Eastern Montana, Thanksgiving Day, 2029: Allison McGee stood in the dining room of her now-deceased grandmother's home staring at an empty table. Last year, there were 12 people sitting around this table, as well as 14 others -- mostly but not exclusively children -- at folding tables or in couches and armchairs in the adjoining room. Next to the annual summer family reunion, Turkey Day had traditionally been the largest gathering of McGees for all of the 26 year old's life.

The virus that would come to be identified as Influenza H5-N5 -- nicknamed "I-55" by the Press -- changed all of that, obviously. To the best of her knowledge, Allison was the only McGee who'd survived the pandemic. Her family wasn't the only one to suffer in this way, of course. I-55 had an unusually long infection period and high transmission rate, meaning that the infected not only passed the bug for months before realizing they were infected but also passed it to just about anyone with whom they were in close proximity via touch, exhalation, or fluid transfer.

In addition, the fatality rate was over 98%. Epidemiologists produced vaccine after vaccine after finally discovering I-55, none of which had an effective rate over 40% or was a long-term solution.

Within six months of the first announced cases, there were infections in every country across the globe, and within a year of that date, 98% of Earth's population was dead.

Allison and half a dozen of her family members had begun isolating here on the farm immediately after the first public announcement of I-55. This wasn't their first pandemic rodeo, of course; they'd lived through the COVID-19 pandemic of a decade earlier, so they'd understood the importance of keeping their distance from others.

Gramma McGee had been as close to a prepper as a normal person could be, so the country home had been fairly well stocked with just about everything the 7 of them required. No one left the farm for over 4 months, and the four times that someone tried to visit the property -- whether their intentions were honorable or nefarious -- they were met with semi-automatic rifle fire before and after a verbal warning to get back down the drive to the highway.

And yet, Allison was standing here all alone on this day that was for years a wonderful family affair. One by one, the others had fallen victim to the plague, apparently having been infected prior to the family's isolation. Allison had at one point shown signs of sickness, too, only to suffer through the symptoms and come out on the other side with a chronic cough and occasional night sweats.

She'd buried her younger cousin Gloria the first day of October, the last of the McGees to succumb to the virus. For almost two months, she'd been all alone here in the house that set in the middle of 110 acres of farmland surrounded on all four sides by forest that varied between 50 to 200 yards in depth.

Each morning before dawn, Allison gathered up Winchester rifle, Browning shotgun, Beretta 9mm, and backpack of ammunition, food, water, and emergency supplies and walked southwest down the quarter mile long driveway toward the woods and the highway beyond it. She always stopped short in the forested area to study the wooded area, the open area beyond it, and -- past a deep ditch that had once included a now-destroyed driveway bridge -- the two-lane road beyond that.

Allison never left the woods, fearful that just as she was looking for others through her rifle scope and binoculars, others who might know of the ranch beyond the woods might be doing the same from their location. She would study the road for indications of automobile travel the night before, then study the horizon for changes that might have occurred in one of the four little towns and one big city that were between 6 and 11 miles from this very point.

Day after day, she thankfully nothing of concern. She would check that the gate was still locked and alarmed with a hidden screecher they'd installed months earlier, then would take a long walk down the trail through the woods that would take her around the entire perimeter of the 300+ acre property. Walking slowly and attentively, she looked for signs of life -- human life -- and, day after day, returned to the ranch house without having seen any at all.

Allison missed people often, of course. But knowing from the sole remaining Governmental radio broadcast on the radio that I-55 was still out there and still killing people, she was in no hurry to have some stranger step up on the home's porch and knock on the door, looking for room or board.

Once her tour was completed, Allison went to work. She picked the food that was ripe, processed it via canning, dehydrating, or hanging as was appropriate, and performed whatever other tasks needed completion. Gramma McGee had taught her how to do all these things from the time that Allison was a little girl. Still, working alone to harvest and process 36 different species or varieties of vegetables, melons, berries, tree nuts, and ground fruit, as well as milk the goats, collect the eggs, and on occasion slaughter and jerk one of the stock animals was an all day job.

Allison couldn't remember the last time she'd just sat down in a comfortable chair and relaxed for more time than it took to finish a mug of coffee -- which was about to run out -- or whatever meal was on a plate before her. She did nap each day, though, but that was mostly to enable her to repeat her perimeter tour as soon as the sun dropped.

Tonight would be no different, of course, holiday or no holiday. Allison gathered up her weapons and pack; the latter was in case she ran into trouble and got stuck out in the woods for the night or, God forbid, a day or more. She headed out the back door as usual, using the drainage ditch to access the draw that ran parallel to the main drive all the way to the woods.

The evening tour was conducted counterclockwise, opposite to the morning one. The southern property line ran much farther along the curving road, meaning she spent more time near it. Tonight, to her shock, that would actually mean something.

Allison had just turned north away from highway and toward the slowly rising property when she heard what she knew was the sound of a fast moving vehicle. Crouching, she snuck through the trees to a point which gave her a clear line of sight to the road. She unslung her long guns and checked them, as well as the pistol, to ensure they were ready for use, then waited as the vehicle neared.

Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer when a small, older sedan came into view over the small hill to the east. She already had the scoped rifle laid out over a downed tree and now looked through the optics to get an idea of what was coming at her.

Almost immediately, Allison realized that the car wasn't alone, as a full-sized pickup truck was very close behind it. Her worst fears were playing out in her head, thoughts of a militia of a dozen armed and violent men coming to seize her place, steal her resources, and rape her to death.

When gunfire erupted, first from one weapon, then from one or two more, Allison's fear spiked and she dropped even more behind the log for cover. The gunfire continued as she hid, but after several seconds she realized that as it continued, the cars were passing by her position, as opposed to coming to a stop near her as she was so horrifically fearing.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of a vehicle crash, followed almost immediately by the sound of screeching tires. Allison looked up to find the sedan tail end first in the ditch on her side of the highway about 80 yards to her right. The pickup was stopped in the middle of the road about thirty yards from the crash site, and men with long rifles were leaping out of all four of its doors and bed.

It didn't take a genius to understand that the truck's occupants had been in pursuit of the occupants of the sedan. As she watched, the former began riddling the latter with gunfire, punching holes through aluminum and blowing out windows. A hole through the radiator send a spray of steam out and up, and first one, then another front tire went instantly flat as bullets ripped through them.

As she watched, Allison couldn't help but wonder who the bad guys in this shootout were. There had to be good guys and bad guys, right? she wondered as the gunfire continued. Maybe both of them are bad guys?

Then, as if it wasn't already beating hard, her heart skipped a beat when she she saw a back door of the sedan open and woman slip out into to the ditch, holding a child in her arms! The driver, a male, came spilling out as well, doing his best to hide behind the front door as he popped shots off at his assailants with a small pistol.

Allison was quickly calculating the whole good guy-bad guy equation when one of the men at the truck hollered to his accomplices to cease fire. Once they had, he hollered toward the other vehicle, "All we want is the woman and the child! Give'em up, and we'll let you leave with all the stuff you stole from us."

Allison added the stole from us factor and wondered if maybe she'd made a mistake in her math. The man responded, "They're my family! My wife and child!"

"They're Immunes!" the man standing tall in the bed of the truck hollered back. "They're what we need to start over."

"You're not taking my wife and kid!" the man said, popping off another shot. Even from this distance, Allison could tell by the man's body language that he had just used his last bullet. He slid down into the ditch closer to the woman and child, huddling them down lower.

By now, Allison had reached her conclusion as to who was who and what needed to be done about it. She'd shot her rifle at people before but never with the intention of actually hitting someone. Surprisingly, though, she found aiming the Winchester .30-06 carefully at the man leading the bad guys and gently squeezing the trigger to be very easy. The gun kicked against her shoulder, and as she peeked over the scope, the found the man tipping away and falling out of the truck to thud on the pavement's centerline.

Allison was obviously outnumbered, so she didn't waste time waiting for a response. She simply picked another target, took and released a breath, and fired. Then again. By now, the remaining two men had deduced her general location and had fled to the other side of the pickup truck. Allison knew they had to be killed, too, but she wasn't about to expose herself in an effort to chase after them.

She simply remained behind the log for a long moment, looking for a solution. The man and woman -- and child, of course -- were of no use to her as they remained crouched down in the ditch. Then, she remembered a favorite scene from the Bruce Willis movie, The Jackal.

She relocated to a place much closer to the crash site, one that gave her a better view of the truck's underside. She popped off three shots before she managed to hit the gas tank. As fuel poured out onto the pavement, Allison fired twice more before flames erupted under the truck.

A moment later, the vehicle's gas tank exploded, sending both men back from it several feet. One appeared to be unconscious, but the second rose unsteadily and tried to run away down the highway. Allison aimed a last time and took her time putting a bullet through his back.

She set the rifle aside and pulled her pistol. (She'd left the shotgun and pack already, so she knew she'd be coming back for them later anyway.) Making her way to the tree line and revealing herself to the couple, Allison aimed the Beretta at them and told them with a stern voice, "Run away or move closer to me, and I'll kill all three of you, including the kid!"

