Meg Little Reilly - We Are Unprepared

WE ARE UNPREPARED...

This is a novel about the superstorm that threatens to destroy a marriage, a town and the entire Eastern seaboard. But the destruction begins early, when fear infects people’s lives and spreads like the plague.

Ash and Pia move from hipster Brooklyn to rustic Vermont in search of a more authentic life. But just months after settling in, the forecast of a superstorm disrupts their dream. Fear of an impending disaster splits their tight-knit community and exposes the cracks in their marriage. Where Isole was once a place of old farm families, rednecks and transplants, it now divides into paranoid preppers, religious fanatics and government tools, each at odds about what course to take.

WE ARE UNPREPARED is an emotional journey, a terrifying glimpse into the human costs of our changing earth and, ultimately, a cautionary tale of survival and the human spirit.

We Are Unprepared

Meg Little Reilly

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the wild places worth protecting.

And to Dan, with whom I want to explore them all.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text WE ARE UNPREPARED... This is a novel about the superstorm that threatens to destroy a marriage, a town and the entire Eastern seaboard. But the destruction begins early, when fear infects people’s lives and spreads like the plague. Ash and Pia move from hipster Brooklyn to rustic Vermont in search of a more authentic life. But just months after settling in, the forecast of a superstorm disrupts their dream. Fear of an impending disaster splits their tight-knit community and exposes the cracks in their marriage. Where Isole was once a place of old farm families, rednecks and transplants, it now divides into paranoid preppers, religious fanatics and government tools, each at odds about what course to take. WE ARE UNPREPARED is an emotional journey, a terrifying glimpse into the human costs of our changing earth and, ultimately, a cautionary tale of survival and the human spirit.

Title Page We Are Unprepared Meg Little Reilly www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedication This book is dedicated to the wild places worth protecting. And to Dan, with whom I want to explore them all.

PROLOGUE PROLOGUE Isolé—(French) / EE-zo-LAY / adj.: isolated, remote, lonely. Isole—(English) / i-sol / n.: rural town in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. Population: 6,481. IT WOULD BE narcissistic to assume that the earth conjured a storm simply to alter the course of my life. More likely, we’d been poisoning this world for years while ignoring the warning signs, and The Storm wasn’t so much a cosmic intervention as it was a predictable response to our collectively reckless behavior. Either way, the resulting destruction—to North America and our orderly life in Isole—arrived so quickly that I swear we didn’t see it coming. Looking back, I realize how comforting those months leading up to The Storm had been as we focused on preparing for the disaster. News of the changing weather patterns gave each of our lives a new clarity and direction. It didn’t feel enjoyable at the time, but it was a big, concrete distraction in which to pour ourselves, even as other matters could have benefited from our attention. It was urgent, and living in a state of urgency can be invigorating. But the fear can be mistaken for purpose, which is even more dangerous than the threat itself.

PART ONE PART ONE I pine, I pine for my woodland home; I long for the mountain stream That through the dark ravine flows on Till it finds the sun’s bright beam. I long to catch once more a breath Of my own pure mountain air, And lay me down on the flowery turf In the dim old forest there. O, for a gush of the wildwood strain That the birds sang to me then! O, for an hour of the fresher life I knew in that haunted glen! For my path is now in the stranger’s land, And though I may love full well Their grand old trees and their flowery meads, Yet I pine for thee, sweet dell. I’ve sat in the homes of the proud and great, I’ve gazed on the artist’s pride, Yet never a pencil has painted thee, Thou rill of the mountain side. And though bright and fair may be other lands, And as true their friends and free, Yet my spirit will ever fondly turn, Green Mountain Home, to thee. —“Green Mountain Home” by Miss A. W. Sprague of Plymouth, Vermont. First published in 1860.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

PART TWO

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

PART THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

WE ARE UNPREPARED READER’S GUIDE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Isolé—(French) / EE-zo-LAY / adj.: isolated, remote, lonely.

Isole—(English) / i-sol / n.: rural town in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. Population: 6,481.

IT WOULD BE narcissistic to assume that the earth conjured a storm simply to alter the course of my life. More likely, we’d been poisoning this world for years while ignoring the warning signs, and The Storm wasn’t so much a cosmic intervention as it was a predictable response to our collectively reckless behavior. Either way, the resulting destruction—to North America and our orderly life in Isole—arrived so quickly that I swear we didn’t see it coming.

Looking back, I realize how comforting those months leading up to The Storm had been as we focused on preparing for the disaster. News of the changing weather patterns gave each of our lives a new clarity and direction. It didn’t feel enjoyable at the time, but it was a big, concrete distraction in which to pour ourselves, even as other matters could have benefited from our attention. It was urgent, and living in a state of urgency can be invigorating. But the fear can be mistaken for purpose, which is even more dangerous than the threat itself.

PART ONE

I pine, I pine for my woodland home;

I long for the mountain stream

That through the dark ravine flows on

Till it finds the sun’s bright beam.

I long to catch once more a breath

Of my own pure mountain air,

And lay me down on the flowery turf

In the dim old forest there.

O, for a gush of the wildwood strain

That the birds sang to me then!

O, for an hour of the fresher life

I knew in that haunted glen!

For my path is now in the stranger’s land,

And though I may love full well

Their grand old trees and their flowery meads,

Yet I pine for thee, sweet dell.

I’ve sat in the homes of the proud and great,

I’ve gazed on the artist’s pride,

Yet never a pencil has painted thee,

Thou rill of the mountain side.

And though bright and fair may be other lands,

And as true their friends and free,

Yet my spirit will ever fondly turn,

Green Mountain Home, to thee.

—“Green Mountain Home” by Miss A. W. Sprague of Plymouth, Vermont.

First published in 1860.

ONE

WE WERE DRIVING east on Route 15 when the world first learned of the coming storms. Pia and I had just met with a fertility specialist in Burlington and we were both staring straight ahead at the road as we digested the information we’d received there. I didn’t want to see a doctor about having babies. That was for people who were old or sick or in a rush, and we were none of those things. But it was true that we had sort of been trying on and off for a year, so with little persuasion, I agreed to the appointment. Conceiving a child had become Pia’s obsession in the preceding months, and her determination trumped my ambivalence.