The indoor range behind Kendo’s shop was packed today, not only with the usual crowd, but it seemed like the number of people had doubled in the last hour that the two had been there, the center of, at least for Daniel, uncomfortable attention. Oh, everyone seemed to be in a positive mood about it, most of the younger crowd rooting for Chris but a number of the old dogs, Barry included, to Chris’s aghast betrayal, backing Daniel. It was all in good fun, though. At least, that’s what Daniel told himself. Still, there was something sparking up in him when he met Chris’s eyes, that competitive edge that the man seemed to bring out, that even Daniel couldn’t ignore.

  Chris Redfield stood in lane four, eyes scanning the target with casual focus. He rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip, loosening tension without ever losing form. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the only real tell that he was keyed in.

  Daniel stood beside him, checking the weight of the Jericho in its holster and brushing a thumb across the top round in his magazine before sliding it home. He didn’t stretch or talk. Just watched, quiet and steady, taking mental notes with the same intensity that had served him so well thus far. There was a lot to learn, even when he watched the younger man during their warm-ups. It was clear Chris was a master with his chosen weapon, a beautifully crafted Beretta 92FS emblazoned with the STARS logo.

  Barry leaned against the wall a few paces back, clipboard tucked under one arm. He called out the drill but didn’t insert himself past that, just keeping time, watching. He was the judge of their little competition, and even if he was rooting for Daniel, nobody questioned his fairness as the one calling the shots.

  “Draw and fire. Two shots, center mass. From the holster on my count.”

  Chris stepped into the lane. The buzz of the fans and the low hum of distant traffic dropped away behind the soundproofing. The range became its own space, the air tight, clear, still. Everyone was watching now.

  Barry called it. “Three… two… go.”

  Chris moved like he’d already started a second earlier. His draw was fast, smooth, the muzzle level before it stopped rising. Two shots cracked out in a tight double-tap. The paper silhouette rocked gently from the force, center chest punctured with a pair of neat holes. He reholstered without flair, smooth and silky. For all that he was a man of flair, and he was, Chris really knew how to make it look easy.

  Daniel stepped in without comment. The lane still echoed with the last shot. He planted his feet, dropped his shoulders, and let the tension slide from his neck. The moment held. Barry counted.

  “Three… two… go.”

  Daniel’s arm snapped clean. The Jericho cleared leather without a hitch. Two reports split the stillness, the second following so close it was almost a stutter. One shot struck the center torso, the other high on the left, just outside the clustering zone. He let the pistol return home, breathing once through his nose.

  There was no call of score. No one clapped backs or barked commentary. Just a glance from Chris, a flicker, not judgement, but one of calculation. Daniel wasn’t sure what he saw, and he wasn’t telling, but something was there.

  They reset. Next drill: two shots, reload, two more. Another simple drill from the outside, but one that was all about precision and knowing where your hands were. Easy to learn, as they say, but difficult to master.

  Chris stepped in first. He moved like water, weight shifted, wrist rolled, sights up. Two sharp cracks. The mag dropped before it had fully cleared, fresh one seated before the pistol dipped. Two more shots barked. It was a blur until the silence returned.

  Daniel mirrored it. The first two shots hit tight. The mag came out clean but the new one caught a fraction on the lip, just enough to feel it. He slid it in smoothly, though, and found the sight picture again. The pause was just a fraction of a second, but it may well have been an eternity. The last two landed lower than he liked but still inside the silhouette’s chest line. He stepped back and exhaled.

  Neither man spoke. But Chris’s glance lingered again. Not smug. Just seeing.

  The third drill was different, all finesse over speed. A vertical paper sheet lined with five concentric rings in a descending pattern. One shot per ring, outside to center, no do-overs. This one was all about recoil control, and one where Chris’s competition-grade weapon showed it’s true colors.

  Chris stepped up. No theatrics. Just the sound of boots shifting, breath controlled. His pistol snapped up and he worked the trigger like a metronome: five rounds in rhythm, each one closer to center. The final shot split the bullseye. A showing of just what a mastercrafted instrument could do in the hands of a skilled owner.

  Daniel stepped in. Slower approach. Not timid, but measured. His first round grazed the edge of the largest ring. He didn’t let it throw him. The next three marched inward, one beat at a time, until the fifth shot drove into the heart of the target. Tighter group in the center than Chris’s. Slower, but deliberate.

  Chris gave a nod. “Dialed in.” Daniel gave him a nod of acknowledgement. This was by and far one of the hardest challenges for him, and one he’d practiced often.

  Break time was short. Kendo passed out water, silent but approving. Targets were replaced, brass swept, ventilation buzzing louder for a moment before fading into the background again.

  Chris approached him, then. The man had an easy confidence about him that Daniel found he liked, even if he was a cocky young buck sometimes. There was a quiet competence to the man that Daneil couldn’t help but respect.

  “You’re doing good, not gonna lie. Really making me work for it, Dan. You’re pretty spry for an old guy.” he said with a teasing hint to his tone. Daniel snorted roughly, shooting him an equally sly grin.

  “You better watch out, kid, or this old man’s gonna give you a spanking.” His reply was light, but pulled a barking laugh from Chris’s lips. The two traded a few more good-natured jabs like that, before Barry called them back to attention. It was almost odd for Daniel. He hadn’t known what to expect from Chris Redfield when he’d met him. He honestly hadn’t thought about it, either, yet there he was finding he rather liked the younger man. He has a bit of mischievousness to him, but he was also painfully earnest at times. It made for a strange but not unpleasant dichotomy.

  Barry’s voice returned. “One-hand shooting. Right, then left. Jam clears next. We finish with the triple-five.”

  Chris wordlessly stepped in. Right-hand only. Five shots centerline, steady, no drift. Switched hands. Slight compensation, one round pulling off-axis, but the rest clean. He stepped out before the brass stopped rolling.

  Daniel followed. His right was steady. Not perfect, but tight. Switching to the left brought more hesitation. Grip fought him, arm lagged. Two shots veered, one barely within silhouette lines. He grimaced, but said nothing. His left was always his weaker arm, and he knew he needed to work on it more.

  Barry handed off pre-rigged mags, each one seeded with two dummy rounds. Chris took his first. The misfire hit on round three. Without missing a beat, he tapped, racked, and resumed. The second dummy jammed deeper into the cycle, but he corrected fast and delivered his final shots without pause.