It took Frank King a dozen seconds or so to fight through his disorientation and understand his current situation. The crash and, subsequently, the explosion of the airbag into his face had knocked him out for a moment. Adding to that, the car he'd been driving was being riddled by bullets shot by the men who'd been pursuing him for nearly an hour.

"Jennifer! Jennifer! Keep your head down!" he hollered as he fought to release his seat belt. He searched for the now missing pistol he'd previously had secured under his right thigh, eventually finding it on the floorboard under the brake pedal. As he fought to retrieve it, he ordered, "[i]Jennifer, keep you head down. Get down into the floorboards!"

When he heard no response from the woman in the backseat, Frank suddenly feared that she might have been harmed or even killed by the crash or barrage of gunfire. He turned to look, finding the rear driver's side door open and both Jennifer and little Robert already outside the car.

He ducked again as more bullets hit the vehicle. Fighting to get the damaged door open, Frank extended the pistol out before him and fired off a half dozen shots. He leapt out, sliding down the bank of the ditch until he reached the bottom, then turned to find Jennifer. She had curled around the back of the car and was hiding, fear and desperation in her expression.

"We'll be okay! We'll get out of this!" he told her. "They're not going to hurt us."

Despite how this might have looked to an outside observer -- say, a woman hiding nearby in the woods -- the men pursuing Frank and Jennifer had no intentions of killing them. The barrage of bullets had initially and successfully been intended to bring the car to a stop, and the continuation of the barrage was simply to keep the pair at bay.

As proof of this assumption of his, Frank heard the leader of their pursuers holler, "All we want is the woman and the child! Give'em up, and we'll let you leave with all the stuff you stole from us."

Frank responded, "They're my family! My wife and child!"

That wasn't entirely true, of course. Frank had only met Jennifer six or seven months ago, while living with a community of Immunes outside Sheridan, Wyoming. Neither of them had liked the living situation there, but liking each other just fine, they'd decided to stay together when Frank said he was heading north for Canada.

Just as Jennifer wasn't Frank's wife, the infant wasn't Jennifer's child either. Baby Robert's parents had both died of the I-55 virus just weeks after his birth, and Jennifer had assumed care for the baby. She'd expected it to die soon enough as well, but -- like she herself -- Robert had turned out to be immune to the virus that was killing off most of humanity.

"They're Immunes!" the man in the truck called. "They're what we need to start over."

"You're not taking my wife and kid!"

Frank rose to take some more shots at his pursuers. The pistol's slide remained back after the last shot, indicating that it was empty. Frank stared at it for a moment before tossing it away in frustration. He slid down again for cover, then moved to wrap his arms around the woman who, in turn, had her arms around the child.

The gunfight was over, he thought to himself, which was good news. The bad news was that the men would now take Jennifer and Robert and, likely, kill him on the spot. He dreaded the idea of Jennifer going back to that compound from which they'd fled. She would be subjected to forced pregnancy over the years to come, the thinking being that if she was an Immune, her offspring by other Immune men might be as well.

As he waited to be captured, though, Frank heard a gunshot from too far away to be from their pursuers. He heard panicked voices, then another gunshot, and poked his head out to see what was happening. Just then, a third shot sounded across the open ground surrounding the crash seen, its origins apparently from the nearby woods. Frank saw one of the men jerk and collapse, joining another body already on the ground near it.

Then, for the longest time, there was silence. He looked for the remaining men but from where he and Jennifer hid, he could see no one. He scoured the woods for the shooter, again finding no one.

Then, his attention was pulled away as Jennifer said softly, "Frank, I ... I think something's wrong."

He looked to the woman with whom he'd fallen in love and found her face white, her eyes unfocused, and her head tilting to and fro. He suddenly realized that the arm he'd wrapped around her felt wet, and pulling it out to view it, he found it red with blood.

"Oh, Jesus, no, fuck no," he murmured in panic.

Jennifer's backside was stained with blood from a gun wound neither of them had realized she'd suffered during her exit from the car. Frank took Robert from Jennifer's arms and set him carefully down, then pulled her blouse up to reveal the wound. Blood was pumping from the bullet hole low near her kidney. He tried to stem the loss with pressure, but other than that there was little he could do for her. It didn't take a doctor to know that she was in her last moments of life.

Gunfire resumed, first from a new location in the woods and then from the pickup truck as the last two compound men fought for their lives. Frank rolled Jennifer to look into her eyes, only to find them already closed. He felt for a pulse and found it weak, nearly nonexistent.

An explosion drew his attention away, and when he looked back to Jennifer again, she was gone. Frank lost track of what was happening around him until a woman stood over him with a pistol pointed at him.

"Run away or move closer to me, and I'll kill all three of you, including the kid!"

Frank just stared at the woman for a long moment before raising his free and bloodied hand up into the air. He said simply, "She's already dead."

Laying Jennifer back carefully against the ditch's bank, Frank retrieved little Robert, stood, and looked around to gauge the current situation. Carefully and slowly, he climbed up the ditch's bank to the pavement and looked toward what remained of the pickup truck. Even though it was entirely engulfed in flames, it was still more or less intact, not entirely devastated like the automobile explosions of Hollywood movies. Bodies surrounded it on all sides, not a one of them showing any signs of life.

He looked back to the woman with the gun. She looked to be in her mid- to late-20s. She was pretty, beautiful even. She looked serious, too. She had, of course, just killed six or seven men and blown their vehicle to smithereens. That qualified as serious to Frank.

Unsure exactly of his new situation, he asked simply, "So ... what's next?"

Allison always-sensitive stomach turned a bit at the sight of the blood on the man's hand and arm. He told her softly, "She's already dead."

She couldn't help but wonder if it was her fault the other woman was dead, that she'd acted too late. Looking toward the burning truck and corpses surrounding it, though, Allison was sure she'd done all she could in a timely manner considering what she'd known at the time. She looked toward the infant laying on the ground wrapped up in a coat.

"Is she okay ... he ... whatever?" she asked with a less stern voice than she'd used before.

The man answered, and Allison felt relieved. Then he asked, "So ... what's next?"

She looked in the direction of the man's pursuers again, then told him, "Stay where you are while I check the other guys. I mean it. Don't move."

She waited for him to indicate that he understood and accepted the order, then headed down her side of the ditch until she was directly across from the burning wreck. There was no movement amongst the men. She descended into the ditch, climbed to the road, and slowly circled the scene. She maintained her distance, pressing a mask she'd pulled from a pocket to cover her mouth and nose. The dead could still pose an infection risk, even if they were immune.

Allison found one of the men still breathing and conscious. By the singe marks, he was one of the two men caught in the explosion. She stared down at him a long moment, contemplating the reason he and the others had been chasing the trio. She understood the value and importance of Immunes, of course; they were the future of the human race. But she couldn't abide the idea of Immunes being forced into being part of the rebuilding of society.

She lifted the pistol and popped off one shot into the lone survivor's chest. He gasped a few times, then went silent and still. Allison headed back to the car in the ditch, looking to ensure that the man there was where she'd left him. She stopped before getting to near him.

"You're Immunes?" she asked, needing to her it from his mouth as he looked her in the eye. She waited for his answer, then asked, "You've been infected then? That's how you know for certain. It isn't that you just haven't caught it, right?"

Again, she waited for his response. She studied him a moment before saying, "My name is Allison. Allison McGee." She didn't actually ask him for his name but assumed that he would offer it. Looking to his wreck of a car, she said, "Gather what you need, and let's get out of here."

She waggled her pistol toward the driveway, which was only twenty yards or so from the site. The bridge had been destroyed early in the pandemic to keep people out, and although the weeds had begun growing up through the no-longer-maintained gravel, the drive was still more obvious than not.

"We're heading that way," she told him. "You lead, I'll follow. Until I know you a little bit better, maintain at least 20 feet distance from me, more if your upwind in a breeze."

The woman who'd saved him but who was now pointing a pistol at his head asked, "Is she okay ... he ... whatever?"

"He," Frank clarified regarding the child's gender. The child had been crying occasionally during the speedy drive across the countryside and had erupted in wails after the crash, but Frank had picked him up and somehow calmed him down as he'd watched their savior near. "He's fine. Great car seat, apparently. I'd give them a thumbs up on their Amazon page ... if there was an Amazon anymore."

After he asked what was next, she told him to sit still until she came back. He did as told, only standing when she'd stepped out of his sight. He didn't move but just a few feet, tracking her until he again lost sight of her, this time beyond the burning pickup truck.

Frank flinched when he heard a single gunshot, hurrying up onto the pavement for a sign of what had happened. The woman was walking his way, reaching him to ask, "You're Immunes?"

"Yes," Frank said without hesitation. He lifted the infant just enough to indicate who he was talking about before saying, "Robert, too."

"You've been infected then?" she continued her questioning. "That's how you know for certain. It isn't that you just haven't caught it, right?"

