Chapter 11: SUPPLY RUN
Three days after James, Eva, and Peter arrived, I woke to the smell of burning wood.
Not Danny's controlled flames. Real burning. Something was wrong.
I scrambled up. Ran outside. Tom was there, phasing in and out of panic.
"The garden," he said. "Something—someone—"
I ran to the plot we'd started. Half the seedlings were dead. Not withered. Dead—black, rotted, like they'd been poisoned.
Marissa knelt beside them, hands over her mouth. "I didn't—I was just checking them. I touched one and it—I killed them. I killed half our food."
Her power. Plant death. She'd forgotten, touched the seedlings, and her mutation had done what it always did.
I wanted to yell. Wanted to scream about how we couldn't afford this, how every plant mattered, how this might kill us. But Marissa was crying and it had been an accident and yelling wouldn't bring the plants back.
"It's okay," I said. Not true. But necessary.
"It's not okay. We needed that food."
"We'll replant. We'll be more careful. You'll stay away from the garden. It's fine."
"It's not fine."
She was right. It wasn't. We'd lost half our seedlings. Our timeline for food production just got longer. Our margin for error just got thinner.
Ruth appeared at my shoulder. "How bad?"
"Bad. Maybe ten days added to harvest timeline. Maybe more."
"So we're looking at three weeks minimum before fresh food."
"Yeah."
"We'll starve before that if we keep rationing at current levels."
She was right. Seventeen people on rations designed for ten. Even with hunting and foraging, we were losing ground daily.
I made a decision. "I'm going to town. Today. Establishing regular trade. We need supplies now, not in three weeks."
"I'll go with you."
"No. You're security here. I need someone who can pass as human and move fast. Tom and Eva."
Ruth didn't like it but nodded. "How much money do we have?"
I checked our pooled resources. "$47.23. Everything we have."
"That won't buy enough for seventeen people."
"Then I'll find another way."
Tom and Eva met me at the entrance an hour later. Both could pass—Tom looked normal when he wasn't phasing. Eva's enhanced reflexes only showed when she moved, and she'd learned to control it around humans.
"Remember," I said as we walked. "We're contractors assessing the old mill. Checking if it's salvageable. Not mutants. Not refugees. Just workers. Normal."
"I've been passing my whole life," Eva said. Her words came quick—everything about her was accelerated. "Know how to slow down, act normal, blend in. It's the only way I survived."
Tom just nodded. He'd talked more since arriving but still defaulted to silence.
The walk was fifteen miles. We made it in four hours—Eva could've done it faster, but she matched our pace. The town looked the same. Population three thousand. One main street. The kind of place that noticed strangers.
We headed to the general store. The owner—Mr. Hendricks, his name tag said—looked up when we entered. Older man, weathered, suspicious eyes.
"Help you?"
"We're assessing the old Ironworks," I said. Confident. Like I belonged. "Structural survey. Might be salvageable for industrial use. Need some supplies while we're out here."
"Ironworks has been dead for fifteen years."
"Which is why someone's finally checking if it's worth reviving."
He grunted. "What do you need?"
We bought what we could. Canned goods. Rice. Beans. Forty-seven dollars didn't go far for three people, let alone seventeen. We'd eat for maybe four days with this. Then back to nothing.
As Hendricks rang us up, I noticed something. Behind the counter, a box of produce. Bruised apples. Wilted lettuce. Past-prime but still edible.
"That for sale?" I asked.
"That's trash. Goes out back."
"You throw it away?"
"Health code. Can't sell food past peak. Dump it every week."
An idea formed. "What if someone hauled it away for you? Free disposal service."
Hendricks paused. "You saying you want my garbage?"
"I'm saying we're contractors on a budget. Food's expensive. Bruised apples still taste fine. If you're throwing it anyway—"
He looked at me for a long moment. I kept my face neutral. Just a contractor trying to save money. Nothing suspicious.
"Take it," he said finally. "Back alley. Comes out every Tuesday and Friday. You want to dig through my trash, that's your business."