  Daniel’s jam came early. He hesitated. Only for a breath, but long enough to notice. Then he cleared it, firm and mechanical. The second came later. This time, no pause. He finished stronger than he started, planting his last rounds in a crisp triangle across the target’s chest.

  Daniel had to admit it to himself, there was something thrilling about it. About competing, and really getting a chance to see where he was under pressure, but also where he could do better. Even if he was fairly sure he’d lost this one, he’d definitely gotten something out of it, not to say he was going to give up. Especially not with his best event coming up.

  The last drill. Triple-five. Fifteen rounds. Head. Chest. Gut. Movement, precision, transition.

  Chris took his stance like he’d never left it. Five shots rang out, each striking center-mass of the head. The chest group followed, tighter and faster. The final five to the stomach drifted slightly, one kissing the lower line, but the grouping was lethal. He stepped back, expression unreadable.

  Daniel entered the lane.

  The Jericho snapped up. Five to the skull. Two at the temple, one under the eye, one center, one a shade low. Chest, five in a line, clean. The last five to the stomach, faster than the others. They rose in a shallow arc, ending centerline.

  He lowered the pistol and stood still, eyes on the paper.

  Chris looked over. “That one’s yours.”

  Daniel let out a breath. “I’ll take it.”

  Chris gave a faint smile. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting much. You kind of surprised me, Dan. I’ll be the first to say it when I see talent and you got it. Make sure to keep it up.”

  Daniel holstered the Jericho, rolling his shoulder. “Always. It was a pleasure to watch you shoot, Chris. Maybe next time I’ll give you a better challenge, eh?”

  Chris laughed, clapping Daniel on the shoulder, “You work at it like you have been, and maybe.”

  The club kept at it for a few more hours, more than a few people congratulating both of them on their shooting. Chris was skilled, without a doubt, and knew his weapon well, but Daniel admitted, only to himself, that he was surprised at how narrow the gap had been. All in all, though, it was a good morning. He’d take the win, even if it wasn’t one.

  000

  The rain started while he was still loading his slowly decaying car. By the time he made it back to the factory, it had shifted into a steady, soaking downpour that glazed the lot behind the building in sheets of water. The alley was already a mess, shallow puddles pooling against the curb as runoff streamed toward the storm drain.

  He pulled into his usual spot and shut the engine off, the soft tick of the cooling block fading into the sound of rain thudding against the roof. The wagon’s rear compartment was packed tight. The gun safe had taken up most of the length, a bear of a thing that had taken careful leverage and half a tank of patience to load. Everything else, the cot, desk, minifridge, corkboard, it all was wedged around it. No wasted space. Or rather, no space to waste.

  He made the trips fast. Down the stairwell, into the hideout, up again, down again. Five total. By the end of it, his shirt was clinging to him, soaked from the collar down, and the sleeves bunched around his elbows were dark with sweat and rain. He'd kept the Phalanx vest on for the work, heavy and hot under the soaked fabric, but deliberate. Getting used to its weight, to the way it pulled on his balance, compressed his ribs when he moved fast or crouched, and especially when he had to pull or push, that was important. He’d been putting it off, but it was a necessary thing, especially with the rest of his stuff coming in supposedly tomorrow. He needed to start getting used to it all unless he wanted to brave the undead with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

  Once the safe was in place, resting in the small storage room he intended to be an office/saferoom, he spent nearly two hours anchoring it. Four deep concrete bolts drilled through the floor, then sealed under a steel mounting plate. It wasn’t theft-proof, nothing was, but it was a hell of a beast and would put up a fight. When the last bolt locked in, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and stepped away. The hideout echoed with nothing but the hum of the battery bank and the steady patter of rain overhead.

  The rest came easier. The cot unfolded in the office corner, tight and low to the ground. The minifridge slid into place beside it, a line from the battery bank going into the wall and through to the spare room. He plugged it into the inverter and listened until the compressor clicked on. The bank had enough juice to run everything for two days, with some power left over, which was the point when he set up the charging stations for his extra batteries right on top of it.

  If he were being honest though, this was more about luxury than practicality. The humidity was brutal, and he was soaked through. Having something cold to drink down here, even just water, was a real treat. He cracked the fridge, dropped in a handful of bottles, and closed it gently. It had room for more, but there wasn’t all that much to stick in there besides water and the occasional soda. The age of energy drinks had yet to arrive.

  The desk went in next, rough steel frame with a laminate top, pricy but solid. He positioned it across from the door, then set the corkboard above it, anchoring it into the brick with long concrete screws. The board didn’t move once it was in. He pressed his hand against it, then stepped back, nodding once. He set the laptop on top of it.

  The whole process had taken maybe three hours, and the sun was still high in the air as he set up his targets again and loaded up several magazines. He shot until his arms rang and his shoulders ached, with both the P90 and the Jericho. It amazed him how much the armor threw off his aim, the added weight causing him to overcompensate more than once as he put almost a hundred rounds each through a series of increasingly distant targets. The skill he’d shown with Chris earlier was a memory when he looked at what he’d managed, but that was what he had to work, and once the rest came in, he could only imagine the acclimation.

  Eventually though, the armor came off. He unfastened it slowly, shrugging it off his shoulders and setting it on the cot with a quiet thud. His shirt clung to him in dark patches. He rolled it up over his head, wiped his face and neck, then threw it into the laundry bag in the corner. The fridge hummed, steady and low. The air was still a little wet despite the ventilation doing it’s best, but as he slumped into an old chair he’d kidnapped from his kitchen in front of the desk, he felt pretty satisfied with things.

  The rugged laptop was already waiting in its case. He took it out, set it down, and powered it on.

  He’d tested it briefly at the apartment. Checked the screen, read the manual, such as it was. Most of what passed for documentation had been a folded packet of typewritten pages, vague and dry. But he hadn’t really explored the system there. It was too big and kind of noisy, the thing using high-powered fans to keep the advanced internals at less than blazing temperatures. That, along with other issues kept him from wanting to risk it.

  Here, he could.

  The screen came up quick. No OS logo, no startup chime. Just a black background and a bare menu interface. It was clean. Direct. The main functions were laid out in a vertical column. No labeling beyond the shorthand codes. He recognized a few patterns; file trees, disk mounting, data entry fields. There was a directory for external devices and a tool for writing data to CD. Another was clearly built for cataloging files, sorting large volumes of input.

