This is my chapter 2 completely redone with much more content. The original was way too short and led to nothing. This makes things more... tense. It may need a tad bit of revision because I think I confused some info, but I'll get to that in a few. Enjoy.

2

Downfall

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."
-Martin Luther King, Jr.

Time didn't slow down or speed up over the following 2 weeks. In fact, the reality of what was happening, even in light of what was now not only in the United Sates, but in the rest of world, had barely dawned on its inhabitants. While celebrities visited talk shows and Golf Season was in full swing, media outlets and social networks continued to spew their invaluable self-serving messages aimed at feeding the selfish, greedy culture that created them; all leading to perfect storm.

Tyler rubbed the base of his nose stressfully as he stared at the paper on his desk. It was covered with illegible chicken scratches and half-completed mathematic formulas. It was Monday and he was supposed to have a test, but school had been called off due to a pending state of emergency. It was the perfect time to get ahead before everything cooled down and went back to normal. All he had to do was be smart enough to take advantage of the break and keep his hands off the liquor. He stared at the equation in question for a moment longer, then slammed his fist on the desk before crumpling it up and throwing it in the garbage by his feet. Fucking Bullshit, he thought out loud. Calc 2 was the bane of his existence as much as welding seemed to be the object of it. He rubbed his hand through his curly hair, opened his dresser drawer and pulled out a pack of Camel Wides. He didn't smoke habitually, it was more of a stress release for bad times. Math was the problem, not U.S. domestic issues.

Tyler made his way on to the porch of the second story duplex and lit the cigarette with a cheap Zippo he'd bought from a peddler in New York city. It had the Air Cavalry emblem on it, which re-minded him of Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino. What great fuckin' movie that was. Anything with heavy amounts of racial slurs and the impatience of a stubborn old war vet was Tyler's style. Shit, any-thing where a lead character was an asshole was great for that matter- unless Channing Tatum was in it. Then he just wanted to soak himself in Kerosene and light himself on fire in protest.

Tyler puffed the cigarette and let out a drag as he listened to the ambiance of the city. There were more sirens than usual, but that had been most of the week. He hadn't seen as many ambulances or cop cars zipping down the nearby streets, though, and he figured that was a good sign. Yet, that could have been because a unit of the National Guard had been deployed to town to help augment the fairly small police force that had always been plenty for Edmonton. Their Humvee's didn't have sirens or lights in them and the news had said they'd been busy with their checkpoints, health screenings and house to house searches for infected. Apparently there had been some shootings too between them and loved ones of the dead, or sick. It wasn't surprising to Tyler. No one knew what the National Guard and its NBC units were doing to those they seized. The local news and paper seemed oddly uninterested as well and to him, as passive as he was, that sounded like maybe a little bit of media control.

Tyler sighed and took another puff of the Camel. He'd spoken with his father earlier in the day and it had brought his spirits up. Things were quiet in northern Minnesota, at least in the rural areas. The Kittson County Sheriff's department had mobilized a large group of locals to help augment its nine-man staff and, at least for the most part, they'd managed to keep his home town relatively secure. His father had mentioned a National Guard Unit was going to be deployed there too; stationed in the city hall and teamed with a contingent of the CDC. Hallock was the county center with the largest hospital and the county courthouse. It made sense that if a Guard unit was going to deploy, they'd do it there where the rest of the county resources were based. That would give them access to the most police power and support. Either way, Tyler was happy with the news. So happy, in fact, that he wished he'd gotten more concerned in the beginning and went home. The vision of being in the kitchen he grew up in, or sleeping in his childhood bed flashed before his eyes and he felt his skin grow clammy as his concern swelled momentarily. He shook it away and wrinkled his eye brows. Everything was fine or there would be fighter jets in the air and massive troop movements. That's how things worked in modern times. Natural or man-made disasters were answered with massive federal resources. Right now, the only resources being utilized seemed to be the CDC and the Guard. At least that's what the TV said. He flicked the cigarette off the porch and watched it disappear into the darkness below. That was that and he didn't feel any better. But fuck it all anyway. Why sweat the small stuff? He turned to the patio door and stepped inside.

The duplex was quiet and Tyler liked it. His roommates, Corey and Jake, had gone home across the state line into Indiana and left Tyler to the likes of himself. He liked his alone time very much and when he didn't get it, he became quite the intolerable monster known for raising his voice and throwing shit. He wasn't proud of that, but he had a lot on his plate and having the people he was dwelling with fucking with his living standards pissed him off in ways that little else did. Being alone entirely with all of this going on though... it was a strange feeling. Something felt off in a way he couldn't describe, like he had homework past due in a class he was suffering through- like a bunch of Calc two papers. Adding to the problem was the fact that he couldn't create a game-plan to fix it and move on.

Tyler sat down on the new brown, leather couch in his living-room and reclined with his legs up on the foot rest. His hand fumbled blindly for the remote until the tips of his fingers felt the smooth, cheap plastic and he grasped it and pressed the "on" button. The TV's power-light turned green and he watched impatiently as the screen warmed up and the picture flashed to life. It was as expected; news was spewing new and old information about this and that. How much interest he had in it was arguable. He knew things were bad and that was enough, but getting a gauge for just how bad it really was required a little input. The media seemed to be a little quiet about some facts, but he figured a little muffled and modified reporting could at least give him some idea of the condition of things around him. What was on was perfect. It was the hospital where DJ worked, Richmond Hospital of the large, greedy and prosperous Richmond Health Systems. It looked... overwhelmed.

The TV was muted, but the camera was showing everything from lines of cold people waiting, huddled, outside in the cool spring wind to the jam-packed parking-lot. Then it flashed a quick glimpse of soldiers with outdated M16A2's and gas masks and their Humvees outside near white, unmarked vans. There were men in white scrub-like outfits scurrying around too; moving from the Hospital to large tents set up immediately outside the Ambulance bay. Finally, Tyler saw the contracted Hospital security officers with surgical masks covering their faces and tired eyes watching the flow of activity. He didn't see DJ, but he saw two co-workers he'd met through him. DJ's supervisor and good friend, Timothy VanGrinsven, with his well groomed hair and young, 23-year-old youthful looks and Officer Alex Corey with his wide shoulders and even younger looking dark, 20-year-old eyes. The security team was young, there was no arguing with that, but almost all of them were in school with plans of working in the Criminal Justice field in the future. They had to start somewhere. Yet, Tyler felt uneasy seeing them in the mix. What was the object of having young men like them providing security in an environment that was swarming with not only soldiers, but what looked like a quarter of the police department? It seemed an elementary attempt by the facility to ensure they had a defense against liability. It was, after all, a private enterprise and a State of Emergency had not yet been called. Richmond Health Systems had obviously happily obliged to the government's request for support. It was all perception, that's what DJ always said about Richmond Health Systems. They don't believe in actually doing anything right, but more-so what will be perceived as right by the public that seems to be less and less impressed with their quality of service. He wondered if DJ was there... Tyler knew that his hour's were generally 8am to 4pm, or 0800 to 1600 as DJ liked to say. Yet, things had picked up and DJ had mentioned a load of overtime being offered by the company. DJ liked overtime. To him, it equaled either a new gun, a bit of ammo, or an upgrade for his lift-kit outfitted 98 Jeep Cherokee sport he'd dropped about six grand on. Still, Tyler didn't really like the idea of him being in the mix during this whole thing. He hesitated at the thought of giving DJ a call. If he was at work, Tyler didn't really want to know. Instead, he turned the mute off and listened to the pouring of biased, modified details.

"A spokesman for the CDC said that this is standard operating procedure when responding to the outbreak of a new, life-threatening disease or sickness and that patients suffering from the symptoms should not be afraid of receiving medical verification for the safety of themselves, their loved ones and the general public. As we've been saying for the last hour, it is expected that Governor Hawthorn will make his State of Emergency declaration before midnight and he will be mobilizing all units of the Ohio National Guard ahead of any National State of Emergency declaration by the President. There have been whispers that the President Hadad is working in an emergency act to disarm all people within heavily affected areas to make things move more safely and securely for emergency services operating to prevent this healthcare disaster from growing even bigger and claiming even more lives than it already has. Heather?"

