Rarity awoke with a massive double-barrel shotgun staring her right in the face. She offered a wry smile at the circumstance. For some reason, the sight of the gun wasn’t even the worst thing that had happened to her the past few days. At least the weapon wasn’t already pouncing upon her, clawing, gnashing, and tearing asunder. A gun, or, rather, the man behind it, could be reasoned with. Spoken to.

So it was with that in mind that she slowly crept her finger forward, and turned the barrel away from her head.

“Please. I’ve had a rather taxing few days already. The less guns pointed my direction, the better.”

The man seemed to take this into consideration, not repositioning the weapon, but taking a few steps back and sitting down on an overturned bucket, cradling the shotgun in his arms.

He was broad-shouldered and squat and built like a bull, with a haggard appearance; loose, long auburn hair that had been missing a shower for days now, gray at the temples, and a freckled face caked with stubble. At his neck was a loose-fitting scarf—Rarity once more felt a humorless smile creep her way that she willed back, the object was just so tacky when compared to his tan fisherman’s vest. His legs were covered by a pair of denim jeans splattered with mud and blood. Jack’s? Rarity wondered for split second, but pushed the thought away before it could make her panic and lose her composure.

Never taking an eye off her, he fished into one of the pockets of his vest and pulled out a cigarette and lighter; with a flick of his wrist, he lit up and inhaled.

“That habit will kill you,” Rarity stated. He gave a raise of his thick brow and then actually chuckled at her.

“I’ll take my chances with them over the other things out there,” he replied. His tone was laced with a typical accent from around here, a drawl not quite on par with Jack’s, but close. Rarity felt herself relaxing a bit more at that, subconsciously grateful that she seemed to be making some rapport with the man that was holding a gun to her seconds ago.

“Care to explain your… theatrics with the weapon?”

“I saw you and that girl got cut by that thing. Don’t take a genius to remember Night of the Living Dead.”

“Well, that thing was more, er… Pulp Fiction? No, that’s not right.” She racked her brain, trying to think of an accurate movie to describe the plant thing, before shrugging. “Regardless, being bit or clawed does not turn you, apparently. We had a similar concern with a man we traveled with earlier.”

“He didn’t make it?”

“No, he’s quite alright. He stayed in the capital to watch over a young boy who also traveled with us.”

The man’s face softened, albeit a hair. “Yours?”

“Not exactly. But I would consider him family.”

He slowly nodded at that, adjusting the grip of the gun, not yet totally relinquishing it, but clearly just cradling it now.

“Then what the hell takes you out here? We’re a good bit away from the capital.”

“The damn fool you saw earlier is the reason,” she replied, crossly. But her irritation faded after a second and she looked to him with clear worry on her brow. “The one traveling with me, Jack. Is she…?”

“Fine, last time I saw her. Got her patched up nice and neat, and if you’re being truthful about those things not changing you, she’ll be up and walking about soon enough.”

“Well, you must believe me somewhat, considering you’re not ready to blow my head off.”

He snorted. “Make no mistake, if you had acted like you were ready to lunge, it would have been bye-bye head. Nobody touches me or my boy.” He eyed her once more and then stood, throwing the shotgun onto his left shoulder. “But you look fine enough to me. I’ll take you to your friend.”

Rarity held up a hand expectantly.

He stared down at the hand and snorted. “You’re not crippled, get up yourself.”

She lowered her hand and pushed herself up, grumbling as she did.

“Fantastic, I’m in the company of another ruffian.”

He led her to the shack’s door and opened it carelessly, making Rarity lift her hand up in defense against the bright, glaring sun.

“What time is it?” she pondered, then realized another thing as she stared up towards the clear skies, “Wait, what happened to the rain?”

“It’s Tuesday,” he answered curtly, as they began walking across a stone-cobbled pathway. After a beat, he added on, “Rain came last night. About two, three inches, going by the gauge. Should help the crops well enough.”

Rarity was silent, and glanced at the fenceline nearby. “Late in the season for crop growth, isn’t it?”

He gave an absent-minded rub of the back of his neck as he looked past the fence in thought. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get one more harvest before our first frost. Going by the shit that’s happening, we’ll need every bit of food we can get our hands on.”

“You don’t believe things will improve?”

