“I don’t know about this, dear,” Allison said after hearing DeSean’s plan to bury Hailey. “Shouldn’t this wait until the next morning. It’s thundering out there, it’s been a long day, and… you’ve been through a lot.”

The conversation was held in the lobby of Dr. Patterson’s private practice outside of Camdenton. DeSean stood in the middle. Unlike most of the people in the room, he was a tall, broad-shouldered skeleton of a dark-skinned man dripping wet from his nappy hair to his scuffed boots. Around him were the whitest Missourians around, a bunch of Midwesterners who were hesitant to speak with him compared to friendlier faces like Allison and Quinton.

They looked him up and down, of course. Their eyes would linger on Lylothia with open fear, distrust, or rage. They took in every new sight unapologetically, especially with the madness the world was turning into.

These people had to come here since the bigger hospitals and medical centers were overrun with cases.

We probably can’t rely on places like these in the coming days, DeSean said.

Thankfully, just like how the banking institutions were still functioning, there were still places open to receiving patients. Modern civilization was too robust to collapse completely overnight. The internet and cellular networks might outlast everything, for example. The same couldn’t be said for the transportation systems such as trains and airports.

Hell, DeSean caught the tail-end of a conversation mentioning major train lines derailing and crashing around the country. The Jefferson City Amtrak was on fire right now, and most of the nearby tracks were completely ruined. The physical infrastructure wasn't prepared for a world-wide apocalypse that removed half the people of the world as reliable human beings. And they hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet.

Right now is the best time to cut threads before we dive into the game fully, DeSean thought. Lylothia lost the conversation with Quinton, but she didn’t stop being right.

Hailey’s body needed to be buried now. They had the thunderstorm working in their favor regardless of the enemy’s means of hunting them.

“I’ll make it back with Art History and Botany. Mariah and Roberto can stay here to protect you, Quinton, and Social Media.” DeSean shifted closer to Allison. “This needs to be done now. They need closure.”

“We all need closure, child,” Allison said. “I… I wasn’t even much help. But I feel like the darn thing the cat dragged in. How are you still moving?”

DeSean smiled. “I’ve learned the art of embracing the suck.”

His addition to Focus helped with determination. Interesting enough, it felt like it enhanced what was already there. He didn’t feel an obscene power boost to his determination, it was just more solid, weightier. In comparison, his Endurance was lacking, but he’d been through hellish conditions where he had to push beyond his stamina. He had to strive beyond the limits of his health. It was mind over matter type of stuff.

“DeSean, I don’t know,” Allison mumbled.

“I have Lylothia with me.”

The golden-haired woman stiffened and gave the demonic princess a slanted glare before schooling her expression. DeSean wondered what that was for, but soon figured she had a healthy distrust for demonic creatures like anyone else.

“D,” Roberto piped up. “Here.”

He offered DeSean a Stamina Potion, Health Potion, and an Od Elixir.

DeSean eyed the items for a second before deciding to take two out of the three. He tossed the Od Elixir to Botany. “Put that into your Attunement,” he told her, holding the Stamina Potion for himself. “Keep the health one, Roberto. Botany already has one.”

“Okay. You’ll be safe, right?” the kid asked. “I, uh, don’t know if you’ll need me to help out. My Strength is awesome.” He leaned closer. “I got a new Skill from today, too.”

DeSean raised an eyebrow. They would have to talk about this Skill when there was less company around them. There were too many eyes and ears that weren’t in the sky and ground.

“Don’t die,” Mariah muttered from behind her brother. “You owe us still. I’ll make your corpse pay up if I have to.”

DeSean smirked. “How can I die with those encouraging words?”

“I didn’t agree to let him have the truck yet,” Allison said, flustered.

Art History stepped in. “We’ve been through a harrowing series of events, love. We’ve left behind people, seen horrors that would haunts us to our dying days, and have little to our names other than what we’ve decided to pack up and pursue. When this is said and done, we will remember the decisions we’ve made here. Won’t you want to look back and think you’ve done right? Letting us bury our best friend where she belongs is all we ask.”

Allison’s mouth flapped open and closed.

“That’s one smooth young man,” said a Missourian woman cuddling her toddler.

“My Susie was killed by one of them false prophets,” said a man with a bloody bandage around his hand. “I… I couldn’t get her body and bury her. God forgive us, but how can you say no to that?”

Allison couldn’t say no.