The camera switched to a woman in a newsroom with her stupid female-suit and overdone makeup. Tyler shook his head and took a deep, aggravated breath. "Our top story tonight- gunfire at a Police checkpoint outside Edmonton on highway 52. Police were on the scene this evening checking all traffic going in and out of the city when officers discovered what appeared to be a fifteen-year-old victim of the ISD virus. When the call for medical assistance was put out, the father reportedly shoved two of the officers away and attempted to move his infected daughter back into his vehicle. Eye witnesses report that all four officers on the scene opened fire with their sidearms and one rifle, leaving the mother, father, brother and the infected victim dead. Calls to the Edmonton Police Department for comment were not returned, but after several shootouts between officers and families of the infected the police appear to be on the high-alert. Possibly, too high of an alert.

"That's all for your KVNA 10 o'clock news. I'm Heather Monson, goodnight and good luck, Edmonton."

Tyler switched the channel and wrinkled his eye brows with reasonable concern as he saw tanks and soldiers dancing along the screen in a fancy montage put together by an overpaid editor in a professionally biased newsroom. This looked worse and he felt the need for another cigarette coming on. They were interviewing soldiers about how the emergency was affecting them and what they wanted the public to know. It was a nice touch and heart-warming for the most part. There were some gung-ho, rock and roll types that ruined the mood too. That part made him sick. He was no bleeding-heart liberal, but this wasn't Iraq or Afghanistan and he didn't trust a full-blooded combat soldier to use discretion on the homeland. Special Forces operatives may have made him feel differently, but the looks in the eyes of some of those soldiers made him feel fear in a startling and intense way. He hit the mute button again and picked up his phone. He dialed Mason's number and waited as it rang three times be-fore a tired voice picked up.

"What's up?" Mason groaned. "I fell asleep on the couch, thanks for waking me. I gots English Lit homework. What you up to?"

"Uh," Tyler grumbled tiredly, "I was doing Calc stuff, but I'm taking a break. Fuckin'... that shits killing my brain, dude." He paused as he heard Mason giggle with delight. Tyler just raised his eye brows and eyed the pack of Camel Wides. "Say, do you know if DJ's working? I didn't want to call and bother him if he was sleeping- or if he was working, for that matter." Tyler massaged the base of his nose as he heard Mason groan in thought.

"I think he worked this morning, but I don't remember. I asked him on Saturday and he said things were getting a little tense at the main hospital and they wanted him to transfer over there from the little one on the south side that's under construction. He wasn't real happy about it and I don't blame him, he's worked there long enough and he has a big enough work load right now with that Thesis pa-per he's writing. He said God saw he was getting too close to graduating and becoming successful, so he created this whole mess to stop him." Mason laughed lightheartedly.

"Well, I always called him God's punchline." Tyler added with an adequate amount of serious-ness in his voice that made Mason grunt.

"I'll give him a call and see. I'll call you back if I find out."

"Yeah, alright - actually - just have him call me if you talk to him and he's free. I just... want to talk to him."

"You alright, bud?" Mason was concerned. He wasn't used to Tyler sounding this way. "Hey, I can come over, I mean, the guys are gone. Everyone bounced when school got called off. I'm kinda lonely and Carly is working over at that thing the Red Cross set up for displaced people so she can get her volunteer hours in. She'd be thrilled if we were all together for a night - remember the good times and all." Mason chuckled, but it was empty and hesitant this time.

"Well, just talk to DJ if you can. I'll give you a call later if I'm still up."

"Alright, bud, will do. Take care."

"You too." Tyler hung up the phone and dropped his head back. The off feeling was growing at an awful rate and both the gin on top of his fridge and his Camel Wides were calling his name. He looked across the living room to the kitchen at the bottle sitting there all half-full and alone. "Well at least you fuckin' put out." Tyler said to the bottle as he climbed off the couch and walked toward it. "Come on and give me some lovin', sweetheart." He grabbed the bottle and twisted off the cap. Now that the ball was rolling, it wouldn't stop til the gin was gone.

Mason hung up the phone and leaned back on the couch. He stared at the ceiling and a long, harsh sigh escaped his lungs. He didn't really know how, or what to feel exactly. He was lost, in a way, trying to feel his way through something very alien. He lifted his head and looked at the blank television. He wanted to turn it on for noise, if anything. The coverage of the unfolding situation by CNN, or FOX news wasn't providing anything useful, or new. It was all politically biased dribble that did nothing more than cripple the reality of the situation and poison the minds of the people looking for answers. The news corporations were, in a way, apex predators. They had few, if any, natural predators. They provided their murky, skewed messages without obstacle or opposition, no matter how untrue or slanted it was. The greatest offense was that they knew it and they didn't care as long as they furthered their agenda. How was that news? He shook the issue away and stood up from the couch. What was the use of the question at the moment?

Mason got up from the couch and made his way to the fridge. It smelled awful in the kitchen and he wrinkled his nose when he walked in. He hadn't had the drive to take out the trash or do the dishes and he was paying the price for his lack of foresight. He swung open the fridge door and took a beer off the shelf, popped the cap off, and kicked the door shut with his foot as he turned away. He took a long gulp and let out a happy sigh. What time was it? He looked over at the oven and raised his eye brows in passive surprise. It was past eight already. Was he supposed to call DJ right away? He couldn't remember, but he figured it didn't matter that much. He'd hit up DJ when the thought came to him again and Tyler wouldn't know the difference. DJ wasn't likely to answer a call anyway; he wasn't the biggest fan of the cell-phone.

Mason walked through the kitchen to the hall that lead to the front door and entered his derelict bedroom. He walked to his closet, mid drink, slid the door open, and reached up to the top shelf above his sparse line of clean hanging clothes. His fingers found what he was looking for and he pulled down a Smith and Wesson 9mm Shield, compact automatic pistol. He admired it for a moment, then walked back into the hall with the gun hanging at his side and his beer up at his chest as if his arm was half cocked to throw another swig down. He took a wide left into the living-room and dropped himself hard back onto the couch. With a grunt, he leaned forward and grabbed the TV remote and shook his head as the voices began to pour out of the speakers. A proud, irritable-looking man was pouring his soul out to a stiff-necked news anchor. It didn't seem to be going well.

"These aren't people we're talking about here. You have to understand that these creatures are nothing more than some sort of malicious virus using the ethical and moral compasses of man to bring about man's damnation. There is no cure and our efforts have been nothing more than self-destructive and hopelessly optimistic. If we keep raving only with our moral sensitivities, then we might as well lay ourselves out in pastures for them to feed upon us and hope with our last breath that there truly is something beyond this hell we've done nothing more than to encourage and allow." The proud man sighed and leaned back as the anchor retorted.

"You're talking about people killing their loved ones and the police killing people in masses here, Doctor. Do you have any idea what kind of extremes you're talking about? You're trying to talk about this thing like it's some sort of scientific formula, or some sort of study about sociology, or some-thing, but that's not the way it works. People aren't going to destroy their families, or friends, or turn them in to the authorities if it guarantees their destruction. We don't even know if these people are actually dead, as you insist, or if they're just sick. What if treatment works? What if we come up with a medicine that fights this thing? What will you say then? You really don't know anymore than anyone else does. These things are people, they're our friends, our families, our communities and-"

"They must be destroyed ON SIGHT!" The proud man roared and the news room became silent. "They are not your friends, or family, much less your communities, as you say. They are walking, homicidal, violent infections with no more intent than the consumption of living tissue and the destruction of man. They are multiplying too rapidly! Every individual in this country or the next who shelters their sick, dying, or dead loved one from destruction is creating an independent biological outbreak of catastrophic proportions!"

