From the dark brown frown with cracks as fine as hair came an exhausted sigh. The battered voice sprung forth in a cloud in the chilly late autumn air, and it expanded with momentum until it stretched too far to be anything significant anymore. The plume of breath was merely a miniature copycat of the billows of smoke that seeped outward and beyond from the chimneys in the rows of houses dotted along the street. In the distant sun rays running abruptly on holiday hours the windows of the bungalows reflected the copper sunset, and the many residents were just starting to return home from a long days’ work. And though their minds and bodies may have been exhausted, a few waved to the large wooden wagon rolling down the road carrying a handful of farmers on their way back from the fields.

A pothole in the road made the occupants sway from side to side. Winifred Ross didn’t mind the nudge that woke her from a zoned-out lull, but it brought the awareness of a prickling cold back. She shivered, her jaw quaking, and she rubbed her arms for warmth, her hands leaving faint dark marks behind from the soil that stayed caked onto her palms. The earthy scent had become a permanent feature of the middle-aged woman, something she preferred to not be known by.

Determined by an out-of-date recycled calendar in which the numbers and names of the days didn’t match, it had been roughly almost two weeks since the group had arrived at Chico. It had been almost a month since the incident at Fort Riley. It had been exactly a month since the Farm fell. The ever-present background tick of her wristwatch was a grim reminder that every second counted down the final moments of innocent lives and the lingering minutes that came after. It was a thought Winifred kept trying to drown, but like most dead things, it floated back to the surface.

Like the other travelers in the wagon Winifred resorted to watching the residents on the streets, specifically an elderly man wearing a heavy cardigan and a scarf reduced to fraying threads who had been hanging ornaments on the naked tree guarding the lawn. In a slow circle he turned to face the horse-drawn wagon and nodded in recognition. Already reminders of the upcoming holiday season began to emerge around Chico haven. It turned Winifred’s worn-out frown into a smirk; a nostalgic reminisce of Christmastime.

The wagon began to slow and with a loud, energetic neigh the palomino horse came to a stop right next to the brown brick face of the bar, The Ax & The Round. Across the street and a little way’s down a group of children squealed with laughter over the rusted cries of the merry-go-round and swing set in the playground of the schoolhouse. While waiting for guardians to pick them up from school, the handful of boys and girls played games only their youthful imaginations could take seriously.

“E’ryone off,” the driver of the wagon called out, muffled beneath the black scarf he ticked his chin into. The six passengers exchanged their thanks with the man as they clambered off the backside of the wagon. Winifred said her goodbye’s to her co-workers as they all vanished down their separate routes. In turn, she headed for the schoolhouse with her hands hiding in the pouch of her oversized maroon sweater. As a habit she looked both ways down the quiet road, but before she could cross the street a familiar voice called out to her.

“Win!” It was unmistakable who it was, yet Winifred had not expected to see Daryl Romanson back in Chico Haven so soon. His hair had grown longer, curling around his earlobes and grazing his shoulders; his facial hair was more profound and ragged. The man aged more every time Winifred saw him. With a smug smirk he waved to his old friend and crossed the gap with a quick jog. Trailing along behind him was a light-skinned, burly woman sporting a ginger bob cut known as Big Anna. A dirt-stained black coat hung open with a patched grey sweater underneath. Each small nub of a fingertip poked out through the tips of red and orange gloves. Big Anna’s size alone pegged her comparison somewhere alongside professional wrestlers and the tales of her survival could one-up anyone else’s, yet the less-than-dainty woman preferred her place as a librarian who strongly advocated reading amongst the youth.

“Back already,” Winifred commented as she gave Daryl a brief hug. The smell of beer lingered around the two, which was not surprising in the least.

“I got enough stuff to keep Wess happy,” Daryl replied with a shrug.

“For now,” Winifred remarked. The scavenging soloist worked exclusively for Chico’s number one inventor, Westley Jeromiah. But in-between runs, the old group from Fort Riley would force Daryl to spend time with them.

“And look at you, girl, puttin’ on a bit’a weight,” Big Anna said with a wave to Winifred’s stomach as though she were Vanna White and Winifred’s body was a vowel.

“At least I’m still young,” Winifred retorted in a pretend defensive tone.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart,” Big Anna teased. She softly punched Winifred in the arm and winked. Someday Winifred would work up the courage to ask Anna to stop with the play-punches she didn’t know left little bruises. Sharing a town with Big Anna was like sharing a room with an older sibling. It made Winifred glad she was an only child.

“So you coming with us for drinks?” Daryl asked.

“Can’t – gotta pick up Danielle from school,” Winifred said. Nervously she shifted from side to side, and she gave them an apologetic little smile. Big Anna countered it with a “pfft,” and a roll of her eyes.

“My treat,” Daryl added in with a high, persuading voice like it was the best offer in the world.

“Next time,” Winifred attempted to assure them, albeit obviously lying. Perhaps socializing and psychoanalyzing everyone was a fond past-time of hers, but putting on a poker face to tell a fib was not.

“Ross, you say that every time. One day I’m gonna get you wasted, girl,” Big Anna told her, ending the statement with a flirtatious laugh.

The owner of one of the few fruit stands in the marketplace, Io, walked past with his round glasses hanging off the tip of his reddened ski-jump nose. The three said hello to the middle-aged man who smiled enthusiastically and nodded to each. The language barrier with Io always prevented actual conversations from happening, yet everyone knew him to be an unnaturally nice man.

“Anyway, we’re going to get going,” Daryl decided. “See you later?”

“You bet,” Winifred told the two. “Dinner tomorrow Daryl, don’t forget again.”

“I won’t!” Big Anna called out when they began to walk away.

Turning back to the schoolhouse, Winifred briskly walked across the street to avoid the small pack of paramedics on their bicycles going by. Recognized by the blue and white bands they wore on their arms, the groups of often three to four patrolled the streets, always mobile. More often than not they took on the responsibility of an Old World police officer as well and, when it came down to it, the “policing paramedics” were a major asset to Chico’s control. Armed and educated: a vital force.

Not that they were any more respected that any other form of questionable authority. But seeing them so active provided that comforting security that helped Winifred sleep at night.

From the chain link fence enclosing the playground where a row of overgrown hedges spilled onto the sidewalk, Winifred could see Danielle playing some hand-clapping game with her often-talked-about friend, Dora. But when she saw Winifred approaching, Danielle stopped playing altogether and ran to the fence, exclaiming loudly, “Winnie! Win, guess what? Guess, Winnie!”

“I dunno, tell me.”

“No, I said guess!” Danielle protested.

“Ms. A said she got the highest on the geography test,” her friend Dora announced. Danielle beamed up at Winifred, her grin exposing the gap where both teeth had fallen out. There was a smudge of deep pink on her cheek, either crayon or jam, and her yellow coat had a new heart drawn in black marker on the right shoulder.

“Good job, Danny.” Winifred began to crouch down in front of the young girl to ask her more about it when the three teachers standing beneath the towering sycamore tree spotted Winifred and a flurry of gossiping sprung up amongst them. Trying to ignore it, Winifred smiled back at Danielle and opened her mouth only to be cut off by the sound of crunching leaves beneath hard footwear.

“Ms. Ross? A word?” Amelia Dobrici, a woman who looked like the human equivalent of a hawk. She had a narrow face with large eyes and a pointed nose, a receding chin much too small for the rest of her face. Her voice was like a cat’s purr, and somehow she always managed to put too many “ee” sounds in every sentence. She always moved with high intent, like every little task was a top secret mission. There was little about Amelia Dobrici that Winifred could consider pleasant.

“Just one sec, ‘kay?” Winifred said to Danielle, who shrunk away from the sight of the elderly teacher. Through the fence Winifred gripped Danielle’s hand and gave the bright girl a reassuring look. It wasn’t often that a child so used to breaking the sound barrier with her voice would respond so timidly. Seeing Danielle looking embarrassed was a dead giveaway as to why Winifred needed to be spoken to.

Winifred stood and walked around to the gate, waiting as Amelia unlocked the heavy padlock and let Winifred enter. A handgun was concealed beneath her blouse which she emphasized by keeping one hand draped over it, a rule amongst teachers who were no longer just academic influences and part-time surrogates, but also survivalist instructors and bodyguards.

The two drifted over to a plastic castle where a lonely boy was poking at an insect with a twig. For a brief moment the two women stood in a silence disturbed by a sparrow’s song while Amelia collected her thoughts, her fingertips pressed together beneath her chin in deep thought. During that time Winifred glanced over at the other two teachers who watched excitedly from the corner of their eyes.

“As you know,” Amelia began, only to pause again. She pursed her lips together and continued. “As you know, there have been… incidents… involving Danielle, in which she… assaulted other classmates.” A sigh built-up inside Winifred’s chest; she knew where the conversation was going, and disappointment was not unfelt.

“Today has been the…” Amelia needed to count on her fingers for added effect. “… fourth time Danielle has assaulted classmates. This time it was a… bite. This sort of attitude and behavior is not acceptable… Ms. Ross.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Winifred was quick to say. The violence was one thing, but the concern over biting another classmate was more than just a little unsettling. Winifred could only begin to imagine the worries it caused everyone around to witness it. “I’ll speak to her.”

“If this continues,” Amelia continued, not acknowledging what Winifred had said. “We will have to remove Danielle… from the school system.”

“I understand,” Winifred solemnly said.

“Alright,” was Amelia’s final response. She turned on her heel and marched back over to the two other teachers who waited eagerly, her arms folded neatly over her chest. The second they were rejoined by their older counterpart a storm of hushed words combatted each other for dominance.

Winifred didn’t dawdle herself; she returned back to Danielle, who had already said goodbye to her friend and stood with her head bowed by the gate. In her hands she held a purple and green backpack with a dinosaur on the front that had the names of their makeshift family on it, along with two stickmen sharing a parachute. It was difficult being upset and stern with a child who had the act of being adorable down to a T.

“What did they say?” Danielle asked. She knew she was in trouble and yet attempted to sound oblivious, totally innocent.

“We’ll talk later,” Winifred told her. The two slipped through the gate after Amelia made them wait to be freed, and it rattled when it clattered closed behind them. Winifred took Danielle’s backpack from her and slung it over her shoulder, and she held Danielle’s small hand as they began walking down the sidewalk in the direction of home. It meant going by the family-run bakery that had genuine cupcakes displayed in the storefront window. Every day Winifred and Danielle would stop and look at the colorfully decorated creations; they would bask in the sugary warmth that wafted out each time the door opened and the bell above it would ring softly. Sometimes Danielle would declare that she would be a baker who travelled the world to “lost cilivizations” and discover old recipes the world forgot.

Today wasn’t that kind of day. Danielle didn’t look up at the bakery with a sparkling hunger in her eyes; she watched the scuffed fronts of her shoes take small steps over the cracks in the pavement with a frumpy look. It brought up a lump in Winifred’s throat as the inevitability of starting the conversation loomed on the very near future.

Winifred looked up as a quick burst of noise tore down the street, the rapid whirling clicks of bicycles speeding by. The group of paramedics from before was heading back down the same route, only with a stronger determination. One spoke into a walkie-talkie and barked orders to the rest. Like many others standing on the sidewalk, Winifred and Danielle stopped and watched the group pull up by the side of the schoolhouse. Amelia Dobrici ran out to greet them, her arms flinging everywhere in a flustered panic.

“I have to tie my shoe,” Danielle quickly said.

Still watching the paramedics as they ran into the front doors of the schoolhouse with haste, Winifred didn’t notice as Danielle ducked out of sight and crawled away behind a scraggly bush. Through a hole where the leaves parted Danielle could see Winnie’s legs, still in the same position as –

A sudden boom, a gunshot, and a woman crying out hysterically. The sudden still tableaux of a dimming street came to life as the stock still on-lookers began to back away in shocked, hesitant gaits. Then the second gunshot rang out.

Winifred jumped, her heart now suddenly working overtime, and reached down to latch onto Danielle. Her fingers grasped at thin air, and as the first few bits of the crowd began to push against Winifred in a fleeing panic, Winifred wheeled around and discovered Danielle had vanished.

“Danielle?” Winifred called out. Over the many different voices shouting at once it was impossible to hear a response. Ahead a few soldiers rushed to the schoolhouse, weapons readied.

“Danny!” Winifred screeched.

Silence. The crowd had dispersed leaving only Winifred left on an empty street. A frantic fear came over her and she started to follow the crowd’s direction, turning every which way and calling out for the young girl.

“Danielle!”

Someone responded.

From the steps of the schoolhouse the soldiers began sprinting down the road, Amelia Dobrici waving a finger at Winifred and shouting, “It’s the child!” Blood soaked the front of her blouse.

As the guns of the soldiers lifted and pointed at Winifred, she shot her hands up in the air immediately. The group of five advanced slower, the two in the front transfixed on Winifred while the three behind swept the area.

“Where’s the girl, ma’am?” the smallest soldier asked.

“I don’t know,” Winifred said. The fear of losing Danielle escalated and was joined by a fear of being shot. There were a lot of things Winifred thought to say in her defense without even knowing the full accusation. Her brain didn’t connect with her mouth, however, leaving her stranded and wordless.

“Tell us where she is,” the head of the pack insisted more forcefully. The five spread out in a semi-circle in front of Winifred, but their eyes weren’t the only ones watching. Winifred could see faces pressed against windows, bystanders enjoying the thrilling show.

“I – I don’t…”

“Win-nie-ee.” The defeated sob, the declaration of guilt, the way Danielle emerged from the bush with a pleading look in watery eyes. There was a small emptiness in Winifred’s head as she tried to wrap the remnants of her working brain around the scenario. It all felt momentarily like a nightmare, and Winifred looked on at the child in disbelief rivalling a rising abjection.

“We need you to come with us.” Someone said it, and even if Winifred had heard it as clear as day, it was just a quick blur as the unexplainable dawned on her – but answers were not necessary when she knew what the final result would be.

A burst of gravel peppered the wall inches from her head when she wheeled around and haphazardly scooped Danielle up in her arms. She buckled under the weight of the little girl, nearly tripping, but pushed on down a wide alley as a few other pops echoed behind her. The world slipped by too quickly to see anything and there was a pounding rush from behind that made her skittish terror increase.
Up ahead there was a metal door ajar and Winifred made it her goal to reach the door –

There was no initial pain. Warmth began to leak down Winifred’s calf. It grew hot quickly, and it felt like something heavy was pushing through her leg. The second Winifred truly noticed it was when her balance caved and she fell to her knees, Danielle rolling out of her arms. Shakily Winifred looked down at the growing dark splotch in her jeans and came to the conclusion she had been shot.

As pale as a ghost with eyes like a deer opposing a truck, Danielle gaped at Winifred noiselessly. Despite the urge to scramble forward and shield Danielle, a shock overwhelmed her and confusion settled in.

“Keep running,” Winifred sharply told Danielle before the blubbering began. The child didn’t budge. “Don’t –”

A heavy thud collided into her back and Winifred was forced face-first into the rough gravel. A hot stream of whiplash ripped apart the back of her neck. She tried to squirm but a boot stood on top of her with all of its weight she yelped out weakly, “I’m pregnant! Please, please! I’m pregnant!”

It loosened, but only marginally. A gun still stayed locked on her; that much she knew.

Winifred flipped her head around to see Danielle, to see the paramedics strip the child in the stinging cold while she howled and screamed for Winifred to save her. They tore off her shirt and inspected every inch of her exposed flesh, unflinching when Danielle began crying about not wanting to die.

“D-do what they say,” Winifred gently said to her, whether the girl could hear her or not. “It’ll be okay, Danny. I promise. Just do what they say.”

The boot kicked her in the ribs and retook its place between her shoulder blades. Through gritted teeth Winifred hissed and groaned at the pain.

“There’s no mark,” one of the paramedics grumbled. Winifred closed her eyes and strained to not whimper, not in front of a very vulnerable Danielle.

“She’s not infected,” Winifred pleaded. Another brutal kick to her ribs. It dulled the pain of the bullet wound which had only begun to claim attention, but it hurt enough to reduce Winifred to instant tears.

“Winnie! Winnie!” Danielle hollered.

“Infected," one of them confirmed after a bout of analyzing.

Airborne?”

“No… it’s –”

“A Carrier…”

“Bring it in.”

“Winnie, plee-ee-ease! Win-in-nie…”

“It’ll be okay. I love you.”

Danielle’s eyes were scrunched so tightly together and her smooth cheeks and chin glistened from the tears and spittle, and the way her face remained in a terrified scream with no noise coming out in-between pauses for breath was the last thing Winifred saw before a solid blow to her forehead brought her into an unthinking darkness.

---

January, 2022

I felt happy when I heard they might have found a cure. I felt sick when I heard my sister was it.

- Lacy Greenfield

Little to see beyond the iron bars, little to hear besides the rumble of an engine, and little to keep sane. The spottily crafted metal cage rumbled when the truck passed over the smallest of bumps. A bench extended along the wall of the cage, but it only came out less than one hand's length. Four slender, ill-dressed figures sat with their backs pressed against the cage. Every now and then a bump sent one onto the truck-bed. Their chains drew taught, collars jerked, and their frail bodies helplessly followed. They tumbled and lie with tangled limbs while summoning the energy to rise and repeat. The process went on until one's head met the bar at an edge. When they rose, their bloody hand smeared the rear window of the truck.

Three sat in the head of the truck. Unlike the chained and starving, they looked relatively healthy and free. Empty cans of food, drink, and cigarette butts lie scattered about their feet. Seven very different weapons scattered about the truck along with extra clothes of various styles and sizes. The truck resembled a proper bandit's keep with stolen goods left about unapologetically. Of the group, two smoked and laughed while pointing to weathered mile signs. Sat in the back row with all the weapons, the odd-one-out feigned sleep until there was a light thud. A hand pressed between the bars of the cage and against the glass. Bony fingers and a wide reach, it left bloody streaks as it the owner righted themselves back onto the bench. The odd-one-out, Remmy, snapped his fingers and gasped.