  And then there were the brute force tools.

  There were a dozen of them, maybe more, hidden behind layered menus. Password crackers. Interface spoofs. Sequential breakers. Every one of them was plug-and-run. You connected a source, the system grabbed hold, and it didn’t stop until it either cracked through or collapsed the input.

  The drives were huge. Not just by civilian standards, either. He was pretty sure they outclassed most military hardware too. Terabytes at least, partitioned into mirrored banks. No cloud, no transmission options, everything kept local or to hardwire. No risk of the wrong person listening in. It was all very James Bond, if he swapped out his Walther for an automatic and his tux for a set of combat armor.

  He leaned back slightly in the chair, letting his hand rest on the trackpad. The hideout was quiet except for the hum of the computer. The sounds of training were already forgotten as he used the central roller to guide the pointer across the various folders.

  He clicked the first tool in the chain. The interface blinked, then opened.

  No fanfare. Just a cursor and a waiting prompt, and a man determined to learn them.

  000

  The week passed in pieces.

  Monday bled into Tuesday, and Tuesday drifted into Wednesday with barely a seam between them. The days had a rhythm now. Morning shifts at the butcher shop, all long hours under flickering fluorescent bulbs, apron tied tight at the waist, hands gloved and elbow-deep in flesh. The work never changed. Carcasses in, portions out. Bones racked, blades cleaned, labels printed, orders filled. Every task the same, down to the seconds he shaved off with muscle memory alone.

  It was honest work. Heavy. Repetitive. But it paid the rent, and then some, most of which was disappearing down his own personal hole in the ground.

  Every day, by early afternoon, he was locking the door to his apartment and stepping out into the thick humidity, duffel slung over his shoulder. The walk to the factory was quiet, rain settling into a steady rhythm that drummed against rooftops and soaked through his collar by the second block. Five blocks down, past the old strip mall and the fenced-off lot with the burned-out sedan, he turned into the alley and slipped through the side entrance of the factory. The metal door groaned as he pushed through into stale concrete air.

  Once sealed inside, the space closed around him like a second skin.

  The hideout had become a familiar friend, the hum of the ventilation unoit keeping the cloying wetness out of the space, the inside dry as a dustbowl, and just as dirty despite his best efforts. The battery bank ran hot. The air held the scent of gun oil and cordite, never really fading despite the drone of the vents above. Still, it was his. Secure, isolated, and soundproofed by layers of brick and distance.

  It was where the real work happened.

  On the upside, on Monday night, his gear arrived.

  The boxes were already waiting on the doormat when he got home, stacked awkwardly but intact. He was grateful that the age of porch piracy had yet to arrive, though he also suspected that having Rebecca, a cop, as a neighbor and old Mrs. Lopez, who was a geriatric, also helped. He got them inside without a word and spent the next hour unpacking the lot, the pieces a puzzle that took him an embarrassingly long time to sort out. Then, once that was done, hauling it to the hideout.

  The rest of the night was spent figuring out how to wear it all.

  The Phalanx vest came first, familiar now, but with a few new attachments. The few open spaces around the chest plates were dedicated to ammo pouches, the front and back dominated by the banded carbon-titanium,, and the back left for his IFAK and a sling unit perfectly sized to store the Gridlink in. Next came the belt rig, a heavy, modular, rugged, design, that he kept his knife and more mag pouches, these for the pistol, as well as a half dozen others for odds and ends, including a dump pouch, a vital accessory according to Rebecca. That alone felt like it doubled the drag on his hips.

  The thigh rigs were, by comparison, much easier to manage. The right was exclusively for his pistol, the hard retention holster moulding to the combat pants underneath cleanly without tangling up with the reinforced knee pads. The left was all utility, almost a tool belt, good for his heavier things, including a crowbar. Because everyone needed a crowbar.

  He also got a combat cup, again, at Rebecca’s suggestion, because while they weren’t, if he had a term, bulletproof, they did protect against a lot of other issues and she’d joked that he probably didn’t want to lose anything to a stray paintball. Even if the context was different, the sentiment remained.

  Then came the helmet. He’d picked up a K-Pot, the PASGT, at, again, Rebecca’s suggestion, and it worked well for what it was. Hell, it was designed to fit with his gas mask, which was half the attraction, and it wasn’t too bad around his head. He kept his hair short, mostly because he hated the feeling of it getting in his face, but it served to keep it from getting tangled in the ballistic metal cover just as well.

  The gas mask came last.

  It was the one part he was already familiar with, having used it during his various construction projects, but wearing it while moving, aiming, and shooting was different. The filters stuck out just far enough to obscure a portion of his peripheral vision, and the internal airflow caused fogging anytime his body temperature spiked, but there was no world in which he was going to wander out into the land of blood spatter and airborn toxins without something covering his mouth.

  On the upside, once it all came together he was of the opinion that he looked good. While Rebecca had questioned the decision to get it all in urban camo, despite his professed desire to wander the woods, he said that cool factor also mattered, and black and grey was very cool. She’d rolled her eyes with a muttering of “Boys…” but let it go. Chuckling a bit at the thought, as he slipped on his gloves, he found everything fit well with a little adjustment.

  He spent the rest of Monday night just getting used to it all.

  Moving through the hideout fully kitted, walking circuits around the main floor, kneeling, laying down, getting up and more was an experience. Sitting down and standing up. Reloading mags. Drawing the Jericho and dry firing. Reholstering. Repeating the motion twenty, thirty, forty times until the rhythm felt less forced, and then doing it all over again with the P90 was exhausting, and that only covered the basics.

  He went to bed with aches in muscles he didn’t remember having.

  Tuesday he ran live drills that night. And by ran, he meant ran as he would charge forward, stop, shoot, backpedal, shoot, kneel, shoot, stand, shoot, and then do it all over again.

  A few hundred rounds gone in the space of an hour. The hideout’s interior range wasn’t meant for extended fire, but the makeshift bullet trap he’d constructed was holding up, and the target rollers let him reset without breaking stride. His pistol drills had improved since the weekend, but now that he wore the full kit, everything shifted again. The less said about the P90 drills the better.