"Jesus," Mason mumbled and switched the channel. The next one wasn't much better; just a female covering world-wide reactions to the whole thing.

"Internationally, a massive religious response has taken place as Muslims have begun filling Mosques, Jews have overflowed synagogues, and Christians have made their way to overcrowded churches. Prosecutions of Christian is Middle Eastern countries has grown sharply and the red cross and amnesty international have begun demanding action from UN and NATO countries who are already over-encumbered by the growing situations within their own borders. Meanwhile, in the Southern half of the United States-"

"What a load of shit." Mason muted the television and looked at his phone. Tyler hadn't called him back, but maybe it was time to give DJ a call and find out how and what he was doing. He was probably in his basement running the reloading press, or habitually counting and recounting ammo, or something to that order. Yet, he could be at work, getting ready for work, or sleeping before work. It didn't matter. He'd get over it. He found DJ's name in his cell and put the phone to his ear.

"What's up?" DJ's voice answered after a few rings. "You're not drunk and crying in a corner somewhere, are you?"

"Nah," Mason laughed, "just figuring out what you're up to. Tyler's at home alone and so am I and we're a bit bored and maybe a little restless. He wanted me to find out what you were up to. You making ammo for the apocalypse?"

"Nope." DJ replied. "I was listening to the Les Miserables soundtrack. I must say, that stuff is quite perfect once you've seen the play. I made some .357 earlier, but I was a bit tired so I moved-on to the bedroom."

"Is everyone home?" Mason asked curiously. "I can't Bloom letting you get away with that shit blaring."

"No shit, there." DJ agreed. "I'm afraid I'm alone. The others have retreated to their family homes and I am trapped here with a bunch of abandoned booze, a lot of reloading components, and a lot of shit to look at on youtube. I have a full load worked up in my balls as well and I was hoping to deal with it in privacy, but if you two are that restless then feel free to come over and express your hallow problems." He paused for a moment, then laughed. Mason just grinned.

"Alright, dude. Try to take care of that boner in the next hour and we'll probably be there."

"Oh," DJ snapped, "are you going to bring Carly with you?"

"No, she's at that Red Cross thing downtown."

"Yech," DJ spat, "she ought to get her ass out of there. I don't like the odds with that many unknown foot-mobiles in one area."

"No shit." Mason agreed. "I don't like it any more than you do, but she wants the credits and all of that. School has a way of doing that to you, I guess. Anyway, we'll see you in about an hour."

"Yep, I guess I'd better get to it here. Later, bud." DJ hung up the phone and Mason grunted with a half-smirk. He redialed Tyler's number and waited through the dial tones.

"Hey," Tyler's voice broke the silence.

"Hey, DJ says we should head over to his place if we want to kill time. I don't have anything to stick around here for, so..." he trailed off."

"Yeah, that sounds good," Tyler sighed. "You want to come pick me up? I've been hitting the gin pretty hard here."

"Christmas trees, huh," Mason nodded. "Yeah, I'll throw my shit together here real quick and I'll be there in like twenty minutes."

"Jeez, how much shit do you need?" Tyler sneered. "Need your conditioner and your skin cream?"

"Just clean clothes dude." Mason replied. "If you want to be dirty tomorrow, that's on you. I'll go ahead and not let my balls smell like they've been camped out in the same tent for a couple days."

"Oh yea, you've got a girl to impress with the smell of your balls," Tyler sighed. "Alright, I'll see you soon. Take care."

"Yeah, you too. Later, bud." Mason hung up and looked around the room. What'd he need now?

Mason went to his room and packed a couple pairs of jeans, a few pairs of underwear, some socks, and some t-shirts into a small luggage carrier. He put his S&W 9mm and his one and only box of 124 grain self defense hallow points in as well then threw in 2 packs of unopened cigarettes and the only less than 3/4's gone whiskey in the house. For good measure, he grabbed his holster and mag pouch along with his bathroom supplies before heading toward the door. He locked it and looked back at the house with a shrug. Would he be back? He figured, but things were weird and it felt like he was saying goodbye for good. Whatever. The place was a shit-hole. Good riddance. He headed for his Impala with no second thoughts.

DJ undid his belt and relaxed in his computer chair and let his finger scroll the google page down along a line of adult websites that his search "teen facials" had brought back. He'd seen most of them, as one of his biggest turn-ons was facial cum-shots, and they weren't doing it for him. Too much had gone recently and he couldn't shake the itching feeling that something really bad was going to happen. He gave his dick a shake, sighed, and just as he was about to click one of the website links, there was a knock on his door. He wrinkled his eye brows and spun his chair toward his bedroom doorway. That was far too quick to be Mason or Tyler and none of his roommates would have knocked. His heart rate increased slightly and images of rotten flesh hungry psychos flashed through his mind in a sudden burst of mental activity. He cleared his throat, zipped up his pants, and grabbed his S&W 28 .357 magnum revolver out of his bed stand and walked into the hall.

DJ approached the front door with the revolver hidden behind his right thigh. He could see a shadow, a short statured one, standing in a relaxed manner with one hand on the hip. That made him relax slightly. Body language gave a lot away, but he still kept his mind alert and stepped to the right when he reached the door. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and pushed the window curtain to the right. His head cocked and his eye brows raised immediately. The girl he'd been seeing in a non-formal sort of way, Katie, gave him the middle finger and DJ smirked and opened the door.

"Hey," DJ chuckled and put his hand out to welcome her inside, "what's up?" He smelled her perfume when she passed him into the hall and his dick twitched in his pants at the sight of her butt.

"Not a whole lot," Katie turned to him, "but everybody fucking left town so I was in a house all alone with news about dead people eating everyone, so I immediately thought of you. Go figure, huh?" Katie's voice was dry and sarcastic, as always. She had a pretty awesome personality, as far as DJ was concerned. She didn't beat around the bush, didn't put things lightly, and didn't have time for bullshit and neither did he. He didn't have time for a relationship either and she got that. In a manner, they were using one another as sexual releases. For some people, it was a necessary evil.

"I'm so fucking stressed out, I thought maybe I could run over here and you could eat me out, or fuck me, or whatever- get the edge off," Katie trailed off with a shrug and a coy smirk formed on DJ's face.

"Good timing," DJ raised his eye brows, "I was just about to snap out a quick one before you showed up." He shrugged his right shoulder and motioned toward his room. "I'm going to tongue fuck you, but you're going to blow me after. Deal?" DJ's smirk formed into a grin and Katie finally formed her own coy smirk.

"You're lucky I like your cock," Katie began walking down the hall. "Some guys just have weird looking ones- like Doctor Seuss creations or something." She smirked; knowing DJ had a slight discomfort regarding the reality that his penis, though above average in size, was curved slightly to the left. Katie liked it, regardless, but to DJ it looked like an abstract anomaly from above. Instead of taking offense, or a red flushing of his cheeks, though, DJ shrugged and looked tipped his head sideways. Formalities before a quickie weren't something that got him off and his erection was challenging the persistence of the Vietcong during the Tet offensive.

Katie forced herself against DJ with an aggression that caught him off guard. She ground her pelvis into the hardened lump in his jeans and their tongues twirled in a wild and wet dance that passed back and forth between their mouths. They pressed against each other twisting and turning as if in the middle of some erotic dance in which with every press and shove, an article of clothing was stripped and tossed until they were tussling each other through DJ's bedroom door and Katie was dropping backward onto the bed with DJ's palms pressing her knees apart and lightly gliding his fingers along the inside of her thighs toward the mound of flesh between her legs.