"Somethin's wrong, stop!" the Cajun ordered, grabbing a nearby Winchester and rising.

Weapons raised, three of them, and Simon-Pietro could not muster an ounce of fear. Only one deserved a thought. The Cajun offered him some solace in the endless days and nights. A bit of conversation here-and-there nourished the mind. Some of the others dared to rebel a few weeks ago before the split-up. Not much conversation since then, not much to keep sanity but the cool bars against his bony back. Why fear guns when starvation was working you down slowly? A bullet might be mercy. He eyed the three men, for a moment imagining the muzzle flashes and the painless, unthinking caress of nothingness. Despite his flesh, blood, and bone he was not a person. Those sat beside him were not people. A bit of shaped metal meant they were things to be sold, to be taken, starved, and peddled. Hard, interlacing ovals tied to a big metal collar took away Being, and a small bit of fast metal could finish the job. He salivated at the thought.

Spittle dribbled down his wiry, inches long beard as Simon fell to his knees. "Do it!" his gravelly shout ordered, "End me!"

Before anyone could oblige, Remmy stepped forward with a key raised. The other two men circled about the back of the truck with weapons levelled as the Cajun unlocked the cage. Crawling, the desperate creature approached and stared into the Cajun's eyes.

"Y'know the rules? Few miles on your feet should remind you," Remmy exclaimed, unlocking creature's collar from the shared chain.

Without a moment more the truck started again. Walking took all the will the slave could muster. His body threatened to collapse with every step, but the Cajun's company kept him standing. Well, his collar's chain attached to the rear of the truck had a part too. Despite all the pain and exhaustion they kept a slow pace longer than either expected. The whole way the Cajun attempted to start a conversation. He brought up stories the old Simon once shared about friends and, when the slave looked worst, about sex.

"Tell me again about your ladyfriend, Wendy," Remmy suggested before cocking a brow and glancing ahead.

Simon-Pietro tipped his head up. Though his face was thinner and hardened by long weeks full of sorrow, something changed if only for a second. His lips parted and a voice, this time gentle, sighed, "Winni." The light came and went with the word, but it was enough.

The truck stopped and Remmy's mouth fell into a perfect O. Too much change sent Simon's head spinning, but the even as he withdrew into himself he heard a loud noise. A thumping. As the slaves looked up from the cage and the slavers hopped out from the truck, Simon raised his head and found it.

"Oh shit..." the slaver sighed, losing his words as the cigarette fell from mouth.

The second slaver, this one taller with a practiced stand followed it with squinted eyes. "Military. Blackhawk. Light skin and no arms, looks like a scout."

A great weight fell onto Simon in that moment. He collapsed too quickly for Remmy to help, but the Cajun knelt beside him al the same. Tightness balled in Simon's chest making it hard to breath or to swallow. What little there was felt small, something beyond him at risk. It was familiar -- it was fear. Regardless of the spinning and the panic a thought forced its way through. He knew this area, he was not born far from here. They were in California or Nevada. And only the rumour of Evergreen wet Emperor's appetite more than the truth of Chico.

Simon felt his mind whither leaving the thought to crumble. The words military and Chico clung in his mind, but the exhaustion came in one last wave.

Click for appropriate music.

A brief murmur slipped out from between the lips of the sleeping giant sprawled out across the narrow mattress, thin cracks of the early dawn light managing to slip through the blinds which were draped over the windows of the compact trailer, though this didn’t seem to stir the occupant whatsoever. Yet the sudden yells of a child’s voice somewhere outside did, causing Coltrane to jolt out of his sleep with an added curse, his fingers having already found their way to the grip of the Glock 17 which he kept at his side every night. Thin beads of sweat running down the rugged features of his face, despite the cold, he wiped his palm against his face and took the opportunity to quickly peer back out through the window, spotting a group of children engaged in some kind of imaginary game that only they would’ve understood. “C’mon, Trane, pull yourself together..” Coltrane lethargically muttered to himself as he climbed out of bed, shuffling over to where his cargo pants leather jacket had been draped over the counter the previous night and sluggishly slipping back into them. He’d been living in the trailer for just over a week and a half and yet it still felt strangely alien to him, but then again the whole of Chico did. He still found it difficult to settle into such a peaceful, ‘safe’ locale as he had, and it wasn’t easy to break out of the habit of being alert on a 24/7 basis, even during sleep, so it wasn’t the first time he’d been jolted awake by the sound of a few kids playing outside or a hammer nailing in some new bodywork on one of the neighbouring trailers. Not that he was complaining about his living conditions - he’d certainly seen worse down in Southern Cali, and he had no intention of going back to that if he had anything of a say in the matter.

Sure, it was a fairly small living space but he’d never needed much. At the back was a narrow mattress which doubly served as a seat and a place to put his head down when he needed, and there were a few cupboards, drawers and other storage compartments where he could put his few belongings, including his beloved CD and mix tapes which he’d been able to retrieve from the old Chevy before he’d passed it on to Daryl’s friend, Wess, for scrap after it turned out that the car wouldn’t have lasted for more than another mile or two, if that. On the counter was an old 90’s ghettoblaster - a new addition to Coltrane’s few prized possessions - which had the capacity to play both CD’s and tapes, surprisingly enough, though the damned thing required new batteries all the time which were fairly costly by themselves, so he limited himself to only a few tracks per day. The only things that the trailer seemed to be missing were central heating and a running water supply from the tiny kitchen unit at the front - though wrapping up in his cargo jacket suited him fine enough for the time being and the availability of a public water pump just outside made it a non-issue.

Zipping up his jacket, Coltrane leaned towards a third of whiskey resting on the nearby kitchen top and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle, bringing it to his lips to take a good, long swig as he savoured the strong but invigorating taste. Outside it was a luxury he was seldom afforded, but behind the thick, sturdy walls of Chico it felt like a commodity almost as available as a warm bed to sleep on. “Man..” He muttered to himself for a moment, before realising that he’d best leave the bottle alone until he’d got back from work - in the short time he’d spent in Chico, he’d managed to find himself a simple job for the time being working on one of the maintenance crews - something in his field that he’d certainly had experience with in the past. The work wasn’t glamorous, but the pay was stable enough that he could get by and afford himself a few extra little things to appreciate after the day’s work - and so he didn’t want to get that all screwed up by turning up half-drunk, so with a brief snort he pressed his palms into his knees to stand up and headed out the door, locking it behind him with a set of keys he guarded just as closely as he did the Impala’s.

It took him about a half hour of walking through crowded suburban streets, a genera of prefabricated housing and carefully arranged mobile homes and trailers dotted across the area, with little allotments and market stalls in between from time to time. Kids were playing soccer, basketball and pretty much any other sport or game they could that took them back to a time when Coltrane himself was a kid, and for just a moment he imagined himself walking through his old neighbourhood in South Central - the morning sun overlooking the street, his best friend Ty stood by his porch with his favourite basketball under one arm and a ‘borrowed’ bottle of malt liquor in the other hand, no doubt with plans to get up to the kind of mischief that most young boys who fooled around with booze would. Good times, he thought. Back before everything had gone as bad as it did, and Coltrane had screwed everything up - at least, that was what he thought about it. The sight of a familiar face in the distance eventually snapped him out of it, a forty-something year old man with a bushy black beard and a ponytail which made him look like the stereotypical biker, sunglasses, leather jacket and all.

“Bruce.” He threw the man a nod as he drew closer, noticing that he was leaning against the bed of a worse-for-wear looking Ford F-350 super duty towtruck. With a gravelly voice, he addressed Coltrane with a fairly casual tone that indicated the two somewhat knew each other and were on friendly terms “Ey’ man, I see you’re up here earlier than most.” Bruce remarked, pointing out the fact that the others weren’t yet here. “Eh, I figured it’d make a better impression if I didn’t turn up late on my first few weeks, know what I’m sayin’?” Coltrane responded as he climbed into the truck bed, propping his knee up against the side of the crane whilst he sat himself against the side. “How’ve you been?” He asked, rubbing a hand down the side of the crane. “Y’know, same old, same old. Neighbours were getting their asses soaked in booze last night, but then again it’s no surprise with all the shit that’s been going on lately.” Bruce shrugged indifferently, glancing back up to Coltrane. “Like what?” was his response, only for Bruce to stare at him with a ‘Really?’ expression before eventually summing it up. “Huh, you ain’t heard? Rumours been going all around the place about them finding some sorta fuckin’ cure, I mean would you fuckin’ believe it? A cure, after all this time? Shit, man...” Coltrane’s eyes widened at the words. “You serious?” he asked again, still a little unsure on whether or not Bruce was pulling his leg. “Course I’m fuckin’ serious, man. There was a big scene the other day, soldiers and shit like that - you can’t be tellin’ me that they’d try and pull a scene like that just for some bullshit.”

“Holy shit..” Coltrane muttered to himself, a little lost for words at this point. Thinking back to the bottle he’d left in the trailer, he wondered whether or not he should’ve really left it there. Left to his train of thought, Coltrane pondered over the implications of what he’d just learned as they waited for the others to turn up. A cure? Sure, it could’ve just been some rumours but he knew Bruce fairly well enough to know that he wouldn’t bullshit something like that, and by the sounds of it the involvement of Chico’s militia indicated this was the real deal. Maybe it would give them a shot at rebuilding the world altogether, and completely ridding the outside world of the dead which had come to know it as home. Eventually the other three turned up, though their faces were only vaguely familiar and he’d seen them at most maybe once or twice before on his past few shifts. With Bruce loaded up in the driver’s seat and the other two loaded up in the cab, Coltrane was the only one riding in the back, though this gave him even more time to dwell on his thoughts as they set off for their first port of call. Damn, he really wanted that bottle just about now...

Cassie sighed and swung her feet back and forth idly as she took in what was left of the Detroit cityscape from her high perch. From the roof of the skyscraper she’d claimed for herself, she could see the complete and utter desolation that the city had been thrown into. Buildings were decrepit and generally crawling with the undead, the more easily accessible places having been ransacked years ago, and in the northwest corner of the city was an impact area from one of the many meteors that had crashed into the States. Barely anything remained standing in that section of the city, except for the odd little shop that huge crater and quake resulting from the hit had spared and some FEMA tents and equipment and tents from when the world was still trying to staunch the bleeding. Didn't work out too well in their favor.

Actually, the woman admitted to herself with a little smirk, nothing had really changed much since the apocalypse; the city had been a pretty shitty place for years before. Not even the generous covering of virgin snow could trick someone into thinking this place had ever been pure. Even so, she still got a pang of nostalgia looking over the city. She remembered driving to it with her parents to see the Red Wings play hockey at the Joe since she had been in pigtails, going to one of the many venues with her friends to see their favorite bands when she was a teen, and even BASE jumping for the first time off the top of the very building she sat on now. Her and her dad, together… despite her mother’s protest that their daughter’s first BASE jump not be an illegal one.

The memories prompted her to look down at the photo clutched in her gloved hands for the first time since she entered the city. A group photo with all the divers from her drop zone sprawled around or on their plane, blue skies above them and summer fields behind. The family she grew up with. All sixty-something of them smiling and laughing while they sang the song of the skydiving team in which they all belonged. And sitting in the door of that plane was a young Cass sitting between her parents, her arms wrapped around their necks in a one-armed hug as they sang with the rest. She could still hear them all bellowing the bawdy song of the Flying Hellfish as they swayed with the rhythm and she sang along in her head now.

You can tell a Hellfish by his dick
By his dick!
You can tell a Hellfish by his dick
By his dick!
‘Coz it’s twenty inches thick
And it’s always in a chick
You can tell a Hellfish by his dick

You can tell a Hellfish by her tits
By her tits!
You can tell a Hellfish by her tits
By her tits!
‘Coz they’re really nice to squeeze
And they’re always flappin’ in the breeze
You can tell a Hellfish by her tits

Oh glorious! Victorious!
One keg of beer for the four of us
Lucky there’s no more of us
‘Coz it’s barely just enough for us
Damn near!
Pass the beer!
To the rear!
Of the plane!
HELLFISH!

Cassie giggled to herself, the sound of it getting caught up in the swirling winter winds rushing through the city. She was glad she decided to grab this picture off the wall covered in a menagerie of similar ones when she’d stopped by the drop zone on her way to Mackinac, just like she always did. Not only had she made it a place for respite during her travels where she could reminisce and be at home, but she also wanted to bring a little something of her dad to show Brianna every time she came to visit. Cassie’s daughter would never get to meet her grandpa, but that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t get to know the great man that he was. Though, she admitted to herself, she'd probably wait a few years before teaching her little Squish the lyrics to the Hellfish song; three was a bit young for that special brand of nonsense.

Despite her want to linger a bit longer on her ledge, the increased pounding on the door to access the roof told her that the time for dawdling had passed. She’d done what she came to do her in the first place anyway, having found a path she could drive through to safely make it from the city from her superior height, so there was really nothing but her own procrastination keeping her where she was. So she stuffed the photo down several layers of clothing and into her bra for safe keeping and hopped up to her newly booted feet and faced back towards the only entrance to the roof. She waited impatiently for the few minutes it took the zeds she’d attracted to bust down the door and stumble their way towards her. “Wow, I expected a little bit more of a crowd than this,” she told them with a sigh, “Must be getting too damn sneaky for my own good.”

Her lopsided smirk grew as more poured through the door to fill up the roof space. That opening may very well have been the only entrance, but it most certainly wasn’t the only exit. At least, that is, for Cassie. With a cackle she grabbed the lead zombie by the shoulders and pulled him backwards off the ledge with her, the two back flipping into the open air while the rest ambled off the edge after them. Cass pushed the zed away from her and as soon as she heard that sweet rush of air fill her ears she threw her parachute open. She steered herself towards the truck she had parked a bit down the road even while she allowed herself the satisfaction of looking back to watch dozens of zombies careen off the two hundred and seventy-two story hotel to their second, much more permanent death. Best part of the zombie apocalypse? That.

She landed softly next to the Ford diesel truck -with attached plow for additional snow and zombie slaying capabilities- she had commandeered and quickly stripped off her rig and threw it and herself in the front seat. The engine was still warm, so it started up quickly for the woman and she started to follow the path she had created in her head to escape the confines of the Motor City. Cassie was still about three hundred miles away from Mackinac Haven itself, but she planned to make it there in one straight shot. After all the help Petey and the Sentinels had given her to get her this far, she would be damned if she let all their sacrifice go to waste. The haven needed to know that their safety was at risk and that they may very well be in the 1007th’s sights now. She planned to make sure they had the most time possible to build up their defense. The only problem she really foresaw was physically getting onto the island without a boat. Well that, and she supposed the horde of zombies she knew would be waiting off the coastline for the water between them and the haven to freeze over. But, you know, mostly the boat thing. Joining the polar bear club was currently not high on her list of things to do, nor did she think her cold-intolerant, crotchety body really would appreciate it.

Remmy

Remmy just sat there. His body slumped in the window seat, feinting sleep, and body jerked when the worn tire passed over each road bump. Bright eyes closed and lost in deep thought, arms crossed over in a familiar while he leaned against the window’s cold glass. In the back ground his ears caught the dull dribble from the jolly pair beside him which was the only thing to make him realize he wasn’t alone. Their words, gestures and rather pleasant mood didn’t wash over the usually cheerful and sociable Cajun. At that moment he drifted between the disgusted thoughts about the would be slaves in back and prior events, mentally summed where Remmy’s choices had went wrong or to be more accurate, no longer benefited his mission.

He felt his anxiety grow a bit at the future ass chewing he would receive from Kurtis, the old man in a little huff over his little detour and the fact he had carelessly tossed away the Sentinel’s months long efforts in a span of a few words. Namely just a phrase but it worked, and then his mind glazed over the Slaver group he had been running with for some time and their reaction to his sudden change of heart. Remmy wasn’t surprised to find it was Hayden who was left a little dumbfound and disappointed. The old farm boy looked a bit grudgingly at Remmy for his choice yet knew anything said wouldn’t have changed the Cajun’s mind, merely made wished him good luck. Paul merely grumbled about being forced to make his own breakfast from now on and didn’t concern himself with his send off. Silva, on the other hand, had seemed rather relieved he was leaving. His little warning about Simon had rattled her more than he expected.

When he finally left, he had tossed away the efforts and sacrifices of many Sentinels. Any lives loss to retrieve the information or pain lived through was now pointless. His selfishness had wasted months just to cling to the idea for redemption. Even after all that Remmy was certain he would’ve made the same choice, his consequences been damned and the rest could go to hell. So now he rode here within a truck full of slobs, a slave cage hauled in back and worst of all, he could feel his foot filled with sleep’s pins and needles. For a moment Remmy had started to realize he missed his bayou home back in Florida only to hear the light thud. He jumped then, his eyes snapped behind in time to see a bloodied hand pressed against the glass and leave it’s tell signs. Panic stopped his heart, thoughts turned to Simon in back.

Jerked upright, he snapped his fingers for the other two’s attention then gasped. “Somethin’s wrong, stop!”

It took all his will not to just jump out and haul his ass to the back, his hand grasped over the Winchester on his exit. His hand opened the door seconds after the truck stopped and slammed it shut behind him, his figure already the first to head to the back followed by the other two. It had been too long since the pair had chatted. Conversation’s absence had its affect, the Cajun became a little antisocial and gloomy these past weeks, the difference well noted. Only tolerated due to his ability to make a decent meal the pair could quickly scarf down.