He barked out a laugh. “Can you not see the world has ended out there? Good luck ‘improving’ things when we can’t even go take a piss outside at night without being torn to pieces.”

She rolled her eyes at the crass statement. “I’m sure the government will think of something to restore our way of life.”

“They’re the ones that probably did it!” he replied, throwing his arm up in exasperation. “MK Ultra, some new biological weapon, fuck, I don’t know, maybe they pissed off aliens! All I know is I’d bet every dollar in the bank—not that money is good now—that they were responsible.”

Rarity almost called him crazy. Almost. The gun in his hands and, more alarmingly, the consideration that it could have been some sort of weapon they created stopped her from that train of thought. Instead, she offered an uncertain nod.

“Have you heard any news? Is this localized?”

“Not been keeping tabs on the radio, girly?” He gave his hair a brush back with his palm. “Whole state is fucked. No emergency services, no hospital staff, no power unless you have a generator, no nothing you can’t get yourself.”

“I’m well aware of the state, thank you. As I said, we were east a few scant days ago. Rather, I mean out of state. Or, gracious, out of country.”

His laugh chilled her, despite the unnatural warmth of the autumn day. “Thinking of going to gay Paree until the government solves your issues?” Frowning, he stopped, turning to look dead-on at her. “Think again. Before my connection dropped on an IRC client, I was speaking to a man in Germany. Same exact shit, just with more lederhosen.”

“Charming,” she dryly replied.

“I didn’t get the big bucks for being charming, dollface. I got them by being effective and ready.” He looked up, a few steps away from what Rarity assumed was his home.

The building was a traditional ranch style. Single floor, but stretching a respectable distance out, with heavy bricks lining the walls and metal window shutters. If she was faced with a less paranoid man, Rarity would have assumed they were for tornados. Him, however…

He stepped forward onto a small covered porch and pulled out a key. Unlocking the front door, he opened it, tilting his head inside, wordlessly telling her to go in first.

The small living room held furniture built for comfort, chairs with deep, sagging cushions, sturdy tables that would bare the weight of resting feet. The walls were a shade of umber that melded nicely with the light pine of the floor. There were mild splashes of color to offset and challenge the mellow tones—paintings, a large rug, a scatter of toys that reminded Rarity he had a child.

The living room shared its space with the dining room—the ‘dining room’ being a handsome cherrywood table with two matching chairs set across from each other, and not much else. It gave off the impression that the two spaces were one in the same, and mutually exclusive; that dinner could be enjoyed at the table or in front of the television. Not that there was one. Instead, above the fireplace mantel there was a massive buck’s head.

The man pivoted and closed the door behind them, taking the gun off of his shoulder and hanging it by its strap on the coat hanger nailed to the wall, as if it was nothing more than a coat. Rarity gaped at the casual treatment of the weapon but closed her mouth just in time for him to turn back around and face her.

“Kody,” he called through the house, and then kicked off his filthy boots and set them neatly by the door next to a scatter of other shoes. “Ko-di-to,” he sang, and went into the small, compact kitchen. Rarity hesitantly wandered into the living room, stepping over Transformers and bright Hotwheels and colorful Legos with the grace of a cat.

The couch and two armchairs sat facing a massive brick fireplace, one that was clearly a home job, judging by the texture and worn look over the years. Perhaps it was one of the earlier addons to the home, before a more modern take began to spread throughout.

“Here, dad,” a slightly exasperated voice said, and Rarity turned away from the fireplace as a young boy about Spike’s age came shuffling from a darkened hallway to Rarity’s left. He was a good-looking kid, with a mop of curly, sandy hair and a body that was just starting to go gangly. If he grew into his feet, he’d be a tall one before he was finished sprouting. He had a kiss-my-ass chin, Rarity observed, and a sulky, full mouth. High cheekbones, light eyes, a dusting a freckles inherited from his father. He wore an X-Files T-shirt that assured Rarity the truth was out there.

“How’s our guest doin’?”

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “She’s still sleeping.” He looked curiously at Rarity, who smiled in return and made him flush.

“Could you show me to her?” Rarity asked, lowering herself a hair and resting her hands on her knees to speak level with the boy.

The boy looked past Rarity and towards his dad, who nodded in return.

“Okay,” he replied simply, and then motioned her froward with a toss of the arm as he turned back to the dark hall.