Once her cute black and pink panties had been stripped, it didn't take long. DJ buried his tongue deep within Katie's young, wet spot and let it dance over the tiny little clit that hid at the top until she bucked almost violently against his face. She didn't wait more than a heartbeat to return the favor. Before he could take a moment to kiss the inside of her leg, she pulled on his arms and forced him to turn and fall back on the bed in a way that would allow him to comfortably watch and she hungrily took his hot and hard wood into her mouth and massaged the shaft with her hand while her head bobbed and muffled mews of pleasure escaped from around her nearly crammed full mouth until soon after, DJ's hips bucked and the seed his body and worked so hard to produce and protect shot out of him in long pearly ropes onto Katie's face and into her half opened mouth while she stared at him.

Once the mess had been wiped from her face, Katie rolled over and went to sleep without a word. DJ figured it just as well with his friends on the way and tasks to complete. But the tasks would wait, as always, until he felt a sort of pressure he couldn't shake off; like when swine flu was supposed to be big. He remembered hoping with clasped, praying hands that it would sweep over his home town and kill enough people to throw society into enough turmoil that he could kill his ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend without anyone raising an eye brow. His 16-year-old mind hadn't had plans beyond that, but he didn't feel sore about it. Teenage boys weren't usually keen on foresight, but more often found themselves buckling under the pressure of hind sight.

He took another look at Katie's naked back and felt a slight uncomfortable erection begin to rise again. He had no sexual desire left, just his natural attraction and that wasn't enough motivation to do things manually. Instead, he put on a pair of shorts and a black T and sneaked through the bedroom door with a quick glance at the bed in the midst of closing it. Katie didn't move, but he figured she'd stir once the boys arrived and finally, that awkward unintentional introduction to friends would be in order. That might throw a wrench into the gears of their little no-strings-attached relationship, but it had to end someday anyway, as always, so what was the difference? He shrugged, but a slight sadness arose deep inside his stomach. In a way, he really liked Katie. She brought back the anxious excitement that teenage boys get when they're on third dates with innocent girlfriends- wrapping arms around warm, sweater-covered shoulders while trying to conceal the pre-cum drenched erections pressing at the zippers of their pants until finally, out of nowhere, a hand or a mouth would find its way there and release that pressure that had seemed to be threatening to explode. It wouldn't work out, though, no matter what he did. She didn't want to a relationship and regardless of the feelings she gave him, neither did he.

When he stepped onto the tidy, bright, white and blue patterned linoleum floor of the kitchen, DJ's eyes hit the clock. It was only nine-thirty, which came as a shock to his senses. The layers of darkness outside made it seem more like midnight and he wrinkled his eye brows in a confused manner until he realized that all the street lights were out and the only ambient light anywhere was the more-or-less random beam cutting through an uncovered window here and there. He cut across the kitchen to the sink and leaned forward to get a good look across his yard. It was oddly still, even with the wind causing the naked branches of the spring trees to yaw and shift like swimming pool diving boards under the bouncing weight of men too out of shape to have any business wearing a swimsuit in the first place. It reminded him of the night shots in the first Michael Myers Halloween movie. He kept expecting to see a white masked face marching across his yard wielding a steak knife and staring blankly at him. He grunted at the thought with a passive aggressive tone and slid open the drawer to his right, next to the fridge. There was a Smith and Wesson 4506-1 .45 caliber pistol inside. Masked serial killers wouldn't be a problem when met with 230 grain Hydra-shok hallow points.

He slid the drawer shut and turned left to reach to the cabinet above the oven. He opened the cabinet door and snatched the half bottle of wild turkey that had been sitting there for so long and the lonestar glass that kept it company. He slammed the cup on the counter, filled it to the top with ice from the freezer and poured himself a triple. He didn't fancy himself much of a liquor drinker, but he had his moments. A triple would be his limit for the night and he'd make it last. That was, unless Mason forced his thinking hat on and his concern started to get the best of him. Tyler would be level-headed and stubborn even if presented with clear cut issues that constituted some thought. Mason would be quick to jump to conclusions and suggest actions that lacked any thorough foresight. DJ had to find a balance between them and he wasn't sure if he could.

He lifted his glass to take his first cautious drink and the headlights of Mason's car engulfed him through the window. No more imagining how it would go when they arrived. Now he'd experience it instead, but that was okay. His only premonition was that there would be a lot of talk. Talk was fine, as long as it didn't motivate anyone to do anything silly. That was, of course, why he always kept his Wild Turkey hidden. Wild Turkey would make any man wielding it as his fire water of choice a tough and daring man and Mason surely didn't need any motivation from it. DJ didn't assume Tyler would even be interested. That was, until the front door slammed open and Tyler's boisterous voice cut through the house with a mildly slurred, "What the fuck is up, sweetie-pie!" And DJ stuck his head into the hall only to see Tyler kicked his boots of wildly; sending them halfway down the hall and tumbling along the wall. He had a bag over his shoulder and a bottle of gin in his hand. The atmosphere had gotten to him and the gin had only helped. He burped grotesquely and Mason stepped inside behind him with a sheepish look on his smooth boyish face.

"One drunk and two sobers." DJ smirked and motioned to his rear with a quick throw of his thumb. "Your shit can go in the other bedrooms. I don't care which either of you pick, but make sure if you fuck it up, you fix it up. I don't need those two hollering when they get back that their sheets are crusty or someone's been sniffing their dirty underwear."

"Ish," Tyler spat and began to step forward. As he did, his eyes went to the floor and he froze when he saw Katie's blue and white size 6 Vans next to DJ's black work boots. "Who the fuck has feet that small here?" Tyler looked past DJ and raised his eye brows which had wrinkled into a determined gaze. "Where's she hiding- in your room?"

"Just," DJ grunted and Tyler pushed past him. "She's sleeping, Tyler- don't go and bother her right now."

"Tyler?" Katie's voice came from down the hall. Her tone was that of intense surprise.

"Really, Katie, you're hanging out with Davie Crockett?" Tyler was shocked to see Katie's face. They'd had Calc 2 together the previous semester and she'd gotten a big kick out of his dry sense of humor and his constant and seemingly sudden shifting from mood to mood in almost any setting. She'd never seen him drunk, or ever really seen him off campus, but she was already digging it with the Davie Crockett comment.

"Hey," Katie shrugged and looked at DJ with passive and now mildly uninterested eyes, "he doesn't irritate the shit out of me and he hasn't told me he loves me yet." Katie rolled her eyes and patted DJ on the shoulder.

"Yeah, he's got some social problems," Tyler took a low shot at DJ and caught a dark eyed scowl from his tired eyes, "but he's a real puppy, aren't you boy?" Tyler ruffled DJ's hair, then let out a deep yawn. "I'm going to go watch TV," Tyler stated blankly. DJ suddenly noticed just how bloodshot Tyler's eyes were. It didn't look like he'd been doing a whole lot of sleeping. DJ hadn't either and he was sure his eyes were starting to look the part as well.

Katie yawned and began a hesitant step back toward DJ's bedroom. "I'm going back to sleep, so keep your shit quiet, assholes." She pointed an aggressive finger and passed it over both Tyler and DJ, then leaned past DJ and shook it at Mason who was keeping quiet over by the fridge with a Busch light in his hand. She'd been missing sleep too, mainly due to her friends leaving her all by herself. She couldn't blame them, though. If she'd lived within six hours, she'd have taken off too and concern about college friends probably would have gone out the window like a Pall Mall cigarette butt. They both lived within an hour, so staying would have been stupid under any circumstance other than a sexually or physically abusive parent... or parents. Tyler just waved his hand passively, snarled something slurred enough to be inaudible, and he walked away into the living room. Katie winked at DJ, who smirked, and began her walk toward the bedroom. DJ watched her butt, hidden barely by a t-shirt too long for her. She had the cutest, roundest ass he'd ever seen and, though he liked the way she kept her hair all sporty in a high pony tail, she looked sexy with her hair down and messy.