"No," he answered, then corrected, "I mean, yes ... yes, I've been infected. Early in the pandemic, before they even knew what I-55 was or had even given it its actual name ... H5-N5. I was sick for a while but came through. I was infected a second time by one of the variants. Flue symptoms. Nausea, sweats, and the like. Still, came through just fine. I've been around people with at least four different variants, in Denver ... Sheridan and Billings."

In the past, people didn't typically talk so proudly about diseases they'd caught. But in the case of I-55, it was better to have caught the originally and/or its variants and survived than to have not caught any version of it at all.

"My name is Allison," she said after studying him a while. "Allison McGee."

"Frank," he told her, smiling a bit. "Frank King."

She looked to his car and said, "Gather what you need, and let's get out of here."

She indicated their direction, after which Frank hurried to the car to do as told. He and Jennifer had secretly gathered some supplies during the dark of last night, hiding them in the trunk of the sedan. He forced the sticking door open, found the chest carrier for Robert, put the baby in it, and slipped the apparatus over his shoulders, buckling it in place.

Retrieving the keys from the ignition, he hurried to the trunk and grabbed several backpacks and a handful of cloth shopping bags. He soon realized that he wasn't going to be able to handle the weight for a long distance. He looked to Allison, asking, "Can we hide these in the woods and come back for them later?"

She responded, and Frank acted accordingly. He slammed the trunk lid down, turned -- and saw Jennifer's body once again. He felt instant guilt for having forgotten about her. Yeah, sure, there was a lot going on at the moment, enough to occupy and confuse any mind. But this was the woman he'd been traveling with for months, the woman he'd been sleeping with, the woman he'd concluded he would marry if ever she asked him about their long term future together. And he'd left her laying in a ditch while he gathered canned foods, bottled water, and a jar of freeze-dried coffee.

"What about Jennifer?" he asked Allison. "I can't just leave her here like this."

They made plans to deal with the other woman, and after a moment of looking to Jennifer in solemn silence, Frank headed the direction in which Allison had ordered. Once he was across the ditch again, he felt gravel beneath his feet. The driveway was slowing being reclaimed by nature, but where it entered the forest a clear though narrow road was still obvious. It had been disguised to an extent, with some trees fallen across it and some plants put in the ground in an attempt to appear natural. Still, anyone with half a brain could look at the clues and concluded that there was a property, likely a house, beyond the woods.

Just a dozen yards into the trees, Frank gestured to his right and left the drive to hide most of the bags and packs. He kept only the one with baby supplies and fished the coffee out of another pack, saying, "This stuff's gold these days."

Moving back to the drive, he turned again in the indicated direction and continued. After a moment, he asked, "So ... where we're going ... it's your pre-pandemic home ... or did you just sort of occupy it?"

"So ... where we're going," Frank asked as they continued forward through the forested portion of the estate. "It's your pre-pandemic home ... or did you just sort of occupy it?"

Allison didn't answer, at least not right away. She was overwhelmed at the moment, uncertain of what she was doing as well as whether what she was doing was good for her in either the short or long term.

First, there were the deaths that had just occurred back there on the highway. During her life, Allison had seen dead people before: three of her four grandparents who'd died of natural causes and, even more tragically, two close friends who'd died of drug overdoses; and via the television -- when there still was television -- hundreds if not thousands of people she didn't know who'd succumb to the ravages of I-55.

But until today, she'd never with her own eyes seen anyone murdered via violence. And more staggering, of course, was the fact that she herself had done the killing. Adding to the confusion overwhelming her, Allison couldn't believe how easy it had been to do. She'd killed 5 men, shot them dead. Pointed her rifle -- and later her pistol -- and pulled the trigger without hesitation or regret.

She was sure that it had been the right thing to do, an act to save lives by taking them.

Second, of course, was what was walking through the woods in front of her. Allison had been alone for months, and now she was inviting a stranger onto her property, into her home. She didn't know anything about this man, other than he claimed to be an immune and had been fleeing the men who she'd just killed. For all she knew, his pursuers had been chasing him with good reason. Frank could be a murderer, a serial killer even; maybe he was the I-55 version of Typhoid Mary.

As she watched him walking before her, Allison wondered whether she should simply shoot him here and now. She could don her protective gear and drag him out to the road to be burned with the other bodies. Hell, she'd already killed 5 men. What was one more.

But, and this was third, what about the baby? What about Little Robert, as Frank had called the child. Allison wasn't the maternal type. Oh, she'd had many nieces and nephews with whom she's spent time pre-pandemic, and many of them had considered her their favorite aunt because she fawned over them when they visited. But at the end of the day, they'd all gone home with their parents, leaving Allison without responsibility regarding them.

If she killed Frank now, shot him in the back and burned his corpse, what was she supposed to do with Robert? It wasn't something she was interested in figuring out. So, for now, the only course of action that made sense was to leave the job of caring for the kid to the man who'd been doing so already.

"It's my family's property," Allison found herself finally answering as they emerged from the trees and looked out over more of the estate. "It belonged to my grandparents."

She hesitated. She wasn't sure she should be telling all this to a stranger. But at the same time, Allison couldn't see the harm. Plus, it had been so long since she'd talked to someone, anyone.

"My grandmother's great-grandfather first settled here in 1901," she continued. "It was all timber then, not like it is today."

Allison found herself scanning the property and imagining what it would have looked like back then. It had begun as a 600-acre allotment, but after some forced sales to the State through imminent domain so that the Power Company could run a high-tension power line, as well as a sale decades later to deal with the hardships of a failing US economy, the estate had been reduced to its current size of just over 300 acres.

They'd just emerged from through the forest that surrounded the entire property and were walking through pasture. To their right was a small flock of sheep; to their right were a dozen head of cattle. As they continued up the drive, Frank would see fenced off pastures containing meat goats to one side and milk goats to the other. When they got close enough to the house, he'd begin seeing free range chickens, ducks, and geese.

The last animals he'd catch sight of were Moe, Larry, and Shemp, the Australian Shepherds that had belonged to Allison's grandmother. There had been another one originally, named Curly, of course, but he had died defending the stock animals from a mountain lion.

Allison had been the one to find Curly bleeding out, after she put a .30-06 bullet through the puma's chest cavity from almost three hundred yards. Her grandmother had been so proud of the shot and of Curly's bravery that she'd had both of them stuffed and displayed. They still stood in one corner of the country home's library, posed as if in battle with each other. Allison had thought it creepy at first, but she'd come to appreciate it later once she'd gotten past the trauma of losing one of her canine friends.

"I grew up here," she said after they'd walked a bit farther. "My parents traveled a lot. Dad was a doctor, mom was a nurse. They worked with Doctors Without Borders off and on for most of my life." An emotionally drawn breath caused her to go silent a moment before she continued, "They isolated here when the pandemic erupted, with me and gramma and some other relatives. But they were already infected. We think they're the ones who brought I-55 into the house. We're not sure. Dad thought so anyway. He blamed himself, even if the others said he was being silly."

Allison had made it a personal policy not to think on that subject. Who brought the virus into the house wasn't important. What was important was that because of I-55, she was the last remaining member of her family. Fault was of no concern.

She thought back to what Frank had said about his own experience with the virus. His symptoms and survival told her that his immunity was likely very strong. Because of her parents' medical background, she'd been better educated and informed regarding pandemics, including not just this one but the lesser but still deadly COVID-19 before it.

She understood that Frank's symptoms, movement from one city to another -- each sometimes with its own local variants -- and survival meant that he was likely even more strongly immune than even she was. And the baby, well, that was simply amazing. Through the still-continuing radio reports, Allison had learned that less than 1 in 1000 children under the age of 4 had survived the pandemic, and the survival of newborns was even worse than that. Baby Robert was practically a miracle.

Allison's mind went to the woman lying in the ditch behind them. She felt bad about leaving Frank's mate there like that. But they couldn't have taken the time to bury her, and Allison hadn't been about to handle the woman's dead body without protective gear. She was leery about just walking with Frank and the child, let alone making physical contact with his dead woman.

"We'll go back and take care of Jennifer properly," she said, asking, "Jennifer, right?" After Frank responded, she added, "We're not going to leave her like that. I promise."

"It's my family's property," Allison answered, adding more about the generations of McGees who'd lived on, farmed, and ranched the property. "It was all timber then, not like it is today."

"That sounds about right," Frank responded, clarifying, "Without timber, we'd all be living in sod houses, I guess."

As they continued forward, he was amazed at the diversity of livestock occupying the pastures and pens, as well as how many of each there were. He asked, "I imagine the number of head is based upon how many the land will serve?"

When they were closer to the house, something moved in the shadows of a gigantic walnut tree, catching Frank's eye. He hesitated, unsure of what he was seeing, then stopped cold as he realized that the creatures were running at full speed his direction. He took a step back, wrapping his arms more tightly around little Robert as he realized that the creatures were dogs and that they looked ready to take him and the child down and eat them both alive.