  The vest changed his profile. The helmet changed his balance. The mask changed everything. The hip gear, the thigh rigs, the cup, that goddamn cup, also made a wild difference in his movement. And he then added on a backpack to carry his heaviest kit, the laptop (which he simulated using a cinderblock) as well as things like bolt cutters for tough locks or stubborn doors. All told it was almost ninety pounds on his body, and he was thankful he’d kept up his weight training religiously to be able to haul it. Stamina, though, was always going to be an issue. Still, it was everything vital, up to and including the hydration bladder, which came with a handy attachment that could plug right into the gas mask.

  Sightlines narrowed. Breathing became work. Shots he could land effortlessly on Sunday now veered left or dropped low. Fatigue set in faster, his hands damp and gloves slipping at the edges. The P90 was worse, as compact as it was, the added drag from the sling, the weight of the armor, and the limited head movement turned what had been a smooth weapon into a temperamental one. It fought him every step of the way, even as he dedicated more and more time to running drills with it. All in all, it was an uphill battle, but uphill was still forward.

  He forced himself through it.

  By the time he was done, his arms were shaking and his shirt clung to him in sheets. The stink of sweat and cordite filled the hideout. He dropped the helmet on the cot and slumped into the chair by the desk, drinking two full bottles of water before his hands stopped trembling.

  Then he cleaned every piece of gear.

  He broke the Jericho down first. Slide, spring, barrel, frame. Each part wiped, oiled, checked. Then came the P90, its internals more finicky but still manageable. He cleaned the armor plates with a damp rag, dried the contact points, hung the helmet by its strap, and left the mask to dry on a towel beside the cot.

  Wednesday came, and the pattern held.

  Work. Sweat. Transit. Training.

  His legs burned by the time he reached the hideout, the stairs feeling longer each day. The moment he stepped into the hidden room, he locked the door, stripped out of his uniform, and suited up again. The armor came quicker now. The belt rig buckled smooth. The helmet fit on the first try.

  He ran through the drills again.

  This time, fewer rounds. More dry work. More emphasis on movement, on transitioning between targets, clearing malfunctions, shifting footwork. He simulated low-light conditions with a flick of a switch, testing out everything from a handheld flashlight to one that wrapped around his head to one that clung to the front of his armor like a spotlight, but that one was pretty trash.

  Fog built up in the mask within minutes. Sweat pooled under the plates. The air tasted stale.

  Still, he pushed.

  By the end of it, he could draw and fire with the Jericho cleanly, armored and masked. He could reload the pistol with ease, and had gotten some smoothness back for the P90. He could clear a stovepipe jam from muscle memory and work all the bolts and switches on his chosen weapons. Every motion still carried flaws, but fewer than before.

  When he peeled the gear off that night, it felt like shedding a second skin.

  The hideout was quiet, the minifridge humming softly in the corner. He changed into dry clothes and sat at the desk again, the laptop open but untouched. He watched the screen for a while, then reached for a pen and scratched a note onto the corkboard.

  Two columns. One for skills. One for gaps.

  He wasn’t there yet. Not even close.

  But he could feel himself closing the distance, not to perfection or some fantasy of being untouchable.

  But to be ready.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Ready for the kind of things that didn’t give second chances.

  000

  The hallway was quiet when Daniel stepped out of the stairwell, the last of the day's drizzle still clinging to the shoulders of his jacket. His boots left faint damp prints on the worn carpeting as he walked, the thin plastic bag in his hand rustling softly with each step. Inside were a few basic groceries, nothing elaborate, just enough to keep the fridge from looking bare. The building's lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a yellow glow that made the scuffed walls feel older than they already were.

  He reached his apartment and slid the key into the lock.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  The voice came from behind, casual but warm. He turned halfway and saw Rebecca approaching from the far end of the corridor, framed by the soft flicker of a hallway bulb. Her gym bag hung low from one shoulder, and she carried a brown grocery sack tucked against her side. The edges of her pixie-cut hair were damp and clung slightly to her forehead, evidence of the same misting rain he’d walked through a few minutes earlier.

  “Evening,” he said, straightening up slightly.

  “You’ve been scarce,” she added, stopping just shy of his door. “I stopped by with leftovers but you weren’t home..”

  He gave a half-shrug and turned the key. The lock gave with a muted click. “Just burning the candle at both ends after that thing with Chris.”

  Her brow lifted. “That thing on Sunday, right, at Barry’s shooting club?”

  “Yeah,” Daniel said, pushing the door open but not stepping through. He leaned one arm against the frame instead. “It wasn't my idea, but once I got into it, I had a lot of fun.”

  Rebecca smiled faintly. “Chris was talking about it to Jill- oh, Jill is…”

  He chuckled, interrupting her. “Barry introduced me to her after his class ended on Thursday. We uh… talked for a minute.”

  Rebecca blinked. Just a flicker, but enough to register.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Daniel tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curling. “Something up?”

  She shifted her grip on the paper bag, her fingers tightening around the edge. “Did she say anything… weird?”

  He paused as if turning the question over. Scratched lightly at the back of his neck, then answered.

  “Weird? Not really.” A small smirk tugged at his mouth. “Well, she did mutter something about me getting eaten alive. I guess that counts. Know what that was about?”

  Rebecca made a sound somewhere between a cough and a groan, her gaze darting away as she turned her head slightly to the side.

  Daniel raised an eyebrow, voice calm but teasing. “Something I should know?”

  “No. No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Jill’s just… Jill. She thinks she’s funny.”

  He gave a small, measured smile. “Sounded more like a warning than a joke.”

  Rebecca muttered under her breath. “Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.”

  He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched her as the silence stretched between them, his weight shifting slightly against the frame. Her shoulders dipped, just a little, and she exhaled softly like she’d hoped the conversation would go differently but wasn’t sure how to redirect it.

  “But really,” she said, clearing her throat as she looked back at him, “I was actually looking for you.”

  He leaned into the frame a little more. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got too much food,” she said, lifting the grocery bag in her arms, “and I was going to ask if you might be up for helping me with another outreach thing in a couple of weeks. It’s not CPR this time, more of a community event. Red Cross wants to show some preparedness basics, and I kind of volunteered you.”

  Daniel blinked. “You volunteered me?”

  “I said I might know someone,” she said, lips twitching as she fought to keep a straight face.