DJ turned and Mason smiled with an approving nod. Katie was hot in all the ways that Carly was cute. They contrasted greatly in both look and personality. Mason could see the attraction to both, but a girl with a snippy attitude wasn't something he'd ever been interested in. After a couple hours, the sarcasm became tiring and offensive and the act of taking offense brought even more offense. He'd been around those kinds of girls all through high school and, though DJ was a hard and punctual individual, Mason was a little surprised to see him spending time with such a girl. It was, though, as DJ put it: no strings attached. Yet, with her meeting DJ's friends and sleeping in his bed, Mason had to wonder if that were true, or just wishful thinking.

DJ felt Mason's eye on him and he cocked his head to the side curiously. He grunted and through a sigh said, "You're as wired as I am, I suppose," and leaned back against the wall under a picture of him and his grandmother on the deck of a cruise ship off the coast of Alaska. He looked over his shoulder at it, then motioned toward the fridge. "I've got some gator and hog meat I just thawed, right in the bottom drawer. I'm hungry if you are." DJ was a big hunter, mainly of more exotic animals. He'd grown up hunting rabbits, squirrels, coons, whitetail Deer, and the occasional black bear. Those old hunts had begun to bore him, as did the food, and his desire to hunt critters that could eat him had grown beyond his own mental control. Mainly, he liked the Alligator and when given the odd opportunity, an American crocodile. They weren't legal to hunt, but the chance to go nose to nose with something that could potentially rip him apart was too much to resist. Naturally, he didn't take any of that meat with him, but his freezer was full enough of Alligator, Boar, Grizzly Bear, and Bison. Usually, his overtime and financial aid cash went to his yearly hunting fund and he usually managed to get out of state at least once.

"Yeah, gator would be awesome," Mason lit up and turned toward the fridge. "A little beer and a little gator? Don't mind if I do."

With a little help from Mason, DJ got a good mix of peppers, onions, and potatoes chopped and sent a large portion of the sliced gator loin through a meat cuber and got to cooking. Once the meat went into the huge cast iron kettle, Mason stepped back and watched DJ work. Usually, Mason was the one cooking and he enjoyed the task and found it, in a way, honorable to cook for a group of friends or family. He usually stuck to steak, chicken, or pork, though. DJ had more experience with the unusual foods, such as the gator, which Mason wouldn't even know how to spice correctly. He also made killer potato dumplings, stuffed boar chops, and 4 day vegetable soup. Mason wasn't really that kind of cook. He just had an awesome feel for steak. His mind began to drift to the last time he was at home cooking on his father's porch with a stainless spatula and a white apron with a big blood stain on it, but the smell of the gator cooking in the butter-oil sauce brought him back and his stomach began to grumble. He took the last gulp of his can of Busch and burped.

"So, Carly is at the Red Cross operations center," DJ said calmly with his head nearly stuck in the kettle. It made his voice echo like a bullhorn, "Tyler's drunk, and you're trying to get there." He turned his head to Mason with an entertained smile. "A little stressed out, maybe?" He saw the look on Mason's face: the admission of dismay. It was like some sort of weight was lifted off of his shoulders because he didn't have to come out and say it entirely himself. He just huffed and tipped his head with a shrug.

"Well, don't dwell on the possible when it doesn't suit you," DJ said with a warmth sincerity that he rarely emitted. He cared about Mason as much as he cared about Tyler. They were some of the only completely reliable people he knew and he always felt that those kinds of people deserved a little bit of recognition… just enough to keep them modest and spirited. "The power is still on, the police are still roaming, and the TV isn't spewing communist propaganda, so I think things are probably going to be okay, at least for a little while… but then everything else will come." Immediately, DJ felt guilty for adding the last little bit. He was no insider and no expert on worldly issues. He just had his strong feelings guiding his mouth. Mason was looking for a bit of guidance, he could feel that, and he went and threw that wrench into a smoothly running gear-set of brotherly guidance.

The underlying warning of worldly dismay wasn't lost on Mason in the least bit. He just raised an eye brow with a grunted, "huh?" He tipped his head and looked off toward the living room where Tyler's snores had started to emit from in a loud disruptive manner. The TV was on and some bold print was scrolling across the bottom of the screen, but it was too far away for Mason to make out. He just shook it off and looked back at DJ, who had raised his eye brows and just shrugged his left shoulder passively. "Just a feeling," DJ snorted and looked back at the food. He felt like he was a side character in a 1980's horror movie, the ones that always looked and felt dirty with their eighties colors and unrefined video technology. Combine that with awful acting and an awful plot, and reliving 1985 became a snap. But he wasn't keen on being part of a Stephen King book spinoff; especially if it involved giant rats, or... a plague that was sweeping the earth. He tipped his head at the ironic thought and took a whiff of the salty, garlic-butter sauce.

"I brought my 9mm," Mason pulled the Smith and Wesson M&P shield compact pistol out of his inside-the-waistband holster and set it on the counter left of the sink. He and DJ both looked at it quietly for a second, them Mason raised his eye brows in a passive, what-the-fuck-ever manner. "I figure this'll be as good as spit balls if push comes to shove, huh?" He watched, as sheepish as a little boy, while DJ snatched it up and cleared the chamber. He liked his little concealed carry piece as much as any other he'd ever owned, though he had to admit that the bigger the gun, the better the gun. He'd never gotten fully comfortable with the little things and their crude, short-range sights. The trigger was good, though, and he didn't have to dress around it the way he'd always had to dress around a full-sized .45 auto with an oversized t-shirt or button-up. At fifteen yards, he could hit a man in the chest with no trouble. Hitting a head-sized target with any real consistency posed a serious challenge, though.

"Well," DJ let out a thoughtful grunt from deep inside his chest, "any gun is better than no gun, and it's a Smith." He smiled at Mason and dry fired the little pistol. "These Shields have pretty good triggers, too, so if you gotta go with it, it's as good as running my 642. I have to admit, though," DJ's coy grin surfaced again, "I like me a good revolver a lot more than any little auto." He aimed down the little pistol's sights and squeezed the trigger again and the firing pin clicked. He set it back on the counter, looked at Mason, and cleared his throat in an awful, uncomfortable sort of way. "I have the worst feeling creeping through me, bud, and I don't know how to shake it." He crossed his arms over his chest, glanced at the food, and tipped his head.

"Me too," Mason agreed with a hard nod. He was glad he wasn't the only one feeling like the whole thing wasn't just a bunch of hype and mumbo-jumbo seeping from the runny mouths of mentally underdeveloped, unkempt, and overweight conspiracy theorists; screaming that Kennedy was killed by the CIA and the United States government was run by a skull and bones society of some sort. Not that those guys weren't busy making YouTube videos of funny lights in the sky, or SUV's with tinted windows or anything. They were popping up all over the place, but internet service had started to get really spotty over the last few days; probably a ton of constant YouTube traffic; maybe even vines videos of the dead. That shit would be awesome. "I'm glad I know someone who likes more than a bolt-action 30-06 with a scope." Mason grinned with his eye brows raised. He'd made the stupid mistake of

leaving every long gun he owned back home in Texas. Great fucking idea.

"Shit," DJ blurted, "I can't even fucking remember what it was like to be stuck on a rifle like that- plain Jane hunting rifle- and trying to actually do shit with it." He ran his hand over his face and reduced heat of the electric burner so it turned from bright red hot to a barely glowing red and the rolling boil inside the pot died down to a steady simmer. "I like running that DSA 58 downstairs, but fuck, 7.62 ammo takes any good cash flow I've got and just fucking strangles it." The DSA 58 was DJ's workhorse and his main 3-gun rifle if he wasn't running an AK, or VZ58 just for fun. He'd done a lot to enhance it including a quad rail, X-series enhanced butt-stock, and an Aimpoint Micro red-dot sight. It had started out as a fairly basic 18" barreled paratrooper model with a side folding stock. He'd changed all that out for stuff that may, or may not have made it more practical. It made him fast, he knew that, but he still didn't consider himself a highly qualified defense-rifle-shooter. He was a far better pistol and long range rifle shooter.