Of course, his fear was unfounded as each of the three Australian Shepherds zoomed past him to circle excitedly around his hostess before only then coming back his direction to look him over and sniff at him. Frank's heart was beating hard, even now that he realized he was in no danger; he'd had more than his share of incidents with vicious dogs in his childhood and early adult years, resulting in a deep fear of them, regardless of size, breed, or personality.

"Scared the shit out of me," he confessed as the dogs danced around energetically. He looked to Allison with a smile, then nervously reached a hand down to the dogs, battling his fear of being bit. He was licked excitedly instead, though, leading him to speak to them, "Good dogs, nice dogs."

They continued onward until they were nearly to the ranch style house, at which time Frank turned to once again ask about his departed traveling mate. Allison reassured him, "We'll go back and take care of Jennifer properly. Jennifer, right?"

"Jennifer Connors," he responded. "Thank you."

"We're not going to leave her like that. I promise," Allison told him.

"I understand why we left her there in the first place," Frank told her, "I really do. You don't know me. You didn't know her. I ... I appreciate what you did for us. You saved my life. You saved Robert's life." He hesitated a moment before adding, "There was nothing you could have done for Jennifer. She was hit as she got out of the car ... long before you involved yourself. I just ... I just thought you should know beyond a doubt that you couldn't have saved her."

Frank observed, "I imagine the number of head is based upon how many the land will serve?"

"Yeah, that's right," Allison answered. "We used to have more of just about everything, but with being unable to purchase feed for the stock and, of course, the food that we didn't raise for ourselves here, we began slaughtering at a faster pace."

She gestured toward a small building, saying, "We converted one of the equipment buildings into a smoke house, so that we could slaughter, slice, and jerk carcasses. We were afraid we'd lose electricity from the grid to the walk-in freezer -- which we eventually did -- so we dried everything we didn't eat fresh."

When the Stooges rose from the shadows and ran toward them in the dimming, early evening light, Allison smiled with delight. She loved those dogs and knowing that they wouldn't harm someone in her company, she anticipated that Frank would like them, too. His expression and body language told a different story, though.

After a moment, he looked to her and admitted, "Scared the shit out of me. He interacted with them, though, speaking to them, "Good dogs, nice dogs."

After the dogs had taken a moment to shuffle and dance around him, Allison ordered them back to their pen, which was more often than not unlocked and open. She told him with an apologetic tone, "Sorry. I forget sometimes that some people don't like dogs, particularly when they come at them as a pack in the dark."

They spoke about Jennifer again, after which Allison pointed off past the big maple tree and said, "We're going that way."

They passed the pen where the dogs were laying down and neared another one, this one open and looking as though it had never been used; there weren't shavings on the ground for dog shit, and the dog house inside looked brand new, except for a layer of leaves on and around it.

"Inside," she told Frank, gesturing the pistol she'd continued to hold toward the open door. When he looked between her and the pen and back, she explained, "I'm going to go out and collect Jennifer and bring her back here for a property burial. In the meantime, though--"

She again waggled the Beretta toward the pen, then let it hang at her side.. She finished, "--I need to know that you're safe and secure ... and since I don't have a castle with a dungeon or a Sheriff's substation with a jail cell ... this is it. Don't worry, I'll bring you some blankets, food, and water. And a camp stove so you can heat up some of that water for formula for the baby."

She stared expectantly at Frank, hoping that he wasn't going to put up a fuss about this. It would be a shame, after all, to have gone what they'd gone through thus far only to have her shoot him dead now.

Hearing Allison talk about how many of their animals had been slaughtered for their own consumption literally caused Frank's stomach to roll over with the anticipation of the first decent meal he would have had in months. Of course, he had no idea how many people had been living here or still lived here. He'd only met Jennifer thus far. There could be a dozen or a score or many more people here who he simply hadn't yet met.

He doubted that, though, as Allison hadn't made mention of anyone in a present sense. She'd talked about her grandmother, but only in past tense, or so he thought he remembered. He was almost giddy with thoughts of freshly picked vegetables and jerked strips of beef or freshly barbequed chicken breasts and thighs.

When Allision directed him into one of the dog pens, Frank's joyous mood dissipated in an instance. He looked at her with shock, asking, "Are you shitting me?"

She was serious, though. And the only thing that kept Frank from becoming belligerent about it was the reason for locking him up: tending to his dead lover and friend, the mother of the child he carried in his arms.

He hesitated before moving to the pen's entrance, and once there hesitated again. He looked it over, finding it just as clean and seemingly unused as it had looked from afar. It was chain link on all sides and above as well -- to keep leapers from escaping vertically -- and had a concrete floor into which the lower edge of the fencing was very securely attached. It was a good ten feet across and twenty feet long, plenty for several dogs.

Inside at the far end was a doghouse perhaps four feet cubed, with most of the front side open. Looking at it, Frank found it to be the only truly unacceptable aspect of it. He looked to Allison, complaining, "We're not going to be warm in that. Wind ... draft. I mean, if you're going to leave us out here over night."

Frank entered the pen, even pulling the door closed behind him. There was a padlock hanging open on the gate, but he left securing that to Allison. He listed, "Blankets, water, food ... a stove like you offered. Maybe a pad if you have one, or more blankets to act as a mattress." He hesitated, adding, "I don't mean to sound demanding. Am I sounding demanding?"

Robert began crying again, not for any particular reason other than maybe he was hungry or needed changing. He again addressed the situation, saying, "I understand fully why you need to lock me up, I do. But ... I hope that when you get back with Jennifer ... I hope that you will allow me to be part of the service. She--"

His voice cracked with emotion, and for a moment Frank thought he was going to tear up. He fought it, though, never having been a publicly emotional type. He finished, "She was important to me, and I'd like to take care of her myself."

"Are you shitting me?" Frank exclaimed when Allison directed him into the dog pen.

"I'm sorry," she responded with a sincere but serious tone. "I don't want to do this to you and, in particular, to your child. But..."

Frank complied, though, even closing the gate behind him himself. Allison stepped up to the pen as he reiterated about the supplies she'd promised and added some more. When he asked if the two of them would be in the pen overnight, Allison hesitated before saying, "Yes. But I'll make you very comfortable. Tomorrow ... well, tomorrow we'll figure this all out, I promise."

Allison locked the pen's door, told Frank she'd returned shortly, and headed away without looking back. She went into the house to gather what she'd promised and more, putting the items together on the home's front porch. When she was done with that, she headed for the garage, dragged a small two wheeled trailer over to an electric vehicle. It looked like an oversized golf cart with a small cargo area where a normal golf cart's back seat and bag carriers should have been.

Transferring all of what she'd gathered to the trailer, she drove back to the pen, parked, flipped down the trailer's tripod stand to give it a third leg (the other two being the tires, of course), and unhooked the trailer. Unlocking the trailer from the cart and then unlocking the pen, Allison stepped back and told Frank, "This is for you. I think it'll make the night comfortable."

In addition to what they'd already talked about, there was a heavy duty plastic tarp that was large enough to fully cover the doghouse and keep any draft out; extra blankets, sheets, and two pillows; a thick foam pad that had served as one of her relative's mattresses before dying from I-55; a second small propane heater with one-use tanks; and some battery operated lanterns that, like the golf cart, were recharged as necessary by the solar panels attached to the home's roof.

"If you use the propane heater to heat the house, you have to let some fresh air in," Allison warned. "Carbon monoxide. You probably know that."

After Frank had moved all of this and more into the pen, Allison locked him inside again, mounted the cart, and headed off down the driveway without another word. She felt horrible about locking an infant inside a dog cage -- Frank, too -- but what was she supposed to do? If she hadn't seen the child in the now-dead woman's arms in the first place, she might have let the gunfight play out without intervention.

Night had come earlier, yet Allison made the trip to and into the woods without the cart's headlights. She knew the driveway and the property around it like the back of her hand and rarely had to use flashlights or lanterns to get around. At the far side of the woods, she stopped and simply listened for several minutes for anything that might seem out of the ordinary. The pickup truck had nearly burned out by now with only some of the interior's seat and three of the four melted tires still flickering with flames.

Allison wondered what to do about the 5 dead men laying in various locations about their former vehicle. She knew the bodies should be burned, but she wasn't eager to handle them all, even while dressed in protective gear. She could leave them where they were for the animals and bugs. There were plenty of now-feral dogs and other natural scavengers in this area, from insects and rodents to Turkey Vultures and Bald Eagles.

She finally chose pushing them off into the ditch on the far side of the road. She was initially concerned with the bodies fouling the water in the ditch and possibly causing disease, but she knew that that wouldn't affect the farm which was on a slightly higher elevation than the land south of the property.

She donned her protective gear -- it had begun life as dress for slaughtering animals -- and crossed the ditch on her side of the road. One after another, Allison dragged or rolled the dead men off the road and down the embankment. She'd considered searching them for things of value -- not money or gold or whatnot, but papers with information or maps and such. She decided instead not to spend that additional time in proximity to them.

