[b]JULY 2008[/b]

“You should respect your elders.”

“C'mon, lady, don't make this difficult,” the mugger snapped. “Just hand it over.”

Deirdre Miller refused to budge, still holding the bag of groceries protectively in front of her. “Hell no. I worked hard for this money. I earned it. You sure as hell didn't do none of that.”

The mugger- he couldn't have been more than eighteen- sighed, pulled back his unnecessary Rams hoodie and lifted his oversized white tee enough for her to see the handle of the 9mm tucked into his waistband. “You don't want none of this, lady.”

Deirde just snorted in derision. “That supposed to impress me? Think no one's ever pulled a piece on me? Who you trying to impress, anyhow? No one's going to say 'shit, what a tough motherfucker' when they find out you rolled a fifty-two-year-old woman for three bucks and a paper bag with bread and eggs.”

The kid made the fatal mistake of trying to stare down Deirdre. She just looked right back into the young man's eyes.

The mugger broke first. He looked away, trying to play it off as if checking to see if anyone was coming down the sidewalk towards the two of them. But the woman knew she had won, established herself as more trouble than she was worth. “Now get the hell out of my way,” she commanded. “It's rude to block the sidewalk like that.”

Muttering curses and empty threats, the young man awkwardly shuffled aside, eyes cast down at his scuffed sneakers. Deirdre breezed past him, grocery bag swinging. “The 7-11 on Vandeventer is looking for help,” she advised as she passed the young man. “Check it out.”

[b]JULY 2017[/b]

“You should respect your elders.”

The younger woman scowled. It was clear that at some point before the world fell apart she had been a monied individual- her dirt-streaked clothes were good designer brands, her speaking betrayed an excellent education. The .38 she pointed at Deirdre, however, ruined whatever positive impression she might have made. “Food. Ammunition. Anything else of value,” she ordered.

Deirdre shook her head. “Why you gonna do me like that? It's nearly a hundred degrees out. I'm an old lady, I need these supplies.”

“So do I,” the young woman said flatly. Somewhere nearby, a cicada began to drone. The two stood in the middle of Route 50, the sun-warmed asphalt soft beneath their feet.

“You're young, you got a gun, you can scavenge,” Deirdre protested. “I can't do none of that. Just let me by.”

“There's nothing to scavenge around here.”

“Sedalia is just four miles down the road,” Deirdre pointed vaguely behind the bandit. “There's gotta be plenty of supplies there.”

“I just came from Sedalia. Nothing there but a few thousand zombies and some maniacs holed up in the fairgrounds.”

“I need these supplies,” Deirdre protested. “C'mon, I'm just an old woman.”

“You want me to rob armed men instead? You're an easy target. Hand it over, Grandma.” The younger woman slowly thumbed back the hammer on the .38. “Now.”

“Where's you damn pride?” Deirdre grumbled, slowly pulling off the old gray backpack. The cans of food inside clinked suggestively together as she tossed the bag at the younger woman's foot. The bandit immediately knelt to inspect the treasures.

Deirdre was fast, much faster than most would expect a heavyset old woman to be. She was already moving forwards, her shin deliberately knocking against the revolver in the bandit's hand. Sweat and excitement had loosened her grip, the .38 slid across the hot roadway. The bandit looked up, gaping. She had been pretty once. 

The heavy weight of the claw hammer came down directly in the center of the bandit's face. For a split second, Deirdre had the horrible image of her face collapsing inwards, like a basketball deflating. The woman fell forwards, her crushed face slamming to the asphalt. The arms moved, grabbing for Deirdre. The old woman brought the hammer down again, with all of her considerable weight, this time aiming for the back of the bandit's head. 

Underneath the drone of the cicada, there was a sound like an eggshell breaking. And underneath the smell of Missouri in summer, there was a hot coppery scent.

After a moment, Deirdre stood, back up, panting in exertion, blood staining her scavenged clothing. “Sorry, lady,” she whispered. “So sorry.”