Mason, on the other hand, was fast with an AR-15, AK, or what-have-you. His pistol skills needed some work and his long-range wasn't exactly hard-core, but he could do them all. He had DJ's respect, though. They'd nipped at each others' heals in 3-gun many times over. DJ usually won, mainly due to his high scores in the pistol round, but Mason was never falling far behind. They both fumbled a bit in shotgun, but Mason seemed to have a bit of an edge. DJ figured it was because the boy was from Texas. It all made good sense to him.

"Your Mcmillan Tac-300," the words came out of Mason's mouth like he was oggling the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. His eyes were glassy and a sensual sensual smile that made DJ chuckle was stretched over his face. "If it were a human, I'd let it fuck me."

"Yeah, I'd probably let it fuck you, too." A laugh erupted between the two of them. Just like with his DSA 58, DJ had a hard time feeding his Tac-300. It was a tactical bolt-action rifle chambered in 300 Winchester magnum and built by Mcmillan with a Leupold Mk. 4 tactical scope. It made 1000 yard shots a cake walk, but also cost him a pretty penny. Five months of helping rebuild 3 bridges in Kittson County, Minnesota allowed him to buy the piece at the astounding price tag of 9,350 dollars along with his Jeep and all the accessorizing he'd done to it. He'd won seven rifle competitions with it and he loved and hated it the same way a man loves and hates his wife. It was a good investment, but made things a little financially unstable for a while after.

His father had been as pissed off as a girlfriend would be at the sight of an ex's smile. The vain in the quiet, soft-spoken man's neck had stuck out like a fire hose and his face had been as red as the Devil's ass. DJ had grown up in a family that was always short on money. They'd always avoided phone calls, considered bankruptcy, hoped and prayed a lot. That had gotten them nowhere, of course. He could see why his dad would be upset by the prospect of spending nearly ten thousand dollars on a recreational rifle. They weren't rich and that money could have kept a lot of bills paid just long enough for his parents to catch their breath. He could see the pain on his father's face as clear as the bright morning sun if he just paused and closed his eyes. It was that lifestyle that had driven him to dismiss God as either a figment of a mentally unstable man's imagination, or just a complete fucking asshole. He figured either was worth ignoring.

They ate the garlic-butter brazed gator meat twenty-five minutes later over whole grain rice and washed it down with a Busch light each. It was late then and though most of the city slept, the nightly sirens and flashing lights had grown to disturbing level that only enhanced the disconcerting mood that had floated over and engulfed the entire country, maybe even the world. But it wasn't strong enough yet and even as their eyes drifted from their cans of beer and steaming food to the TV with its bold headlines and breaking stories, they connected no dots. How could they, with their minds numbed by the constant drone of useless babble drowning their foresight and suffocating their mental independence. Yet, even as the TV drowned out the loud, anxious thoughts in his head, and his eyes began to close for the night, DJ still couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to break.

DJ fell asleep in his leather recliner and slept hard. The dreams hit him like a pestilence that overwhelmed his senses from the inside out. He was being chased by dead version of people and pets he knew through endless doors that were spaced no more than ten feet from each other in an endless hall. Every time he slammed and locked one, he could hear the last one breaking down and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't run fast enough to get away. He jumped to the next hazy world in an unnatural instant. He was at work, but not regular work. He was on a ship in cold seas with all the young men from the hospital, but they weren't headed to a hospital. A dark shape loomed ahead on an isolated chunk of land surrounded by desolate earth. Voices, almost inaudible, were in the wind singing the up-beat, yet somehow morbid hymns of a Catholic prayer service. He knew where they were going, but not consciously, and he could be an anxious pressure mounting. The salty spray of waves shot across the deck and sprayed them; huddled on the deck of a strangely ancient shipping boat with no shelter. His younger brother, Steven, was there too. He was tall at 6'4" and his presence made DJ feel safer. Suddenly, they were on the desolate island and the dark, looming shape had transformed into the skeleton of a soviet-era factory. The glass had been shattered in all of the windows in the perfect pattern to turn the side of the building into a grinning face. He could feel it taunting them, laughing at them, like a drunken stepfather abusing the likes of his white-trash wife's bastard child. It beckoned them toward the sagging double steel doors that had decomposed to the point that there once pearly white paint had faded to a ghastly flesh-looking pale. They moved toward the door and just before the first man entered, the wind gusted and howled through the building like a deep laugh rising from a fat man's belly. That's when DJ woke up.

When his body jerked, DJ was pulled back into reality. His heart was pounding and even though the fear had been intense enough to soak him in sweat, he still had an erection too hard to ignore. He thought about the dream for a few minutes. It was strange. He didn't dream much of ghosts or monsters. In fact, he'd had more dreams of being chased and attacked by a bear than of monsters. Maybe it meant something. He was no man of god, no superstitious parasite, and certainly no fan of dream logic, but there was still that strange feeling that it held some connection to reality. More pressing, though, was the image of his brother standing beside him on the boat; proud regardless of the fear and the discomfort. That was the light-hearted, headstrong brother he knew and his presence in dreamland had brought some sort of warmth within the cold, but his image made DJ worry. He hadn't heard from him in over a week and the ability to get through to anyone in his family with his cell phone had grown to near im-possible. Text messages were the most reliable, but they weren't coming in with any consistency. Sometimes he'd get three or four at a time and he was sure they were always at least a day old. It made staying connected with family a severe challenge that expanded its awful toll to his mental stamina. It was burning him out.

From his place in the chair, DJ tried to make out Tyler and Mason's outlines on the couch, but it was still dark. He'd never imagined the city could be so black and eerie. The stillness made him uncomfortable. It was unnatural and drew from within him the creeping feelings brought by 80's horror movies about irradiated, mutated monsters going about mauling and devouring half-naked teenage girls. It was silly, he knew that, and he didn't take the feelings seriously, but the connection to well-known serial killers like Jeffery Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy couldn't be denied once they surfaced. All it took was a little looking and a recall of their dozens of victims faces... the pictures of bodies he'd become familiar with while taking a mixed-bag of criminal justice related courses in his early college days. The feelings seeped into every emotional corner from deep within some prehistoric cave like a black oozing tar. For DJ, the feeling of the wood target grips on a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum squeezed tight in his hand at least kept that feeling from taking over and controlling him. But they were still there; still ticking at the edge of every thought. And there was the problem. It couldn't be past four, yet there he was with wide eyes listening to his friends snore lightly and mumble to themselves in the midst of their blurry dreams of nonsense and intensity. It wouldn't matter how much he tossed and turned now. The thought of his family would keep his mind wild and racing. So, he felt in his pocket for his phone and slipped it out of his pocket into his hand. When he pressed the power button, it woke up, and there it was: One new text message. He opened his messages and the text made his heart drop into his stomach, then its rate to increase ten-fold.

Gramma got really sick and can't talk so mom is at the hosp with her. I tried to call u but it wont go through. Ill keep tryin

It was from Steven, and that's all it said.

DJ felt a sharp pain shoot through is body and he felt tears begin to fight their way out of his eyes. He rolled off the chair, misstepped and felt himself begin to buckle under the desperate horror. He kept himself quietly, though, and crawled past the couch into the kitchen where the oven's ever glowing clock lit the room ever so slightly with a 4:17. There, with tears running and his throat swelling to a dry lump, he climbed to his feet, lumbered down the hall to the basement stairwell, and began stumbling down the steps. When he got to the bottom, he fell again, and began to crawl toward the couch which glowed under the dull haze of a sea-shell nightlight. With every shovel of an arm or leg, he felt himself buckle and nearly convulse under the intensity of his psychological desperation. The tears screamed at his eyes and his lungs wanted to roar, but not yet; not when everyone could hear him. He had his eyes on his salvation at the edge of the couch, though. It was a decorative pillow and it would muffle his howls, but he wasn't sure he would make it. He kept shuffling himself forward, using every inch of his might to fight the roars and screams stirring inside him, until his shoulder hit the edge of the barely padded, wood frame. His hand reach up, grabbed the pillow and he buried his face in it. The sounds that gurgled and surged out from inside his core sounded impossibly inhuman. His sobbing screams escaped with violent persistence into the pillow until finally, he tired himself out and again fell asleep in the silent darkness.

