“So, that’s pretty much what happened,” DeSean said, concluding his forest ambush debrief for everyone listening at the parking lot.

The Marine was sitting on the hood to the suburban, his leather jacket donned over his muddy clothes. The sleeve to his yellow shirt hung through the hole in the jacket’s missing left.

With his remaining hand, he dragged in smoke from a cigarette and blew it out in one big gray cloud. He watched with some pleasure as a gaggle of pale faces wrinkled their noses at him.

I probably look like a freak. Predictably, the crowd surrounding him treated him like a reckless thug who shouldn’t be holding the power he had. Thanks to his Focus, he was better at tuning in and tuning out people by concentrating elsewhere. But for the rabble’s sake, he listened to some of their complaints

“Sir, I’m thankful you were able to handle that fight successfully,” said a burly man in an orange-black flannel jacket. “But that was without a doubt a careless thing to do. Keeping us in the dark like that. I’ve served in the Army Reserves years back, and I still got the training and a rifle to match. If you had let us know, we could’ve been better prepared for when the action was going off close by.”

“Don’t be nice about this, Larry!” shouted a woman wearing Cheetah-patterned eyeglasses. She jabbed a bright red nail at DeSean accusingly. “He chose not to tell us. He could’ve fubbed things up and got us all killed!”

“She’s got a point, I say,” said another woman with a toy poodle clutched to her chest. The dog barked as if it agreed with its owner.

Cheetah Glasses took that as a cue to gather a growing clique of lame-looking Missourians around her. She inflated with self-importance, walking up to face DeSean directly while the others locked ranks behind her.

“Who put you in charge to make decisions like that?” asked the woman. Before DeSean could answer, the woman continued. “If it was my husband, he would’ve done the job better and keep us all in the know. He’s the Police Chief, and he’s been doing that job longer than you’ve been born.”

DeSean glanced away from the Police Chief’s wife and saw his party off to the side. They were biting their tongues because he told them he would handle this.

Mariah was trembling, looking ready to blow. Heh, we haven’t known each other long, but it’s kind of touching she’s ready to rage for me.

Gripping her hand was Roberto, probably the only person who could keep her in control if DeSean wasn’t around. Art History and Botany were holding Social Media between them, counseling the traumatized girl.

Looking at the five of them gave DeSean a swell of strange feelings. Half of these feelings felt like nostalgia, reminding him of the knuckleheads he would lead as a fire team leader back in the Marines. The other half reminded him of hope.

After leaving the Marines, he found himself alone. But he wasn’t anymore. All of a sudden, DeSean found others to care for. Anyone else who wasn’t part of that inner circle didn’t deserve his respect or care. They had to earn it.

DeSean turned and saw Quinton helping his mom into the truck. The All-American blond looked up and met the Marine’s eyes. Quinton nodded at the crowd surrounding DeSean, offering to help.

It wouldn’t be a bad thing to let Quinton or Art History talk to these people. People like these gave DeSean a hard time, and he could come across as rough.

But right now, the Marine had a fuck-it attitude. He subtly shook his head at Quinton and returned his attention to Cheetah Glasses.

“...the next time you think to run off and deal with these ‘Enlightened Chosen,’” Cheetah Glasses said, making air quotes around the enemy’s name, “please come and keep me in the know. After being with my husband for the past thirty years, I know enough to be my own Police Chief.”

“That’s great,” DeSean said, flicking the cigarette butt past her face. “You can be the chief here while my guys pack up and go.”

Cheetah Glasses stammered, but the Marine talked over her.

“The Enlightened Chosen are getting close to their Main Path!” DeSean stood on the suburban’s front bumper. “If you don’t know what that means, look at your Status Tablet. The Main Path is unlocked when you reach Od Level 100, and anyone who unlocks it becomes ridiculously strong. By tomorrow, it would take only one of them to kill half of everyone here. On top of that, in another three nights, the next wave of Chosen will be released and they’ll probably have their Main Paths unlocked from the start.”

DeSean dropped in front of Cheetah Glasses, his dark, tall, skeletal frame scaring the woman back. He strode past her with authority and an aggression, shouldering anyone who got in his way. He kept talking in the meanwhile.

“The Chosen are have a single purpose. They want to hunt you and kill you. It doesn’t matter if your young, old, sickly, or healthy. You can be damn baby for all they care. They want to spill your blood everywhere. They are most likely sadistic, too, so they might torture you as they kill you.”

DeSean paused to look back. “Your only hope is to play the game, hide, kill yourself, or die a painful death.”

“How can you just say that!” Cheetah Glasses screamed. “You’re scaring these people. That’s why my husband should be in charge.”

“Where is your husband?” DeSean asked.

“He’s busy making Camdenton and the Lake Ozark area safe!”

“Did he stop updating you?”

“Yes, but I’m sure he’ll be—”

“He’s most likely dead,” DeSean said. “The Missouri National Guard has been gutted. If a few of them have become Chosen, they’re going to be on a rampage. Your police department are not equipped for a world-wide issue like this.”

“But—”

“In their duty to protect and serve, the police would be the first to be killed by the Chosen. He won’t comeback to save you or any of these people,” DeSean said. “You have to save yourselves.”

“W-w-wait!” shouted Larry. “Can’t you help us? Maybe we started off rough. But if we got together and work things out, we can keep ourselves safe here. We got a doctor. And you, sir, you can lead hunts and fight Chosen. We can support you. You just have to keep us informed.”