“I’m settin’ up lunch. Don’t be too long, Kode,” the man—and how strange and slightly rude that she didn’t know his name yet—called out after them.

They passed several oak doors in the short hallway, all on the right, before coming to the last one. Kody seemed to falter in front of it a moment, and then he rapped his knuckles gently on the door. When no response came from inside, he twisted the brass doorknob and led Rarity in.

It was very obviously Kody’s room—spacious for a child’s bedroom, with a sturdy dresser and desk in dark, dark oak, a wall of shelves that held a boy’s knickknacks and broken toys alongside a respectable library. A portable stereo that looked shiny and new sat on top of the book shelf, along with a pair of binoculars that didn’t look new at all. The walls were a quiet green, and the bed was a twin.

And Jack’s sleeping form was strapped to that bed; half-mast in only a bra, her wrists tied to the headboard with thick rope, more of it crossing her body in neat horizontal lines.

Rarity had a moment of humor at the ridiculousness of seeing Jack’s six-foot-six frame on the tiny kid’s bed, and then the moment was replaced with wariness and terror. Barbarians, her thoughts shrieked at her. They’d been picked up by man-eating barbarians—because naturally the first thing that people did in zombie apocalypses was turn into cannibals.

And then she stepped further into the room and noticed that Jack’s bitten shoulder was wrapped, tended-to neatly.

She turned to the boy still hovering inside the frame of the door.

“Did you do this?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Again he shrugged. “I’m good at patching people up—dad’s a klutz. Gets hurt nearly every week.”

“And the ropes?”

“Dad didn’t want her turning into one o’ them. Specially not a Rooter—they’re high level.” He grinned, excitement in the eyes. They were pale green, Rarity noted now that she was closer to him. Like the color of fog over seawater.

“High… level?” Rarity asked.

“Yeah, you know, like in games. High level enemies.”

“I… see,” she said, not seeing at all. She glanced back at Jack, decided that if her friend awoke in the near future, they’d all hear the cursing and panic—along with maybe some furniture breaking. “Well, she’s obviously not infected. Do you think we could cut the ropes now?”

“Uh.” The boy glanced back out the hall, suddenly hesitant. “If my dad says it’s okay.”

As paranoid as the man was, Rarity doubted he would. She strolled over to the little desk, grabbed scissors from a pencil cup. “It can be our secret,” she said conspiringly, and was pleased when he flushed again and wriggled in mischievous glee.

“Yeah, okay,” he decided, then grinned wickedly and rooted into his pocket. “But you’re gonna need something like this to cut ropes like that.” He pulled out a buck knife, and flipped it open with delight.

Big boy knife, Rarity thought as her brows jumped high on her forehead. The thought made her worry, for some reason. Made something inside of her squirm.

Then she thought, cannibals, and smiled wryly.

---

Lunch, as it were, was not Rarity—or pieces Jack, for that matter (Lord knew you could get several good meals out of that much woman, Rarity thought with a snort). Whatever it was, though, smelled like glory, would probably taste even better, and made her stomach loudly remind her that she hadn’t had anything to eat since the sandwich of a million years ago, in the stomach’s opinion.

“Out of the fridge, boy,” Kody’s father grumbled when his son's socked feet ventured within a foot of the object in question. He hadn’t even turned around to see that that was where the boy was heading. “I’m makin’ sloppy joe.”

“I was just gonna pour the drinks and set the table.” All cherubic smiles, Kody veered his course and opened a drawer, sending silverware clanking.

His father merely grunted, and Rarity was charmed, utterly and completely, when Kody raised his head and winked at her conspiringly, sharing a secret.

“Find some chairs from somewhere, too.”

“Sure, I’ll just make them appear outta thin air,” Kody said smartly and snorted. There was teasing warmth to the backtalk, though. “You never made more than two.”

“Wasn’t expectin’ company—ever,” he retorted snappily, as if he was very displeased at finding people in his house, suddenly. “And don’t take that tone with me.” It was added as almost an afterthought. Kody rolled his eyes, carrying gleaming silverware to the table.

Amused and intrigued, Rarity stayed quiet. She was seated on the living room couch, which gave way beneath her butt like butter and embraced her back like a lover. Lived-in furniture, she thought appreciatively, letting herself relax for the first time in forever, it seemed.