Done with that, she checked Frank's car for anything more that he might have taken earlier had he been able to carry it. There wasn't much. Allison found a stuffed animal in the backseat, a raggedy old giraffe, that surely belonged to little Robert. She gathered it up and dropped it into one of the large plastic garbage bags she'd brought with her, along with some baby clothes and other items she found inside the car or in its trunk.

Next came dealing with Jennifer. The woman was small in stature, and Allison found lifting and carrying her to the cart easier than she'd expected. The phrase dead weight came to mind as she handled the woman's corpse. Allison laid her on one edge of a bed sheet spread across the ground, rolled her up inside it, and taped it securely clothes with duct tape at each end and in the middle. It wasn't the most respectful way to handle a body, but it was the best way she could muster on a dark, cold night.

Allison lifted Jennifer's body into the cart's tail end and drove back into the forest. She stopped to gather up Frank's hidden stash, then walked the well known trail to retrieve the backpack and weapons she'd left earlier. Back in the cart, she headed for the house and parked in the garage, closing the doors to keep night creatures away from the dead woman's corpse.

She considered returning to the pen to check on Frank but didn't. Allison didn't want to face questions about the man's lost companion right now. As the night had been passing by, the shock of what had happened this night was beginning to give way to emotions about it, and by the time Allison was in the Mud Room stripping out of her protective gear and dressing down further for a hot, soapy bath, she was trembling deep to her core.

Once in the hot, steaming water, she began crying. She'd killed people tonight. She'd locked an infant inside a dog pen. And she'd taken in a strange man who, for all she knew, would take the first opportunity to rape and kill her before taking over her ancestral home, as well as its valuable resources.

Allison eventually made her way to her bed, laid down beneath layers of warm blankets, and passed out in no time at all...



She awoke before her alarm went off, not an unusual occurrence. Immediately recalling the previous night's happenings and the guests outside, Allison hopped up, dressed quickly, and headed for the front door to look out upon the dog pens. She saw nothing that concerned her and turned back to the kitchen to prepare a breakfast for both her and her guests.

Twenty minutes later, she delivered a platter of food to an old picnic table a couple of dozen yards from the dog pen: bacon, link sausages, scrambled eggs, goat milk, and some of Frank's own horded coffee, which she'd taken from one of the bags he'd left in the woods the night before.

"I'm sorry again about leaving you out here last night," Allison told him as she was unlocking the cage. "It was regrettable but, I think, necessary. How's Robert? Stayed warm I hope?"

She opened the door, told Frank of the breakfast on the nearby table, then updated him, "Jennifer's body is in the garage. We have a family plot ... cemetery, out back a bit. She's very welcome there."

The closest Allison had gotten to Robert thus far was when she sat across from him at the picnic table. She indicated a bottle of warm milk and some pureed offerings for Robert: peas, pumpkin, blueberries. "I don't really know much about what infants eat. I was the oldest of the McGee grandchildren, but I don't honestly remember a lot of the detail stuff from when they were little like your Robert. I mostly remember tag and hide and go seek and fishing and working on the ranch. You know, older stuff."

She went quiet, nibbling at food she'd filled her own plate with while Frank ate more energetically on the other side of the table. Allison wondered when his last good meal was. She knew, or at least suspected, that things were tough out there in the world these days.

The United States had been one of the world's largest food producing nations prior to the pandemic, able to feed its people with ease; it exported 20% of what it produced, helping to feed the world beyond its borders as well. There were children in American who went to bed hungry at night, of course, but that was less about the country's ability to feed them and more about corporate greed and governmental failure.

But with the collapse of society, food production crashed, and despite there being so few people to feed anymore -- the estimate was that I-55 had already killed well over 90% of the US population and was still killing more -- people were still starving to death. There was no commercial food production anymore, and what had been out there in warehouses and stores had all been pillaged by now. Some individuals and communities of Immunes were producing their own food, much like Allison and her family had been doing for the past many months, but they were constantly under pressure from armed bandits and organized militias that stole their food for themselves.

When they were finished eating, Allison told Frank, "I have a room in the house for you and Robert."

She paused for his reaction, then explained with a serious tone, "I've been alone here for a while. Two months, actually. I, um ... I don't do well alone. My family and I were very close. My grandmother raised me here amongst cousins and aunts and uncles who were always dropping in for dinner and overnights or weekends and vacations. I think I already told you this, about being raised here while my folks worked overseas, didn't I?"

Allison contemplated how she wanted to continue. She went on, "I don't know you, Frank. But ... seeing you with Robert ... seeing your concern for Jennifer ... they both tell me that I can trust you. If you want, you can stay here a while: a night, a couple ... more. I think it's too early for us to be talking about you staying long term, but ... for now..."

She ended there, unsure of what else she should say. For all she knew, Frank wanted only to find another vehicle and take off for whatever destination he and Jennifer had had in mind. But honestly, Allison yearned for company, companionship even. She would be lying to herself if she hadn't considered the fact that she was a woman, Frank was a man, and -- with Jennifer now deceased -- he was without a mate, just as she had been for almost three years.

Frank was up and about when Allison emerged from the country house, carrying a platter of what he presumed was breakfast. He watched her from the his side of one of the propane heaters, on which he was warming water for Robert's formula.

The night had been surprisingly comfortable for both of the male guests to the McGee estate. The pad and bedding had kept the two of them warm and cozy, accompanied by one of the closed-flame propane heaters that received air from an opening in the tarp near the ground and exhausted gases through similar gaps at both the bottom and top of the doghouse. Frank had taken Allison's warming about carbon monoxide buildup seriously; he'd seen people kill themselves by burning charcoal in an enclosed space, unaware that they were both depleting their oxygen and accumulating the odorless, tasteless, invisible CO.

Allison apologized again for leaving Frank and the baby out of doors, then asked if they'd stayed warm. He responded, "I totally understand. And yes, we were plenty comfortable. Thanks for the extra bedding and heater.

She explained about Jennifer's body, then invited Frank to the picnic table for a hot breakfast. "I don't really know much about what infants eat."

"This one will eat about anything," Frank told her. "He's not picky, I've learned."

Allison talked about being the eldest of her generation of McGees, to which Frank laughed. "Ironically, I was one of the youngest. I have 32 older cousins and 4 older siblings. The only family members younger than me were Connie and Hanna, my sister and cousin, both two years my junior. We all lived in the Denver area, so we saw each other a lot, not just for holidays and family reunions."

Frank dug into the food before him, trying not to appear as if he'd never seen food in his life but likely failing. He would stuff his mouth with something, then tend to Robert a moment; once his mouth was clear, he'd repeat the steps again.

"This is amazing," he told Allison, nodding his head toward the spread. "I haven't seen pork products in months--" He chuckled, continuing, "--and even then, I think it was one of those small cans of Vienna Sausages. Thank you for this. Really. This is great."

They continued eating, chatting about the farm surrounding them, mostly to make conversation. Frank wanted to ask if there was anyone else here with Allison, perhaps hiding out until they'd decided whether or not it was safe to reveal themselves. Perhaps right now, someone was watching him through the optics on a high powered rifle.

"I have a room in the house for you and Robert," Allison said after Robert told her he just couldn't and shouldn't eat anymore.

She explained with a serious tone that she'd been alone on the farm for two months and that she didn't function well alone. Robert understood that. Human Beings were a herd animal, a social creature; they weren't meant to be alone for long periods of time, be them months, years, or more.

"I don't know you, Frank," she went on. She talked about his paternal care of Robert and how that had affected her, telling him, "If you want, you can stay here a while..."

He listened as she finished, then considered the offer before him. He and Jennifer hadn't had a destination in mind, other than north, possibly all the way to Canada. He had no where to be, which led him to respond, "I'd like that ... to stay, I mean. Couple of days ... more. As long as you'll have me. And I'll work, of course. I'll earn my keep, my room and board. I'm not a slacker, and I know things. I've been a Handy Man off and on during my life. Started out helping my father with home repairs, joined the Navy as a Machinists Mate, then got out and..."

He hesitated a moment, smiled, and laughed. "To be honest, I had trouble keeping a job for several years, so I bounced around from one job to another. Bad thing about that is you can't get ahead. Good thing about it is that you learn to do a lot of things. I'm sure I can help you around here, though, honestly, I don't know the first thing about running a farm. Or do you call it a ranch?"

Allison smiled at Frank's appreciation for the meal. Cooking for herself alone these days, she didn't often go to this extent and effort. It wasn't about rationing, particularly with the fall harvest. There was plenty of food in the pantry and root cellar, as well as a lot of meat on the hoof running about the property.

When she asked him about staying a while, Frank told Allison that he not only accepted but would earn his keep. She chuckled, telling him, "Well, there's plenty of work. Some of the crops have been rotting on the vine or limb. If you could help me with that, that would be wonderful."