"Appreciate it."
We loaded the purchased supplies and the "trash." Bruised vegetables, dented cans, expired bread still edible. Three times what we'd paid for. Enough to feed seventeen for a week if we were creative.
As we left, Hendricks called out. "Ironworks really gonna open again?"
"Maybe," I said. "We'll see what the survey shows."
Outside, Tom let out a breath. "He believed you."
"People believe what makes sense to them. We look like contractors, we said we're contractors, so we're contractors."
"Until we're not," Eva said quickly. "Until someone sees Ruth or James or any of the others who can't pass. Then we're mutants squatting illegally."
She was right. This worked now. It wouldn't work forever.
We were halfway back when Eva stopped suddenly. Her reflexes had her hand on my arm before I saw the problem.
"Car," she said. "Coming from town. Sheriff's vehicle."
"How can you tell?"
"Different engine sound. Plus I can see the light bar from here. My eyes are better too."
Shit. We couldn't be caught with stolen supplies—even if they'd been given freely, it looked suspicious.
"Off the road," I said. "Now."
We ducked into the treeline. The sheriff's car passed without slowing. Routine patrol, probably. Not looking for us.
But it was a reminder. We were close to civilization. Close enough for help, close enough for trouble.
"We should move the supplies," Tom said. "Before he comes back."
We hurried. Made it to New Haven with aching backs and heavy bags. Ruth met us at the entrance.
"Success?"
"Partial. Bought what we could. Established trash pickup arrangement with the store. Weekly."
"Trash pickup?"
"Their waste is our wealth. Bruised food's still food."
Ruth looked at the haul. Her expression was complicated. "We're eating garbage now."
"We're eating free food that would otherwise be wasted. There's a difference."
"If you say so."
That night, we distributed the supplies. Everyone ate better than they had in days. The bruised apples were sweet. The wilted lettuce was fine in soup. Dented cans tasted the same as perfect ones.
Marissa approached me after dinner. "I'm sorry. About the plants."
"It was an accident."
"An accident that might kill us."
"We'll survive. We always do."
She didn't look convinced but nodded. "I want to help. With the supply runs. I can pass, and my power—maybe I can use it. Clear unwanted plants, kill weeds, something useful."
"You'd go back to human towns? After what they did to you?"
"I'd do what's needed. That's the deal, right? Everyone contributes."
I looked at her. Burn-scarred arms from fires set by people who feared her power. But willing to face them again if it helped the community.
"Next run," I said. "You can come. We'll figure out how to use what you have."
She smiled. Small, uncertain, but real.
Later, Tom found me by the water purification system. "The ice cream was stupid," he said.
It took me a moment to remember. The ice cream shop. Seventy-five cents I'd spent on three cones.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Financially irresponsible."
"But it was good. I haven't had ice cream in two years. Since before—" He gestured vaguely. "Before everything. It reminded me things can be normal. Even if just for a minute."
"That's why I bought it."
"Still stupid."
"Definitely stupid."
He smiled. Tom Bradley, the middle-aged divorcee who'd lost everything, smiling over ice cream that had cost us precious resources.
Worth it.
I checked the System before sleeping.
[RESOURCE MANAGEMENT IMPROVING]
[TRADE RELATIONSHIP ESTABLISHED: BASIC]
[WARNING: DEPENDENCE ON HUMAN GOODWILL CREATES VULNERABILITY]
[RECOMMENDATION: DEVELOP SELF-SUFFICIENCY]
Working on it.
But the System had a point. Hendricks gave us his trash now. What happened when he found out we were mutants? When the town discovered what we really were?
We needed to be self-sufficient before that happened. Food production. Water secured—we had that. Shelter solid—working on it. But food. Food was still the weak point.
Three weeks until harvest. Maybe less if System enhancements worked. We just had to survive until then.
Seventeen people. One week of supplies. An uncertain future.
But we'd gotten through today. Tomorrow we'd get through tomorrow.
The System hummed acknowledgment.
Progress. Slow, difficult, uncertain. But progress.
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