Quickly his boots brought Remmy closer to the back, his gun held ready and finger edged lightly over the trigger. The sight of blood made the three jittery. Blood meant a lot of things in this world, not a single one of them good or helpful as many had found out. When Simon fell to his knees begging to be killed, Remmy’s heart had seemed to shatter right then and there. A sad flicker entered his eyes that soon became a quicker action. The keys jingled, taken from Remmy’s dirty jeans, to reach out and unlocked the cage. His other hand pulled the iron bars wide while he felt the familiar sensation of guns pointed at his back.

The man’s mind lingered over the trigger fingers state didn’t help relax the Cajun, his eyes likely betrayed it to the pitiful man’s form in front of him. Finally, his guilt and fear swallowed down, he exclaimed loudly, "Y'know the rules? Few miles on your feet should remind you.”

This punishment was cruel but an excuse for him. A chance to give Simon hope and a reason to live, to help when he otherwise had his hands tied. They only had to make it to Chico alive then the Sentinels within the Haven could take it from there. If the man died before then, Remmy would never forgive himself as he hauled the pitiful shadow of Simon to his feet then leashed him to the truck. When other two slavers went back to the front, the engine roared to life and moved, caused the chain to taunt and tug the man along. Each time Simon stumbled or tripped Remmy’s stronger hands came out to hoist him upright again, ensured he wasn’t dragged along. A small, apologetic smile had secretly reached Remmy’s boyish face to ease the ill situation.

Soon he came around to working some humanity and hope back into the skeleton figure before him. It felt more one sided with each attempt, first subject shifted to Simon’s friends and then at last a topic the Cajun really missed: sex.

“Tell me again about your ladyfriend, Wendy,” Remmy purposely mispronounced Winifred’s name in hopes to catch Simon’s attention, his eyebrow raised in curiosity and taken a moment to glance ahead. He almost laughed aloud at the man’s gentle sigh, noted the spark of life in the hollow shell, and correction at his error. Remmy’s grin widened at his little secret, about to talk farther on the subject before something caught his attention. His body tensed when the truck stopped, his hand reached out to gently touch Simon’s shoulder. The pair stopped in their tracks and prevented the fragile man from toppling into the ground, Remmy’s eyes drifted to the low rumble from what seemed to be trouble. Shit he mentally cursed at spotted the Blackhawk, overheard the man read off what he knew.

That’s when Simon chose now to collapse. Concern and surprised, Remmy set his weapon down and took a knee to look the man over for answers. His hands settled upon the skeleton of man’s frame while listened to the slight gasps then tried to draw his own conclusion between Simon’s reaction and the sudden appearance of the Blackhawk. It couldn’t be an odd fact that the man choose now to give out, was it? He didn’t think so, his arm pulled the weaker man’s around his and hauled them both upright once more. Remmy half walked and half dragged his friend to prop him against the truck wheel then asked the oblivious questions on his mind.

“Simon…Simon,” His hands cupped the man’s jaw to lift his wearied eyes to meet his fearful ones, his words desperate to reach him. His fingers edged to tighten a bit at any lacking answer from the man or even signs he was fading too fast, “Are you alright? Do you know that Blackhawk? Answer me, don’t just fuckin’ give up brah.”

However before any answer could come, something coming towards them caused Remmy’s head to jerk up from a shout. Drawn by the alarm, he said one last thing to Simon, “Don’t you dare fuckin’ pass out on and die on me. You know, brah, your ladyfriend, Winni, won’t forgive ya if you did.”

With that Remmy moved away from Simon and stood, his Winchester ready, beside another slaver. The man in mute silence merely pointed his finger towards the rather large group heading towards them. In moment of realization, all the Cajun could think was that they were going to get their asses kicked… big time.

Simon sat leaned against the truck's back tire absently staring at the tall grass. The swaying, green reeds pulsed under a strangely present-yet-not shadow. Each one stood at a slant, their ends pointing away in a giant circle. He followed the particular patch of grass like it held some message. Distraught and tired and hungry, Simon-Pietro frowned at the mad thought. When his eyes passed over the half opened truck door his mind jolted. A mad idea, but beautifully so. Winni wouldn't want a riddled mind. Wouldn't want a riddled body either... Never mind that. He slumped onto his side and willed himself to stand. Raising onto all fours, Simon accepted the compromise and dragged himself into rear of the truck. He glanced backward to see the reeds nearly horizontal to the ground. After lying flat on the back seat he shut the door to a finger's width and watched.

The Blackhawk landed and with rifles protruding from the doorless sides. Weapons steadily zeroes on the slavers, seven soldiers hopped onto the ground with solid landings. Two barrels fixed on the thicker, healthiest men while the last scanned on the gaunt few seated in the cage. The seventh gun hovered over the slaves a while, perhaps saw the chains, and lowered their weapon slightly. While the slavers and soldiers stood at odds, the bound lot looked apathetic. Each soldier wore thick, desert camouflaged vests covered with pockets. They wore fatigues, pads on their elbows and knees, dark helmets, some even had thin scarves. Compared to the slavers they looked relatively untouched.

After a while the taller slaver glanced to his comrades. The shorter met eyes, but Simon saw nothing of the Cajun. Like that the taller slaver dropped prone behind a low rock and fired. His shots were reserved and consistent -- clearly trained, even to Simon's ear. The two soldiers eyeing the taller fired until a blur ran across their line of fire. Rather than offering support, suppression, or anything of use, the short slaver took to a panicked sprint. His thigh burst twice, sending him into a tumble another ten feet. Somehow he'd kept hold of his rifle, but the bolt-action fired only once before his head popped and twitched backward. Meanwhile, the taller slave used the distraction to roll toward better cover. Simon watched him roll as dirt, bits of grass, and blood kicked up. The taller made it to cover by sheer momentum. Cringing, Simon searched for the Cajun through the thin opening. Against his better senses, he eased the door open two fingers more.

A heavy silence fell until as the soldiers fixed on the cage. The soldiers lowered their rifles, then, suddenly, one snapped himself toward the truck -- and Simon. The barrel flashed and the single clap of the bolt left a hollowness in the brief quiet after. Light peaked through a small hole just at the top of the truck's passenger door. The soldier adjusted his rifle to fire dead center into the door next, but held. "Hands visible! Get outta there! Ten seconds, get outta there or be shot!" a surprisingly high voice shouted.

Simon pushed the passenger door open and, now fully dressed, stepped out. Hands held high, he moved with a deliberate rigidity. He stood taller from his old boots and bulkier from the rest of his gear. His motley hair hid under a boxy cap found within the heap of stolen wares and junk. Between that and long coat, gifted from the 1007th after the Siege, he looked like a proper soldier. Given time and inspiration, Simon almost looked military.

"I'm a friendly," Simon exclaimed in a cough. When had he last drank? "Listen, I'm One-hundred n' seventh like you!"

"Deserter gone slaver? You tryna insult us?" another soldier barked, stepping closer and lowering their scarf. "Have ta do better than that."

Hands still over his head, Simon gingerly pointed to the symbols on his shoulders. Keeping pace, he continued, "Like hell! I'm a sergeant under Lieutenant Handley. A sniper. Was moving onto that Washington haven. Scouting. My spotter and I got ambushed by these jackasses and've been separated since. He was out here when you opened fire, my spotter. Where's he?"

Simon scoured the tall grass and shrubs for any partially hid figures. Lying so blatantly usually came easy, but he right now he couldn't bear their looks. Too many guns, too much armour, and too long since he'd eaten. He felt arms and legs trembling. The lie wasn't bad; real plan, real place, and real officer gave him a solid chance. If they knew him, they'd have shot already. Or maybe they were running a list of every sharpshooter-sergeant under their good buddy, Handley. Christ, Simon thought to himself, still looking about. Where was that damned Cajun?

The question of the hour for Acacia De Luca was one she wasn't accustomed to – rather than, “where's the food,” or perhaps, “how am I going to get out,” the question became “how did I end up here?”

This wasn't a question in the metaphorical sense, as though her life had taken a downward spiral since she'd left Daryl and the Chico haven behind, several weeks ago. Rather, this was a very literal question that she had no way of answering. The last thing she remembered was driving a brand-spanking-new BMW off of the lot of an Atlanta car dealership. She'd even gone to the trouble of removing the many coats of dust and grime from it's exterior, accumulated from over 5 years of being exposed to the elements. Sure, it wasn't going to be running over any old police barricades any time soon, but hey, it was a BMW. Rich people used to drive around in cars like these. This one had all the features, too – leather interior, sun roof, full surround sound, 4-wheel drive, top-of-the-line security for keeping the hordes of ravenous freaks away, and most importantly, a full tank of gasoline.

It also had state-of-the-art safety systems, which proved to be absolutely required when she accidentally ran over a set of road spikes and spiraled into a ditch.

The crash had knocked her out, that much was certain, but she didn't know where it was that she woke up. Only now did she connect that the tire spikes had been laid out as a trap for her, rather than a relic from some bandit ambush years before. She was thankful that she'd been moved off the road, as a stray walker climbing in through a shattered window would have surely been the end of her unconscious form. However, she had no idea where she was.

The room she'd woken up in was black and chilly, and she woke up sprawled across what felt like a concrete floor. She saw nothing, and none of her other senses were much help. She smelled nothing but a vague scent of decay, which told her that she could be anywhere in America. She heard nothing but her own heartbeat. She felt out around the room, carefully, looking for anything that could be an exit, or a source of light. She still had all her clothing, but her weapons had been entirely removed. She thought back to a camping light she had stowed in her duffel bag, carelessly tossed in the back of her car, and wished that she had it with her now more than ever.

The room, as far as she could tell, hardly counted as such. It was about the size of what most people considered a standard office cubicle, hardly big enough for her to stretch out entirely within. The roof was low, and didn't allow her to stand upright. The air got stale rapidly, and a vague feeling of claustrophobia kicked into play in her mind.

“WAKE UP!” A voice screamed electronically over a set of loudspeakers, coming too loudly and from too many directions to be natural. On cue, blindingly white lights flipped on as one all around the room, which, as it turned out, was much larger than she'd anticipated. Once she'd blinked away the spots in her eyes, she realized that she was actually in a clear box of some sort, about 7 feet around in every direction except up. The room around her box was larger, four white walls staring at her, with no visible entrances or exits. She also realized that she wasn't alone in the room. At least a dozen walkers were stuttering around in the larger area outside her little box, directionless without a source of food. A few skeletons were laying nearby as well, some old and scattered and picked completely clean, others very disturbingly fresh.

“Good!” The Voice said happily, evidently able to see her moving about. She pinned down where it was coming from. Megaphones were haphazardly stuck to the roof of the larger room every meter or so, blaring out noise. The walkers paced towards the walls mindlessly, changing direction every few steps, confused by the sound coming from so many directions.

“OK Miss, today you're going to be a part of a little experiment.” The Voice said cooly. “You'll notice that there's a small path from your cell, leading out into the room. Follow the path, and and the end of it lies your exit.”

Acacia scanned her box, more thoroughly this time, and noticed a slight path near the floor, a space hardly more than 8 or 9 inches in height. It was hardly more than the size of a ventilation shaft, like something you'd pull a small child out of when they went wandering. She laid down next to it and looked through – completely clear, just like her cell, leading into the wall. It would be wide enough for her to fit through, but she looked down at herself and hoped that her form would be slim enough to allow her passage.

Looking around again and seeing no alternative, she gave a resigned grunt and pushed forward. Her head fit, and her body began to follow, only to be stopped by the fabric of her hoodie. Try as she did, she wasn't able to fit herself any further forward. Scrambling back out, she removed the sweater and tried again. This time saw her get a little bit further, but not much. She was pressed against the walls of the tiny passage haphazardly, and realized with absolute certainty that the strap of her bra was stopping her from fitting the rest of her body.

She took a moment to stare icily at the vent, glaring at it like she could intimidate it into getting taller. She crawled in again, and encountered the same blockage. There wasn't a millimeter of space between her shoulders and the top of the vent, and she realized she probably should've considered herself fortunate to fit at all. She held back a curse, and scanned for the camera that was watching her, before reaching under her shirt and removing her undergarment. With little else to do, she left it in a pile with her hoodie in the cell. There was no room for her to take them.

The next try, she made it up to her hips, before her belt got caught. This time she did swear, audibly, and extracted herself. The walkers heard her, and found their way over to the box. Dull pounding ensued as they gnawed and punched at it. As much encouragement to get out of it as Acacia needed. Off went the belt. Into the pile. She started crawling again.

She could feel herself sweating, despite the cold floor. The air was getting even more stale, with no circulation besides her own body fanning any current. There was no ventilation. She had to get through the passage, soon. The lack of space made it hard to move at all, and she found herself pulling forward by the palms of her hands, sliding them forward and back about 4 or 5 inches at a time.

She got all the way up to her jeans, again, and something snagged. Her pants. She snarled in defiance at the obstruction and pressed forward, scuttling her limbs back and forth like a trapped beast, and felt herself advance, her jeans sliding off of her. She didn't allow herself to be embarrassed. She had other things to worry about.

The tunnel was long and never let up, even when it went under the walls and into another, identical white-walled room. This one had more walkers. The passage sloped up, just slightly, so she was at waist height with them as she crawled through to the top of the room. The plastic-glass it was made of was slippery and nearly frictionless, making ascent a terribly miserable experience.

She went through four rooms in this way. Four long, exhausting, miserable rooms, before finally dropping, unceremoneously, into another 5 foot cell. She was hot and cold, sweating and panting while at the same time realizing just how unpleasant the concrete floor was to sit on without pants. Over this room's set of loudspeakers, the Voice chastised her. “My word, I leave for 10 minutes and when I come back you're half naked and covered in sweat.” He said it condescendingly, as if speaking down to a child. “Oh well. You won't win any points for nudity, but I certainly don't mind it. Continue.”

Acacia's blood boiled with anger, a kind she hadn't felt since she'd left Legion. She didn't know who this guy was, but she was going to kill him, and she was going to enjoy it.

This room's passage out was large enough to walk through, thankfully, though only barely. It was the same low height as the box, which made it impossible to walk properly. It twisted and turned through more rooms, and intersected with other tunnels like it on both sides, more than once. Acacia ignored them. If this did turn out to be a maze, she decided, she'd rather hit a dead and and then go back to check another path, than chance a turn at random. She wasn't even sure if there was an exit at all. The tunnel twisted and turned as it wormed its way through the building, and after walking for half an hour, she felt sure that she had crossed back at least once.

Each room was different. Some were completely white and sterile, empty except for the tubes. Others were filled to the brim with walkers, packed together like cows for slaughter. One room in particular was filled with nothing but decayed or decaying skeletons as a carpet, some fresh, others so old that there was nothing left of them but a grease spot on the floor and yellow bones. Some walls were unpainted, others were covered in dents and scrapes, like a giant clay mold that someone had taken a sledgehammer to.

Finally, she was dumped out in the largest chamber she'd yet come across, a circular arena just big enough that she could probably drive a car around the edge of it, if she pulled it really tight. The edges of the circle were made of the same white material as the walls of the rooms, and more passages like the one she'd just exited were jutting out of it and winding off into more tiny rooms.

Acacia walked forward cautiously, shivering slightly. She suspected she might be underground somewhere – the damp cold that surrounded her wasn't something you'd experience anywhere else in Georgia. The tube directly in front of her looked as good as any, and she continued, rounding the corner into another room, and came face to face with an undead.

It was even taller than she was, and was bent over cartoonishly to fit into the space. It's dead flesh was hanging off of it's skull, and it's grey eyes were covered in scars and scratches. It grinned at her.

Acacia scrambled back, turning around and running back into the large chamber, the side of her head continually bumping on the ceiling. She could hear it following her, scraping, lumbering steps and the smack of decaying skin hitting the walls.

Finally, she reached the main chamber, and turned to face the walker as it fell out of the passage behind her. She took stock – she had no protection hardly at all, except for a flimsy T-shirt. No real weapons, but she still had her shoes. That was it. Luckily, that was all she needed.

The walker was on it's feet again in an instant and Acacia ran towards it, throwing her shoulder into it's chest and sending it flying back onto the floor. It's skull collided with the floor in a disgustingly wet cracking noise, but that wasn't enough. It would've been at least a concussion or a fracture on a living human, but the undead didn't play by those rules.

Acacia stepped over it and planted her sneaker on the walker's chest, forcing it back against the concrete once again. Then it was up, and she stomped – once, twice, three times, on the thing's forehead, until finally, it went limp.

The survivor stepped back and examined the carnage. She'd stopped the zed permanently, but her right foot was now covered in all sorts of disgusting things that she didn't want to think about. Her shoe squelched with every step she took, and she realized that she could feel the cold liquid it was soaked in find it's way past her sock and onto her bare foot.

Without hesitation, she stripped the shoe and sock off and tossed them away with a wet splat. Her right foot was now bare, leaving her with one shoe, her underwear, and a faded t-shirt to cover herself. She was not pleased.

“Well I must say,” the Voice said, “I'm impressed. The others usually ran into one of them long before you did, but you handled it quite well. Consider yourself lucky. Though I wouldn't say for long.”

The speakers crackled silent again, and Acacia could only wonder at what he meant. She considered continuing down her chosen path, the one she'd led the walker out of, and thought the better of it. One walker surely meant more.

As if reading her thoughts, she heard a faint scraping. At the opposite end of the room, she turned to see a deader with an old military uniform crawling towards her, his left leg exposed to the bone. His face was gone, a single eye staring widely at her, the jaw clicking as he groaned out into the air. He had no nose, no skin on most of his face, no ears. He was hardly more than a skull.

Acacia walked towards it, and thought better. She wasn't particularly keen on wasting her other shoe, the walker didn't look like it had anything useful on it's body, and the thing was slow, very slow.