The well-trained Australian Shepherds had been sitting in their pen watching the humans eat, the yearning to leave the enclosure evident in how their bodies were practically trembling. Allison stood, scraped the leftovers fairly evenly onto three plates, and set them out a couple feet from one another on the ground. Looking to the dogs, she said sharply, "Eat!"

In a flash, the dogs shot out of the pen, each of them to one of the plates. It only took seconds for them to devour what Allison and Frank had taken twenty minutes or so to enjoy. She told her new companion, "I have chores to do, but first we need to tend to your needs. Come with me."

Allison led Frank to the home's backdoor and Mud Room. She indicated a man's robe hanging on a wall peg, telling him, "You can wear this after you shower. Strip. Down to your birthday suit."

She smiled at his reaction, then pushed a door open to reveal a small bathroom. "You can shower in here. Head to toe suds. I know you think you're immune, as am I, but that doesn't mean you're not carrying one of the variants that can live for weeks without a host. There's a garbage bag. Put your clothes in it and we'll burn them out in the yard."

She looked to Robert, who was grabbing at Frank's face and collar with nimble fingers. "I don't have clothes for the little one, but we'll figure something out. I'm sure there's something we can fashion to work."

Pushing open another door, this one showing the kitchen beyond, Allison said, "When you're done, come in here. I'm prepping vegies for canning. We'll find you something to wear. You look to be about Grampa's size. He passed away before the pandemic, so his clothes are still in his closet."

Allison felt a wave of emotion sweep over her suddenly. The cause was obvious. Losing Gramma had been hard on her. She had been a unique individual. One of her quirks had been her refusal to discard any of her long-deceased husband's possessions, even his clothes. The clothes that had belonged to family members who stayed her during the pandemic had been burned, of course, which left only Grampa's wardrobe to serve Frank.

"Okay, so..." she said, stepping backwards into the kitchen. "You're going to want to hurry. The hot water heater isn't that big. When you're done, if you want, there's a pack of disposal razors if you want to shave." She gave little Robert a last look and smile, then turned to leave Frank to take care of business."

"Well, there's plenty of work," Allison said when Frank vowed to earn his keep through labor. She began gathering the leftovers, which he thought would be heading back inside with her. Instead, she put them on the ground for the dogs and commanded, "Eat!"

Again, Frank cringed a bit as the working dogs surged his direction. He laughed, though, relieved when he saw they devouring the scraps without contemplating devouring him instead. One day, maybe soon, he might get over his fear of canines.

Allison took him into the house through a small changing room in the back and commanded, "Strip."

Frank laughed, surprised. For a moment there, he thought maybe Allison's loneliness was about to show itself in a dramatic way. Then, she explained that she needed him to dispose of his clothes which were possibly carrying life viruses and thoroughly clean his body to eliminate the little bugs on him as well.

She apologized for likely not having a change of clothes for Robert, to which Frank said, "Luckily the little guy isn't a Primadonna regarding his wardrobe. Anything warm and soft will do, I'm sure."

Allison left him standing in the hall, closing the door between the mud room and the kitchen. Wanting to keep the bathroom I-55 free, he stripped to his skin right there, then did the same with Robert; the infant, who had always enjoyed baths, laughed joyfully as his clothes were stripped away. Frank put the clothes in the bag his hostess had pointed out; he included his shoes, hoping Allison's father wore something close to a ten-and-a-half.

The bathroom was of an old style, as Frank presumed the rest of the old country house was. Tile walls and floors and copper pipes greeted him beyond the shower curtain. It took a couple of minutes for the hot water to reach him, possibly due to poorly insulated pipes and a basement-located water heater.

Stepping into the hot stream was like stepping into a dream. Frank couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a hot shower or bath. Jennifer cleaned up daily with Robert, of course, and once in a while Frank had been invited to get naked with the pair, which was often nice.

He sang to the infant as they twisted and bounced in the showering water. Washing with just one free hand was a challenge, but Frank managed. Allison had been correct about the hot water heater, with the temperature of the stream eventually beginning to chill. He turned the water off, found a towel, and dried them both. He donned the robe his hostess had left him and wrapped Robert in one of the large, thick, cotton towels. He found a pair of slippers in a corner and slipped into them, then headed for the kitchen.

"I feel like a new man," Frank told Allison with a wide smile. "How long for the water to heat up so I can go again. Do I need a special ticket, like they have a Disneyland?"

Allison escorted Frank to a bedroom in the back of the house where her grandparents had slept for decades. She'd been right about the fit of the clothes; her grandfather had been just a single size larger than Frank, so picking out something that fit was a snap. He chose a cotton tee, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and overalls; they had a bit of a high water aspect to them, something Frank learned was the result of his being a few inches taller than the McGee patriarch.

In contrast to Allison's grandfather being shorter than him, the man's feet had been a half size larger. Frank found a pair of comfortable work boots, as well as other shoes that would suit him for other situations. Once downstairs, he held his arms out wide and turned around for Allison, asking, "Do I look like a farmer? Cuz honestly, I don't know what I'm supposed to look like to work outside. But, I am ready to begin earning my keep. Just point me in the right direction."

(OOC: It can be assumed that Frank will more often than not be packing Robert around in his chest pack or some kind of carrier that Allison provides, unless he is left inside to sleep or whatever. We can make this simple.)

"I feel like a new man."

Allison turned at the return of Frank, finding him standing in the doorway to the kitchen in her father's robe. Looking him up and down, she felt a chill run up and down her spine. It had been a long time since she'd seen a man in this situation who wasn't a blood relative of hers, and to have one who was handsome and fit only doubled up earlier thoughts she'd had about Frank.

"How long for the water to heat up so I can go again," he asked playfully. "Do I need a special ticket, like they have a Disneyland?"

She laughed. Turning down the heat under a large canner and shedding her apron, she waved him to follow, saying, "Let's find you and the kid something to wear."

As Frank poked through the closet that still held all of Allison's father's clothes, she rummaged through a box she'd found earlier that was full of clothing left behind or forgotten by family members over the years. Gramma used to drag it out when she had visitors, first asking if anyone knew who this or that belonged to, then telling them they could take anything that would fit their kids at that time. Eventually, the box would overflow and she'd take it to the local Goodwill.

Allison found a onesie that was about two sizes too large and a small stocking cap that, honestly, she thought she remembered having been on the head of one of her niece's American Girl dolls a couple of years back. Without asking, she stripped the towel from Robert and redressed him, slipping the smallest pair of sox she could find over his little feet as well.

"It would be easier if we just used the clothes you brought with you for Little Bit," she said, using a nickname one of her cousins had had for her own son back when he was a toddler. "But all the warnings about how the virus can be retained by natural fibers..."

She let the thought go as she turned to find her grandfather standing before her. Oh, it wasn't Grampa, of course, but the resemblance Frank had to the ol' man while wearing these clothes was incredible.

"Do I look like a farmer?" he asked as he looked down at himself in the old, worn work clothes. "Cuz honestly, I don't know what I'm supposed to look like to work outside."

"You look perfect, Frank," Allison said, using his name to keep straight in her mind who she was actually seeing before her. A bit of emotion came over her and she recalled the missing members of her family, and for a moment, Allison almost wanted to move forward and wrap her arms around the man who, until yesterday evening, had been a stranger to her. "It'll do."

He talked about earning his keep, saying, "Just point me in the right direction."

"Okay, then ... let's do this," Allison said, smiling. She grabbed up the wet towel on the bed and headed out, leaving Frank to deal with the youngling. On the way back toward the kitchen, she told him, "Usually, I'm already three hours into my day by now, but after last night..."

She didn't finish her sentence, feeling that Frank understood well enough. She continued, "I'll get you outside and explain some of the chores, but then I have to get back inside and deal with the green beans I'm canning."

Allison was aware that she'd blown off her morning tour around the perimeter, and considering that men with guns had been just beyond the property line the day before, she felt as though she was taking chances with her security. But this day was an unusual one, and she was playing it by ear at this point.

Out at the barns, she quickly ran through a dozen chores that she would herself would normally have performed after her morning patrol. Frank asked questions, but for the most part he seemed to understand what was expected of him. Allison, when satisfied, said, "Okay, you start on these, and I'll get back to what I was doing."

She looked to Frank and smiled, then came forward to take Robert from his arms. The man had brought the baby backpack out with him, but Allison knew he wouldn't be able to work hard and care for the little guy at the same time.

"There's a playpen in the basement for when the relatives visited with their little one's," she explained. To Robert but for Frank's benefit as well, she said with a playful tone, "We'll be fine inside while daddy works, won't we Little Bit ... yeah, we will."

She stepped back, checked Frank for an expression that told her it was okay to take the toddler, then headed back toward the house. On the way, she whistled to the three Australian Shepherds, which had been playing nearby. When they rushed to her, Allison gestured a hand toward the distant pastures and ordered, "Guard."