  He let out a quiet laugh. “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t have to talk or anything,” she added. “Just help with setup and maybe hold some stuff while I talk. You're tall. People notice tall.”

  “Tall and quiet,” he said, with a dry grin. “Very engaging. It’s okay, you can just say you need another live demonstration dummy.”

  She smiled. “It won’t be that bad, I promise. No laying on the table this time.”

  Daniel gave her a helpless shrug. “In that case, how could I resist? Yeah, I’ll help.”

  Rebecca adjusted the weight of her grocery bag and motioned back toward her end of the hall. “Come over for a bit? We can go over the details. I’ve got real food, I promise.”

  He stepped back from the doorway and gave a small nod. “Lead the way.”

  They walked side by side, unhurried. The hum of the overhead lights followed them as they moved, soft footfalls muffled by the aged carpet. The rain pattered outside, a gentle rumble across the roof above as she opened the door to her apartment. Things just sort of came together from there, Daniel surrendering a few of his own groceries in the process, but the sacrifice was worth it.

  Dinner was quiet, but good. Rebecca kept it simple, with chicken stir-fry over rice, and a bit of ginger and garlic sauce that clung to the steam rising from the bowls. They ate at opposite sides of her small kitchen table, the clutter of pamphlets and Red Cross folders pushed aside to make room for their plates. A half-empty bottle of soy sauce sat between them, next to two glasses of tap water and a candle that hadn’t been lit in months.

  About halfway through, Daniel set his fork down and leaned back slightly, letting out a quiet breath.

  “Sorry I’ve been kind of a ghost this week,” he said. “Didn’t mean to disappear on you.”

  Rebecca looked up and gave a soft shrug, casual but warm.

  “It’s fine, Danny. Seriously. I get it.” She gave a tired little smile. “I’ve barely had time to breathe since I got into STARS. God knows I don’t have half the free time I used to.”

  He nodded slowly. “I figured. Just didn’t want you thinking I was dodging you.”

  “I didn’t,” she said, then hesitated, before giving him a teasing look. “Well… not for long.”

  That drew a short laugh from him. She smiled again, hiding it behind another bite of rice.

  After the plates were cleared, Rebecca leaned against the counter and talked him through the class. It was basic, she explained that it was mostly a matter of setting up tables and handing out flyers, and keeping anyone from wandering off with any of the sample supplies. The demonstrations were all about bandages and tourniquets and how to keep things clean until real help could arrive. Just a quiet community event with a few useful bits of info and some pamphlets stapled at odd angles.

  Daniel listened while he chipped away at the stir-fry. It all sounded straightforward, and Rebecca had a pretty solid idea of how things would go.

  Still, most of the evening wasn’t about outreach or schedules. Once the food was done and the dishes rinsed, the conversation shifted into easier territory. They talked about the weird mailboxes on the next street over, each one painted differently like some kind of contest. About the corner market with a cashier who refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. And about the time Daniel had seen someone try to parallel park six times before giving up and driving off in a rage moments later.

  The humor wasn’t sharp, but it had rhythm. Comfortable. Familiar. The sort of quiet laughter that left tension behind without needing to call attention to itself.

  He didn’t look at the clock until it was almost nine.

  Eventually, Daniel stood and stretched, moving his empty glass to the sink with the easy rhythm of habit.

  “Thanks for dinner,” he said, setting it down gently. “It was nice. All of it.”

  Rebecca stepped away from the counter and crossed her arms, posture relaxed. “You’re welcome, Danny.”

  He paused at the door. “I’ll work on being a little easier to reach. I tend to get lost in things sometimes.”

  “Good,” she said. “Or else I’ll end up kidnapping you one of these days Danny.”

  He gave her a tired grin and a laugh, then stepped into the hallway.

  The walk back to his apartment was short. Dim lights buzzed overhead as his boots moved soundlessly across the worn carpet. When he got to his door, he unlocked it and let himself inside, the faint creak of hinges the only sound to greet him.

  The air was cool, still touched with the lingering scent of old upholstery and cleaner. He flipped the light switch. The kitchen came alive with yellow fluorescence, humming low and steady. On the far wall, the rotary phone hung crooked on its mount. Cream-colored plastic, dust in the grooves, the cord looped like a coiled snake.

  He stared at it for a long moment.

  Back before, there had always been a cell phone in his pocket. Even before things got smart, before email or maps or apps, there was still a number. A way to reach him if they needed him. That was gone now.

  If someone wanted to find him, they’d have to knock. He hadn’t even given out his phone number to anyone, and to be honest, he wasn’t sure he even knew what it was for sure.

  He stepped into the kitchenette, ran water for a moment to pour a glass, then shut it off again. His thoughts lingered on it. He didn’t lament the lack of a phone, despite how addicting it had been before, and with everything else going on, he didn’t need the distraction anyway. But right now that wasn’t a concern. Most phones were talk-by-the-minute and text was a still-developing technology. Still, the era of the brick was largely over, and while they weren’t the fragile and elegant things of the future, they were compact, even if they were pricy as hell. But he could afford it, so why not?

  000

  Friday brought a streak of clarity across the city. The clouds that had clung to the skyline for most of the week finally broke, leaving puddles steaming under late sun and drivers squinting behind smeared windshields. By the time Daniel finished his shift and changed out of his work apron, the streets were humming again.

  He made a quiet stop downtown before anything else. The storefront was narrow, tucked between a shoe repair shop and a failing dry cleaner, with a hand-lettered sign that read simply, “Cellular & Paging.” Inside, the fluorescents hummed, the countertop buzzed with display models, and the air smelled faintly of warm plastic.

  Fifteen minutes later, Daniel stepped back onto the sidewalk with a new number, a fresh contract, and a Nokia 2190 in his coat pocket. Matte black casing, stubby antenna, the kind of keypad that felt like punching in a nuclear launch code. It was heavy in the hand in a way that felt permanent. Not smart, not sleek, just reliable. Durable. The kind of thing you could drop off a building and expect to find in one piece.

  The clerk hadn’t needed much: one page, a payment, and a few lines of print. No questions or complications or an attempt to upsell him on some bullshit data plan. Just enough formality to get a line and enough reception to make it matter. And damn if he didn’t love how dirt cheap the monthly fee was.

