The hour and twenty minutes it takes us to reach the mainland feels like an eternity. The small ferry stays docked at our island in case we have an emergency, so we haven’t communicated with anyone in the past week.
Around me, other students shoulder their backpacks and prepare to get off the ferry. But I close my eyes, denying reality for a couple more precious seconds.
“What the hell?” someone mutters from nearby.
I should know who said it, but my head’s swimming, the world a fog as people around me react to what’s happening.
“I always have internet access here,” someone says. “Do you guys have it?”
I wanted to hope for the best when my phone didn’t connect to the internet like usual. An outage, maybe, unique to onecellular provider. But deep down, I knew. My mom pretty much told me in her message a week ago.
Stay where you are, no matter what’s happening.That means nationwide—if not global—catastrophe. The virus I heard about on my call to the police department a week ago has to be the catalyst.
The rapid spread of a new virus means a few things for sure: gridlock in supply chains, hospitals overwhelmed, panic buying of essentials, and often an economic stall.
That’s a best-case scenario, and the lack of cell service makes me suspect this isn’t one.
“What should we do?” Walt, a fellow student, asks Professor Cosgrove.
Cosgrove pushes his glasses up on his nose and clears his throat. His expression tells me he doesn’t really know, same as the rest of us.
“We stay together,” he pronounces. “We’ll go check the pub and general store.”
Greta, the student I share a tent with on the island, scoffs. “They had guns last time. And we have nothing. I have a backpack with dirty laundry and some cash. That’s it.”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
How many times did I shake my head with doubt when my dad gathered the family at our kitchen table and talked to us about emergency plans? While I was a typical teenager focused on social media, skincare, and boys, he was planning for every disaster that could befall us.
Global pandemic was on the list. If I’m overreacting and this isn’t a worldwide pandemic and my parents are actually okay, I’ll weep with relief.
I don’t think so, though.
“I have a gun.” I shrug off the army-green canvas backpack that was my dad’s.
Cosgrove gapes at me. “A gun?”
I unzip a side pocket on the bag and take out small, folding scissors. Everyone watches as I set my bag on the ground, squatting down.
I hope to hell you never need this, Briar. But I need to know you have it, just in case.
I cut through the thick fabric of a pocket inside the bag that’s sewn completely closed. The scissors aren’t made for such heavy-duty work, so it takes me a solid minute to free the pistol concealed inside.
Sun glints off the silver barrel as I pull it out, several people gasping.
“What the fuck,” someone mutters.
“Is that thing loaded?” Greta asks.
“Not yet.”
I use the scissors to cut into another pocket, where my dad put ammunition. When I remove it and start loading the gun, Cosgrove steps closer to me.
“Briar, wait. That’s a very dangerous weapon. Do you know what you’re doing?”
I load and insert my magazine, then look up at him. “Yes. My dad was a Marine and a police academy instructor. He taught me well.”
He doesn’t look reassured. “Maybe you should wait to load it, though.”
