Scarlett Hopper's Arc

Chapter 18 of 33

Scarlett laid the revolvers on the table. Seven pursuers. Three defenders. The garden had a thorn wall and a windbreak, but no cover for a firefight. If the pursuers reached the rows, it was over. "We need walls," John said. "Real ones. Something they can't shoot through." "Then we build them," Scarlett said. "You two stay. Find the ground you want to hold. Drag anything heavy to it. Sheet metal, doors, stones. I'll go for tools." Maranda touched her wrist. "Go fast." "Duke," Scarlett said. He was already at the door. She pulled the rolling cooler behind her, the pink one, wheels loud on the broken road. She wore the black-and-pink mask against the coming ash. The hardware store sat two blocks down, awning sagging, sign faded. She had passed it a hundred times and never gone in. Everyone said it was picked clean. The door was locked. Duke growled low, then stopped. He pushed an image at her — a man inside, sitting still, not hiding. She knocked. "I need tools. I can trade." A bolt slid. The door opened a hand's width. A man looked out — short black hair, green eyes, stubble, overalls. A tabby cat sat in his chest pocket, blinking at Duke. He held a hammer loose at his side. "Store's mine now," he said. "What do you need." "Everything that stops a bullet. Sandbags if you have them. Nails. A pry bar. Sheet steel." He looked past her at the empty street. "How many coming." "Seven. Armed. Within the hour." He stepped back and let her in. The shelves were full. Untouched. Wire, screws, hinges, saw blades, a whole rack of long-handled tools. She stared. "Nobody found it?" she said. "I kept it quiet." He was already pulling burlap sacks off a hook. "You garden?" "Old district. Beds behind a thorn wall." He stopped. Looked at her — the braid, the pink flannel, the mask hanging at her throat. He looked at Duke sitting calm at her ankle. "Marcus," he said. "You feed people from that garden?" "I'm trying to." He nodded once. He started loading the cooler himself. Nails. A crowbar. Two sheets of galvanized steel rolled tight. Sandbags, empty, a stack of them. A shovel. A roll of chain. "I'm coming," he said. "Cat too." "I can't pay you today." "Didn't ask." He shouldered his tool bag. "Seven men and three of you. Bad math." They moved fast. Duke led. The ash wind was still an hour off. Marcus pushed the cooler; Scarlett carried the steel. He didn't talk on the walk. He watched her instead — the way she checked the ridge without stopping, the way Duke stayed at her hip. At the gate, John looked up from a pile of scrap. Maranda's eyes narrowed, then eased when she saw Duke calm. "Sandbags," Marcus said, dropping the stack. "Fill them. Doorways first. I'll cut firing