A minute later, DeSean was in the driver’s seat after he unhooked the trailer and squirreled around weapons and ammunition for the trip. Lylothia was on his shoulder, Botany was in the shotgun seat, and Art History was in the back.

DeSean paused to soak in what they were doing, and how it was all coming together.

“This is like a fevered dream,” DeSean said. “What we’re about to undertake. It’s all insane.” That was saying a lot. DeSean was half convinced he came into this situation insane before the apocalypse.

“I wouldn’t say we’re in Van Gogh territory just yet,” Art History added, “but we’re getting there.”

“Should’ve dug around the Riley’s Farm for mushrooms,” Botany said. “Then we’ll be Van Goghing it up until we’re puking out our eyes.”

Fuck. DeSean blinked. I’m starting to like these guys.

They were his type of weirdos. Not like Marines, but something of a similar vein. They were dealing with their trauma like pros.

Lylothia eyed them all unfavorably from DeSean’s shoulder.

DeSean started the engine, backed out of his parking spot, and veered down the trail and onto the highway. The way forward was treacherous, dark, and stormy. Even with the high beams on, the windshield wipers at their fastest setting, visibility remained low. His heightened Focus helped some, so DeSean didn’t have to go at crawling speed, but he couldn’t push too fast. Even his optiling had to rest on the cabin’s roof, the winds above too strong for the minion.

“Radio on?” Botany asked.

“Heavy metal, preferably,” DeSean said. “Keep it low. We need to hear what’s happening outside.”

“All I hear is thundering and rainfall.”

“I’ll still be able to make out gunfire.”

“Cheery,” Art History commented.

Botany flipped through channels to find DeSean’s preference.

The Marine thought about the way to their destination. He assumed Highway 54 was going to be a clusterfuck near Camdenton. They could try for Highway 5. It might suffer the same abysmal chances of being a mess, but he liked it better than the former. If both options were closed out, then he’d have to talk them into burying Hailey as close to her preferred burial site as possible.

“The Marine is deep in thought, seeing with his mind’s eye the way to victory,” Art History said, hanging over Botany’s seat.

“Depends on if Enlightened Chosen call it quits when it rains,” DeSean said. “I know the Marines won’t.”

“They will only stop when they tire or need sustenance,” Princess Lylothia said. “Then they would pick up the hunt whether it takes them through rain, snow, or flame.”

“However?” DeSean asked.

The princess hummed deeply. “Hm. The storm is helpful as a concealment. But prepare to battle if they set their aim on us.”

Just like I thought. DeSean snorted.

Botany paused on a soft-rock and country station, making DeSean wrinkle his nose as she asked, “How do we fight that, Sergeant?”

“One engagement at a time, at least tactically. On a strategic level….” DeSean thought back to the officer-recommended books he absorbed out of curiosity. “We find a defensible, long-term base we can treat as the center of our personal command and build from there.”

“All within four weeks,” she added.

“No, within the next day. Maybe even two, at most. There’s a lot more we need to get done after that.”

“No wonder you’re helping us like this,” Art History said. “We’re on the clock.”

“Yeah. We are.” DeSean turned off the road to get around a huge pileup and bright white cocoons, the treads tearing up mud before he returned to tarmac. “We gotta be close to perfect on this run. One screw up and it’s going to hurt the group like a sonuvabitch.”

Botany and Art History shared a glance. They seemed closer than they were before leaving the pit stop. Without another word, Art History ripped out a pack of beef jerky to share. Botany settled on a rock station.

A fresh box of Camel cigarettes were busted out. DeSean found himself with one. Expert stoner hands flipped open a Zippo lighter and ignited everyone’s cigs in a quick and efficient manner.

“Sorry, Allison,” DeSean muttered, exhaling smoke, “but getting ash on the dash is the least of our concerns.”

Botany laughed. So, did Art History.

Were they warming up to him? Or were they trying to be cool with the Marine? DeSean didn’t question it further. They were acting genuine even while under the watchful eye of a demonic princess.

Besides, they were three twenty-something adults driving through a storm while avoiding wrecks, corpses, and alien cocoons. They were doing this to get onto the shores of a lake that was possibly flooded. And at any moment they could face-off against people who joined sides with an invading cocksucker and got turned into murderous cocksuckers.

This was the world they lived in, and death was around the corner. So, sure, have some nicotine and beef jerky, make an inane joke or two, but keep sharp and prepare to face the end.

