Read Online The Gift: A Short Story (Voices of the Apocalypse Book 4) by Simone Pond - Free Book Online Page A

didn’t mean to insult you.” She stood up and held out her boney hand.  
    He frowned and reached out to shake her hand. “I ain’t cryin’, just caught somethin’ in my eye is all.”  
    “I’m Keyla Johnson. I’m originally from Washington D.C., but I had to escape with my sister because things got bad. I lost her along the way.” She looked away and wiped away a tear of her own.
      “Name’s Ransom Sherman. I’m a farmer without a farm, but I figured out a way to make a livin’ in these tryin’ times. I’m offerin’ to give ya some real food, if that’s okay. I might look like a mean ol’ tough fella, but I got a heart of gold.”
    Keyla smiled and patted Ransom’s brawny arm. “I appreciate that, Mr. Sherman.”
    “I go by Ransom. Wait here, I’ll go git ya some eggs.”
    Ransom walked over to his tractor, smiling to himself. He liked the idea of being a good citizen, helping out a starving girl who was down on her luck. Losing money on the eggs wasn’t an issue; he had enough surplus to get by just fine. What mattered was being of service to Keyla. Underneath all that sadness she had something special, a light in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Sometimes living out in those woods got lonely. Dusty memories he had tried to leave behind started to resurface. He missed his wife and daughter. Peggy was a stand up gal, the best wife any man could ask for, but she got real low after their daughter Emma died in the accident. She left Ransom and went somewhere south, and he never heard from her again.  
    “I miss you, Emma and Peggy,” he whispered under his breath.  
    “Who are you talking to?” Keyla asked.  
    His heart reared up; he hadn’t realized she had tagged along. “Oh, nobody.”
    “I heard you say a couple of names.”
    “My wife and daughter. Gone now. Haven’t thought of ‘em in a while.”
    “I’m sorry, mister,” she said quietly.
    “Ransom. Call me Ransom.”  
    “Okay.” She patted his arm again. The human contact felt nice.  
    Ransom had rigged a large crate to the back of the tractor to keep his eggs. That week was a good one––over three-dozen.  
    “Hmm,” he said.
    “What is it?”
    “I ain’t got nothin’ to put ‘em in. Don’t suppose you got something in that bag of yours?”
    “I can wrap them in my sweater.”  
    Keyla opened the bag and pulled out a ratty gray sweater that had pieces of leaves and dirt all over it. She must’ve been using it for a blanket at night. He hoped she wasn’t shivering herself to sleep.  
    “Ain’t you got somethin’ else? A blanket?”  
    “I had to leave behind a bunch of things when I . . .” Keyla didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she wrapped the sweater around the eggs and placed it gingerly into her bag.
    “I’ll be down at the market.” Ransom paused. “If anythin’ happens to them eggs. Or if you want some company.”
    “Thank you, Ransom. I’ll be okay. I’ve been on my own for a while now.”
    He climbed back onto the tractor and turned the key. “Nice meetin’ ya, Keyla. You take good care.”  
    “You too, Ransom.”  
    “No more uncooked corncobs.”
    She waved him off.
    ###
    The farmers market was as empty as the rest of the ghost town. Only a few local farmers had anything left to peddle, and there weren’t too many buyers left. Instead of money they used other items to barter for goods––blankets, clothing, and jewelry. Some even exchanged booze, but Ransom always turned that down. Not a drop since the farming accident.  
    He parked his tractor at the far end of the block and waited for some customers. A couple came over and offered a handmade quilt that had been in the family for centuries. Ransom didn’t need another blanket, but he knew someone it could keep warm at night. He traded a dozen eggs for it.
    Around noon, Ransom sat on the curb next to his tractor to eat lunch. The chicken sandwich was on hearty bread he had made using grains from a