Behind her, something took in a rattling breath, and she turned on reflex, swinging her still shoed leg in a roundhouse kick worthy of a Chuck Norris movie. The 2nd walker fell down, moments from sinking it's teeth into her shoulder, and began to get up immediately. Acacia backed away.

Behind her, again. Another kick, this one strong enough that it actually knocked the thing a few feet away, to land next to the army vet, who had gotten much closer, much faster than she'd thought.

Walkers were coming in from all sides, emerging from all the tunnels. She couldn't remember the direction she came in from, she'd been completely disoriented by the kick.

“Best make a decision, miss.” The Voice told her, as at least 15 walkers closed in on the cornered survivor. Acacia did the only thing she could do. She turned, and ran into the tube behind her.

Remmy

Remmy liked the situation less and less by the moment.

It was going to be a shit storm from the look of it and that seemed to be the story of his life, every god damn time. He did choose this after all but didn’t mean he had to like the result. His fingers seemed to wring the Winchester from the building anxiety, bright blue eyes narrowed over the Blackhawk lower bit by bit nearby. The black form of the chopper lighted upon the nearest open spot, a deafening roar from the propellers whipping the surrounding air as out pops seven. Seven tall, rough soldiers dressed in identical vests, filled with pockets, and almost uniform in appearance unlike the motley crew they had cornered. Each sported a trained guns over them and one over the poor miscreants in back, the gloved fingers rested upon their triggers while time ticked by. By this time, Remmy had realized Simon’s body was gone. Where the hell the man went or how it was possibly he could only guess but he sincerely hoped it was safer than this cluster fuck situation.

Reminded of this, Cajun’s breath seemed to still in his throat leaving him breathless. The endless pounding within his ears seemed to overwhelm the chopper’s vibrations, fast and powerful, unable to outdo his little racing muscle’s efforts. For the moment, Remmy tried to look them into the eyes. Only to be met with by a cold, black cover across their eyes and steel nervous to shoot first. They were trained and organized. This made things worse Remmy didn’t like to admit and hoped against running into.

When the slaver glanced over to Remmy, the Cajun’s eyes met his and pleaded with the man not to something stupid. Yet there was fear. A familiar thing in Apolcalytica seeped from the man, the type Remmy encountered many times before. Now the Slaver’s common sense was more in tune with a corner animal then any human and for that reason, the same decision a trapped rat bites the larger cat, the man opened fire. So much for his luck, Remmy thought bitterly as his feet rushed into motion. He was the one closest to the truck front and promptly ducked around it. Bullets ricocheted once, twice and three times off the hood. Each one made a loud ping, right beside Remmy in the process causing him to pick up the pace. Boots scrambled, kicked up dirt in his haste, when Cajun’s back pressed firmly against his makeshift barricade.

“Shit!” The Cajun cursed under his breath.

His head and body buzzed with adrenaline, face turned to spot the taller man jerked back and hide behind a rock. White flashed from his gun barrel towards the uniformed troops. No rapid, sloppy shots but pure purely trained pot shots. It seemed the man had been military or had some formal training the way Remmy notice he kept tight with the weapon.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Remmy’s head peered up only to immediately duck farther down, his fingers tighten about the Winchester. Then the sound of darting feet caused his ears, fast and panicked. Again he peered out around the truck this time to see one of the Slavers rabbiting. The short, fat man scrambled across the shooter’s sight line like a damn fool. Quickly he pulled his gun to the side then popped off a few shots, a faint hope to buy the man some time. Yeah he was a Slaver but Remmy wasn’t a killer. That’s God’s job to sort them out when they met him, be them good, bad, or ugly.

Twin burst of blood declared direct hits and the man tumbled into the dirt, his painful yells screamed when Remmy been caught reloading. His finger worked fast and precise, never fumbled once. It didn’t matter. In a pitiful way, the man’s hand went for his gun and shot off one round. The bullet clipped the shoulder of a man just after they put the miserable ass down. A bullet to the head, his figure slumped over and went still. The Cajun’s reload ended while he heard gun fire again. His ears seemed to deafen by the gun fight, mainly because he was on the losing end, before he kneeled in on one knee. Again he popped up and returned fire once. His aim short and not aimed to kill. Merely to maim or discourage return fire, Remmy didn’t aim to give these home boys a reason to flat out kill him. At least one right away. He worked like a machine, up then down, up then down in rapid procession with each return fire. The taller slaver seemed to hold his own as well until Remmy saw the red spread from the man’s leg, staining the shirt and pants in his crouched position. It seemed during his move to better cover, he took a shot. Now he was slowly bleeding to death.

Remmy’s eyes peered over and took a chance. His feet kicked out from the truck’s cover, darted right ahead in hopes to make. Fires scattered dirt in his wake while the Cajun’s feet moved faster, his boot taken long strides and ate away the distance. Not fast enough it seemed. Pain erupted in Remmy’s head as his leg crumbled underneath him, the last bit fell into a sloppy scramble just another round buried itself right into his side! Remmy swerved around and pushed his body smaller, fitted against the hard surface of the rock. His lungs seemed unable to breath, his chest seized up thanks to the myriads fire spread from his wounds.

“Brah, I should shoot ya here and now for bein’ stupid!” The Cajun hissed through gritted teeth. Bite the pain back, Remmy forced his mind to tend to his injuries. First the leg one since it was easier to examine. He hunched over, fought not to instinctively curl into a painful ball. His hands gripped the jeans around the thigh, a loud rip when he jerked them apart and examined the wound. It had fortunately gone through the thick muscle and straight out. That meant it would heal without the added damage from his rooting around for the bullet or risk of infection.

Now for his side, his figure shifted to lean on his elbow. His eyes looked at the bloody mess the bullet had caused, mostly result from the seepage rather than actual damage. Again the sound of ripping clothes reached Remmy’s ears when the shirt came next. Fuck…Remmy cursed, his face looked away and settled back.

“Shut the fuck up and just sh-“The man never finished. His words cut off when a bullet clipped the rock edge, a fresh wave of fire exploded. Instantly he ducked down, his hand undid the clip. Remmy’s eyes dipped to see the man only had a few shots left: 3 to be exact.

Remmy just chuckled for a moment. The man’s scowl looked at him yet it didn’t stop the Bayou boy’s amusement at the situation. In his head, it couldn’t get any worse. Sadly, it seemed the man didn’t share his thoughts as the Slaver leaned towards the rock edge, his legs coiled and ready. This got Remmy’s attention and his eyebrow raised in question, slightly wondered if the man aimed to go for the ammo reserves in the truck’s back seat. It might’ve been a short distance yet most the guns were likely train on the gap between, aimed to kill at the first man to try. He, himself, got lucky just to be shot one.

Before Remmy could stop him, the man shot forward towards the truck and was stopped just short. Six or seven shot rang out, the Slaver’s body hit in several spots that sent him wheeling sideways. The man didn’t rise. His body relaxed between waves of pain and eyes closed to the silence. When he heard Simon’s voice during the conversation, Remmy let a smirk cross his lips. He couldn’t help comment under his breath, “Clever bastard. I told you would want to live for her.”

Bracing himself for his role, Remmy’s hand quickly emptied his gun and set to the side. His hand skirted along the rock face to aid his trip onto his feet. Pain once more rippled through his body and set his body on fire, his leg threatened to crumble only to be forced to stay. His shirt torn at the side, covered in grime, and bloodied beyond identification, Remmy was a hellish sight to see. That much he was sure. The puzzle pieces seemed to slightly fit together now after he heard Simon bullshit his way, impressively, from being shot on sight. How long that luck would last would remain to be seen. If asked, Remmy had a pretty good idea how to reply for his lack of military clothing and out here, even shoot. Though, like with a few of his lies, it was likely farfetched a bit. Currently being shot was a reasonable excuse for not properly addressing Simon within the moment or really speaking at that moment.

She could hear the walkers pushing and shoving against the entryway behind her, but the sounds faded away quickly, despite such an enclosed area.

The rooms she ran through were more of the same, some with walkers, some with bodies, some with neither. She was exceptionally mindful of where side passages were, now, and how far away alternate exits were. If she ran into a dead end, she didn't want to get caught by the zombies that were surely shambling along behind her.

She began to get hungry, and could hear her stomach rumble angrily at her, demanding sustenance. She hadn't been walking for more than an hour or two since she'd woken up, but she hadn't eaten anything for some time before that. She'd gone without food before, and it wasn't an experience she was keen to repeat.

The tunnels went on endlessly, this one not narrowing or widening, instead just going around and around, like a rat maze. She heard the Voice yawn a few times over the loudspeakers that were everywhere, and had time to think while she walked. Who was it that was watching her? Was he the one that had set up the area she was in now? Why? To what end? Where was she, anyway?

She was still pondering these questions as she rounded another corner and came to a T-section. She made to keep going, but froze when she saw the pack leering at her from the tunnel ahead of her.

At some point she must have been turned around, so that she was going back the way she came, and the sight in front of her was absolutely terrifying. The walkers had packed themselves into the tunnel in front of her, taking up space where there was none. They'd evidently spent the last little while trampling over each other as they'd walked, since most of them were sporting new wounds on their faces and bodies. Broken noses, mostly, which didn't help their appearance. She could see them grinning at her, lips peeled back and rotted away, as they gazed emptily down the hallway. They advanced slowly but surely, hands pressing against the side of the tunnel, feet tripping over themselves. She watched as two at the front fell down on their faces, looked up from the floor and continued to crawl. Their fellows stepped on them without any concern.

Acacia realized that as she'd been frozen, staring at the scene, they'd advanced another 10 feet down the tunnel. She tried desperately to remember which direction it was that she'd gone when she'd reached this intersection last time, and decided that she'd definitely gone right. That meant this time, she was facing the other direction, she'd have to go right again.

She took the path and hurried along, glancing back to see the pack shuffle past, some of the walkers following her down, others paying no mind. She kept going, and wondered how badly her claustrophobia would be after she got out of this.

The pipe ahead of her took an abrupt turn into another wall, and Acacia followed, only to find herself scrambling back, having just run into another zombie.

It leered at her, and lunged forward immediately, groaning and opening it's mouth. Acacia pushed it back, and it staggered away. She backed up without looking, and felt herself hit the curved side of the turn. She fell, her hands flying over the walls for something to hold on to, and landed on her ass, hard.

The pain had barely registered before the zombie fell on top of her. She tried to push it off, but it was heavy – a fresh corpse. The side of it's face had been mauled away, exposing it's left eyeball in it's entirety, looking like it was about to fall out of it's skull. It's nose had been bitten off.

The two stared at each other for half a moment before the walker leaned in, going for a bite of Acacia's shoulder or perhaps her neck. Acacia grabbed it around it's neck and pushed it up, off of her, pulled herself to her feet. A hand caught at the front of her shirt, and tore off a chunk near the midriff. She scrambled away, fell down again, and the walker was on her.

It sunk it's teeth into her ankle before she could even react. Her entire leg lit up like it was on fire. The area normally would've been somewhat protected – a shoe or sock at least, a pant leg. But there wasn't anything to stop it from tearing a chunk of skin and outer flesh straight from her ankle.

Acacia didn't even think. She didn't scream at the pain, or cry, or allow herself to be overcome. She'd seen people go down like this before, and she raised her other foot, brought the shoed heel down on the top of the monster's skull. It knocked it's teeth off of her leg. She brought it up again, and smashed it's face into the floor. Then again. The skull collapsed slightly, but the walker groaned. Again.

Again.

Again.

The head was reduced to a pile of decay-colored mush, laying on the floor. Acacia finally allowed the pain to register, and gave a single scream as she tried to stand. Her bitten leg would barely support her weight. She could feel pain bolting up her leg, her spine, to her brain, telling her to sit-the-fuck-down. But she wouldn't. She knew that there were more walkers, all around her. She had to move. She had to get to safety. Then she could figure something out. Anything.

She tore off the rest of the lower half of her shirt, leaving enough to cover herself, if only barely. She wrapped it around her bite. The pain was bad, but not anything she hadn't felt before. She'd been sliced once, in the stomach. Mostly a shallow wound, but that's what the bite felt like. The pain wasn't as bad as it had been. She could already feel it reduced to a throb, and the rest of her leg had stopped aching. She wondered if that was a side effect of the infection, or if she'd gone into shock.

She tied off the makeshift bandage, noticing that the bleeding had already gone down. She could see her own bits on the floor next to where the walker's head was, and she looked away, feeling nauseous. She limped down the tunnel, keeping as much weight off of her new injury as possible, continuing the way she had been going before.

She had no other option.

She'd figure something out.

So, as it turns out, boats weren’t all that difficult to find in a state dominated by lakes. Weird. Finding a boat that was functional and would feasibly work with her ill-conceived plan… That was a bit tougher for Cassie. After mulling over the selections in a small marina, she finally decided on a wave runner for simplicity’s sake; she was just going to ignore the whole splashy wetness thing they had going on. As luck would have it, the marina had one of the little personal watercraft that fit the bill and was easily dropped from its boat lift into the bed of her truck. She tightly lashed her most important possessions onto it, namely her parachute and M4 carbine, so the chance that they were lost lessened greatly; Wave runners could be tippy little mothers. She smiled at her handiwork and at the stupid idea in her head that was becoming more real. Phase one of her three phased operation was complete.

Phase two was stupid simple. The woman drove herself to the coast near where she knew Mackinac was just a few mile jog across the lake. Being so close to Horde Season as it was, the snowy beaches were lousy with the undead that had been steadily seeping in throughout the year attracted by the mass of fleshy things gathered off the coast. Cassie decided to make her run a bit further down the beach from where the main horde was congregated, not being that insane, and stopped in the thin wood line that skirted the mainland side’s edge of sand. She already had a sizable gaggle-fuck of deaders headed her way from the deep rumble of her diesel and her using the blunt side of her hatchet to shatter the back window out probably didn’t help. To be honest, she could have totally broke the window before when she had been loading her sea-doo, but it was freaking cold outside. The ten minutes of uncomfortable driving would not have been worth a few less zeds gnawing on the sides of her truck; that was for sure. For the last portion of the easy stuff, Cass flipped the toggle to bring the snowplow up off of the ground as high as it could manage. Phase three where was all the fun shit happened; she liked phase three.

Now, Cassie had a flair for the dramatic. She had worked in Hollywood before the end of the world, after all, and it had kind of been her job as a stuntwoman. Pairing that with her normal eccentric, live-life-on-the-edge personality, nobody who had met the woman for more than a few minutes would really be surprised at what she did next.

She gunned the shit out of that truck. Straight towards Lake Huron without an iota of hesitation. The woman would have loved to have been blasting some Bohemian Rhapsody, specifically the rock part where Wayne, Garth, and their cohorts head-banged it out like champs in their rusted out AMC Pacer, but apocalyptic scavengers couldn’t be too picky and someone logical may have argued that it would have just caused her to garnish more unnecessary attention.

Waves of zombies cascaded from the sides of her snowplow as she tore through their ranks unceremoniously. The few that snuck beneath her tires were no match for her behemoth and the fewer still that made it over the top didn’t have enough oomph to do anything more than crack the windshield before sliding off. Cassie had just enough time to think that the sound of decaying man-flesh trying to gain purchase on the smooth glass was awfully similar to that of squeegeeing a window clean before the truck hit the iced over lake. She realized just how cold the winter had been already when it took a good several hundred feet before the weight of the Ford was too much for the ice to handle. The plow on front didn’t help. Not when it came to the jarring halt as the metal blade hit the stubbornly immobile water, not in slowing down the whole sinking process. You would have thought Cassie would have learned about driving trucks into bodies of freezing cold water from her last little escapade with Simon but hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

The slender woman threw off her seat beat and lunged for the back window even before the water had time to hit the front grill of the truck. Just as quickly the backpack with her meager supplies and tools was slung over her shoulders as she scrambled to straddle the seat of the wave runner as its confinement sunk beneath water. Walkers belly flopped into the water around her as the machine gurgled to life.

She gunned the shit out of that sea-doo. The little patch of open water that had been created by her truck’s nosedive would hopefully allow her to build up enough momentum so that she could slide across the remaining ice to open water. Or at least get her close.

It did… Kind of. The craft started slowing dangerously close to zed-amble speed about a hundred feet from her goal. Cassie groaned and slipped off the back to start pushing. Undead were already converging on her again, so she opted for one hand to push and one to brandish her pistol. “Shitshitshitshitshitshit…” The worlds just kept rolling off her tongue as she ran, gaining volume and pitch in accordance to the how close each deader she dashed by got. Adding in a few yelped “fucks” every time she was forced to fire on one that almost got the best of her, Cassie had an interesting cacophony of swear words going as she and her mini-herd of zombies made it to the edge of the ice.

She gave one last push before throwing herself onto her escape, but she wasn’t the only thing. One particularly tenacious little bitter latched a hand onto her backpack, throwing off her carefully balanced feng shui. As soon as they hit the water the zombie’s lower half acted like an anchor and peeled the both of them off the back of the wave runner.

Fully submerged in the water, the coldness of it hitting her all at once, felt like she had been sucker punched in the solar plexus by Chuck Norris. Every muscle in her body constricted into tiny knots simultaneously and she felt like she was going to just keel over right then and there. But then some kind of biological failsafe snapped and everything loosed, including her breath in a storm of bubbles, and she had enough sense to detangle herself from the bag and zombie that was dragging her further into the depths. Her jacket went quickly after as she struggled to make it back to the surface. Other zombies starting sinking and swirling around in the undertow around her stretching feebly towards her, like some kind of fucked up snow globe or something, and she was mindful enough to give them enough berth as she ascended.

