K.P. Davis: Nell—On Being Prepared

It was time to take inventory, make sure she had everything she needed. Hard times were coming. Siege—at least that’s what she feared. Her mother brought her up in the Reagan era, shopping at Sam’s Club, buying mayonnaise by the case, toilet paper by the pallet, giant containers of garlic salt and dried parsley, tube socks by the dozen, and enough coffee bricks to build a skyscraper. Nell was more pragmatic than that, and it was just her and Bug she had to worry about. She knew when the big bad times came, she’d only be able to feed Bug so long, so she’d always let him run down a rabbit or a squirrel. And she had fishing tackle and a sturdy rod—plenty good enough for the bass and catfish she came across. 

Bug, a Rottweiler-sized creature with an odd, mottled coat, could take care of himself. With his amber eyes and his ability to blend into shadows, he was more demon than dog to look at. He knew how to act in public, did exactly what Nell told him in whispered-under-her-breath commands and hand signals, but she only ever had room for a couple of cases of canned meat. Kibble wasn’t going to cut it. It’d be cruel to allow that to take up space better used to contain compact foods like dried rice and beans that would sustain them longer, so she and Bug ate from the one pot of rice and beans with the occasional meat on the side. When she was in a town, she’d buy fresh fruit and veg, otherwise she foraged mushrooms and wild herbs, berries and nuts.

Nell made a note in a manky-looking spiral notebook, “corned beef hash, bouillon cubes,” and she flipped to the next page where a penciled heading read, “Guns and Ammo.” There had not been a day since her Daddy had given her her first gun, a single-shot .410 shotgun, when she was six years old that Nell had not been armed. Her daddy had had six inches sawed off the stock, so it fit her. He taught her to shoot it, clean it, and take care of it. And she’d always kept a gun, in preparation for when the shit hit the fan. Daddy had evaporated when she was ten. But her mama had kept the long guns in her bedroom closet, and a little pistol in the nightstand, though she never needed them. Nell still had the .20-gauge shotgun, the .22 rifle, and a little Smith and Wesson .38 Special. She didn’t use them, but they were there just in case, and she kept them clean. Fired them occasionally out in the middle of nowhere, testing that her aim was still true, and the ammo was still viable.

In her parents’ day, it was the Russians and nuclear war, they were waiting for. Now? Nell was ready for any-damned-thing. She tried to keep her opinions to herself when she got among people, tried not to side with anybody, because there was so much nonsense in the air, you couldn’t quite tell who to trust. Some crazy, twisted logic in the 7-11 could get you killed. And on top of that, it looked like there might be another world war, gangs were running wild, cops were killing civilians, banks were failing. If this wasn’t Tribulations, Nell wasn’t sure what was.

She had been laying in supplies all her life in a never-ending cycle. Seemed like she just settled in and got things the way she liked them when it was time to pick up sticks and move at which point the process would start all over. She traveled in different vehicles, mostly derelict. Wheezing rattle-trap pickups and vans made their final journeys with Nell. She’d leave them where they quit and go with a whispered wish that the provisions she left behind would serve someone else who needed them. And her “go gear” was all strapped to a backpacker’s frame. It weighed 62 pounds fully loaded, and Bug had saddle bags to carry some cans if they had to walk. 

Nell traded on her mechanics’ skills, spending a season here and a season there, living rough unless she came across an unoccupied cabin or some Good Samaritan rocked up and offered to pay her rent for a while. Most garages had a space in a storage building she could use for a few weeks. She’d gotten good at fortifying a space quickly, but it took constant vigilance, keeping the rice bag full, and coffee enough for the morning. She would really miss coffee, and she hated to run out of salt. She could eat all manner of crap, but it needed to be seasoned.

She lowered her double-layered masks, pulled a single baby wipe from a box by the door of the shed—that’s all it was, a garden shed—and wiped the day’s grime off her face. She could feel the tension in the air. It was time to pack up, load the old Jeep Cherokee she’d been working on, give Bug the last of the kibble. It wasn’t clear yet which way she needed to head, but she’d be ready.

Copyright 2026 K.P. Davis. From Trust Issues (Cornerstone, 2026).

Kimberly Parish (K.P.) Davis is an American author, editor, and the founder of Madville Publishing, specializing in short fiction and non-fiction. Based in Texas, she is known for her 2025 award-winning short story collection Trust Issues and her background as a former yacht chef and web designer.