This was how DeSean saw it, and he wondered if the group could pull through under those rules. They didn’t have to be as good as him. But could they pull their own weight? Could they prove Quinton right? Could Quinton prove to be more than hot air?

It hasn’t been a full twenty-four hours. I can’t expect everyone to pick up the rifle, kick down doors, and go to war with a shit-eating grin from the jump. On top of that, he had his own developmental concerns.

Lylothia had mentioned acquiring two more System Skills before he unlocked his Main Path. He was curious about it, but Black Sabbath’s ‘Iron Man’ came on, and DeSean was a sucker for the alarming, dissonant guitar groan that kicked the song off.

“Huh, the story behind this song is a little funny,” DeSean admitted in a puff of smoke. “A man goes through a magnetic field and gets turned to iron. He saw a terrible future, tries to warn humanity, but because he’s made of iron, people fear him and don’t listen to him. So, he attacks them and becomes the villain. Might even allude to him becoming what he saw in the future.”

“You know music history?” asked Art History.

“Nah. I just look up stuff on badass songs,” DeSean said.

“It’s a good story,” Botany said. “What if that’s what we’re becoming? In a field, the System field, and us not listening to the Lord of Light and Order is turning us into the villains. We’re already talking to demonic princesses, and throwing up curses. What if we’re Iron Man?”

Botany sparked up a second cigarette. DeSean hesitated, but followed her example and burned up his fifth of the day. Only Art History held back. He was deep in thought.

“Huh. If to be free of control and order is to be the villain, then it must be so,” Art History said.

Lylothia stirred. “The artsy one spoke in truth. My opinion of the mortal has shifted to his benefit.”

DeSean snorted. “Does that mean he can speak directly to you now?”

“No.”

“Sorry, bud.”

“I’ll get on her majesty’s good side one of these days.”

Botany pressed her face against the passenger window, unnerving DeSean. He grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her back.

“Don’t do that,” he said when she whirled on him. “You increase your chances of getting hit in the dome. A bullet striking any surface can ricochet and tumble off a killing vector, but you’ll make it easier for that bullet to strike true if you put your face there. That’s not even factoring the glass fragments that’ll shred your face up.”

Botany blinked. “Oh. Shit. Sorry.”

“What were you even trying to see out there?” Art History asked.

“Don’t know. Anything, really. Once we got past a couple of wrecks, it’s become more of a….”

“Ghost town,” DeSean finished for her, his mind flashing back to barren, undeveloped places in far-away lands. “More like ghost road. We’re not in the town… yet.”

The ride was smoother now. There weren’t many cars on the highway once they got past the lake regional airport. After sweeping past a senior center and a lumber yard, they only needed to take the exit to transition from Route 7 going west to Route 5 going north-northwest.

Unfortunately, the exit was blocked by a flipped semi-truck and its trailer. The only one available was the exit leading to North Business Route 5 that would take them straight into the heart of Camdenton.

DeSean reconfirmed using Botany’s phone. The mapping details were saved from the latest update regardless of poor signal.

DeSean scowled. He saw some backroad options he could take, but it would lead them to Route 54. It was busier on that route, but the other option was to go directly into Camdenton.

“The population’s pretty small,” Art History said.

“But they’re most definitely bible thumpers,” Botany concluded. “So, we’ll be dealing with a whole lot of Chosen. That place must be crawling with them by now.”

“Unless there’s a mortal among them that takes to killing the Chosen like scything through wheat,” Lylothia said. “You say a concentrated, but small population of Chosen? I see an opportunity to acquire Od. And… something more.”

“More?” Botany asked, then added, “Princess?”

“Continue your journey, summoner and allies,” said the Hell Princess. “You are on a great path.”

DeSean raised his eyebrow, but Lylothia offered nothing more. He shrugged at the others and made a decision. The backroads leading to Route 54 would have to do. They would better their chances at avoiding conflict that way since the other route would lead them into a more compromising situation.

I can also take advantage of the detour.

As soon as DeSean got deep into the muddy backroads, he came to a stop and exited the car. The storm was still roaring and thundering, but he opened the back passenger door and gestured for Art History to come out. “You, too, Botany.”

“It’s Dazzle, by the way,” she said. “Dazzle McQueen.”

“Love, I think Botany suits you better,” Art History said.

“Shut it, Francis.”

DeSean let them bicker as they shivered shoulder to shoulder. Or more like shoulder to arm since Botany was considerably shorter.

DeSean had them stop next to the truck’s front. He walked forward and scrounged around. Once he found a few thick branches, he carried them out thirty feet in front of the truck’s lights and stacked them together.