The house was an easy place to feel relaxation. A family home, she thought. Big, simple rooms, sturdy furniture, noisy plumbing. If it was her house, she wouldn’t change much. Maybe spruce up some of the colors, add a bit of pizzazz here and there with thick throw pillows and splashy, bright flowers. Female touches, she mused, surprisingly sad that there obviously was no female in the house.

She wondered how she could breach the subject with them—because she suddenly wanted to know where the mother had gone to. Was it whatever that took the others? she wondered, and then winced, casting invisible waves of sympathy at the boy and man preparing lunch and bickering casually. No, she decided, amused again as Kody made soundless, bratty impersonations of his father speaking to his father’s back. These men were not in the throes of raw grief and panic at losing a loved one unexpectedly. The woman was long gone.

She looked about the walls, the fireplace mantle. No pictures whatsoever. Nice large landscape paintings flagged the fireplace, though, and that damn stag head was above the mantle. She snorted at it, though when she’d seen it’s beedy eyes staring straight at her upon entering the house, she’d been disgusted and creeped out. And had thought of Chylene with a pang.

“When’s it gonna be ready?” Kody moaned from behind her. “I’m starving.” It was the perpetual complaint of every ten-year-old boy.

“Yeah, and you’ll be in the fridge thirty minutes after dinner.” It was the knowing reply of every parent of every ten-year-old boy. “Go find some damn chairs.”

“We could just eat in the living room.”

“Get, child,” the man snapped. An impatient sort, Rarity thought with humor. But obviously a fantastic father. Just rough enough around the edges to make it fun. He was probably the type to cart a child around on his shoulders, to wrestle in the yard.

She thought she might one day like to meet a man just like him, have her own handsome sons and pretty daughters. She thought that, well, she was not really looking in the right pile for him at the moment. High society didn’t exactly raise the type. He’d have to be a country boy.

She felt her face heat.

Or—

Well.

Ahem.

Because she felt jittery and awkward suddenly, she stood and walked into the kitchen. The white countertops showed a bit of age, the wear and tear of use. The cabinet doors were glass-fronted—surprisingly female, that, but Rarity figured that it was to better find things—and the dishes inside of them plain white stoneware, meticulously arranged. But the refrigerator was covered with photos and newspaper clippings, notes on post, children’s drawings, all haphazardly affixed with multi-colored magnets.

“Can I help with anything?” she asked, eyeing the browning meat, the potatoes sizzling in peanut oil, the spicy sauce he was stirring in a bowl.

He shot her a sidelong look. “You any good in the kitchen?”

“As a matter-of-fact,” she began and let the words trail off to insinuation.

“Heh. You can toast the buns,” he decided, and opened a cabinet overhead without looking up, pulled out a bag and plopped it on the counter.

“I’m not going to poison you.”

“Jury’s still out.” He shrugged, and she recognized that the boy had inherited that shrug from him. “I tend to not trust women in the kitchen,” he freely admitted when he saw her annoyed straightening of spine.

“Traditionally we’re trusted more than men,” she said, putting four buns into the toaster and setting the timer to just over a minute.

He chuckled. “Old-fashioned views, there. Welcome to the 21st century—we’ve got househusbands and woman breadwinners. Also, Guy Fieri and Gordon Ramsey making the kitchen their bitch.” Here he smiled, quick and arrogant. “And me.”

Since the smell agreed with that statement, she returned the smile. They worked in companionable silence for a bit. The buns popped and Rarity replaced them with four more. She heard the grunts and mutters of Kody dragging in chairs and sent him a smile over her shoulder.

The man could cook, she admitted after a little time of watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was the sort of cook who moodily dashed and dumped ingredients in by eye, or impulse, and seemed to enjoy it.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked.

“Parents owned a restaurant—best damn stuff, very southern, family cookin’. Didn’t have a menu, really, just made whatever people wanted. From ratatouille to burgers: didn’t matter.”

“Ratatouille isn’t at all southern.”

Again he shrugged. “Pops was half Italian.” He stirred the meat, clucked at it approvingly. “Mom was like, seventy-five percent Irish. Homemade corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, soda bread—heavy, big meals. Workman’s eating. Left you full for a week.”