The first gulp of air she took into her burning lungs after she breached the surface was glorious. So much so that she almost forgot she was bobbing in ice water filled with both sinking and floating zeds. Crap. At least her sea-doo hadn’t gotten too far away; she was lucky the things had an emergency kill switch that tethered to their riders in case they fell off. Thank you baby Jesus, she thought as she paddled over and dragged herself back into the seat. She replaced the kill switch with already quaking hands and powered the thing back on before giving the horde behind her the bird and speeding off towards the island.

God damn, she was so cold though. The wind and the wet and the freaking temperature to begin with had her believing she had never been so cold in her entire life. Ever. If she didn’t die from hypothermia or have all her appendages fall off or something from this, Cassie vowed to never go near anything cold ever again. Not even frosty beverages. At least it was good motivation to get to the island in a hurry, the whole impending death or being permanently maimed thing, and she redlined the watercraft the entire way there.

The harbor guards didn’t even stop her to ask their normal security questions despite the fact that she had an assault rifle slung across her front. They just gave her wide eyed looks of concern and asked if she needed help. That’s how pitiful she looked. She just chattered out that her family lived in the Hotel Iroquois and they let her go on her soggy way. Luckily, Hotel Iroquois, like the vast majority of the hotels that had been built on the island, was butted right up against the harbor so her walk was only a few agonizing minutes long.

Two flights of stairs later and a little jaunt down a hallway brought her in front of her family’s home. Her family, of both blood and bond, that had avoided the initial outbreak by pure luck and coincidence and that had survived the following years together. She smiled despite her bluing lips and thumped soundly on the door. It didn’t take long for her to hear a loud gasp followed by several latches being undone hurriedly. Cassie had forgotten about the peephole. Surprise ruined.

The door flung open on its hinges and her mother half hugged and half dragged her quickly inside the room. “Cassandra Marie!” she exclaimed, the joyful tears in her eyes not able to squash the tinge of motherly disapproval by calling Cass by her first and middle name. “You’re half frozen through! I’m the only one home, strip down and get by the fire. I’ll get you dry clothes.”

Cassie complied, a goofy look of fondness cracking through her coldness as her mother berated her, like she always did. “Hi, Mom. I missed you too.”

Samantha Shannahan, matriarch of what was left of her clan and mother of who had to be the most frustrating child in existence, swept back into the room and threw a heap of clothes and furs next to her daughter. “It seems you still haven’t found a lick of sense in all your wondering,” she chastised and grabbed up a towel to help Cass dry off. “Leila took Bri with her to the market and they’ll probably be back any time now. I don’t want my granddaughter seeing her mother look half dead. At least your uncle and Jason won’t be back from work for a few hours yet.”

“It was really awesome, though,” Cassie smirked as she started to pull on the newly provided clothes.

“I’m sure,” her mother replied after an exasperated sigh. Her face softened as she wrapped an animal pelt around Cassie and planted a firm kiss on the top of her head, then she sank down to the ground next to her to embrace her in a one armed hug. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you again.”

“Ey’ Trane, you in yet?!” A familiar gravelly voice was followed by the sound of a meaty hand rapping its knuckles against the door of the trailer, prompting Coltrane to respond with a “Yeah, just gimme a second.” When he’d finally got up to answer the door he found himself meeting an impatient Bruce, who’d evidently seen a busy day. “Hey, what’s up?” For a moment he glanced over Bruce’s shoulder to spot the gathering crowds in the distance, and the noticeably increased presence of Chico’s Militia - who also seemed to be patrolling on more of a daily basis. “Man, things are gettin’ all heated up now. I was comin’ down to see if you wanted to grab a couple beers but you can guess what I saw on my way round. People gettin’ pissed off ‘bout this cure thing and now we’ve got a couple folks from outta town all chargin’ in to get a piece of it, so the soldiers have been gettin’ all antsy and now the people are, too.” In the distance he could hear the faint arguments of the crowd as they gathered around a passing militia troop truck and figuring that it wasn’t the best idea for them both to be stood outside as they were, Coltrane beckoned for Bruce to come in and drew the door shut behind them. “Well, shit..” He muttered to himself, noticing that Bruce was nodding in agreement. “You said it, I tell you - there’s gonna be some trouble anytime soon, place is like a powder keg waitin’ to go up. After your shift was done yesterday we had the foreman tryna’ send a couple of us out on some ‘overtime’ horseshit because of some ‘refugees’ tryin’ to bust down a checkpoint. Seriously Trane, don’t let ‘em pull that shit with you - they startin’ to think we’re expendable I bet.”

“Really? Seems a bit too much for that.” Coltrane answered, though Bruce was quick to shoot him down. “Nah, I’m serious - that ain’t the only thing either, word is that they got some shit going on up North too, there’s this I guy I know who’s got a brother who does scoutin’ runs to check for herds and bandits, says he saw a chopper in the sky that looked like it was army. Sum’in like that.” He frowned, evidently skeptical at the idea. “The army, you really sure? I mean, the only time I ever saw any sign of those guys out on the road were abandoned National Guard camps with dead hanging all over them and-” The sound of a gunshot and the subsequent screams of children and adults alike in the proximity ended up cutting Coltrane off before he could complete his sentence, and in a near instant he’d instinctively dived for the window with a hand resting on his glock to see what was going on. Bruce followed suit and urgently brushed away the blinds to peer out through the window, and the sight outside was enough to leave the both of them concerned; in the distance a wounded man was slumped against the ground clutching onto his stomach whilst the soldiers had been quick to surround the perimeter, each of them armed with assault weapons whilst one of the haven’s ‘paramedics’ cycled towards the scene with a first aid kit slung over their shoulder. The gathering crowd had quickly dispersed and he could spot families ushering their children into their trailers whilst others were filtering out towards the other districts. “What the fuck just happened?” Coltrane muttered to himself, hand still resting on the point where he typically left his glock neatly tucked into his waistline, whilst Bruce had summarily collapsed back into the couch at the corner of the trailer. “See man, I told you it’s gettin’ fucked around here. These past few days, maybe you noticed the soldiers packing heavy gear like assault rifles or whatever that’s supposed to tell y’all not to fuck about with ‘em. Poor bastard out there was probably just tryna’ talk to ‘em.”

“Are things really this bad?” Coltrane frowned as he looked towards the biker lookalike for answers. “They’re only gonna get worse, man, I tell you.” Without another word, he drew the blinds back in place and moved over towards the bottle of whiskey resting on the kitchen top and lifted it by the neck, again turning back towards Bruce to ask him something. “Still bothered about that drink?” An amused snort was enough of an answer for him and a few minutes later he’d found two glasses to pour their drinks when something else occurred to him. “You like some tunes?” Bruce shrugged indifferently, following it up with a simple “I don’t listen to that hip-hop,” which prompted Coltrane to briefly stare him out with a ‘Did you -really- just say that?’ look, only for Bruce to crack a chuckle towards him and shake his head “I’m fuckin’ with you man.” Of course, Coltrane lightened up and returned the amused gesture “In all fairness, you weren’t exactly wrong.” Now, having passed through that brief and practically non-existent moment of cultural tension, Coltrane fished through the various CD’s and cassette tapes he’d amassed over the years before finally finding one which the both of them could appreciate; Jimi Hendrix. Normally, Coltrane wasn’t a particular fan of rock music but for Hendrix he made an exception and kept several tapes when he found them, in this case slipping a cassette of ‘All Along the Watchtower’ into the ghettoblaster. Passing a glass to Bruce, Coltrane sank back into the couch alongside the biker lookalike who’d become an unlikely friend and decided to enjoy the rest of his evening, finishing up that damned bottle at last.

A few hours later well after the light had finally begun to settle and the dark creeping out from behind the blinds which overshadowed the window, a heavy thud on the door stirred Coltrane and his half-sobered companion from their slightly intoxicated contemplation, eventually prompting him to get up and find out who the hell it was knocking on the door this late into the evening. What he saw was definitely a sobering sight; two Militia soldiers stood outside the door, one of them wielding a Ruger Mini-14 carbine whilst the other slung a Type 56 assault rifle, no doubt to make some kind of a point to those who passed by. The former of the two - a middle aged man who wore a beanie cap alongside a greying beard - addressed him with a clear, straight-to-the-point tone which indicated that at one point in his life he’d been a cop, a soldier or a maybe even a prison guard at some point during his life. “We’re letting everyone in the area know that there’s a curfew coming into place starting from tonight, starting after dark.” With a frown, Coltrane muttered something to himself before eventually deciding to speak up about the situation. “Wait.. are you serious, a curfew? Since when?” Whilst the other soldier - a younger man in his mid thirties - remained silent, the middle aged one responded fairly quickly. “We’re just the messengers here, the government’s made the decision - not us. All we’re trying to do is protect the community, so don’t get on my case for it like every other guy we’ve been delivering the bad news to.” It was only a moment later when it occurred to him that Bruce was still half-drunk, half-asleep and would probably need a hand getting back to his place, and with a quick glance towards the biker lookalike he sighed to himself and spoke up once more. “Look, uh.. my friend’s back there and he’s had a couple drinks to himself and he can’t exactly stay the night here, we’ve got work in the morning and he’ll need his stuff. Can I just give him a hand back to his place and that’ll be it?” Leaning forward, the soldier committed what Coltrane could’ve considered a violation of his privacy if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was peering in to get a look at Bruce, who’d seen a little more of that bottle than Coltrane had and surprisingly seemed to be a lighter drinker than he was. “Fine, just don’t take too long - eventually we’re going to need to start taking in people for it if they keep on acting out.”

With a summary nod, the two soldiers quickly headed off towards the neighbouring trailer to repeat their routine whilst Coltrane had already moved around to the couch in an effort to rouse Bruce. “C’mon, we’ve gotta head back before they try to book us over this damned curfew.” Eventually he was able to get the man to his feet, albeit he was carrying his weight on one shoulder but it was a better alternative to being caught out by this new law put in place by the government of the community. Stepping outside, the two took several shortcuts through the ‘alleys’ between the various residential trailers and allotments until finally they reached Bruce’s place - which wasn’t that much of an improvement over his own, come to think of it, save for the fact that it had more of a homely and settled-in feeling to it. Bidding the drunken would-be biker a farewell, Coltrane headed back home and on the way he could spot the occasional patrol passing through or someone skulking around in the shadows as if they didn’t want to be seen, and he could tell the curfew was already having an effect on the place. Thinking to himself, it was safe to say that he was less than pleased. Hours earlier he’d seen a man get shot in the street in some kind of struggle with one of the soldiers and now people were being herded inside their homes as if to say that they wanted everyone kept under the rug, a little like how all the inmates in a prison would be sent back to their cells because the warden was afraid of a riot. Climbing back into his own trailer, Coltrane decided that he probably wasn’t going to get a lot of sleep tonight even with an intoxicating amount of whiskey resting in his stomach and decided to stick another one of his Jimi Hendrix tapes on the ghettoblaster until he finally passed out.

Simon-Pietro is referred to as the first Pope of the Christian church, his icons shown with the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven either in hand or bound at his neck. A Jewish fisherman who cast his nets for believers rather than fish after meeting somewhat worth listening to. Why not? His name, Simon, meant 'He Who Listens' anyway. Christian theologians kept on the second name though, Peter, meaning rock. Countless metaphors likening him to 'the foundation of the church' ultimately led to that one powerful seat -- Pope. He who is trusted to listen and he who holds firm like rock. And yet despite all the studies delving into cultural myths the Simon-Pietro greeting seven assault rifles paused.

Listening meant little when so far only you and the rifles talked and even rock would crumble to that fire-power. His parents named him after their patron saint. A blessing meant to guard, guide, and guilt him along the straight-and-narrow. Thus far he'd been exiled from home, starved, and made a slave. Simon glanced toward the overcast a moment. Thick and curving plumes of deep grey with a promise of rain hovered just over them. Nearly opposite of the shimmering beings holding flaming swords he'd hoped for. When his eyes returned to the soldiers they'd began to glance around. Not randomly nor to the sky, but back and forth between him and one soldier in particular. The round of their hip, even armoured, seemed feminine. She stepped lowered her rifle to knee-cap level and pushed her goggles up onto her helmet.

"I'll assume the survivor's your man. He's back there," she declared, rifle steady with one hand as she pointed toward the rock. "Randalls will patch'em up on the helo during the debrief. Who am I speaking to?"

Simon smiled, watching one of the seven, Randalls, jog to Remmy's position as he answered, "Sergeant Joshua Lee Evans, ma'am. Friends call me Gunner." He drew out the rank long enough for Randalls to enter earshot with the supposed spotter. "That's him alright. My Cajun-Comrade, little worse-for-wear though."

"Alive, unlike most of my targets. Remember that." she paused and waved him toward the helicopter. "I'm Staff Sergeant Lina Monahan, Evans. You'll both surrender any weapons and load up."

***

Joshua, like Simon, is Hebrew. It means Salvation. The word was honeyed even said within himself. A quiet thought, sweet and sustaining in the midst of all things. One word to keep up spirits as he sat beside a lying Remmy, flanked by soldiers in a soaring helicopter. The lack of doors made conversation difficult. It also flashed scenes of Simon breaking character, or flat out slipping, only to plummet to see if sweet words might pad his fall. Yet, with the noise and the fear, Monahan observed him coldly. Her cool blue eyes watched his hands, the twitch of his cheek when looking toward the doors, and his lightly tremouring muscles. Silence could be damning. Even without a single word, she could figure it out. It could all click. What would the real Gunner do?

Gunner met the staff sergeant's gaze and pursed his lips. About a week since his last bite, he said, days without clean water. Constant beatings and being chained up threw off his mind. Truth, the last part, that necessary bit behind every deception. He mentioned those old beheading videos of G.I's the news reported after the towers fell. Described one until a couple of the older soldiers unconsciously squirmed in their seats -- old memories rousing a discomfort no amount of positioning would ease. He described it until Monahan's cold gaze stumbled. "I remember. Your point?" she'd asked, finally. To that he allowed his eyes to lose focus and focused on the tense, stiff feeling in his smile lines. All the while they sat with the rhythm of the rotor and that video in mind. When Gunner felt sufficiently hollow, he told them about a fear. Shames himself for the feeling, but a fear that when the chains came off he'd be propped up just like the videos. Held at a scimitar's edge like he'd always feared back in Fallujah. That fear, he'd repeat, sighing. After another pause, this one for feigned reflection, he looked to Monahan once more. Her eyes softer, but working it all out. Gunner leaned over his comrade once more, meeting eyes with Remmy.

"W-We'll be landing soon," Monahan explained, pensive. "You'll have a chance for some are-n-are. You're not off free, rules, but stay within Chico's borders while we look into things and we won't have trouble. Just keep your heads down, we tend to create quite the stir."

Sometimes when the sun had set and the only illumination of the streets was from the looming face of the moon and the warm orange sway of patrolling lanterns seemingly bodiless drifting down every road, Lacy would draw her knees up to her chest and sit on the top of the desk pushed firmly against the window of her bedroom. She would watch the millions of little stars, some mobile with their fervent blinking, and she would wonder if another Earth existed free of the tribulations her Earth still tried to survive. Sometimes she would think about aliens, one of the many topics Danielle would never let go, but those were on the nights when Danielle murmured and stirred in her sleep and the creaking of an old bed as she tossed and turned marred her peaceful dreaming voice.

Those times Lacy would glance over at Danielle, her round doll-like face buried under ragged strands of golden hair, and Lacy might think about the wide array of moments constructing Danielle’s life. From the Old World days when Danielle was an obnoxious chatterbox incapable of listening to anyone up until the previous week when she slept in her own bed for the last time, Lacy would think of her. These days Lacy mostly thought of the latter; her mind gave her little choice.

The crease in Danielle’s bed sheets remained untouched like the afterglow of a ghost, a haunting reminder. It had been almost a week since the soldiers took Danielle and arrested Winifred. Having been arrested for harboring an Infected and disobeying the law Winifred had been taken in. Due to the gunshot wound in her leg she remained in the hospital, and there was no word on when she would be released. Darius and Aurora had been able to visit her a few times while working at the hospital and it was from Winifred that they heard the story of what happened to Danielle, and it was from there that word of a possible Carrier had somehow gotten out to the public. The flurry of rumors spread at an intense rate, though most rumors seemed to have left out the detail of the “potential vaccine supplier” being a little girl. It made Lacy sick to think of all the men and women willing to sacrifice her sister for a chance at warding off the Infection. It only added to the overwhelming stress that words couldn’t seem to describe.

Winifred told them nothing else significant of what happened. She did not know when she would be released and it made the entire situation a lot more unbearable with not having Winifred around for comfort.

The bob of a faraway glow that leaked out onto the streets flickered as it passed between the low buildings. It brought Lacy back to the present, and the restlessness and sorrow returned. There was hardly a time when she wasn’t worrying over Danielle. The others were keen on constantly assuring Lacy that Danielle would be fine even when it was uncalled for in the conversation. She understood the hopefulness in the group stating the scientists were “professionally” studying Danielle’s immune system and taking only a healthy number of blood samples, but Lacy knew their optimism wavered behind closed doors.

Perhaps if she were to lapse into believing Chico when it said Danielle would be okay and she would be back home soon, Lacy would be able to shake the roaring uneasiness. For the time being until she stumbled into that disillusionment she would stick to pacing the room and mourning a loss that had yet to fully happen.

In a small fit of rage and angst Lacy extended her foot and kicked the wooden chair over. The thud it made as it hit the ground wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Lacy had hoped for.

On top of everything it frustrated Lacy that in the midst of everything she was still treated like a child in desperate need of condolences. The last time Chuck had offhandedly remarked that Danielle “probably has the best room service,” Lacy had to swallow an alien desire to scream a barrage of profanities at him. While the entire scenario had left everyone on edge and many arguments erupted since that specific day, Lacy felt the most emotionally drained from it. The only difference between herself and the others was her lack of a voice, a two-part contribution from being looked over and a lack of confidence she came to see as blinding in every pore on her skin. A calm fraction of her wanted to fall into an ignorant submission and thoughtlessly lean on the others to carry her until Danielle and Winifred came back. But then Danielle’s face would nag at her to rescue her, and for once in her life, Lacy wanted to run headfirst into a battle she doubted she could win if only to save her sister.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not alone, not when she didn’t know where to start or how to even clear her mind just long enough to formulate some coherent thought.