DJ woke up to Tyler snoring and dug his phone out of his pocket. He sighed. It was 0720 and his neck hurt like a bitch. He couldn't even remember being tired before passing out, but the whole week, along with the beer he'd drank, had all taken a lot out of him. He looked at Tyler and snickered under his breath. He'd drooled a large wet spot onto the arm of the couch and was letting out long, gur-gly snores every third breath. DJ stretched, climbed off the couch, and walked into the kitchen. The sun was well on its way into the sky and the beams shining through the east window by the kitchen table felt nice on his cheeks and he basked in it for a moment with his eyes closed lightly before turning right and walking down the hall to toward the front door. It was early and quiet out, so he figured maybe go sit on the porch and have a cigarette. Why not? A cigarette sure was good in the morning and a cigarette in the morning, surrounded by peace and quiet in a cool breeze was even better. He slipped his boots on and reached for the door handle, but before he could grasp it, he heard something clank roughly in the basement and a muffled curse. He hesitated, then started his way quietly down the stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke caught him by surprise and he wrinkled his nose when he stepped off the bottom step into a settling cloud of gray Camel Light smoke. He waved his way through it, and poked his head into DJ's work area.

DJ was sitting at his reloading bench. He rocked the arm of his RCBS loading press and a metallic cachunk emitted from it. DJ lifted the handle and pulled out a completed 200 grain lead round nose .44 Special cartridge and threw it into a pail. Mason smirked, but it melted almost instantly into a concerned frown. He couldn't see DJ's face, but his body language was a mixture of aggression and focus. DJ watched him carefully retrieve another case he'd already "charged" with powder and wedge a bullet into it. He slid it into the shell holder and again rocked the handle with a cachunk before lifting the handle again and revealing another completed cartridge. Mason thought of, then disregarded the idea of interrupting DJ's operation and began to move away from the doorway, but DJ's eyes caught the movement and his head snapped to him with sharp, but worn eyes. He gave a soft, "hey," and turned his eyes back to what he was doing.

"Hey, bud, what's up?" Mason asked; walking in slowly. He crossed his arms and eyed the Camel Light that was burning itself out in an ashtray sitting on a ledge on the other side of the room. It was a big no-no to smoke and reload in the same room. Sure, DJ had been smart enough to do it on the other side of the room, but it wasn't the biggest or most well-ventilated room either and the wrong combination of statistical possibilities could lead to a pretty serious and life-fucking explosion. He waited for a response for a second, decided one wasn't coming, then tipped his head to say something else, but DJ interrupted the thought process.

"Airports are all shut down as of 0600 eastern time, this morning," DJ muttered. "Interstate travel under emergencies only and, best of all, the pending state of emergency is now being called 'inevitable' by every fucking news agency in this glorious land." DJ pushed his chair back with his feet and walked over to his half-burnt cigarette. He began took a deep drag and his eyes nearly rolled into his head.

"No interstate travel, or airplane rides," Mason trailed off. "So you're saying everything's going to be alright," He grinned jokingly, but got no response from DJ who was staring at the wall blankly. "Dude, it's okay- we're all cool here and stuff's going to work out. Stuff always gets worked out, even when it's really bad. Hurricanes, earth quakes, tornadoes. Shit's tough, but so are we and our families are from good places. Shit, I mean, my dad's a shooter and a reloader and your dad's a shooter and re-loader and Tyler's dad is a hunter. How many people have chances that good?" Mason shrugged. "I'm fucking stressed out too, but I'm pretty confident that-

"My grandmother got pretty sick- had to go to the hospital- and I guess they're locking down hospitals now, at least as far as sick patients being allowed to leave." DJ lit another cigarette under Mason's serious gaze. "I don't know what they've got stationed in Hallock where she's being cared for, but I'd presume at least a unit of the National Guard, maybe the state police, and there's a chance of CDC personnel." He looked at Mason and let out a slow drag. "I got a text from Steven saying my mom was with her, but I have no idea how old the text was." He felt sick and Mason's eyes were wide as spotlights.

"Fuck, dude, I had no idea- I- I mean," Mason hesitated, "nothing's happening yet, so stay cool, right?" Mason swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. He could see DJ had been crying at least a bit, but now there was a cold aggression to DJ's demeanor that made him nervous. He let out a huff from deep within his chest and shook his head. "You look totally beat, man. How long have you been up?"

"I woke up a little after four then passed out again pretty quick down here." DJ cocked his head with a shrug. "Got up again around five-thirty or quarter-to." He looked at the bucket of .44 Special and wrinkled his nose. "I've only done about 150 of those. Most are from last week- only about 400 of them there."

"Mind if I light up?" Mason asked and DJ just shrugged so he lit the end of a Marlboro 27 with his Ace of Spades Zippo and took a drag. The nicotine enveloped his system and he felt the high hit him like a whiteout concussion. He grunted, pleased, and shrugged his shoulders. "Let's just fucking reload, man," he said weakly through an exhale. "We can do everything you got and fuckin' find more- pile it up in case we need to do damage. You have any stuff for 7.62, or .300 Win Mag?" He began to migrate back toward the TV room where DJ kept his gun-safe, but a shake of DJ's head shut him down.

"I've got maybe fifty-some rounds for the .300 and fifteen or sixteen .308 soft points and forty-something 148 grain FMJ's, but that's it. I haven't reloaded for it since last fall for... no reason in particular." DJ let out a tired sigh and rubbed his eyes. "The headlines were pretty rough this morning," he grumbled and rubbed his eye lazily with his palm. "I'm feeling really fucking short on options here, man." He took another long drag of his cigarette and killed it in the ash-tray.

"Huh," Mason wrinkled his eye brows, "what do you mean?" Sure, they were stuck and no one could see their families, but that didn't mean they were out of options. They still had each other, still had food, and as far as he knew, stores were still open. They weren't desperate, at least not in the way that Les Strauss was in "Survivorman" when he was stranded in the arctic with four bullets and no shelter. It was the mental anguish, maybe. Mason knew DJ had a very close relationship with his grandmother. It was something he couldn't quite grasp, he figured, since his grandparents had died before he turned ten. Yet, Tyler had some interesting stories about her and her personality regarding guns, booze, and gutting deer during hunting season.

"They're talking about beginning house-to-house searches when the state of emergency is announced- searching for the sick and the dead. People have been hiding them in basements and locking them in bedrooms and shit like that. They think they're sick and not dead."

"They're fucking monsters," Mason trailed off. The news, at least to some extent, was shocking, like when popular local political figures sext pictures of their genitals to strippers, or molest children in their living rooms when they're not throwing fund-raisers. He couldn't believe that people could do something so crazy. Yet, it was true. People had suddenly begun losing loved ones at such an enhanced rate that it had driven peoples' emotional desperation beyond terminal limit; driving them to a dangerous level of denial. Beyond that, the lingering question was: why was the government so concerned? Yes, it seemed they were all homicidal and dangerous, but reports were also that they were slow and of limited intelligence, so why the massive use of resources? If things were as simple as they were being reported, then it would appear the state and federal government were both 100 percent incompetent. Considering the way in which FEMA always seemed to stumble and fall and law enforcement's track record of coordination and team play was just as spotty, that wouldn't exactly be surprising. Yet, it seemed more likely that something was being censored. The explanations were just too clean cut and the way the White House spokesperson kept perspiring like a fat polish man in a sweat-lodge made things appear a little shady. It was as bad as when the IRS got busted for targeting tea-party groups, except people were dying this time and the problem seemed to be growing. As if that weren't enough, DJ had more serious news to dish out.