The favor of the mob shifted from behind Cheetah Glasses to Larry. They looked at DeSean with a little less hostility and a little more hope.

If DeSean was a mentally sicker person, he would’ve drank in their despair. Okay, maybe he was just sick enough to chuckle a little.

Just a little.

Larry gawked at the laughing Marine.

DeSean wiped his hand over his face, his smirk flattening. “No. My team’s not strong enough to help you. Your support won’t benefit us, either. Not at this stage of the game. We have to strike out on our own for now.”

And my patron won’t accept my progress being slowed by the masses.

“You c-can’t just go like that!” Cheetah Glasses shoved in and pointed at Social Media. “Dr. Patterson helped that girl for free. You have to stay here and repay that!”

DeSean whistled.

One of his optilings flew low and dropped a bloody round object. The head hit with a thunk in between DeSean, Larry, and Cheetah Glasses. Larry paled. The Police Chief’s wife squealed, and so did a portion of the crowd.

DeSean grabbed a fistful of hair and raised Fire Axe’s head. The face had eerie, inhuman features like other Chosens, so it was easy to see that this wasn’t a Marked.

“There. Payment.” DeSean dropped the head.

A random man turned and vomited. Prayers and cries raised, the futile pleads of the helpless masses—folks who lost their homes, their family, and their nation to an attack they were unprepared for. A good number of them had guns, but they looked ill-prepared to use them in a vicious fight to the death against Chosen.

A tiny part of DeSean remembered the oaths he’d taken as a promise to defend these people. But with the arrival of the apocalypse, those oaths weren’t bound to him anymore. It was time for new oaths.

DeSean reunited with his party, and they fell in step behind him.

“Sheesh, you do an amazing job telling these people how it really is, Sarge,” Art History said.

“I kind of feel bad,” Roberto mumbled.

Mariah rubbed the back of her little brother’s neck. “We gotta take care of ourselves.”

“W-what do we do now?” Social Media hiccuped.

“We follow the Sergeant,” Botany mumbled.

“Yes, follow the Sergeant, not the Sarge.” DeSean gave Art History the side-eye as he came to a stop in front of Quinton.

The Airman and the Marine fell into a comfortable silence before they extended hands and shook.

“You got everything you need?” DeSean asked.

“Yeah, I just about hashed out supplies with Dazzle and Francis while y’all went out hunting. Split ammunition with you for some of Dazzle’s fertilizer and other goodies.”

DeSean’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “What you got planned for it?”

“It’s like you said. The enemy’s going to get stronger. So, I gotta outsmart the enemy to get a leg up.” Quinton patted his dad’s truck. “I went into the Air Force as a mechanic, keeping air crafts maintained so they could go out and bomb a fucker. I learned a lot about what it takes to keep those machines functioning, from the hardware to the software, and all the nitty bitty parts in between. Then after I got out, I took classes learning to fly the more pedestrian versions of those bad birds.”

“What are you telling me?” DeSean asked.

“We’re going to need air superiority, Marine,” Quinton said. “Whether we do it through science or magic, we’ll always need that. Pray for me, because I got ideas, and it’s going to be a test of faith to see them through.”

DeSean didn’t pray for Quinton, but he wished him the best of luck. He watched his high school peer drive off with his mom, leaving the parking lot and all of the desperate people gathered here.

Soon as the Airman left, the spell holding the people here broke. As DeSean and his party prepped to go, people slowly picked up their things and started heading out. Not everyone was going, though.

Larry and Cheetah Glasses made an alliance and had a dozen folks gathering to their impromptu herald. Dr. Patterson remained inside of his place of work, and more people drove into the parking lot, replacing the ones driving out.

“There’s too much activity here,” Mariah said, hopping into the back seats with her brother. “I don’t think this place is going to last.”

“If there’s more of us than the first Chosen group, then maybe we beat enough of them to make it safe,” Roberto said.

“Lots of people are stupid, slow, and full of suck,” Mariah replied. “Unlike your big sister.”

“She’s a whole heap of fun, isn’t she?” Art History sighed, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Keep a lid on it if you know what’s good for you, Art History,” Mariah snarked.

“And here I thought children should be seen, not heard.”

As Art History and Mariah traded barbs, DeSean took the passenger. Botany and Social Media took the middle seats together. Everyone was sporting a weapon they’ve had since they’ve met or traded from the people here.

DeSean raised the heavy six-shooter he got from a starving man. The man had plenty of guns, and DeSean’s minions had plenty of vittles.

“So, this is what we’re going to do,” DeSean said lowly, cutting through the Art History and Mariah’s pissing match. “We’re going to drive away from Ozark and find a secluded spot in the forest. From there, we’re going to shoot a bunch of guns, learn the basics of fighting, drill team tactics, and brief you on what Princess Lylothia and me expect from you.”

“Where is she right now?” Botany asked.

Social Media looked under her seat. “Not down here!”

“Why,” Mariah asked, “would she be down there?”

“She’s a monster. Monsters like hiding under low dark places to catch you by surprise.” Social Media swayed her head back forth. “Riiiiight?”

Roberto checked under his seat, too.

“She’s got something, or someone, holding her full attention right now,” DeSean said. “She’ll be back later. For now, let’s expect the rest of the day will be spent away from the bloody fighting. That’ll be reserved for tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Art History asked.

“We’ll see when we get there.”