“Lacy?” Abbie abruptly whispered from behind the door, followed by the light tapping of knuckles rapping on the door. “Is everything alright, kiddo?”

Lacy didn’t answer much to Abbie’s disappointment. A little concern by the cold shoulder, her head pressed against the door as she heard the younger girl shuffle around then suddenly go silent again. It had been like this since the incident with Winifred and Danielle, the youth more withdrawn and depressed than before. For Abbie, it seemed a wall had been erected between them.

Everyone had been stunned upon learning what happened, even worse to learn the results. Needless to say they all couldn’t believe it or the fact they aimed to use a little girl to end the infection threat. Something that inwardly disgusted Abigail to think what Danielle might be going through right now and helplessness washed over her, unable to do anything about it. She didn’t even know to start for Danielle but Lacy was another story.

Inside, she knew the sister was suffering terribly and aimed to do what she could to stop it.

Taking a deep breath, Abbie’s hand turned the door knob until it clicked open and pushed. The hinges creaked when it opened to reveal the young girl just staring at the window. Quietly Abbie made her way inside, her eyes noted the chair sprawled out and only paused to pick it up right. Lacy appeared more occupied with staring out the window and didn’t react to her entering the room, barely noted her existence it seemed. Abbie was finding it hard to remain silent while she took a seat on the chair. It was very clear the chair wasn’t made for an adult, her rear sat far too low and her legs crunched upright in an uncomfortable position, her face looked at the girl still staring outside the window.

“I miss her too…”Abbie stated simply, already knowing what was on Lacy’s mind.

Against the starry backdrop of a nighttime sky, Lacy’s shadowy silhouette looked locked in a picture-perfect stillness. She didn’t stir or flinch when Abbie spoke to her; Abbie didn’t know if Lacy had fully heard what she said or if the younger girl let each word drift into the background, unnoticed and uncared for.

It was bothersome, Lacy’s seclusion and silence. Abbie had spent the past few days listening to the others endlessly discuss the situation with no new information to carry it in different directions. The overwhelming stress of worrying about Danielle was eating away at everyone. The helplessness they all shared was a constant feeling. There was never a direct explanation from the government on what occurred; the group had to find out the hard way what had happened, and if it was ever known that Aurora made contact with Winifred and recovered the true side of the story, the entire group would face exile – or something much worse.

The “story” they were spoon-fed by a horse-faced woman in a crisp pantsuit before Aurora found out the real half of it was that Danielle had infected numerous – coincidentally unnamed – victims and Winifred attacked the guards as they tried to remove the long-gone young girl. It was brief and vague, and it sparked explosive reactions from everyone. Sam and Trake were on the verge of breaking into the hospital to find both Danielle and Winifred, but it became clear from the get-go that the group was ranked high on the government’s VIP list. They were all quite aware that soldiers patrolled the street by their house closely, ensuring they kept a close eye on the group.

But once they knew the truth and heard rumors that filtered out slowly from inside the sector where Danielle was held, the group pieced it together and understood. Danielle was somehow Immune and being held captive as a science project. What the group remained unsure on was whether Danielle was still breathing or not, and if she was, how long she still had. It was unspoken amongst the group but like a hive mind they all knew it: Danielle would not be let go freely. No one dared to say a word of that highly probable theory in front of Lacy, and watching Lacy losing herself in introspective thoughts, Abbie wished she never would have to.

After Lacy’s lack of awareness began to grow stale and she had yet to show any sign of a willingness to talk, Abbie stood and decided to leave, decided to shelf talking with Lacy for another time when she was better suited for it.

She took a step closer to the door and paused when there was a crunch under her foot. A lone sheet of paper sat on the floor, words scribbled quickly on it and looking like a diary entry. Just as Abbie bent down to pick it up out of sheer curiosity, Lacy finally spoke and it startled Abbie.

“Can we just go get her? Like, right now - let’s just… go get her.” Lacy suggested. She didn’t sound like she would dare to believe her own idea herself; she didn’t sound like she was even awake as she said it. There was no personality left in her voice. Only some sort of sorrowful sound.

Abbie paused, unsure of what she could possibly say in return. It was something everyone else wanted to do as well; they wanted to tear apart the Haven until they had both Winifred and Danielle safely with them. But they couldn’t; they would be no use to anyone after they had been shot for stepping out of line, and the seriousness of it gave them very little wiggle room to make any slip-ups.

“I wish it was that easy. Sadly, the world can’t work like that and hating it won’t change a thing.” Abbie began in her weak effort to break the settled silence. Once more her fingers gingerly plucked the paper page up as it crackled and crunched under her firm grip. Slowly her hands unfolded it to read the contents and noted the smudged out date as the day after they discovered Danielle was taken, the words mostly smeared out from long dried tear stains against the aged, reused paper.

“Everyone wants Danielle and Winifred home just as badly as you do. We’re doing what we can but right now, it’s you that I’m worried about most.” Abbie admitted honestly. The older girl’s steps moved towards the desk once again and her free hand gently cleared away a seat right near Lacy’s feet, the objects placed upon the already messy floor. Once propped against the wall, Abigail’s arm reached out and pulled an unresponsive Lacy into her embrace. The girl’s head just laid there against Abbie’s arm, her eyes stared into the room’s far corner without so much as a flinch.

“I want her home, Abbie. Why can’t we just go and get her?” Lacy’s hollowed voice stated the same desire the rest felt.

Abbie just bit her lip and her chin nestled into the younger girl’s head top, her expression lost at how to explain adult reasoning to a teen. All she could whisper was a simple phrase. “I know… I know…”

Gently she rocked Lacy, listening heartbrokenly to the way Lacy’s crying became rhythmic, sniffles spacing further and further apart, as gradually she fell into a comfortable spot snuggled on the desktop with Abbie holding onto her. The dead weight of the slumbering girl made Abbie uncomfortable, but in turn, she fell asleep to the pitter-pat of a light rainstorm she never remembered hearing begin.

---

In the morning when the soft gray beginnings of light shone through the window tainted with a fine layer of condensation, something rattled Lacy awake, and when the oily film of sleep-gunk coating her eye had dispersed with a few unfazed blinks, she stared blankly at the dull, translucent pane of glass and recollected all the unresolved thoughts she had hoped would not find her.

She became aware that she fell asleep leaning against Abbie on the desktop only a few minutes after regaining full consciousness. Loosely Abbie still hung onto her, one arm draped nimbly around Lacy’s shoulders while the other had fallen onto her own lap. She stirred a little when Lacy started to move, her hands twitching and her ajar mouth closing and tensing; Lacy held still and waited for Abbie to drift back asleep. She would wait a bit while longer, she decided. It would make her feel guilty to wake Abbie after she spent the night holding onto her, being an uncalled for – but certainly welcomed – security blanket.

So Lacy reflected on the dream she had she could only remember fragments of. There was a large, stone platform she stood on. Along with someone whose face she didn’t know she watched a nebula twist and turn in a maelstrom of piercing colors –

In the distance there were a few pops, the unmistakable sound of guns firing in controlled bursts. It was never an uncommon sound but it sent shivers up Lacy’s spine and made her freeze, fearing the shooter might be mowing down the Haven to get to her. It could have just been a few zed-heads lurked too closely to the walls or maybe the nearby shooting range a few blocks over somehow amplified an early-bird learner. There could have been mundane reasons for guns going off unexpectedly in a world where firearms were necessities. But Lacy couldn’t keep away from the pessimistic reasons that existed as well.

The second, more extensive burst of gunfire woke Abbie; it took her a few seconds to comprehend the sound for what it was, and when it clicked she took after Lacy and sat stock-still, anticipating the next few rounds. The two stared at the wall ahead of them, recognizing they still held onto each other but not acknowledging each other verbally. They awaited the moment they had to flee or take cover, the sign that genuine trouble was afoot. It was nerve-wracking and neither breathed, neither made a movement until the bedroom door opened and both girls jumped.

It was Toby, peering into the room innocently enough to check on the two. His hair was an untidy mess and since he had taken on shaving there was an emphasized youthfulness to his look. Yet, as childlike as he may appear, he pulled off the grown-up grimace of concern Darius permanently wore.

“Just making sure we’re all here,” Toby said. He paused after he said it and cringed, regretting his choice of words. “I mean…”

“We know what you meant,” Abbie replied gingerly.

No one said anything else immediately after. Rather, all three turned back to the window and watched nothingness pass by. There was an odd emptiness to the home. Both Sam and Trake were working night shifts on wall patrol, yet to return home; Chuck had secured a job at The Ax & The Round as a bus-boy, a 24-hour bar frequented by travelers; and Darius left early each morning for work, hoping each time the skeleton crew patrolling the hospital was thinned enough that he could catch a word or two with Winifred. With those three gone it left just Lacy, Abbie, Toby and Aurora, and everyone knew Aurora was a heavy sleeper.

In that sense it left Abbie and Toby to play the role of adults while the others were unavailable. It felt foreign to them, and though they were mature enough for their ages, the responsibility of holding down the fort was not something they had managed to grow into just yet. Perhaps it was why both Abbie and Toby waited for the other to speak up, hoping the other would so they wouldn’t have to.

Eventually it was Lacy who spoke first, asking them both, “But d’you think it was anything serious?”

There was another sputter of gunfire and Lacy hoped what she heard right after wasn’t a woman screaming. She looked to Abbie for confirmation, but Abbie couldn’t look back.

“I don’t think so… It could just be…” Abbie’s words trailed off miserably in her attempt to comfort everyone around her. All three knew gunfire wasn’t anything good, their nervousness increased by the sudden sputter of shots that were followed by more screams. Screams far too close for the two teenagers’ comfort; their heads turned to each other but too frightened to ask if it was over to each other.

Silence resumed again. Not a sound in the awkwardness quiet other than their hearts beating as if something Godly had stifled the events for unknown reasons. Abbie let another few minutes pass, forgetting to even breathe, before she started to encourage Lacy and her into motion. Lacy nodded and inch by inch, both girls timidly pulled off the table towards Toby. Their movements slow and careful in fear that their movements would shatter the spell anytime and bring a rain of gun fire over their heads for their daring. Finally, they reached the end when the gunfire started again.

Abbie opened the door farther for the pair to walk through and pushed Lacy into Toby’s arms, followed by a simple order. “Watch her.”

Toby merely nodded and pinned Lacy close to his arms crossed over her, his body stepped back a bit and looked rather worried at what Abbie seemed ready to do. Her one hand reached out for the nearby bow and arrow, both roughly slung over her shoulders while she took her baseball bat in the other. In a fast clip she moved across the room towards the main room. Her body was dowsed in sunlight peeking through the tattered holes in the blanket curtains that hung over the large windows, her body skirted to the side and gently shifted enough to look outside. Her eyes flicked to the strange empty street and spotted two figures, Sam and Trake, hunched over and making their way towards the house. She followed them a bit before; she moved to take hold of the door handle.
Cautiously, Abbie pulled the door open to see the two breathless men looking paranoid. Their heads darted around in fear and panic, guns held close within their palms while Sam wasted little time. His hand shoved Abbie back in, followed by Trake, and then promptly locked it behind him causing Abbie to speak.

“Where the hell have you two been? What’s happening out there?” Abbie’s voice was clearly slightly angered; her words received only silence while Sam’s head peeked outside in the same fashion she had. “Will someone answer me already?”

Trake merely stared out the window but Sam, still edgy, had broken from the window to talk to her. “It’s not important right now.”

Drawn by Sam’s voice, Toby and Lacy had begun making their way into the room now while they approach Abbie still confronting the pair. “No, you’ll tell me now. What is going on? This isn’t normal and you both look like nervous cats on a hot tin roof.”

Sam seemed to redden by Abbie’s resistance and seemed to struggle not to snap, his voice laced with building anger. “Look, Abigail, there’s no time to explain but we can’t stay here.” He turned to Toby and Lacy, his words belted orders over Abbie’s head. “Toby and Lacy get what supplies you can within the pillow cases within the girls’ room, keep in mind we need to make this quick and fast.” Trake kept look out from the window while Sam continued to talk. “Abigail, you start to grab bread and other food. Enough for a short time.”

Abbie was clearly tired of this beating around the bush. Her words tried one more time to get a reasonable explanation out, determined not to allow them to weasel out of it.“Look, Sam. Trake will you two jus-”

A loud bang echoed outside the house, cutting Abigail’s words off while instantly all five bodies hit the ground. Sam jerked Abigail’s arm down and shoved her under him while Toby’s shielded Lacy’s.

Today’s events had practically topped off those of the past few days, outdoing the general civil unrest and curfews which had recently frequented Chico. Even from well behind the borders of the haven, Coltrane was able to make out the sudden appearance of a military helicopter in the far distance and had been on his way join the watching crowd near the scene if only out of curiosity for what was going on. Unfortunately, by the time he’d actual reached the crowd the helicopter had landed and the people onboard were trickling into the haven. “Damn,” he muttered. “Guess Bruce was right about those choppers.”

Six well armoured figures collected around the helicopter with accessorized rifles hung off the front of each of their tactical vests. Dominant hands hovering over the grips of their weapons, the figures scanned the crowd through dark lensed goggles. The seventh figure, feminine despite the armour, disembarked beside two far less prepared men. Of the men, one was bandaged and smirking.

The seventh soldier let out a grunt and raised a hand. Immediately, the soldiers raised their goggles. Only then did their leader raise hers and pay any attention to the crowd. She turned to the two non-combatants and pointed to the gawking crowd. While the posturing all seemed rigid, her words to them looked softer, almost human. Like that the two offered awkward salutes and limped into the crowd. Of them, the bearded one seemed to eye Coltrane. The leader glanced over the crowd once again, slow as if memorizing each face, before giving a small grin and calling out, “Begin!”

In a snap the pilot joined the seven. Four groups formed and, without another word, disappeared into the crowd.

Frowning, Coltrane swore that there was something odd about the bearded man - even though this whole situation itself was out of the ordinary. Hell, it’d been a long time since he’d seen any sign of the military which hadn’t been reduced to a mass of skeletal, limping corpses that wanted to tear him apart, and even then the soldiers he’d seen had either disappeared on some lost cause to save the old world or struck out on their own in this unforgiving new land. Shifting his focus back towards their leader, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something unusual about her or the intentions of the little crew she had there.

Pressing on through the dwindling crowd, Coltrane squinted yet against as he watched the group descend from the makeshift helipad and his eyes darted towards the bearded man yet again, still trying to figure out why the man struck him as a familiar face when it occurred to him that he’d definitely seen the man before - specifically when he’d run into the convoy comprised of Daryl, Abbie and the others back on the road and hooked up with them. The bearded man had definitely been one of them, for sure, but he couldn’t recall the man’s name for some reason, though that was probably because they’d never really spoken at the time.

Still, Coltrane clamoured for a familiar - and presumably friendly - face who’d be more likely to greet him in a mutual manner, and if anything the man looked like he also probably wanted to talk with someone who he already knew, vaguely or otherwise. Weaving in and out between the remaining onlookers whose interests were still piqued by the sudden appearance of a military helicopter and its crew at the haven, Coltrane slow zeroed in towards the bearded individual and his bandaged friend until he’d finally caught up next to them, before placing a hand on the former’s shoulder to grab his attention. “Hey man, I don’t know if you recognised me from the highway or not,” he began, a little unsure on how to start the conversation “At any rate, it’s Coltrane - I don’t think I caught your name.”

At the edge of the crowd, the three stood in quiet for a moment. Simon recognized the man, but had to glance about before saying a word. When his head stilled his vision kept spinning. His stomach churned and his head again felt light. He staggered toward Coltrane, catching himself on the bewildered man’s shoulder.

“I-Food. Please,” he stammered, willing himself conscious. Suddenly his body felt heavy.

Crowds formed throughout the streets. Every group told a different story of the helicopter, but just trying to stand, Simon forgot the details of each with the next. Coltrane quickly pointed towards a two-story house with a ragtag sign worn across the front. The name read Zed’s Bite-n-Run in big, lovingly painted red letters. Before he could protest or leave, Simon found himself sitting at a table in the mix of natural and candle light. Half a dozen people sat at the bar. Their faces were just blurs.

A minute later, Coltrane set a plate in front of Simon and took a seat between him and Remmy. Leaning in, he pointed to the modest portion and slowly instructed, “Take it steady man, don’t wanna be throwing it up.” Frowning, he looked the two up and down and speaking up once again. “So... who are you two?”

“Simon. That’s Remmy.”

Remmy’s lips turned up in a boyish smirk, his hand lifted to acknowledge Coltrane, while he tried to recall the last time Simon had eaten and his memory came up blank. A slight guilt edged in at the thoughtlessness before he spoke, his conversation became a hope to enlighten himself about the man who had approached him and likely gather some other information about Chico itself.

Remmy’s eyes noted Simon’s focus had drifted off, the man’s mind set on the food not that Remmy could blame him. Finally waited until Coltrane had settled in a seat and introductions were over, the Cajun began to speak. “Sadly, it’s harder to do then it looks. It’s best to say the trip was a hellish experience and one I don’t think either one of us would likely repeat. So… you mentioned a highway was where you two met? Bet you were nervous when they came upon you or was it the other way around?”

The man was genuinely curious, a faint hope to pull his mind away his ward while Simon ate. His arms crossed over the bar counter where he leaned into and listened to Coltrane’s answer, his eyes fixed upon the man.