“Got the chairs,” Kody announced from behind them. “Had to use my desk chair. And yours.”

“Good, fine. Go wash up. And poke at the sleeping giantess in your bed. Soup’s up.”

---

Jack was dreaming. A dream, instead of a nightmare for once, since this whole damn mess started.

She was home, on the front porch, watching Mac pluck absentmindedly at a guitar as the sun was setting at the farm. The breeze blew gently, warm, scented with the nearby forest, and under her bare feet she could feel the knots and grain of the wooden porch. She picked at the small wooden splinters on the armrest of a chair she really meant to sand down for months now.

Mac continued on, picking at the guitar. Eventually, Jack caught on. House of the Rising Sun, she realized, and with a grin, she joined in with Mac, lightly tapping her foot along with the tune, and singing in a low, melancholy alto to match the song—one of their folks favorite’s, despite their more honky-tonk forrays.

As the song came towards the refrain, a second voice joined in, just as low as hers, matching the song without missing a beat. Jack glanced to the side and saw Rarity sitting beside them both, her slender arms resting on her knees and smiling as she took in the sky. She was glowing, gorgeous, resting there without a care in the world. Jack regarded her appearance for only a moment before accepting it; dream logic allowing the impossible, the sudden appearances, the changes in locale, to be met with a shrug of acceptance. And right now, she accepted the woman at her side.

When she woke up, however, it was like a switch had been flipped. Her warm days and pleasant nights were met instead by a cramp in her arms and legs. She stretched reflexively, swearing and attempting to relieve the aches, as the thoughts of what all happened began to creep into her mind.

That thing, she thought, and that brought her full-mast, snapping to attention; she shot up, immediately taking in the room as pain ripped through her shoulder.

Noting the knicknacks, the toys and the fact the bed had left a large portion of her body splayed out and well over its confines told her that it was a child’s room. Which meant that whatever happened, she had made it. Somehow, she was still alive.

Rare, she reminded herself, and that forced her to her feet immediately, aching shoulder or no. As she stood to her full height, she heard an appreciative ‘woah!’ from across the room.

A child stood in the open doorway, her earlier hypothesis proven true. He looked up at her with some surprise, taking in her figure.

“You’re huge,” he remarked. “Laying down I couldn’t really tell.”

“Yeah, well, I ate a lotta beef growin’ up,” she replied dismissively, her voice raspy and sore. It came to mind that she wasn’t really dressed to be social, and she glanced down her frame and crossed her arms over her breasts. She looked to the boy, shifting on her feet and coughing a bit to hint at what she needed.

“Dad wanted me to get you,” he replied, apparently heedless of the woman’s hints. “We’re having lunch.”

“Any chance I could get a shirt or somethin’, uh… what’s yer name?”

“I’m Kody. Spinelli. My dad’s Karl.”

“Kody an’ Karl,” she repeated under her breath, trying to put a name to a face. Being a vendor at the market sometimes made her go through that motion instinctively; a repeat customer was someone you wanted to get chummy with, after all. Though, granted, a part of it was just good manners. At least that’s what she told herself.

“As for a shirt, maybe dad has one. Yours got torn into after the Rooter got you, and I had to cut it off you to patch you up.”

The kid talked a mile a minute, and Jack had to blink and process for several second before her sleep-addled brain caught up. “Rooter…? Ya mean that fuckin’—” she caught herself and scratched at a cheek. “That, uh, thing that attacked us?”

Kody nodded in earnest. “Yeah! Dad shot it. I wanted to come with him to hunt, but he had me filter water and look over the generator instead, so I missed it. He told me all about it, though. It must've been so awesome.”

“Jus’ as well ya didn’t see it. Thing like that no kid needs ta see.”

He puffed up with some indignation. “I’m not a kid. I’m almost eleven!” he protested. “I run this joint.”

Despite the situation, Jack suppressed a laugh. “Alright, alright, tell me somethin’ then. There was a girl with me. Violet hair, pretty, ‘bout yay high—” she held a hand to about shoulder height to demonstrate. “Have ya seen her?”

“She’s at the table,” he told her with a nod.

“Boy!” a man’s voice called out from deeper in the home. “Did you get lost on the way or something? Chop chop!”

