The last of the brass had been swept into bins, and the air inside the shooting club hung faintly with the scent of oil, paper, and spent powder. Targets clacked back along their lines, some still fluttering slightly from the last volleys. Daniel was crouched beside his range bag, double-checking the chamber of his Jericho before sliding it back into its holster with care. He could still feel the residual warmth of each shot along the web of his hand.

  Conversations ebbed and flowed around him in low, familiar rhythms. One of the old dogs was complaining to Kendo about how the cost of .45 ACP had practically doubled since '95, while John offered advice to a younger guy who had clearly printed with his draw. It was the usual end-of-session wind-down, a mixture of camaraderie, critique, and shared fatigue.

  Then came the distinct creak of boots on the floorboards. It was the only warning Daniel got before a bearclaw of a hand clapped down on his shoulder, the broad, muscular frame of Barry Burton seemed to materialize out of the crowd. Daniel jerked for a moment, just a bit surprised at how quiet the boisterous force of nature could be.

  He moved like a man with purpose, clipboard tucked under one arm, his range cap tilted slightly back as if he’d forgotten it was even there.

  “Hey, Danny,” Barry greeted, voice carrying just enough to catch Daniel’s ear without drawing the room. “Another good session.”

  Daniel stood, hauling his duffel bag up and over a shoulder. “Thanks. Honestly it’s half on you and the guys. You really know your stuff, boss.”

  Barry offered a half-smile, then leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed under his barrel chest in an easy, relaxed posture. It was casual, but there was focus behind his eyes.

  “I’ve been meaning to say,” he started. “You’ve really been putting in the work lately. Kendo says you’ve been at the range two, sometimes three times a week. That right?”

  Daniel nodded slowly. “Yeah. Figured the more time I spent with the basics, the less I’d fumble when it mattered.”

  Barry chuckled. “You’re doing a hell of a lot better than the basics. That quickdraw you’re working on- John’s technique, right? High thumb, indexed pull, bring it up squared before the trigger comes near your finger.”

  “Yeah,” Daniel replied. “He calls it ‘police draw,’ and says it’s what they used to drill in academy days. Cuts down on wasted movement.”

  Barry tapped his own chest lightly. “I remember it. Most folks need months before they stop slapping leather or breaking their stance. You’re not just picking it up fast, you’re executing it clean. Real clean.”

  Daniel gave a half-smile, unsure how to take the compliment. “Just trying to do it right.”

  “Well, people are noticing. Phillip said you’re cutting cleaner groups than last month. David mentioned your sight picture holds even under rapid fire drills. And Jackson, grumpy bastard that he is, said he’d trust you to back him in a pinch. That’s high praise, coming from someone who thinks everyone under forty is still in diapers.”

  Daniel let out a dry laugh, caught off guard. “Guess I’m making progress, then.”

  Barry’s tone shifted slightly, not losing its warmth, but gaining a deliberate edge. He let the silence sit a beat before speaking again.

  “So, I gotta ask, what’s driving all this? Are you putting in this much effort just for fun, or are you gearing up for something?”

  Daniel gave a mild shrug, eyes flicking away. “Not sure I follow.”

  Barry didn’t let it go. His gaze held, steady and patient.

  “I’ve seen this kind of push before,” he said. “That tight focus. The way you track your own progress, how you talk less and listen more. That’s not just hobbyist energy. My guess? You’re planning to apply to the Academy next year.”

  Daniel blinked once, caught off guard by how quickly Barry had zeroed in on that. It was such a perfect excuse that he couldn’t pass it up. Then, with a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, he shook his head and let the mask fall.

  “Alright. You got me.”

  Barry grinned, broad and proud. “I figured. And let me say, I’m glad to hear it. But I’ll tell you this now- it’s not just about knowing how to shoot. Don’t get me wrong, marksmanship matters. But it’s your head that makes the difference. How you assess a threat. How you move when things fall apart. That’s what separates the paper tigers from the real ones.”

  “I’ve still got a lot to learn,” Daniel said, voice even.