“For all I knew they could’ve been a bandit convoy and I’d seen enough of their kind down in Southern Cali to know that would’ve been bad news. So yeah, I was on edge, but at the time I didn’t have a lot of options left after so long out on the road,” Coltrane answered, furrowing his brow for a moment as his gaze shifted down towards the table in reminiscence. “I had a gun hidden at my back, just in case. Never needed to use it, luckily enough.” Leaning forward, Coltrane gulped down a small glass of water he’d also grabbed from the bar when he’d fetched a decent meal for Simon, before rubbing a hand against his stubble as he spoke.

“Anyway, I’m glad I ran into them. If it wasn’t for that, fuck... I don’t know how I’d have done. Things are pretty fucked out there as it is, but California - down South anyway, is completely overrun if you head anywhere near where L.A used to be. Bandits are all over, too - those Condemned assholes are even worse than the others when it comes to things and well... let’s just say we had our differences after I hit back against a few of their guys.” Again, Coltrane furrowed his brow and averted eye contact with either of the two, reminiscing on times since past. “Doesn’t matter now I guess, they’re back there and I’m here.”

“Yet,” Simon sighed between bites. His plate sat half empty from what had was given. For a moment, he eyed the remnants, then chuckled, smiling to Remmy and Coltrane. “Doesn’t matter yet. Coltrane met us after we escaped the soldiers. One-double oh-seven. Didn’t matter. Now they’re here, think we’re them, and probably aren’t leaving. Welcome to yet.”

Cupping his face in his hands a moment, Simon took a deep breath. “My head’s light, but better. Thanks. We should think about the soldiers though. Evergreen has... had, a Council. Howabout here?”

“Well that’s good to hear and it could be worse, brah. At least you know your lady friend and the rest of your group made it here alright.” Remmy trying to sound positive then became silent.

It seemed he was rather pleased to hear Simon suddenly speak, even if the topic was gloomy and foreboding. The Cajun’s fingers had found their way to the necklace at his throat and in idle habit started to play with it between his thumb and index, his eyes turned to the table. His attention now forced onto other matters and it was clear he was trying to recall any information on the current haven. After several minutes in silence, Remmy leaned back and slammed his palm upon the table in frustration, not having any luck on the matter.

“I don’t think the Sentinel stationed in this Haven would be able to help us much other than givin’ us supplies and possibly, if my luck holds out, a ride out. He won’t want to draw too much attention to himself because that puts his usefulness at risk.” Remmy seemed slightly disgusted at that fact, before continuing. “And I have to admit, my knowledge of Chico is rather lackin’ as our Pod doesn’t usually cover this far out just like the military so currently, I’m rather useless right now.”

Curious, Coltrane raised an eyebrow as he heard the various names being brought up. Evergreen, 1007, Sentinel - neither of the two he really understood, other than the possibility of it having been mentioned in passing conversation during his brief time in the haven. Bringing a hand over his jawline and rubbing it almost habitually, Coltrane spoke up once more. “Hold up a sec- what’re you talking about, exactly? I’m guessing this ‘one double-oh seven’ and Evergreen is related to those military folks you came in with, right? What’s this about exactly, cos I’m kinda lost here.”

Unaware of the men and women crowding at tables all around them, Simon sighed and met Coltrane eye to eye. He explained Evergreen before the Outbreak as well as how it’d evolved with the new world. Council, Military and Civil Defense, solar panels and hydroponic gardens and bazaars. Everything synonymous with hope, he described there, like some rumoured Promised Land.

“After the one double-oh seven pushed back Legion, they took over. Our balance broke and most of us you met back then, we barely escaped with our lives. They offer aid in exchange for power, then they take over. Now they’re here,” Simon-Pietro concluded before sitting back, seemingly worn out.

Not a yard away a small group leaned toward their neighbouring table. Mouths agape, they looked to one another, and stood. The group dispersed throughout the eatery, the story they’d heard following each one. Each version came twisted, worse than the one before, and always louder.

“I’m... sorry.” Coltrane eventually answered, feeling sympathy for the two at the concept of losing what they’d once called home. “I guess that explains why there’s an issue of them being here, but we can’t let them do the same to this place - especially not Chico.” Without particularly realising it, Coltrane’s tone seemed to flare up as elements of his own temper seemed to seep out from his calm exterior. “When I found this place, with you and the others.... I couldn’t explain it with words, but this place is worth protecting. There’s got to be something we can do, Evergreen never had any warning but we can warn the council over here, right? There’s enough people here to defend this place and the fortifications look like they could hold off an assault if they had to.”

Falling Star
Joshua 'Gunner' Evans

“Weapons check!”

The repetitive thump of the rotor muffled the clapping bolts. A dozen men and women lit in red lined against the walls of the helicopter readying their weapons. Half carried the old military standards, the rest held stockpiled arms from wars long past. All but one sat garbed in digital camouflage utility vests, their shirts and pants likewise coloured. That one man sat in a worn, forest camouflage vest with black fabric clothes stitched heavily with leather. He sported a dented, early nineties Delta helmet. In his hands a weathered Vietnam classic M-14.

“All good El-Tee,” the squad reported.

Slender despite the extensive Kevlar armour, the lieutenant walked between his squad. His helmet was an off putting grey-green tint that made his black balaclava pop.

The lieutenant eyed the group one by one until lingering on the black sheep. “Mackinac is believed to be defended. Drop any sivs who approach. Hit’em hard,” the lieutenant exclaimed, crouching to meet the black sheep’s gaze. “Gunner takes point!”

Sharp metallic pops broke the trance of the rhythm. Like that the lieutenant stood, head cocked, knees bent. He stood over the pilot in flash and pointed down with a thumb. Other than a deep scowl the pilot did not protest.

“Some pissheads want an early taste. Get ready for blood!”

One of the squad approached the mounted gun on right wall. Despite the opening to allow clear visibility, they crouched behind the machine gun and took aim. Gunner eyed the belt of rounds, mostly tracers, feeding into the base of the gun. Fired in bursts, he expected thirty seconds. Half a minute to scare the foolhardy bunch. Part of him hoped they saved themselves and ran off. The gun rattled a burst of three shots. Like thin bolts of lightning the glowing rounds flew down toward the earth. If the bunch ducked back and hid, Mackinac wouldn’t last. They’d never realize the hell at their doorstep.

Gunner watched the coloured streaks glisten against the twilight sky. Beautiful, a sight Simon might paint, but he felt uneasy. The helicopter had lowered to fifty feet by the second burst. He set a hand on the machine gunner’s shoulder and managed half a word before the gun rang a third time. Gunner heard something like a bag of flour hitting the floor. He caught a glimpse a moving light as he rushed to a seat.

The world reduced to a haze of lights and sirens. All the night’s blues and violets blended. A big shining mash spinning round like days passing too soon. Days cast against red light. And then, as soon as Gunner began to catch on, the world stopped. No spinning. No light.

He felt a breeze. Small chilled drops speckled his face, tingled on his lips. He systematically tested each finger, toe. Every muscle from toe to his ears seemed fine, if restrained. They called him Gunner. His name was Evans, Joshua. Sergeant in the United States Army until Fallujah. The memories streamed by at will, so good enough on his mind too. Hard part next.

Joshua inhaled slowly while opening his eyes. He was hovering above a heap of mangled metal and meat. Straight across the aisle, below him, the top half of a the machine gunner. The straps held enough that his head hung lower. He glanced over himself. Blood, but no surface wounds. Before Zed he might ignore the smell and give into stress-induced sleep. Now, however, his fingers ran along the buckles. A brief fall later he found himself rolling off the gunner. Cords hung from buckled panels, Joshua only cared when they began to spark.

After escaping the wreckage he stumbled ten yards out and collapsed. Smoke billowed high despite the falling mist. Joshua vomited, then crawled a bit further before reaching a van-size boulder. Finally, he unholstered the pistol strapped against his hip and waited.

“Well, I wasn’t at Evergreen so I’ve not got much information to help with how the hundredth and seven works. Likely around that time, I was causin’ some trouble with either Legion or Condemn which puts me on more than a few folk’s shit list.” Remmy chuckled a bit then became more serious, a little gloomy than his usual cheer when he continued. “Sentinels aren’t exactly like the rest of the groups you’ve met already but we’re not saints either…”

At the last comment, his hand tightened over the glass he ordered as he turned to face the bar counter. His mind had wandered over the role he played during Simon’s captivity and again he was silent for a moment. In that time his eyes looked behind the bar, and peered into a dirty mirror were a few assortments of bottles were displayed. Its grimy surface reflected back the scene within the bar as he noted for the first time what tension from their reckless conversation had sparked. Remmy’s body stiffened at the rise in argument which he quickly realized had only one foreseeable outcome.

He leaned into Coltrane and Simon, his eyes still fixed to the dirty mirror, then whispered softly. “Brah, we might want to consider makin’ a fast exit…right now. Thin’s are gonna get ugly soon.”

Before either of the men could give a questionable look to him, the man in the back table took a swing at his dinner companion. That was all it took, a stupid mention for a swing and all hell broke loose.

“Motherfuck-” Coltrane quickly ducked his head to the right as a tin mug filled with what was presumably whiskey swished past his head, towards the direction of the two men fighting just a little ways behind Remmy, obviously thrown by another pissed-off patron who’d taken offense to the scene ahead. Kicking his chair back, Coltrane made a frantic gesture for the exit as the society around them broke down but before long there was an already half-drunken regular who had probably taken offense to the fact that Coltrane was one of the few men unscathed compared to everyone else and decided to start another fight for the sake of fitting in with everyone else, and in the blink of the eye Coltrane found himself dodging yet another foreign object headed in his direction; in this case the clenched fist of a drunk.

Avoiding the first blow, Coltrane swung his elbow around towards the drunkard’s jaw with a degree of success but the self-perceived invincible man bounced back with even more furor moments later and managed to land a blow which left a darkened mark on Coltrane’s left cheek. Provoked, the ex-con threw his weight against the drunkard as he attempted to lay a second blow upon him and was able to seize the man by the collar of his jacket before shoving him aside stumbling into a row of chairs in an act of what was clearly self-defence. Addressing his two new companions, Coltrane gestured to the door “Fuck it, we need to leave.”

The drunkard stumbled backward mere inches in front of Simon. He heard the clattering, screeching wood of chairs and tables shoved aside and followed Coltrane’s lead. Glass, blood, and booze glistened on the dimly lit floor as Simon carefully stepped by patrons downed by too much drink, abuse, or both. He eyed one who lie prostrate, the back of their head shining in the dark. Scowling, Simon wove through the clutter until he felt a shudder at the base of his neck.

Simon caught a glimpse of another drunk roaring toward. He ducked, and surprisingly, Coltrane responded with a turn of his heel. The drunk swung a half filled bottle high, but the ex-con took a boxer’s stance and parried. Instead, the bottle flung loose from the drunk’s grip, shattering, and sending bits of glass and gin over the still crouched Simon. Without a second thought, Simon propelled himself shoulder first into the core of the drunk. The two had only just tumbled onto the floor before Coltrane grabbed Simon by the collar. Remmy at point, the trio worked themselves into the line already streaming from out the bar.

While the two had been occupied with the drunk, it took Remmy sometime to seek out a guaranteed path through. However it was anything but safe as the three could easily see the mayhem edging into their path. Bar patrons, mostly burly and sloppily kept, were now tearing into each without restraint. Men were flipped over tables which soon after split in half with a loud crack. Chairs went flying into backs and all around, heavy hollering and shouts were heard. Remmy, Simon, and Coltrane kept their heads low while they wove in and out of the discord towards the line. The closer they got, the more hellish things had seemed to become. The line had sluggishly begun to trickle down as each man within in it made it outside.

Yet, the sight the three had met hadn’t been much of an improvement; Coltrane’s eyes widened as he spotted a militiaman outfitted in pieced together military gear struggling to wrestle back his rifle from two other strangers who were trying to snatch it from his grasp, and elsewhere he could see several others involved in their own struggles and fights, some more one-sided than others. It seemed that pretty much anyone who looked like an authority or military figure was open season as far as these people were concerned, but neither Coltrane nor any of the others had time to contemplate this.

No time to think, to pause, to reach out. Simon moved with the surging masses outside the eatery. Raised fists and drunken chants, they had no time to contemplate this. He held his hands up with the image of old world boxers in mind. He heard a low whoosh and watched a heavy set man stumble past. Like a bowling ball, the heavy man tipped and rolled into those nearby. He watched it happen, but when Simon felt fingers clutch his ankle he felt a strong chill. As if on cue, those around Simon stomped. Something popped and collapsed under his boot. Simon went gaunt, looked around, but saw only faces taken by the rush.

Remmy shoved a large, sweaty man to the side, who tripped over a broken chair and crashed into the floor. However the Cajun didn’t seem to care as his arms wrapped about his side. His teeth gritted against the pain which flooded his side and made him winch against it. His breath became heavier before his head darted just to see Simon’s foot snagged. Before Remmy could rush to help, his eyes shifted to the movement in the mirror. Within it, a man garbed in military uniform raise a chair to his exposed back and face turned in fury to strike him down.

There was little time as he reacted quickly, pivoting on his foot to face the man. His hands came up and stopped the chair in the middle of the action. Remmy’s body tensed from the agony rippling across his frame. His fingers tightened and gripped the legs tightly, slowly pulled the chair from the soldier’s grasp. In a quickly movement, fighting through the hurt, Remmy jerked it to his side then kicked out his leg. A crack followed by the man’s yell, notifying the Cajun his foot connected with the knee. The leg crumpled leaving Remmy’s would be attack cradling his leg and on his side. Flicking the chair to the side, the bayou man turned back towards where he last saw Simon fall only to meet a bottle being cracked over his temple. He wheeled only to be stopped by one of the few still intact tables. Blood oozed from a nasty cut where the bottle broke over his noggin, small red lines dripped into his eyes blinding him as he tried to hastily wipe it away. The guy was readying for another assault, his hand rose what was left of the bottle high.

Remmy was helplessness. One hand steadied his balance while his body struggled to fight off those who pushed past, the next shove harder than the last and all seemed to threaten to knock him onto the ground. However, his luck held out yet again.

A gun fired rang out. It hard to tell where it came from or who fired it, but it didn’t matter. A panic spark among the patrons within the bar’s chaos and in moment, the crowd was rushing to the door the trio had. Remmy grunted the moment his body was swept away in the mass and to the outside. His hands waved side to side, sometimes hit someone and other times thin air while he tried to swim against the current. Mustered the strength remaining, he had jerked himself sideways and finally collapsed on all fours. His hand reached for his throbbing head as he tried to stand. He failed twice, miserably, his body shifted to his side.

Scanning the surging crowd for any sign of his would-be companion, Coltrane’s efforts were to no avail as he found no sign of Simon among the masses. Instead, he looked back towards the collapsed heap which was Remmy and quickly rushed over towards him, quickly drawing the wearied man back to his feet with an almost apologetic glance for having not kept an eye on him earlier, before pressing on through the crowd with his other companion in tow. Eventually he was able to weave his way through an alley and from here he knew there’d be a short route back to the residential area where the two of them could grab some rest at Coltrane’s trailer before heading back out to find Simon. A few riled-up individuals met them along the way with jarring gazes, though they either backed down at the sight of an already frustrated ex-con and his weary companion or simply weren’t interested in acting. “Simon’ll turn up, sooner or later. You look like you could use some rest, anyway,” He muttered to Remmy, clearing his throat awkwardly “We’re not from my place now, just another block up.”

She looked so much like her father that it hurt. The thin pull of her lip, her pert little nose that was upturned ever so slightly, the roundness of her face, the hooded shape of her eyes; the cowlick that kept the left side of her part a bit higher than the right, the slight curve of line that traced soft cheekbones. In the dark recesses of Cassie’s mind, buried deep to try to maintain what arguable sanity she had left, the vestige of a man was etched. She tried to forget, fought tooth and nail to forget, but seeing her daughter had the image dragging itself back to the surface of her mind. It always did. The young girl’s prominent features fit so perfectly over the face of her father floating in Cassie’s memory that it was startling. For a moment all the woman could do was stare stupefied as her only child stood shyly behind the legs of her caretaker in their family’s doorway.

Nobody would have guessed that Brianna was Cassie’s daughter, they looked nothing alike, but then the woman shook herself out of her transfixion and smiled. And that little girl’s shy smile dragged out into the same lopsided, mischievous smirk, her eyes crinkling at the corners, which Cassie wore so often. It left no doubt of their shared blood and it was the thing that often anchored the child to her heart. Bri may have looked in so many ways like her father, but her expressions were all her mother’s. And her stormy gray eyes, slight dimple, hair so light it bordered on white, and fluttering eyelashes were unique to her alone; Cassie’s daughter.

“Squish!” Cassie called, casting off her insecurities and opening her arms wide to receive the squealing little girl rushing towards her seat by the fire. The two toppled over onto the rug and Cassie planted a solid kiss on her daughter’s forehead as she squeezed her in as tight of an embrace as she dared. “I missed you so much,” she crooned and inhaled the scent of Bri’s wispy blonde curls, “look how big you’ve gotten!” Cass never considered herself a good mom, far from it, but she couldn’t seem to resist doing overtly mom-like things.

“I’m almost four!” Brianna pulled out of her mother’s grasp enough to hold up the correct number with fingers still chubby with baby fat.

“Four?!? There’s no way, Squish. You look at least six!” The little girl giggled and clutched Cassie around the neck in another hug as her mother pushed them both off the floor to stand. In that motion she caught the knowing look from her own mom, which had her quirking an eyebrow. Another lecture about her current traveling lifestyle would be coming Cassie’s way; that was for certain. But for now she’d hold off the inevitable by hiding behind a human shield or two and moved over to the petite woman who still stood at the entrance of the home. “Laily!”