Kody took a few steps outside the room. “I’m coming!” he replied and shrugged to Jack, the carefree expression easily conveying ‘what can you do?’ to her. With that, he headed down the hallway.

Jack glanced down at her lack of modesty and briefly considered searching the house for some clothes proper, but the protests of her stomach and pressing urge to check on Rarity pushed her away from the consideration and she strode forward, heading towards where the voice had called out from.

The smell hit first, and it nearly made her wobbly-kneed at its welcoming scent. Spiced meats, vegetables, savory stock, and this time her stomach loudly announced its desire to her.

Turning down the hall, she came to the dining room proper, where three sat at the table. Rarity, Kody, and an older man Jack assumed to be Karl.

“Good, uh, afternoon?” she guessed, rubbing at the back of her neck. The bright, cheery sunlight streaming through the windows reassured her of the guess being somewhere in the ballpark.

“And good morning to you, sleeping beauty,” Karl dryly stated, serving himself a plate. He took Kody’s and fixed the boy up, then gave a considering glance towards Jack.

“Don’t just stand there. Eat,” he instructed curtly. She wasted no time in following the instruction, pulling a chair out and plopping down. Looking over the meal, she offered a grin. Sloppy joe on toasted buns, steamed carrots. Good meal to wake up to.

Setting herself up a plate, she wolfishly dug in, her manners again pushed to the side after days of eating junk food and cold meals. Rarity raised her brow at Jack’s lack of etiquette, but said nothing, eating her meat and carrots with a fork, savoring them.

“Jack. Should I enquire to your lack of clothing?” Rarity finally asked, breaking the rhythm of the meal’s silence. Jack swallowed a hearty mouthful, tapping at her chest with a closed fist to force the food down.

“Kid here says it got tore up in the scuffle with the, uh, ya called ‘em Rooters?”

Kody nodded in agreement, mouth messy with sauce and eyes excited. “Because of their feet,” he explained. “They walk on roots.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, taking a drink of water to wash down her bite. “An’ I didn’t think it proper ta loot the place fer a shirt before makin’ myself over here ta speak ta everyone.”

“But appearing in your undergarments is proper,” Rarity replied, sarcasm evident in her voice. But instead of pressing on the matter, she shoved another bite of the meat into her mouth, obviously just as hungry as Jack, only masking it more.

“After lunch, I’ll get you a spare. You’re clearly not a normal size, but I should fit you.”

“Think I got an extra in my bag. Don’t worry too hard ‘bout—” She paused, realizing something quite important. “Have ya seen ‘em? We had all out supplies in there an’—”

“Lady,” Karl grunted. “I could barely carry you both. I wasn’t sure how safe the place was, so I only took the one trip for you and the guns. Packs are probably torn to shit now.”

Jack sighed, too tired for mad and settling for simple browbeat exasperation. “Alright. An’ our guns are…?”

“I got ‘em,” Karl stated. “Wasn’t gonna trust two strangers armed around me and my boy.”

“We ain’t—” Jack caught herself, refusing to get heated. She nodded, then held out a hand across the table. “Karl, right?” Jack asked. He frowned but nodded and took the hand for a shake after a few seconds. “Ya saved our bacon back there, packs or not.”

Slightly disgruntled, he said, “Don’t take it the wrong way. If I had thought you were trouble, I would have left you out there.”

Kody looked to Jack. “He didn’t want to leave you,” he clarified. “Dad was just playing safe.”

“No need to play peacekeeper, boy,” Karl stated, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “They should be grateful they’re not dead and in the ground or worse by that son of a bitch.”

“We are,” Rarity agreed with a somber nod. “We owe you our lives.”

Karl glanced to Rarity, a bit surprised, perhaps, at her acceptance of the fact. Seconds later he spoke again, grumbling. “And you’re gonna make up for it. After we eat and tons of fun gets some clothes, you’re going to do a look over our fence line, make repairs if need be.”

“Tons of fun?” Jack repeated, blinking. “That ain’t the right insult ya know. That’s what ya call a fat fu—” she caught herself once more, giving a side-glance to Kody. “A fat person.”

“You don’t have to watch your tongue in front of the boy. He knows the words,” Karl replied with a shake of his head.

“Yeah,” Kody agreed with a proud nod. He paused, then added with a beaming smile, “Dad called you a heavy cunt when he brought you inside.”