“Shoot that,” he said, walking back.

“You sure? Won’t we need—”

“Shoot it,” he repeated himself with a scowl.

Botany brought up her rifle, aimed down the sights, and fired. She missed.

Art History maneuvered the weapon slower, hesitated, and flinched into the shot. He went wide.

“In the next ten minutes, I’m going to teach you enough to land on target,” he said. “I need this because if we end up in a fight tonight, I’m relying on you to cover my back.”

They nodded hesitantly.

“Before you get started, where are your Focus Stats?” Lylothia asked.

They answered, revealing Art History having 15 Focus and Botany having 10 Focus.

The Hell Princess turned to DeSean. “They should be capable enough of learning these basics. It might not seem like much, but the greatest differences in growth come from the early Od investments. If you’ve had 5 Od, you essentially double, or triple your capacity when you increase it to their level. This does not stay the case later, but it is advantageous in these moments.”

“Good to go,” DeSean said.

He ran through the basics with them at a snappy speed he would’ve balked at in basics. But none of them wanted to be out in the storm, in the middle of the woods, open to attack. Not for long, at least. But DeSean couldn’t help but smirk as he thought back to all the training scenarios he’d been through that left him cold, wet, and miserable.

Can’t be a Marine without a day cold, wet, and hating your life.

By the time they reached ten minutes, and before they ran through a full mag, both Art History and Botany landed on target. They turned the branches into splinters with decent success, if not always accurate.

“Remember, sticks don’t hit back,” DeSean said.

Princess Lylothia snorted, but she didn’t overturn his words.

“Okay, okay, I think I got this Mister Marine Miyagi,” Botany said.

Art History frowned, staring down at his rifle. “If this truly becomes game-like, I’d prefer to trade in the rifle for a rapier. It’ll help me play more the part.”

“Well, until we get you that fancy-smancy sword, keep that weapon aimed at the enemy,” DeSean said, reentering the truck. “And not at my back.”

Once they were fully mounted, they drove the rest of the way through the woods. They had to double-back when they hit dead ends or nearly dropped off a small cliff. Eventually, they were able to smash their way out of a line of bushes and pits of mud to get on Route 54.

“We should take this road after the Walmart,” Botany suggested. “I remember this. If we keep going, we’ll have Linn Creek to our left. But that’s a busier area.”

So, they got off Route 54 and entered Cross Creek Drive. In no time, they would get close enough to the lake to see a shore.

DeSean felt the slithering comfort of relief.

He squashed it.

Things always went bad when you got closer to your destination. Besides, there was a weird feeling developing in the pit of his stomach. It might be the jerky disagreeing with him, but he doubted that. No, he was getting a tug forward in the direction of the lake, and it was growing more powerful.

“Do you guys feel something weird in your stomach?” Botany asked.

“Okay, so it’s not just me,” Art History said.

“Ah,” Princess Lylothia mused. “We’ve found it.”

“Found what?” DeSean asked, perplexed.

“A Chaos Zone, my dear,” Princess Lylothia answered. “This place. The Lakes of Ozarks, you called it. It contains a Chaos Zone. We haven’t entered its borders, yet, but I can feel it rippling through the air. The touch of Seventy-Two Hells. The increased density of mana. The promise of greater Od. The System’s influence. The field that’ll make you… Iron Man.”

“Does that mean we can fight monsters and collect loot here?” asked Art History. “I’m, uh, a bit of a nerd.”

“No way! Would’ve never known that,” Botany teased.

“Clamp it down,” DeSean muttered, glancing at the rear view mirror. It was almost predictable that big news like this would come with something terrible attached. “We got someone on our tail.”

“I don’t see anything!” Art History yelled, rifle up.

“Look when I tap the breaks.”

DeSean flashed the curtain of thick rainfall behind them in red light, revealing a black suburban. Behind the wheel was a large figure. DeSean slowed the truck just to see the stalker’s response. They followed his example.

DeSean pulled over onto the shoulder and their stalker did the same. With the parking lights on, and his optiling’s full attention on the stalker, DeSean saw the driver was undoubtedly an Enlightened Chosen.

A big one with a wickedly wide smile.

DeSean snorted. “Ladies. Gentlemen. We shoot first.”

“Then ask questions?” Art History said shakily.

“Sure, if you like talking to a corpse.”

Botany raised her rifle. “Let’s fuck ‘em up.”