  The rest of the afternoon was reserved for training, and Kendo’s indoor range felt like the right place for it. He arrived mid-afternoon, slipping in while the lobby was still half-empty. The familiar blend of solvent, metal, and worn paper targets settled into his nose as he stepped through the front.

  Robert Kendo stood at the counter, clipboard under one hand and a box of .45 rounds balanced in the other. He looked up and gave a sharp nod. “Look who’s back.”

  Daniel set his range bag down with a dry smile. “I figured you’d miss me by now. Been a few days since I’ve been by.”

  Robert laughed. “I’m just glad Barry didn’t scare you off with that stunt of his. I gave him an earful about putting you on the spot like that..”

  He finished up a note on the clipboard and turned his full attention over.

  “It’s fine. I got into it more than I thought I would.” Daniel said. “But actually… I was hoping to pick your brain a little too, if you’ve got the time.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. “I can talk and work. Something up?”

  “Nothing major,” Daniel deferred, “Just that I’ve been getting into the shooting part more, and I realized I’ve been ignoring the other half of the coin. Techwork, maintenance, all that. I know I bring my Jericho by every few weeks for a checkup but I feel like I should be able to do some of that in a pinch too, you know?

  Robert leaned his elbows on the counter, interested. “I can respect that. You’re talking about detail work? Fine cleaning? Maybe some inspection?”

  Daniel nodded. “All of it, really.”

  Robert glanced toward the back room. “You know, if you’re serious about that, you should talk to my brother. Joseph. He’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know.”

  Daniel tilted his head. “Didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “Most folks don’t. He stays off the floor. Doesn’t have the people gene, but his hands know everything.” Robert shrugged, before checking off something on his clipboard. “Man used to be SWAT in San Fran. Came out here to work with STARS but he’s also a master gunsmith. Been doing it since the seventies.” He paused, before adding on, “He can be a little rough around the edges, though. Don’t take anything he says too personally, alright?”

  “I hear you, Bob. If he’s half as good as you’re saying then I aught to shut up and listen anyway” Daniel chuckled.

  Robert pushed off the counter and motioned for Daniel to follow. They moved past the checkout counter and into the back corridor, where the hum of the overhead fluorescents dulled into a low buzz. The door at the end was propped open with a lead weight, and inside, the workbench space looked more like a clockmaker’s lab than a repair bay. Clean white cloths. Sorted tools. Two halves of a disassembled revolver sat side by side beneath the focused glow of a desk lamp.

  The man behind the bench looked up. Late forties or early fifties, sleeves rolled to the elbow, apron stained with soot and solvent. He had the calm focus of someone who didn’t rush for anyone. Built like a truck with legs, too. Joseph Kendo was a unit, and nobody had best say otherwise.

  “Joe,” Robert said, pausing just inside. “This is Daniel Carter. Friend of Barry’s. He’s looking to get serious about maintenance.”

  Joseph stood up straight, wiped his hands on a towel, and offered one. “Joseph Kendo. Call me Joe.”

  “Daniel,” he said, shaking it. “Appreciate you taking the time.”

  Joseph nodded once. “Always got time for someone who wants to learn. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been doing this a while, as I’m sure Bob told you. Man likes to show me off like a prized monkey.” He shot at Robert, as the man turned and waved backwards, heading for the shopfront.

  He gestured to a stool near the bench. Daniel sat.

  “You carry?”

  “Yeah,” Daniel said. “Nothing fancy. Just want to keep what I’ve got in shape.”

  “That’s all you need.” Joseph said in his grumbly tone, reached for a small brush on the bench. “You strip it regular?”

  “After every session.”

  Joseph nodded. “What oil?”

  “CLP.”

  “That’ll work. Just keep the buildup under control. Solvent once a month, if you’re active. Don’t over-lubricate the slide.”

  Daniel watched carefully. Joseph spoke in clipped, deliberate tones, but with a deep well of experience and knowledge. It reminded Daniel of some of those old wise master types from the movies. The questions went on, leading into him asking to see Daniel’s Jericho, and then breaking it down with barely any effort. He showed Daniel what fatigue looked like, replaced the spring, and oiled the whole thing up. Then he had Daniel break it down again. Eventually, the man sat back, seemingly satisfied.

  He reached for a worn field manual and slid it across the bench. The title read Universal Pistol Maintenance Guide: Vol 14, and was worn from cover to cover. Daniel took it gingerly, opening it up to see it was printed in the late eighties.

  “Here. That’s a reference guide. Covers common failure points, basic diagnostics, spring fatigue, slide wear. Read it, then come back.”

  “I can do that,” Daniel said.

  “You run into something you can’t fix, bring it. We’ll tear it down together.” Joseph rumbled, as his hands expertly disassembled the revolver, the carbon brush in his hand scraping away at the tiniest details of the piece.

  Daniel stood, smoothing out the leg of his jeans. “Thanks again. I’ll bring questions next time.”

  “Bring tools too,” Joseph said. “That book has a guide on what you should be bringing with you. Ain’t much, and you can get most of it at the shop out front or at the hardware store. Either or. You’re not going to learn with just your ears.”

  They shook hands again, and Daniel made his way back through the shop, the ring of the register bell greeting him faintly on the way out.

  Outside, the sun was dropping behind the rooftops. Daniel was surprised at how time flew while he was with the older Kendo sibling. He wasn’t as gruff as Robert had warned him, and was a hell of a teacher, with a mind like a trap for details and fine toolwork. Despite the fact that they wouldn’t be able to meet often, he was looking forward to the next lesson all the same.

  Heading home, Daniel paused outside Rebecca’s door, knuckles hovering a moment before gently rapping against the wood. It wasn’t late enough to feel guilty, exactly, but he knew how exhausting her days had been lately. He’d barely withdrawn his hand when the door opened partway, and there stood Rebecca, eyes half-open, her short pixie cut tousled as though she’d just dragged herself up from a nap or at least tried to. She blinked a few times in the muted hallway light, recognition dawning slowly on her face.

  “Danny?” she mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

  Daniel immediately felt a pang of regret, offering an apologetic half-smile as he gestured faintly with one hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Rebecca shook her head slightly, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe as she attempted a tired smile. “It’s fine,” she murmured. “Just been one of those rough days.”

  Daniel shifted his weight, sympathy clear in his expression. “I’ll keep it short,” he promised. “I just wanted to ask you something real quick.”