“Tons of fun,” Karl said again, in an explanatory manner, mirroring Kody’s own mannerisms with an eerily similar nod. “Don’t just have to be for lardasses.”

Rarity rolled her eyes and tapped at her now-empty plate with a fork, using the conversation as a cover to devour her meal. She reached forward, adding another serving to her plate.

“Don’t think we ever caught your names,” Karl stated, glancing towards Kody. “Even if ours somehow got leaked to a pair of strangers.”

Jack wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and rubbed it on her jeans. “Jack. Jack Apple.”

“What kind of a last name is that?”

“Well, was Apfel back before the family came to America. German. But ain’t like ya got room ta talk. What kinda name is Spinelli? You related to Spinelli from Recess?”

Karl looked towards the ceiling and let out a long-suffering sigh, bringing his pointer finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Dammit, boy. Spell out our life story to ‘em while you’re at it.”

Kody ignored his father’s remark and looked expectantly towards Rarity. “What about you?”

“Ah. Yes. Rarity Belle. French origin, of course.”

“Wow, you’re from France?” Kody asked, leaning forward with enthusiasm.

She faltered, looking a hair awkward at the callout. “Well, no. I’m not. But my grandmother was. I’ve always wanted to go, however.”

Jack’s mood tanked somewhat as she took another drink of water. “Good fuckin’ luck makin’ it there now.”

Karl tapped at the table and looked over to Rarity. “Like I said outside to you, pumpkin, gay paree is in no better situation than us. Your friend at least can see that.”

A silence filled the table, only broken by the scrapings of forks on their plates and occasional sips from their water glasses before Karl spoke up again.

“That’s why you should dig down. Find a place to hold up and prepare. It’s not going to get easier. Just think about how many people have or are going to die to the Rooters, or the hordes of Swarmers that show up. If you stick tight and have a plan, they can’t get you.”

Jack narrowed her brow at the man. “We do got a plan. Travel west.”

He snorted. “Sounds like a good way to get yourself killed. You or her.”

“I ain’t gonna let that happen,” Jack replied, her hand instinctively turning into a fist around her fork. “I won’t let anythin’ hurt her.”

“So the other day was just a fluke?” he replied, his tone cold.

Jack grit her teeth but didn’t counter the point. Couldn’t, really. Everything that happened with the Rooter was her damn fault and she knew it.

Karl sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “Listen. Like it or not, the world’s a different place now. A place where you can’t make promises. You can’t have big dreams. I don’t know why the fuck traveling west has you dead set, but stop if you want a chance to live longer. Find some place quiet, some place defensible, and hole up. Hell, I could even point you to some people a good thirty miles from here—they’ve got a good thing going over where they’re at. Took a mine and locked it down, put up defenses. I could introduce you, have you hole up with them until at least the summer comes. We’ve already seen enough people get gone just from whatever took everyone. No need to keep the death toll climbing.”

Seeming to be satisfied with his piece, he pushed his plate away from him and finished the rest of his drink in greedy gulps.

“You guys’ve got the dishes,” he told them matter-of-factly, standing. “We take turns around here. To avoid chaos. And the spilling of blood.”

“Running water. Thank God fer small favors,” Jack muttered to herself. He snorted.

“Well water, girl. I knew enough not to trust the town lines if shit went down.”

“You really seemed to have this planned out for quite some time,” Rarity remarked. Kody stood from his place at the table and bolted off into the hall. The kid was a pistol, Jack mused.

“If you’re going to do something, do it right,” Karl answered after a pause of watching his son leave with pure warmth and adoration in his eyes. Then he shook himself. “I’ll expect you both outside as soon as you’re done.”

Walking fence line and repairing it was familiar work for Jack. And after the obligatory half-hour bitching session that Rarity insisted on, the tailor blew out a breath and shut up and rolled her sleeves up and made the work companionable and pleasurable. Like walking the fence line back on the farm with Mac—if Mac had a witty, dry humor that never quit, smelled wonderful when the full breeze whipped his scent towards her, and didn’t know a lick about the work he was doing but was willing to learn. And, naturally, picked everything up with competency and an unmatched attention to detail.