“I am happy to see you are safe, Cassandra-jaan,” the younger woman said as they embraced, her words carefully forced through her heavily laden Persian accent. Her English had improved greatly since the time the Shannahan clan had taken her in at the beginning of apocalypse, but she sometimes still found herself having a hard time finding the right words to express herself properly, and her speech would occasionally lapse as she attempted to translate her thoughts from her native Dari to English. Despite this language barrier, Cassie always thought that Laily’s soft eyes often communicated her feelings better than most peoples’ words.

“Not through lack of trying, Khua-harum,” Cass laughed as they parted, using the Dari word for sister; her normal way to refer to the Afghan woman. On top of it being one of the few Afghan words she could actually ever remember, it was also considered a term of endearment in Laily’s culture and represented how much she meant to Cassie. The little wisp of a mousy thing may have been almost a decade younger than Cass, but she most definitely played the part of the older, wiser sibling in their relationship.

Her mother caught her attention again as the two girls separated from their embrace, Laily adjusting the traditional head scarf she still liked to wear back in its proper place and Cass setting her daughter back on her feet; Bri still clutched to her mother’s leg, however. “I am glad your back home, Cassie,” Samantha started, “but why did you come back so close to Horde Season? It’s so dangerous on the mainland this time of year.”

Cassie cringed. “I need to speak to the council. It’s ahhh… kinda really important.” Her mother’s look prompted her to elaborate, “I may have, by complete and total accident mind you, gave Mackinac’s location to a hostile paramilitary group.”

Samantha blinked. “Oh, Cassie,” She exhaled deeply. There were so many implications and undertones packed into those two little words that it had enough potency to make even one such as her eccentrically optimistic daughter dip her head.

“…Yeah...”

~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~

There was something about Mackinac that set it apart from the rest of the Havens Cass had been. It was an island, sure, but that wasn’t what made it stand out so much in her mind. The people here were different; Less soft, less delusional somehow. The main street bustled with hurried people as they went along and performed their daily chores. Vendors bellowed out into the crowd from their stalls to attract patrons to their wares. Men and women alike shuffled through the throng of human and horse traffic on their way to and from work. In that, it was very much like something you’d find in Chico, Bismarck, or even Reno, but it was still different.

Many wore animal pelts against the cold northern air, true, but not even that denoted anything out of the ordinary to the veteran salvager and wanderer Cassie considered herself. The islanders knew, she decided. They not only knew they were living through the apocalypse, they accepted it. She’d seen so many people try to forget that the undead were walking the earth and live like they had before the collapse of society that seeing such mass acceptance was odd to her; it was like being among thousands of salvagers.

The very nature of the haven itself demanded it, she supposed. Mackinac island was too small to sustain even a few hundred people by itself, even with the little farming colony recently started up on the neighboring island of Bois Blanc, let alone the six or seven thousand that actually called the place home. There wasn’t enough food, plain and simple. That meant the people were forced to abandon the safety of the island to scavenge and hunt; they were forced to confront the walkers, the apocalypse. They fought the hordes almost every winter. The haveners of Mackinac didn’t have the luxury of forgetting nor did they have the ability to plead ignorance.

They were harsh, but they were strong, Cass thought as she climbed the steps of the hotel the ruling council of Mackinac had declared their base of operations. It was traced in the hard lines each face she passed by. If any haven could withstand the brute force of the 1007th, it was the Haven of Hunters. At least she hoped.

Cassandra Shannahan was well known to the thirteen members of the council. There were very few people left in Apocalyptica they had found with her particular skill set, and none of which that compared in either the eccentric woman’s vast knowledge base or her uncanny ability to give the lot of them migraines. She had been paramount in developing most of the communications the haven claimed, including a working dish that connected them to a small satellite network, so when their daily meeting had been interrupted by a secretary announcing her need to meet with them there was little they could do to deny her an audience.

She strode straight into the Victorian-era grandeur of their meeting hall with little pretense. The woman looked haggard, probably just back from one of her months long trips into the expanses of the apocalypse, but still she shook her head at the proffered chair a guard had brought before the long hardwood table in which the council sat. Instead she met the eyes of each of the nine men and four women seated in turn. “We have a problem.” Eloquent as ever.

A man with a closely trimmed salt-and-peppered beard was the first to humor her. “And what is that, Miss Shannahan?”

“I think the hundred and seventh knows where the haven is.” Despite Mackinac’s relative seclusion from the rest of the world they still maintained a small number of scouts and other information gatherers to maintain a general understanding of the state of things outside their small sphere of existence. So they knew of the group, but not enough to understand the urgency of this meeting.

“The military group?” Another man asked, a war veteran himself, “The ones who are supposed to be helping people with condemned and the undead?” He failed to see the problem.

The young woman before them snorted indignantly. “Only if by ‘helping’ you mean forcefully taking over their havens, enacting fucking martial law, and keeping the havenfolks’ necks pressed firmly beneath their shiny boots… Then yeah, helping. They’ve already taken over Evergreen Haven on the west coast.”

All thirteen of the haven’s leaders raised their voices’ in dissonance; this was news to them and the fall of what had been a very stable haven certainly called for their further attention. Questions, accusations, concerns, and opinions spewed into the cavernous room, echoing off the arched ceilings and nearly bare walls. Cassie had trouble picking out one voice from another, let alone making out an entire sentence, and so she crossed her arms lightly over her chest to wait out the bombardment of noise impatiently.

What felt like hours, but in reality was only mere minutes, later their voices lowered until they eventually returned back to the organized silence they had maintained at the beginning of the meeting. Thirteen sets of eyes swung back in her direction.

“You’re sure? How? How did Evergreen fall and how do they figure out where we are?” They seemed to have consolidated their questions to the most pressing few.

“I was there,” Cassie said flatly, “I saw it. They came riding in like a fucking white knight promising to help the haven against a condemned threat, only to overtake them when they were weakened from the fight. Bullied their leaders into compliance and subdued anyone they thought would rebel. They were trying to press anyone into their ranks that they thought could be useful with bribery or threats when I escape—“

The large doors to the meeting room burst open, a kid not older than sixteen or seventeen rushing into the space in their wake. The blue band of fabric tied around his left arm marked him as a member of the volunteer force, his heavy panting and stooped over stance indicated his sprint to the chambers. “Councilmen,” he said in between taking in large gulps of air, “We’ve just received a report that a helicopter crashed not far inland… It was shooting at one of our hunting parties, with machine guns. They think they know where it landed and are going to investigate.”

Cassie turned back to the council grimly. For once in her life, she wished she hadn’t been right.

“It should be calmer back here, most of the folks around seem to have their own families to worry about these days.” Coltrane idly pointed out the makeshift trailer park which had been laid out across a residential area within the haven, a mass of mobile homes in different forms which ranged from would-be brand new pre-fabricated home models to rundown RV’s which were barely fit to drive, all of them carefully set to form a small town of its own within the haven. Luckily for them, most of it had been placed on top of vacant sites which had been due for redevelopment pre-outbreak and therefore the ground was either road, sidewalk or solid concrete as opposed to the intolerable sandblasted dustbowl or waterlogged conditions one would’ve expected at a traditional trailer park.

Making their way towards it, Coltrane led Remmy on past men and women who were either on their way to or headed back from the next working shifts for whatever duties they had whilst a few children were occasionally seen roaming about, doing what kids usually did - obviously. One or two strangers seemed to vaguely nod towards Coltrane as if they’d bothered to remember his face, but they were still strangers to him nonetheless - it’d take more than just a few weeks before he’d truly fit in with the others.

A few minutes of weaving through narrow shortcuts between the numerous trailers which lay astrewn across the area later and they were at the door of a familiar trailer. Well, familiar to Coltrane at any rate.

Remmy’s head still hurt like hell. He was thankful when Coltrane had helped him to his feet and supported his lanky ass upright on route to the trailer park, unable to focus enough to take in the hash together area like many others across America. His hand was wrapped in a strip torn from his shirt bottom and pressed to his temple, an attempt to stifle the gushing, which had darkened in color. Thankfully it only looked worse than it really was.

Unable to keep standing without the ground tilting, Remmy held on tightly to Coltrane while the man led. Inwardly Remmy was too busy fighting off his slight nausea and placing one foot in front of the other in their path through the trailers. Even the sounds couldn’t distract him from the unbalance caused by the bottle’s slam against his head yet it had faded some. After what felt like an endless maze, the man was relieved to see they had arrived and shifted to brace against the door side. Coltrane reached to unrig the manmade lock which keep others from entering in his absence as the last of the looped around wiring and crude padlock came undone and they made their way in, Remmy once again helped along.

Finally arrived, Remmy was eased upon an old, mothy seat in a one room living space. Its surface seemed even more dated than the eighties themselves, patterned in a grimy brown and slight plaid. Even in his pain, Remmy couldn’t help but make an amusing thought. For all he knew, if anything survived the apocalypse itself when it came then it would be this ugly couch. Inwardly he winced at the thought, causing Coltrane some concerns from the sounds of it, and the man’s voice sounded from the connected kitchen’s direction followed by a cooler’s lid slammed shut.

“Everything alright?” Coltrane’s head popped out around the corner, his eyes fixed upon Remmy warily.

Remmy simply nodded best he could. His body had leaned forward while his hands cradled his head, the blood’s flow slowed enough to remove the rag. The bayou man’s breath was steady and slow to push back the queasy sensation threatening to overwhelm him. He stayed like that until he heard the sound of Coltrane’s approaching footsteps and forced the aching body upright, his back leaned against the couch’s scratchy texture. Coltrane’s body was towered over his position and in his hands were two dark beer bottles, still damp with beads of water sliding down either side. Remmy immediately was about to push the offer away when Coltrane’s words made him reconsider.

“It’s not to drink, use it for to keep your head cool and keep down any headaches.” He shifted both bottles to one hand, then reached to remove the rag from his seat and plopped down once more to offer Remmy the beer, taking a swig from his own.

“Feels like my head is gonna need stitches brah.” Remmy’s mouth turned up into a casual smirk. His fingers wrapped about the bottle’s narrow neck as it loosely hung there, his mind turned inwards. His next words announced his thoughts subject clearly. “Are you sure he’s gonna be alright?”

“From what you guys said, all the shit you’ve been through; yeah, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” Coltrane answered, reassuringly. Walking back over towards the window, he leaned forward to peer through the shades which were almost constantly drawn across the glass. Personally, he called it something of a bad habit developed through having to catch rest in a world where the wrong type of vouyer would get him killed, and even now the idea of leaving them exposed for anyone to peer inwards made him uncomfortable.

“Y’know, I wanted to ask- how’d you and Simon end up getting to know each other? You seem like something of an unlikely partnership.” He snorted amusedly at the last remark, glancing back over towards the wounded Cajun for an answer.

Remmy let a boyish grin creep to his lips, his mouth crooked which seemed to give him a relaxed attitude and appearance. For the moment, he was silent. His body pulled backwards to rest his lanky back against the couch with a muffled creak and his hand held the bottle’s base loosely against his throbbing head. He hissed when the cold surface touched the tender spot before he took a deep breath. Remmy’s eyes drifted a bit back into his memories while he answered Coltrane, taking a slightly risk in the thin trust that Simon appeared to have earlier.

“It’s a bit complex. See… I work with a group called Sentinels.” His eyes spotted the confused look Coltrane gave him and immediately fought the urge to burst out laughing. A motion which would’ve hurt his already roughly patched side, chancing it to open again just to bleed. “We’re just an odd collection of folk who want to do what’s right and help. I worked undercover as a slaver which meant I worked, slept, ate and buddies most the time. One thing while undercover was all I had to do: Scout ahead and signal to my pod where survivors were before the slavers got them. Sometimes it was too late to stop the events from happening or save the poor souls I caught. If I didn’t then likely be would’ve been in a ditch the next morning, unlikely I would’ve joined them as slavers aren’t the forgiving sort.”

Without thinking, Remmy pulled the now warmer beer from his head and pressed it to his lips. He tilted it up and down a bit, letting the yeasty taste burn at his throat all the way down. His hand rested in his lap when he continued his reminiscing. “Simon and his friend, a woman, gave us a chase to remember. At some point they drove their vehicle right off a cliff and into a river. I almost followed until I crashed on my side, pinned to the ground. Somehow they made it to an abandoned bar where I ended up scoutin’ around for supplies. That’s when I found her, just layin’ there and asleep. I signalled the pod as I helped haul her to the dark outskirts. I didn’t once fuckin’ think to check for others and by the time I returned...They had found him. I’ll never forget that. If I had just stopped and looked around, I could’ve found him and got ’em both out..”

Remmy let out small, bitter laugh at his mistake. As to chase away the sense of failure, he took another swallow of his beer then resumed to place it upon his head. “To top that off...Kurtis is gonna to kill me for rabbitin’ off after Simon despite the original goal.”

“Slavers, huh..” Coltrane frowned disdainfully, rubbing a hand along his jawline as he set his beer down before shifting his focus back towards Remmy. “I’d heard rumours and all, before and after I came here, never knew some people would be so fucking... inhuman”, he grimaced at the idea of being forced into slavery, picturing an image of being chained up whilst dragged along the long stretches of highways which ran across the West Coast. “ Raiding camps and attacking people for their supplies is one thing, roaming around with the Condemned’s another, but slavery? Fuck.. at least some of those people have you helping them out. Look, give us another hour and we’ll head off to find Simon again, alright?”

Prometheus

Time means little when your heart beats in your throat. When moments no longer separate and the old world hours give way to the continuous now. Like meditation, an intense high, or the fog of war. Joshua knew the last well. He felt it, but could not name it. His body and mind were ‘operational’. Serviceable, minor wounds, negligible damage. Joshua let his pistol lay beside him, feigning readiness. When time blurs you should be concerned.

Sunset fast neared when Joshua recovered. He gingerly tested his feet and checked over himself once again. Speckled blood stained his vest and battle uniform, but beyond a few tears or splits, the clothes survived. The flesh managed of the same. Joshua felt stiff and bruised, and perhaps the adrenaline was still numbing the pain, but too long had passed. However long it had been, anyway.

Joshua cocked a brow and looked around. Pistol in hand, he approached the smoking wreckage casually. Besides groaning metal the world fell quiet. No strained breaths of the undead, humming engines, or even the small sounds of unseen fauna. The thought gave the sergeant pause. He looked back once more, this time following the land as it rose into what he’d first discounted as a mere hill.

“Ah shit,” Gunner sighed, his eyes taking in the cliff, ten men above him. “Mackinac. Haven of Hellish Hurdles.”

When the awe dissipated, Joshua found himself pacing around the metallic heap. He lost a moment to the distraction, but smoke still billowed and the wreck still groaned. A path started in the earth more than a dozen yards opposite the cliff. Bits of scrap remained at the start and dotted the space between marks in the land and the crash. Part way through the tail of the helicopter came apart. Its broken remains lie bent with the rear rotor pointing to the bulk of the wreck. Until he reached the the body of the chopper he saw no blood, fire, or anything to do the crash justice. And then came too much.

Blood splattered against the broken windshield of the helicopter. The pilot had somehow come loose and either broken through, or become wedged party through the already broken glass. His head and shoulder projected out, torn to shreds, as if reaching for something. Joshua hardened himself. Even in his daze, he remembered the dismembered gunner, but not the sparking wires. Gunner stumbled back and met an all too curved metal wall. The very shape of the helicopter had changed. Like a flattened oval or an egg with its shell caved in. Little fires had spread and still burnt within the wreckage. What remained of the soldiers either charred or was half buried under bent metal. Sergeant Evans planned the excavation process and how best to free the bodies of the fallen. Gunner sought clues as to where the supplies might turn up.

Saddled with two packs a few weapons slung over his shoulders, Joshua made for the cliff. A few rocks tumbled down, nothing worrisome. He felt a tingling at the base of his neck. The hairs had pricked up and something familiar sent his head spiraling. Joshua glanced up.

“Drop your weapons!” a voice commanded from above. Several figures stood atop the cliff with what Joshua presumed were rifles.
~~~

People took to the streets for blocks surrounding the eatery. Chico rocked, dry heaving with all the motions of a revolution without the ideals or passions. Some held clubs or rifles imitating them, but the streets were relatively quiet. The low roar of a mob was no firefight. After a night or two held up through a passing horde, a mob just didn’t sound the same, anyway. Night would cool the nerves and invite complacency. Mobs would disperse, perhaps the best defense against the 1007th would tame themselves. Quiet streets meant the soldiers played smart. Played quiet ‘through the passing horde’.

Simon made it to district’s edge before resting. He leaned against an old apartment converted to a shop, according to the sign over the door. Across the street there was an oil lamp and a sign post. The ‘Oroville Dam’ lie further ahead. Much further. He had no reason travel there, and no energy to manage it anyway. Rumour had it Chico was the product of a few havens, hence the expansive size, but that thing seemed a curse. The community within Evergreen kept to one space, big enough to breath, small enough to stay connected. Even then, under pressure the borders collapsed. Reinforcements came too late, if called at all. Simon studied the sign post against. Marysville, Oroville, Chico, Orland, and the miles between them. All the miles to just assume safe.

When his strength returned, Simon made his way back toward the center of Chico. The walk gave him time think and to plan. Chico deserved a warning. He needed his health, which meant rest, regular nourishment, and some pot if he could fit it. One night before the world changed again. If this went sideways like Evergreen, shot nerves and weak body wouldn’t do.

By the time he arrived to the eatery the mobs had either moved elsewhere or dispersed. Simon flipped his collar up to hide his face and sunk into the steps leading to the eatery. That Cajun, the not-slaver, he was attached, like he owed Simon something. Chances were the two would come searching. If not, he hoped the barkeep was generous.