  Rebecca straightened slightly, curiosity pushing through her fatigue. “Yeah? What’s up?”

  “I wanted to get your number,” he said plainly, watching as confusion flashed briefly across her face. She furrowed her brows lightly, tilting her head with mild amusement.

  “My number?” she asked. “Danny, we live practically across the hall.”

  Daniel nodded with a faint grin, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing the new cell phone he’d picked up earlier that day, holding it casually in front of him for her to see. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But I picked this up today, figured I’d finally solve that communication problem we talked about yesterday.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, blinking at the small black device in Daniel’s hand. She leaned forward, examining it. “You got a cell phone?” she echoed. “Aren’t those kind of expensive?”

  Daniel gave a modest shrug. He knew objectively they were, at least if you weren’t accustomed to them. But for him, this particular investment felt natural, something routine rather than extravagant. “Maybe, but it’s not that bad once it’s all said and done,” he said honestly. “Just to be able to keep in touch, it’s worth it.”

  Rebecca smiled softly, despite her fatigue. She let out a quiet breath, shifting a bit more awake now. “You really picked that up because of our chat?”

  “Yeah,” Daniel admitted a bit sheepishly. “I figured it was the easiest fix. And I was hoping you’d be willing to be the first number in it.”

  The fatigue in her face lifted just enough for her to smile broadly, genuine warmth radiating through her tiredness. “Are you kidding? I am super willing,” she said, holding up one finger as she retreated momentarily into her apartment. It took her a moment to get back, but when she did she offered him a scrap of paper with her number jotted down.

  “I uh… don’t really use my phone much, so I had to go grab it.” She said with a giggle, “Not sure what that says about my social circle really.”

  Daniel carefully punched it in, before offering it back to Rebecca, but she declined. She told him to hold onto it if he ever needed her number again. He gave her a grin and a thank you.

  Rebecca yawned openly, immediately covering her mouth in embarrassment. “Sorry, I’d invite you in or something, but I’m pretty wiped out. Today was brutal.”

  “No worries,” Daniel assured her immediately. “You earned the rest. We’ll catch up soon.”

  She nodded appreciatively, smiling warmly again despite her exhaustion. “Night, Danny.”

  “Night, Becca,” he replied softly, stepping back as she gently closed the door behind her. Turning, he crossed the narrow hall and unlocked his apartment, stepping into the quiet darkness inside.

  Closing the door softly behind him, Daniel flicked on the overhead kitchen light, blinking momentarily as his eyes adjusted. The place was quiet, exactly as he’d left it earlier. He took off his jacket, his mind already drifting towards the leftovers Rebecca had given him. They’d smelled incredible when she handed them over, and he could practically taste them already.

  He moved toward the fridge, distracted by anticipation, but something stopped him short as he passed the kitchen table. Sitting conspicuously atop the polished surface was something unfamiliar; a small folded piece of yellowed paper, weighted down by a black data chip he instantly recognized as Gridlink-compatible. His heart paused momentarily, awareness sharpening immediately.

  Daniel approached carefully, inspecting the folded note before he lifted it gently from under the small chip. The paper felt aged and fragile between his fingers, the handwriting firm and blocky. It was short, concise, and undeniably ominous.

  Everything you need, Partner.Make me proud.

  There was no signature, no indication needed to confirm its sender. Daniel’s jaw tightened briefly as he set the note aside, carefully lifting the chip and examining it under the harsh kitchen light. He knew without needing to confirm that it would slot perfectly into the Gridlink’s side port, and the implications of its arrival were crystal clear.

  He’d need to head back out to the hideout. Moving the Gridlink there, along with everything else, was the right call, but it was a headache now. His fingers itched to get a hold of the unit, to see what the Survivalist left him, to finally make some kind of progress. He was ready for it, had trained for weeks, and even if he didn’t think he was ready, the time for hesitation had passed.

  The casual calm of the evening faded, replaced by a taut, alert readiness.

  Whatever it contained, Daniel knew one thing immediately, his quiet night was officially over.

  000

  Daniel stepped out of the apartment building and into the night, immediately assaulted by air thick with moisture and the sour, unpleasant tang of wet garbage. Rain had stopped a while ago, leaving behind nothing but slick pavement and the murky stench that seeped upwards from the storm drains. The humidity was suffocating, pressing down upon him like a damp blanket. Even breathing felt labored, each inhalation drawing in thick, unpleasant air that tasted faintly metallic and stale. His pulse hammered against his ribcage, each beat a stark reminder of the tension coiling tighter in his chest.

  Navigating the narrow sidewalks and side streets toward his hideout, Daniel’s shoes slipped occasionally over wet concrete, his balance corrected instinctively. Streetlamps cast pools of weak yellow light, barely illuminating cracked pavement and dirty puddles gathering beneath overflowing gutters. As he reached the abandoned factory five blocks from his apartment, the scent of rain-soaked metal, mildew, and aging brick replaced the sharper odors from the streets behind him. He approached the hidden side entrance, a rust-streaked door set into weathered bricks, and placed a hand against its slick surface. The cold, wet metal matched the clammy touch of the evening air.

  Down the stairs and through the locked door, the air was starkly different. The ventilation system hummed gently, circulating dry warmth that instantly felt welcome compared to the oppressive dampness outdoors. Daniel pushed the heavy door closed behind him, feeling the humidity retreat at once. It wasn’t cool exactly, but compared to outside, it was tolerable. The contrast offered a moment’s relief, something he took gratefully as he pressed deeper into his concealed sanctuary.

  The hideout hadn’t changed, and yet tonight it felt subtly different. Familiar items lay exactly where he’d left them earlier, yet he felt as though he was entering the space for the first time. His desk, situated near the back office, stood illuminated faintly by a single dim desk lamp. Sitting neatly atop it was the Gridlink tablet, its surface matte-black, rugged, and waiting. Next to it, the folded case containing the ruggedized laptop seemed patient, almost expectant.

  Daniel wasted no time crossing the short distance and reaching out for the Gridlink. His movements were precise, driven by a kind of quiet urgency he hadn’t felt in weeks. The chip slid perfectly into the slot, clicking softly as it seated. Immediately, the Gridlink’s screen flickered once before illuminating. White text against a dark backdrop flashed across the screen, loading rapidly, a small bar filling beneath cryptic file names.