Without hesitation, the three shot away at full speed, heading down the driveway and across the yard. If Frank kept an eye on them for a while, he would see that they used little gaps in the fences to move from one pasture to the other, sometimes startling the animals in them, sometimes not; it was obvious that this was a normal daily activity for one and all.

In the house, Allison laid Robert on a rug on the floor and wrapped a blanket around the baby to keep him in place. Downstairs, she easily found the old playpen, still folded up and hanging from an overhead hook. Back upstairs, she assembled it again, wiped it down with a wet rag, put the pad in place, and covered that layer with a couple of blankets.

"Ready, Freddy?" she asked Robert as she retrieved him and lifted him into the enclosure.

She'd put the playpen in the dining room just past the kitchen doorway so that the two of them could see each other. Then, giving Robert some rubber toys which she'd wiped off as well and seeing that the kid seemed happy enough, she returned to the kitchen to finish canning the beans. She looked to Robert often, waving and speaking to him if he was looking her way, which often he was.

After a while, Allison realized that she was absolutely bubbling with joy. The feeling had crept up on her unseen, and when she thought about it consciously, she couldn't help but laugh. Catching sight of Frank through the kitchen window as he continued with his chores, she considered the very serious turn her life was taking. She'd never imagined that something like this could happen, and as tickled as she was finding herself, Allison feared she could be setting herself up for disappointment -- or worse.

(OOC: We forgot about having to bury Jennifer. I'm going to pretend Allison made it a morning priority. Okay?)

Outside in his new duds, Frank followed Allison to the garage where Jennifer's body had been stored overnight. He found her neatly wrapped in the sheet his hostess had taken down to the highway with her the night before. After a moment of recollection of the life they had together -- short as it had been -- he asked, "Okay, where's this plot you talked about ... and a shovel."

Allison took Frank out back of the house and another 50 yards or so north, just past a small grove of nut trees. There, on a slight rise in the ground, was a private cemetery with headstones that Frank would see dated back over a hundred years. They selected a place for Jennifer and Frank got to work with a garden pick and shovel.

"I've got this," he told Allison before she even had a chance to ask if he wanted help moving the dirt. "You've got your canning. And someone needs to watch Robert. I mean, if you don't mind?"

Frank worked on the hole the rest of the morning, taking a rest occasionally. Allison brought him water and food, and they sat together mostly in silence, with the exception of Robert's baby babbling. When he thought the hole was sufficient, Frank enlisted Allison and her cart to deliver Jennifer to her final resting place. He'd never been a religious man, so his parting words to her were simple and to the point.

"I'll see to Robert as if he was my own son," he spoke softly. "I promise you that much. And ... I'll miss you. I miss you already."

He didn't know if Allison would have words of her own, but if she did, he would honor them. With that done, he began shoveling the loose dirt back into the hole. Once done, Frank smoothed the surface neatly. He would see to a headstone later, today or tomorrow but soon.

What he wanted to do was chores. He'd told Allison he was going to earn his keep. She led him through the barns and to the other outbuildings and ran through a dozen chores. He wasn't familiar with farming/ranching work, so he had plenty of questions. She answered them, and when she headed back to the house with Robert in her arms, Frank got to work once again.

Every once in a while, the dogs would come whipping past him, traveling from one pasture to another or simply playing. Each time, Frank's heart would leap in his chest, followed by him laughing. The animals intrigued him in a way. A pandemic had killed -- was still killing -- the human race, with the estimates of the final fatality number being 98%, and yet the dogs still ran around doing their jobs and playing. They didn't care. It didn't affect them. They didn't know. Frank sometimes wished he didn't either.

When he finished his last assigned chore, he went to the house and collapsed back onto the wooden porch, exhausted. Allison came out a few minutes later, and without lifting his head he made eye contact with her, chuckled, and confessed, "I haven't worked this hard in a long time."

(OOC: Oh, yeah ... oops!)

Allison was still working in the kitchen when she heard the creaking of the old wooden porch. She went to the window and found Frank laying on it. He looked beat. She went to the fridge with a tall glass and filled it with juice made fresh from her own apple trees.

"I haven't worked this hard in a long time," Frank told her when he opened his eyes and found her standing over him.

"It's a life that takes a lot of getting used to," Allison said, offering him the juice. She looked out over the place. "It's funny. Most people who come here, even some of my relatives ... when they look out and take it in, they see beauty ... peace and tranquility. Me, I see chores that need to be done day after day ... tasks and repairs that all should have been yesterday and probably still won't be done until tomorrow."

She looked to Frank again and smiled. With a sincere tone, she told him, "But I wouldn't give it up for anything. I spent my entire life here. My parents spent most of their adult years after college and medical school overseas with Doctors Without Borders or domestically with the Red Cross. They never owned a house somewhere else ... never had an apartment unless it was in a foreign country. It made sense for them and, obviously, me to just stay here. It's home."

Looking out again, catching sight of the dogs as they ambled her way unhurriedly. Her gaze shifted toward the cemetery, barely visible around the back from where she and Frank were. She finished, "My life had been here, and if all goes as it should be, I'll end up out there with my family ... and with your Jennifer."

She went inside to get some meaty bones left over from some butchering she'd been doing and tossed them to the Stooges. The dogs ran plopped down in the yellowed lawn to grind as Allison suggested to Frank, "Why don't you call it a day. Get a shower, change into something clean. We're barbequing tonight. Hope you like goat."

She headed inside to gather the ingredients, then back out to the brick-and-mortar BBQ pit her uncles had built years ago as a Father's Day gift to their grandfather, Allison's great-grandfather. She burned seasoned oak in the pit to roast the Shish Kebabs of cubes of goat meat alongside potato, carrots, onions, and more, all of them fresh from the garden.

"Try this," she said as she offered Frank a glass of dark liquid. "I make it from a recipe handed down through my family for more than 80 years. My great-great-grandfather picked up the recipe in Germany after the war ... the first one. My ancestors have been making it since."

Allison lifted her own glass of ale, holding a mouthful for a moment to enjoy the taste before swallowing it down. She waited for Frank to enjoy a taste, then nodded her head in the direction of the properties largest structure, telling him, "Out beyond the barn we have a half-acre of hops. Harvest was at the end of August. Now, you talk about a lot of work. I almost let the crop go this year. Might not even put it in next."

She sipped at her beer again, asking Frank what he thought of it. She tossed a roasted cube of goat to one of the dogs; the other two were passed out in the shade of a tree, as was Robert in the playpen which they'd brought out into the shade of the porch. She considered her life here for a moment as she took in the buildings and crops and animals wandering its pastures and pens.

"This place is far too much for one person," she mused. She chuckled again, saying, "It was too much for me and Gramma and Grampa when they were both still alive. The relatives helped sometimes, and we hired hands for some of the planting and harvest work. We limited the garden this year to about a quarter of the size and culled the herds and flocks. That helped. Still, I can't keep up with it on my own."

She looked to her new farmhand with a serious expression, and after a moment she offered, "If you wanted to stay here long term, Frank..." She hesitated, then finished, "I know we only just met, and I know that this world is ... fucked ... and no one knows whether they'll be alive tomorrow, let alone be planning to harvest or plant or whatever. But ... if you thought you'd be interested ... you and Little Bit could make a home here."

Frank could hear the love for her family's estate in her voice as she talked about how hard it was to keep it running. He admired that. It had been a long time since he'd felt that way about anything.

Well, there had been Jennifer. They'd fallen in lust initially, following that up with love in the end. They'd been good together. That was over, obviously, but the feelings he'd had for her were still within him.

When she spoke of dying and wanting to be buried in the family plot, he said with humor in his voice, "Well, if I'm still here when that happens, I'll see to it. But after that breakfast, which was unbelievable, thank you ... I'd prefer that you didn't give up the ghost too soon."

He headed inside, showered, and found a new set of Allison's grandfather's clothes to don. He chose a plaid button-up and jeans, but -- because of the patriarch's relative shortness -- they were tight in the crotch and high at the ankles. He went with a pair of overalls again, which he could hang loose on his shoulders to give room to his package.

"Try this," she told him when he rejoined her on the porch. She talked about the family's ale recipe and what it took to raise one of the main ingredients. "I almost let the crop go this year. Might not even put it in next."

"No, don't do that," Frank told her with a stern tone. "This is delicious. If I have to come back here in the spring to help you plant and fall to help you harvest, you'll see me comin' up the driveway." He looked to the dogs, saying, "I'm sure the Stooges will let you know I'm coming."

Frank didn't know if it was what he'd said -- half in jest, half in all seriousness -- but a moment later, Allison was inviting him to stay around a while, possible a long while. "...if you thought you'd be interested ... you and Little Bit could make a home here."

He smiled at the nickname his hostess had given Robert. Jennifer had had her own loving terms of endearment for the infant, but she'd never given him what Frank would have called a nickname. He liked Little Bit. It reminded him of a movie, of what a female character had called a child in her care. One day maybe he'd recall it came from Quigley Down Under, but for now it would remain a mystery to him.

"That's quite an offer, Allison," he told her with a smile and nod.

