nauseous as she stood and walked toward the nearest stack. Cheryl continued, but she was no longer listening.

She slowly pulled her sleeve up around her hand and wiped a layer of dust of the top box, revealing the very word she’d feared she’d see: AMWAY.

—————

Her pack seemed heavy as she climbed the mountain trail three miles east of the little town. She knew well enough that the food in her stomach would carry her on for a few days, but she’d need to find a place to set up camp soon, if only to get her squirrel traps set.

It would be a long winter.