"Manhattan has been quarantined and supposedly the National Guard has been shooting people down like dogs in the streets." DJ took another deep breath, considered another smoke and decided against it, then leaned back against the water heater with his arms crossed over his chest. His posture was so awkward that Mason almost laughed. He looked like a teenage computer nerd trying to look cool at a High School dance, but failing miserably. "They're explaining it away, of course, saying that they're combatants. CNN even tagged them as terrorists and separatists- if you can believe that- that have decided now's the time to overthrow the government and replace it with what-the-fuck ever. Some semblance of reality could maybe have been faked if there had been children and elderly mixed in with the bodies scattered everywhere." His voice was overflowing with conviction and his eyes were burning into the nothing he was staring it with such intense focus that Mason actually considered just turning and walking away. Before he could make the decision, DJ looked at him and the intensity on his face faltered. His eyes grew watery and his shoulders drooped.

"If they take my family... they take everything." He seemed about to cry, but kept it together. Mason just watched him silently. He'd never seen DJ cry, or even shaken. He was always steadfast in the face of anything. He was a thinking man and a doing man put together. But this was something different altogether. Mason didn't have the words of wisdom he needed and as badly as he wanted to say something to change DJ's outlook, he couldn't muster it. He felt lost.

"Well," DJ huffed his chest up and wiped his eyes, "more ammo, the merrier." He sat down at the reloading desk and without much hesitation, Mason grabbed a folding chair from the corner and sat down beside him. He handed DJ a 200 grain bullet and a saying entered his mind: Two is one, one is none.

It didn't take long to seat the bullets in 68 more charged shell casings and they moved on first to the rest of DJ's .357 magnum, then his 45 auto. They reloaded at a slow, but consistent pace with the occasional pause for a cigarette and a single shot of Wild Turkey whiskey for every 150 rounds loaded and dropped into a bucket. It was past ten thirty when there was a knock at the front door and then a reactive creaking of footsteps from the floor below DJ's room.

"I'll go," DJ grunted and stood up, "have a smoke, err, something." He walked out of the work room and Mason shrugged. He continued to run the press, but did it sparingly. He wanted to hear who was at the door and decide whether or not he needed to be concerned or not. Those were the times, after all and DJ felt the same. He hesitated when he stepped onto the landing in front of the entry door and wrinkled his eye brows before unlocking the door and swinging it open.

To DJ's surprise, a familiar face was staring at him and he couldn't help but form a smile. It was his boss, Tim. He looked exhausted. His eyes were sunken and tired and his skin was a sickly pale. DJ's face twisted into a concerned grimace and he reached out and put his hand on Tim's shoulder and squeezed. "Come in and have a drink, bud," DJ said and let Tim step in past him. Tim's eyes shot around wildly, then he stopped and crossed his hands over his pelvis like he was at a prayer service.

"Keep this to yourself," Tim said softly. He kept looking down the hall then at the stairwell, "but I figured you should know that Brian got sick and died at work." The news hit DJ, overwhelmed him for a moment, then subsided. He knew the kid, bud wasn't a good friend or anything. He was just a friendly, bright, 21-year-old student that was willing to work and willing to help. Amidst all the other bad news of the day, he wasn't surprised, but his imagination began to stir up visions of bodies lying in piles in hallways with dozens of bullet holes in their bodies and their innards spilled out all over each other. "They say he just got sick," Tim went on, "But he was fine until he got bit on the forearm by one of the bodies they were transferring to the morgue from third floor. It just," He paused and shook his head, "it's like it woke up and just grabbed him instantly with no hesitation." Tim rubbed his eyes while shaking his head back and forth slowly. "I was standing right by him when one of the army guys shot it in the head. It blew its fucking eye-ball goo all over me and I fucking puked everywhere."

"Alright," DJ stopped him from going any further and motioned down the hall toward the kitchen. He'd been in the exact same frame of mind earlier in the morning and could hear the desperation in Tim's voice and see the wavering in his eyes. "You need a drink and I need a drink and we'll talk about this." Tim sat down at the kitchen table and DJ retrieved both Mason and the bottle of whiskey from the basement. They all gathered at the table, took a shot each, and then all eyes went to Tim.

"Okay, bud," DJ's tone was calm, but firm, "tell me what else."

Tim looked at both of them, swallowed the knot in his throat, and poured another shot of whiskey. He sipped it and leaned forward with his hands folded on the table top. "I asked, later, if the bite had anything to do with it and one of the CDC guys fuckin' yelled 'no.' So, I was just about to walk away when he came up to me with one of the national guard guys and told me I'd better not start saying that shit to people, or they'd detain me." He finished his shot and looked at DJ. "It scared the shit out of me!"

"I fuckin' knew it," DJ slammed his fist on the table and clenched his teeth. "It's fucking infectious and they're keeping it to themselves." He scowled, clenched his teeth, then shook his head, "Bastards!"

"How the fuck does that benefit them?" Mason asked; confused. Infectious, or not, hiding it didn't seem like it could benefit anyone on any level. It didn't make sense.

"Panic, disorder... maybe they caused the whole thing and person-to-person transition could prove that it's some sort of biological product." DJ shook his head and looked at Mason with distraught anger. "Are you really expecting them to act in a reasonable manner? They're a bunch of cunts. C-U-N-T: Cannot Understand Normal Thinking." He grunted and nodded at Tim. "So, you have the revelation of the century. Anything on top of it?" He tipped his sideways, but the words that came from Tim's mouth made time freeze.

"I need someone to come to the hospital or it will just be Gabriel, Bob, Tony, and me." Tim's voice was flat and tired. He didn't sound enthusiastic for asking, or for the likely response.

"No fucking way, man," Mason protested. "You can't go in if they're fucking infected and black booted government agents are threatening to throw you into indefinite detention for being fucking real about shit! None of you should fucking go!" His eyes were wide and his veins were protruding from his neck, but DJ just shushed him. He felt a sense of duty to Tim who had been a good friend since they'd met and he had actually talked DJ into quitting his part-time job as an armored car driver and coming to the hospital. They'd drank, shot guns, and dealt with a lot of serious shitbags together and now... this whole mess. He'd never seen Tim looking this ill before.

"Mason has a good point, Tim. We shouldn't be in the middle of that mess and I'm sure Kevin would agree." Kevin was the Safety, Security, and Emergency Management Administrator and as serious as he was supposed to be, he was a light-hearted, beer-drinking Wisconsin boy with a knack for hunting and shooting sports. He always looked a little nervous and a little withheld, but he was a team player and DJ respected him immensely.

"I'd say fuck it,' Tim spat, "but Kevin and the rest of administration is still convinced that everything will still be okay as long as we play out part right. And Kevin- he's-" Tim stumbled with his words "He's so worried about his performance that he's just going through the loops and running it like an emergency management operation. He's scared shitless and so is everyone else, but everyone is so desperate to keep their jobs that they're just trying to run it out." He looked at DJ with defeated eyes. "He's had our back too much to leave him out there on his own."

"Yeah..." DJ trailed off, then looked at Mason. He thought about it for a few moments and considered te possibilities. They had poor equipment and poor capabilities at the hospital. They had no arrest authority except under very particular circumstances and little respect from the staff. The issued firearms were .38 caliber S&W model 64 revolvers that were beat to shit and almost no one was trained to any real intense level. DJ was the only one who qualified with it on the range without cocking the hammer for every shot. If he was going, though, he was going to bring his own equipment and a lot of it at that.

"I'll do it." DJ said with full confidence. "But if we're going, we're doing things my way."

"What things?" Katie's voice interrupted them from the bedroom hall and DJ looked up. It was his favorite situation: instant replay of an entire conversation. It would happen again when Tyler got up. Whatever. He could talk and load magazines at the same time.