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A Cerridwen Press Publication

www.cerridwenpress.com

Pirate King

ISBN 9781419908200

Edited by Jaynie Ritchie.

Photography and cover art by Les Byerley.

Electronic book Publication: January 2007

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in

part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc.,

1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales

is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

P IRATE K ING

K.Z. Snow

Trademarks Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the

following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Disney World: Disney Enterprises, Inc.

Formica: Formica Corp.

Lincoln Logs: Playskool, Inc.

Marlboro: Philip Morris USA, Inc.

Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler Corp.

Oshkosh B’Gosh: Oshkosh B’Gosh, Inc.

Red Cross: American National Red Cross

Rolodex: Berol Corporation

Tonka: Hasbro, Inc.

Pirate King

Chapter One

Eve Kendrick stood motionless on her front lawn and bleakly surveyed the rubble

of her farmhouse. Next to her left foot lay the overturned dish of a birdbath, chipped

and scarred, like a flying saucer blasted from the sky. But the birdbath hadn’t fallen

from the heavens—it had been flung from her backyard.

Recalling the power of last night’s assault, Eve crossed her arms over her midriff

and shuddered. It had been like interstellar warfare. The thick and lowering sky, dark as

a coal mine. The acrid chlorine stench of ozone hanging ominously in the still air. The

thunderous rumbling drawing closer, closer, as if bison were stampeding through the

placid Illinois hayfields.

And then the horrendous banshee wail of the sirens, enough to leave anyone’s heart

numb and faltering with panic.

Eve closed her eyes. Mother Nature , she thought, it’s not very nice of you to hurl around

tornadoes.

“Evie!”

Her eyes fluttered open and she turned toward the voice. Maureen Cooke was

hurrying across the littered lawn, her face lined and drawn, her hair wiring out around

her headscarf. Eve thought vaguely that her own ash blonde hair, naturally curly, must

also look like an overused scouring pad.

Maureen seemed animated in a tense, abnormal way, as if her nerves were strung

too tight. “God, do you believe this?” she gasped. “Do you believe this?” She loosely

waved an arm and swiveled her head to take in the scene. “Five houses and the feed

store are demolished, gone! Our roof is draped over the Ellis’ LP tank like a tent! Andy

Schulz’s doghouse is sitting on top of the Dormeyers’ garage! Do you believe it?”

Eve slowly shook her head. “No,” she breathed, eyes fixed on her collapsed walls.

Oddly, a few were standing upright and untouched, pictures still in place. There was no

rhyme or reason to it. Her mind retreated again into blankness.

“You got hit hard,” Maureen said with a touch of awe. She placed a pitying hand on

Eve’s arm.

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty much the proverbial sitting duck out here.” Maureen’s kind

touch made Eve want to cry but she denied the tears an outlet. This was no time to be

hysterical and fatalistic. “But I’m not pulling out.”

Maureen was watching her face. “Do you have insurance?” she asked, as if fearing

the worst.

Eve nodded. “The adjuster’s supposed to be here today.” She kicked absently at the

birdbath, then saw her handmade loom, frame all askew, leaning against the well cap.

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