He thought about the offer, looking out about the property. He understood after just one day of labor that the farm, ranch, orchard, etc., was far too much for one person, even one who'd spent her entire life learning the work. Two people would half the work; simple math.

But was this what he wanted to do, be it for a week, a month, a year, or the rest of his life? He had nothing else going on in his life. Nothing he'd done over the last many years had been satisfying in any way to him. And since the pandemic, life had been one tragedy after another, including near starvation, forced labor, and conscription to a militia for which he did things that still woke him his sleep on bad nights.

"Deal," he said, almost before he knew he was even saying it. He looked back to the playpen, where Robert was milling about and testing out his language skills in yet more babbling. "Little Bit needs stability ... safety and security. I don't think I'm going to find that for him out there anywhere. I think yesterday showed that."

He looked back to Allison, smiled again, and continued, "You show me what needs to be done and I'll get it done. If I come up with ideas on how to lessen the workload, I presume you'll want to hear them ... however! ... it's your place, and I'll understand if you shrug them off. You're the boss."

Pre-pandemic, Frank would have leaned Allison's direction and offered out his hand to seal the deal. If was interesting how pandemics -- COVID-19 before this one, I-55 now -- had changed the world in such simple ways. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen a birthday cake with candles on it, for instance. The idea of blowing spittle all over a cake's frosting and then serving that cake to others was just so wrong anymore.

He looked off again, to the distance forest that surrounded the majority of the estate's acres. "So ... what else can I do? There's got to be more that you want me to participate in. I could do the dishes, since you cooked, I mean."

He lifted his glass of beer in toast, sipped at it, and smiled.

(OOC: Sorry, out of turn.)

(OOC: That's okay. You can use that post later, if we stick with that part of the storyline.)

Allison's lips spread wide in a delighted smile when Frank took her offer with a firm, "Deal."

He first credited his acceptance to wanting a safe home for little Robert, but Allison sensed that he likely would have taken the offer even without being responsible for Little Bit. He spoke of offering more than labor, telling her he might have labor-saving ideas at times, but then immediately gave Allision permission to dismiss his offerings. She doubted that Frank could tell her much more about farming and ranching than she already knew, but at the same time, Allison knew that she wasn't the most knowledgeable person in the world either. Her experience was limited to what she'd learned working here on the estate; she'd never gone away to school or worked off the property, so there was likely a lot Frank knew that she didn't.

"So ... what else can I do?" he asked. "There's got to be more that you want me to participate in. I could do the dishes, since you cooked, I mean."

"Finally," she said with overexaggerated joy. "Someone else to do the frickin' dishes."

They laughed together, and when Allison looked off to the west and realized how late it was getting, she said, "Yes, Frank, there is definitely something more you need to learn." She stood, saying, "I'll be right back."

She disappeared into the house for a few minutes, and when she emerged she was dressed in camouflage to perform her perimeter patrol, carrying .30-06, her 12 gauge, her hip-mounted pistol, and her backpack.

"Every night, I walk the perimeter of the property," she explained. "That's what I was doing when I came across you and Little Bit last night. We used to get intruders all the time just after the pandemic began. People looking for food, shelter ... trouble. We'd ask them politely to get off the property, and if that didn't work we'd run them off with a couple of pot shots.

"Over time, as the population began to peter out," she continued, slinging the rifle over her shoulder, there were fewer of them, but the ones we did encounter were almost always armed and rarely willing to leave without trouble. We, um ... we dealt with them, too, not unlike the way I dealt with your pursuers yesterday.

"I'd never actually shot anyone personally," she said, her tone a bit more solemn. "Other family members had. It's not an easy thing to do."

Allison hesitated, looking at Frank for signs that he may have killed in the past or that he might want to speak about that now. If he did want to talk, she would listen; if he didn't, she'd understand that, too.

"But, after a while, they stopped coming. Still, I circle the property looking for them. I would invite you to walk the trail with me, but--" She glanced at the playpen again, then continued, "Someone has to be here for Robert."

She looked back to Frank a moment, then reached to the small of her back to pull out the 9mm he'd been carrying the day before. "I collected all of the weapons when I went back last night. I think this belongs to you."

Allison waited for Frank to take it, then said, "It's loaded. And there are two loaded clips on the kitchen table that I took from one of the men last night. Same model as what you have there. I checked."

After a moment of studying him, Allison said, "I'm trusting you with the care of my family farm, Frank ... and ... with my life. You could shoot me in the back as I leave the porch--" She looked out to the farm again before continuing, "--and all of this would be yours. I don't believe you'll do that. So..."

She gave him a smile, headed down the steps, and called back over her shoulder, "I'll be back in two hours."

"Yes, Frank, there is definitely something more you need to learn," Allison said before standing and disappearing back into the house. When she returned, she was packin' heat, as she had been when first they'd met during the previous night's shootout. "Every night, I walk the perimeter of the property..."

She explained about her patrol and intruders and keeping the property secure. Frank had already wondered about this aspect of the ranch, knowing what he knew about the world beyond the estate. It was a violent and scary world out there, far worse than Allison was probably aware.

She spoke about never having shot anyone until she'd done so saving his and Robert's life. "It's not an easy thing to do."

"No, it isn't," Frank agreed. "I, um ... I've taken lives myself, to be honest. I mean, in the military, when I was overseas."

He could have told her more about his service but decided to save that for another day. He could have also told her about a short, monthlong stint with a Southern Montana militia, but he hoped never to tell her that.

"I collected all of the weapons when I went back last night," she told before offering out Frank's own pistol, a Glock 9mm semiautomatic, saying, "I think this belongs to you."

He hesitated before reaching out to take it, not wanting to appear too eager to once again be armed. Allison told him, "It's loaded."

She explained about the additional clips inside, then talked about trusting her home and life to him. "You could shoot me in the back as I leave the porch ... and all of this would be yours. I don't believe you'll do that. So..."

She smiled to him, then headed down the steps to begin her patrol. Behind her, Frank looked the weapon over again, then stood and looked her direction. He stuffed the pistol in the small of his back, calling out, "I'll have the dishes done by the time you get back ... Boss."

She didn't look back at him, only giving him a wave. And a moment later, she'd disappeared into the ditch that gave her a more concealed route down the slight incline to the forest. Frank took out the gun again, checking the clip and looking to see if there was one up the pipe which there wasn't. He jacked a round into the chamber and again slipped the gun into his belt.

"Time to head inside, Little Bit," he told Robert. Getting late, getting cold ... getting to be skeeter time, too."

He collected the kid, took him to the highchair that Allison had also found in the baby corner of the cellar, and returned to the porch to fold up and bring in the playpen. Inside, he did the dishes as he promised, cleaned the counters, and returned to the out of doors again to secure the BBQ pit and utensils.

He was inside laying on the couch with the gently fussing Robert between him and the back of the sofa, passed out after his long day of work when Allison returned from her tour.

Allison stood over the soundly sleeping Frank for a long moment, smiling down to the fidgeting Robert who smiled up happily. She still couldn't believe the change in direction her life had so suddenly taken. Months without anyone in her life, and now she had a male companion and an infant living under her roof.

Carefully, she lifted the child up into her arms, whispering sweet words while gently bouncing it as she'd so often done with her relatives' infants during their family visits. Allison had never had an interest in becoming a mother herself, despite the joy she'd felt when holding or playing with others' children. It wasn't that she didn't have a motherly instinct. It was simply that she'd already had so much work in her life that she couldn't imagine adding care for a baby to that.

Allison took Robert to the kitchen, fed him some more mashed vegetables she'd prepared earlier in the day, and visited with him for a while. She talked to Little Bit about the farm's crops and the ranch's stock. She talked about all that her father had done today to help with both.

From where she was sitting, Allison could see Frank on the couch. He hadn't moved and seemed soundly asleep still, though with him facing the couch, she couldn't honestly know. She continued socializing with the kid until he started showing signs of needing to sleep. "Time for you to go to bed, Little Bit."

Allison took Robert to the crib, which Frank had moved to the living room but not used, instead keeping the child with him on the couch. She put the baby down, watching him almost immediately close his eyes. Before heading to her own bedroom upstairs, Allison spread a blanket out over Frank, then -- fearing the night might be colder than the previous one -- added a second one to it.

Again, she stood over the top of him a long moment. She'd made a leap inviting him to live here. She knew that. Studying his peaceful and handsome face, then recalling how nice he'd looked as he labored through the day, she tried to imagine what he would have looked like had he shed her grandfather's robe after that first shower. A tingle ran up her spine, and Allison chastised herself silently for wanting to make another leap so quickly in their relationship.

She secured the house as she always did, headed upstairs, and took a quick shower. Running the bar of soap over her bare flesh filled her mind with thoughts of Frank. Drying and slipping into her bed, her hands once again caressed over her form, eventually finding that most erogenous of locations. Minutes later, Allison held a pillow over her face to muffle the joyous sounds as the euphoria of orgasm exploded through her.