  When the files opened, he was met not by vague promises or cryptic messages, but by real, tangible information; a dossier, carefully organized and laid out with clinical precision. At the top was a single photograph: a worn, aged face, creased deeply with years, bearing the cold stare of someone who had spent his lifetime staring into a microscope or pouring over lab reports. Beside the image was a name in neat, bold lettering:

  “Dr. Leonard Hargreave.”

  The information continued, filling the screen in sharp text:

  Leonard Hargreave, born April 2, 1925, age seventy-two. Formerly one of Umbrella’s most promising virologists and bioengineers, renowned for his groundbreaking contributions to viral recombination and genetic sequencing. Graduated top of his class from Cambridge, his early work in bacteriophages earned him numerous awards and acclaim. But Hargreave’s later years at Umbrella were marked by disillusionment, conflicts with upper management, and increasing disregard for corporate directives. His research grew increasingly unorthodox and independent, straying far from the ethical constraints that had initially guided him.

  Eventually, friction between Hargreave and Umbrella’s executive ranks reached a breaking point. At the height of internal tensions, Hargreave was abruptly terminated from his position, stripped of his clearance, and escorted from the premises under armed guard. But Umbrella had severely underestimated Hargreave’s resourcefulness, and his bitterness. On the day of his termination, he stole highly sensitive biological materials and valuable proprietary research data before disappearing completely, vanishing so effectively that subsequent searches had repeatedly proven futile.

  Umbrella had spared no effort in pursuing Hargreave. Records on the Gridlink detailed a lengthy, frustrating pursuit. Surveillance logs, investigative transcripts, and internal memos revealed repeated failed attempts by company operatives to pinpoint his whereabouts. Hargreave, despite his age, was apparently adept at evasion, either by cunning or desperation.

  Yet here Daniel sat, looking at a map that finally pinpointed Hargreave’s location; at least according to the Survivalist’s sources. The old school building marked clearly on the Gridlink’s satellite image was isolated in a dying township approximately fifty miles east of Raccoon City. The town’s name, Hooverville, was something forgotten and irrelevant, a place left behind by modern progress and marked only by peeling road signs and faded storefronts.

  The map showed clearly that beneath the old school building lay a forgotten fallout shelter, abandoned since the Cold War had faded into distant memory. For decades, it had remained unoccupied and largely unnoticed, at least until a recent purchase by an obscure shell company. The Gridlink’s information traced ownership from a shell corporation nested within another, ultimately linking it to a foreign conglomerate based in China. But even cursory investigation suggested it was all smoke and mirrors, false trails that led nowhere, carefully constructed dead-ends that would frustrate anyone who pursued them.

  Daniel felt a chill run down his spine. The implication was clear. Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to bury this place beneath a labyrinth of misdirection and obfuscation. Whatever was hidden there was significant enough to warrant such painstaking secrecy.

  Then came the data labeled plainly as “OBJECTIVES,” carefully itemized. Hargreave’s personal notes, lab records, and viable biological materials were all marked as top priorities. No further clarification was provided- no detailed inventory, no exhaustive list of what exactly Hargreave had stolen from Umbrella. Just the stark reality that Daniel’s agreement required retrieving these assets, whatever they might be.

  A hollow sensation filled his chest, tightening with the sobering reality of his predicament. The Survivalist’s phrasing was minimal, yet charged with unspoken meaning:

  Everything you need, Partner. Make me proud.

  Daniel stared blankly at the glowing screen, its illuminated information etched sharply into his mind. No warnings about potential security measures, no notes about personnel or automated defenses. The Survivalist had supplied everything Daniel needed to know… and nothing he wanted to know.

  He leaned back slowly in his chair, fingertips brushing over his lips thoughtfully. The information had been delivered clearly and deliberately, but that clarity did nothing to ease his uncertainty. Hargreave’s history painted the image of a dangerous and unpredictable man; brilliant but isolated, skilled but desperate. Daniel would be entering blind, unsure what he might encounter in the dark corridors beneath that forgotten township. Yet turning back was no longer an option. He had made a deal, and though he might regret it, he couldn’t escape it.

  Daniel rubbed his face with a weary hand, eyes closed momentarily against the steady glow of the Gridlink. The silence of his hideout settled around him, broken only by the quiet humming of the ventilation system. Eventually, he leaned forward again, fingers moving rapidly over the Gridlink’s keypad, organizing notes, marking positions, and committing critical details to memory.

  Outside, the night grew darker still, air heavy with moisture, skies promising more rain before morning. Yet inside his concealed space, Daniel felt only the cold certainty of resolve, the bleak realization of what he must soon do. The strange chip, the carefully folded yellowed note, they had all led to this moment, and now there was no turning back.

  The final words of the Survivalist lingered in his mind, echoing softly but with unmistakable weight:

  Make me proud.

  Daniel shut down the Gridlink quietly, the screen going dark beneath his fingertips. Tomorrow, he would have his answer, and maybe a few nightmares to carry home as well. Today though, he had to prepare.

  It was either fortune or design that brought him this information without needing to adjust around the commitments to his life. He doubted it, as the Survivalist wasn’t one to mince words or really care about anyone’s feelings all that much. He wouldn’t chalk it up to providence, though. Providence was for people who didn’t pay attention to the warning signs. Still, there was little enough to do about it now.

  He wanted to get out early tomorrow, so he took the time to prepare himself today. He checked that all his magazines were loaded, that he had all the tools and equipment stored, and that his IFAK was in order, before he packed it all into his duffels. The full loadout ate up enough space to need two, but it was easy enough to move that way. The laptop went into a bag, and the gridlink into its sleeve on his side, and he made sure to fill the bladder up with fresh bottled water. He didn’t know how long this would take, but he shoved a few MREs he’d picked up in as well as protein bars for the boost in energy. Lastly, he cleaned and prepped all his firearms. Polished and oiled, they sat ready on top of everything else. His pistol went with him, but the rest went into the car.

  He made a mental note to mention that he’d be gone to Rebecca. It was best not to worry her. He would also stop by at Kendo’s to tell him he would be absent on Sunday. Urgent family issue, he had already decided on the excuse. He may be out of reach for a bit. He prayed it wouldn’t be forever, if the worst came, but he had hope. Hope would be enough, until the rest could be handled. Tomorrow would bring the rain again. He just hoped he was ready for the storm.