I SLAMMED THE JUG of milk on the counter. Damn suicides. If he had wanted to die so badly, the least he could do was not drag me into it. Good thing I had only wounded him, or I’d be in an even deeper mess. I should've been patrolling the streets right now, not milk shopping, but shooting a civilian was a big deal, so here I was.

“Someone needs a chill pill,” the man behind me said in a sing-song voice. Pink lipstick and glitter covered his face while his shopping cart overflowed with triple antibiotics, antifungal cream, petroleum jelly, and coffee.

“Getting ready for a zombie apocalypse?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Never know when they’ll come.”

I paid and stepped away from the register. “You know this stuff has expiration dates, right?”

“If I don’t use it up by then, I can always buy more.” He swiped his card. The raised letters on it caught light. Vincent Ricci.

“Seems like a waste of money, but that’s your business.” I walked out of the store.

The whole day ahead of me and nothing to do. I could go to some park, but what would I do there? Die of boredom? Hershey was a short drive, but I’d rather die of boredom than go there. I still never got a chance to see the Pennsylvania National Fire Museum. That could kill a few hours.

The door to the dollar store opened and almost got me in the face. Vincent Ricci winked at me, said, “Sorry, sweetheart,” and walked to his clunker. He popped the trunk open and arranged the bags around a… Stinger? What the hell did he need a Stinger for?

I hopped in my car and pulled out my phone. Then put it away. I couldn’t tell the chief of police that I saw a gay prepper with bags full of antifungals and a rocket launcher. That’s how people end up in padded rooms.

Screw it. I had the whole day to waste, and I knew the guy’s name. A quick search could go a long way. I typed Vincent Ricci into the database and found a Medical office and an appartment in New York, a long way from here. Then further down the list the purchase of a plot of land. Ten minutes drive from Harrisburg.

My handgun couldn’t do much against a freaking Stinger, but it had only been three years since I got discharged from the Navy SEALs because of an injury. I hadn’t gotten that rusty. And my shoulder had healed well.

I glued my eyes to the road before I caused an accident. Trying to not look like I followed him, I drove a few cars behind Ricci, until the guy turned down a private road. I drove a little further before hiding my car in the bushes and melting into the forest.

The screeching of the clunker guided me to an acre of land with a tiny wooden shed in the center. Ricci got out of the car, his face serious, his movements stiff. What the hell was this guy up to?

He grabbed the rocket launcher first and took it to the barn, then returned with a hand truck and put all the boxes on it. This would probably be the only trip to the car since the trunk had to be empty by now.

As soon as the giant doors closed behind Ricci, I got out of the bushes. The wood planks had rotted and cracked over the years, leaving a couple of gaps I could look through.

Ricci stripped down to his underwear, then hugged the pile of boxes and the Stinger. The air crackled and pulsed from inside the barn, making the wood creak as if it would split. A burst of light came from Ricci’s hand, momentarily blinding me. When my vision cleared, the place was empty. Ricci, the boxes, and the damn rocket launcher had vanished.

Impossible.