Karl’s land was orderly. They were still in the thick of the woods, but he’d cleared out a good five acres and fenced in three of those, leaving the other two wild and untidy. There was a respectable chicken coop right next to the house, recently cleaned if the smell said anything, and the sounds of animals put Jack at ease. Next to the coop was a shack, small and slim like an outhouse, where Karl kept his ‘small’ tools. Behind the house they’d discovered a larger shack with carpentry equipment inside of it and a bunch of half-finished pieces of furniture scattered all over. A massive pile of lumber and firewood—Jack assumed it was from all the trees he’d cut down to clear the acres—was piled up beside the carpentry shack under a blue tarp, and the large well stood beside it. The most prominent thing, however, was the garden that took up the entire west side of the property. Lots of blood, sweat and tears had been put into it, and it showed.

Red cabbage, spinach, carrots. Jack guessed earlier in the season, probably corn too. He seemed to have a green thumb at the very least. A handy digit for the end of the world.

The entire thing made Jack miss home with a suddenness and intensity that almost took her breath away and sprang tears into her eyes. Jack drew into herself the last acre of fence that they walked, and Rarity seemed to understand her turmoil, because she quieted too and started sending sympathetic glances at her.

Finally, with the sun just kissing the tips of the trees, they finished and walked to the house. Karl was there, leaning on the porch railing with his eyes on the setting sun and two tall glasses of dark iced tea sweating patiently beside him. He was smoking.

He said nothing to them when they joined him on the porch and took the glasses. He seemed introspective and melancholy, too, like Jack.

“You’ll have to play rock, paper, scissors for the couch,” he finally muttered.

“Nah,” Jack dismissed. “We’ll take turns. You can have it first, Rare.”

Karl grunted and took a drag. Jack emptied the glass until it was nothing more than ice cubes, then took to sucking on one as she ran a hand over the porch railing.

“You worried about Rooters coming?” she asked him.

He snorted. “Worried ‘bout lots of things—but no, Rooters don’t wander near the house. They’re the blindest of the lot. Takes sharp movement, or some very bright color to attract them.” He arched his back until several pops rang out. “Swarmers on the other hand… if the things see the fuckin’ chickens move in the coop, they’ll attack. Much more easily attracted.”

“Have you got defenses against them?” Rarity asked, worried.

He snorted. “Nah, I’m just gonna let the sons of bitches into my house,” he replied sarcastically. Then he pointed out beyond the fence line. “Got an entire minefield going beyond the fence. Traps, too. You may hear explosions at night. Don’t let it startle you.”

“A minefield?” Rarity said, incredulous. “You have a young boy in the house, for God’s sake!”

Karl straightened and bristled. “Hell yeah I do, and he’s my boy. We laid the traps and mines ourselves. He’s been through them dozens of times, he knows where they are.” He took a threatening step forward and pointed at Rarity’s face with a finger. “Don’t ever act like I don’t think about his safety, or that I don’t know what’s right for him.”

He threw his half-finished cigarette into a metal bucket, then whirled around and went into the house in a furious motion.

Jack and Rarity looked at each other in surprise.

“Touchy subject, I think,” Rarity decided a bit dryly.

“That dumbass is gonna get him killed,” Jack said, shaking her head and glaring out towards the field. “Hell, he might get us killed, havin’ those things around.”

“You don’t suppose he intends to keep us here, do you?” Rarity questioned. Jack flatly looked at her.

“As much as he seems ta want us out the door? I doubt it. He’s jus’ a crazy fucker, that’s all.”

“Eloquent. But correct.” Rarity’s brow furrowed and she absentmindedly brought a thumb to her mouth and chewed at the nail. “We should consider leaving tomorrow. No need to overstay our welcome. Not to mention, I fear this place isn’t as defensible as he proclaims it to be.”

Jack crunched the ice cube she had been rolling in her mouth. “Don’t have ta tell me twice. If we weren’t too far out from the road, I woulda loved ta hit it today.”

Rarity ran a thumb over the porch railing and turned, taking in a breath. “That settles it, then. We leave on the morrow. Come, Jack. Before we have unwelcome guests.”

Jack nodded, but stood on the deck for a few more precious minutes, watching the sun bleed away. As twilight approached she sighed, retreating inside, and, scant hours later, retreating into her dreams.

Next Chapter: Kody's Grove Part 2 Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 3 Minutes