  Barry nodded. “Sure. That’s part of it. You don’t stop learning, not if you want to be worth a damn. But you’ve got the drive. I can see it.”

  He pushed off the wall, brushing his palms together lightly before glancing toward the others as they packed up their gear.

  “Tell you what. Next time you show up to the club, I’ll bring a few things. Training material we used to hand out to recruits back in the day. It’ll give you a taste of what’s expected.”

  Daniel looked up at him, that faint smile returning. “I’d appreciate that. Really.”

  Barry clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it.”

  And just like that, he turned and moved off, greeting the others with a nod as he passed. The moment was over, as casual as it had begun, but something had shifted beneath it. That… had been both an oversight that he hadn’t considered, and one just as easily explained away. Just one small detail of a backstory he didn’t have to justify with anything more than intent.

  Daniel stood in the slow quiet that followed, letting the sounds of gear being zipped up and targets being reset fade into the distance. This was a solid session in more ways than one, but the day wasn’t over, and with the lights up and the vent working, he could finally get started on his first major aspect to the hideout. It was time to make the range.

  He had pictured something a lot cleaner when the idea first formed in his head. A proper indoor range, with segmented lanes and sound baffles. Steel track rails to move the targets forward with a switch. A bench for cleaning, maybe a wall-mounted cabinet for securing ammo and tools. Something that felt solid and permanent. A place with polish.

  Then reality showed up and kicked him square in the ribs.

  Kendo had been the one to break it to him gently, walking him through the numbers. The parts alone, just for the rail system and proper impact baffles, would have cost tens of thousands. By the time you factored in paneling, proper flooring, reinforced walls, sound dampening, and ventilation mods, it shot past a hundred grand without blinking. And that didn’t even account for time, or the needed skill to actually put it all up, which rather exceeded his own limited grasp of crafting.

  He remembered sitting in the shop while Kendo explained it all, nodding along while staring at a price sheet that, even when simplified into the ‘basics’ made his bank account want to shoot itself. The man had been interested in the concept, a home range was novel in this part of the country, but even with that framing he’d need an actual mortgage loan to cover the cost out of pocket. Or a hell of a credit line. He had access to neither.

  So he adjusted.

  What he had now was a basement with working ventilation (to a point) and a concrete floor that didn’t seem to mind a little abuse. The overhead bulbs flickered sometimes, but they held. The generator and battery bank were stable. Most important of all, the basement passed his test.

  That had involved strapping his pistol to a cinderblock, tying a string to the trigger, and hiding around the corner and up the stairs while he fired a round into a sandbag. A few test shots told him what he needed to know. No one heard a thing unless they were on the rubble mound in the back end of the old factory, and even then, the sound only came through if you practically hugged the duct exit. And that was faint as a muffled firecracker.

  It would do rather nicely.

  The plans, once full of blueprints and catalog printouts, had shrunk to something far more practical. He would paint simple lines across the floor to mark three lanes. A backstop that was just a wood frame stuffed with rubber mulch that would hopefully catch the rounds. The target system, if he could call it that, was little more than a clothesline strung through a row of eyehooks and wall anchors. Clamps would hold up cardboard silhouettes, and he could move them forward and back by hand. Not elegant, but serviceable.

  Even that felt ambitious now.

  After the Sunday shooting club wrapped at noon, he rented a hauler. It wasn’t cheap, but it beat trying to move it all in his own rusted-out car. The hardware store was rapidly becoming an old hunt, and the staff knew him by name. He walked the aisles with a crumpled checklist and picked out everything he needed. Planks, screws, eyehooks, rubber mulch in industrial bags, tension clips, gloves, primer, rope, one of those wheeled rollers and two gallons of bargain-basement floor paint.

  He dropped just under two grand in a single purchase, watching the total ring up with the cold clarity of someone who was counting their pennies as their hard-earned savings began to hit a critical low.

  Then came the worst part.

  Hauling it.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent moving it all by hand. He had managed to maneuver it into the building itself, both to save some travel time and to hide the fact that it was there. Then it was down the stairs, and into the basement. Some of the boards were over ten feet long and had to be angled through the stairwell with careful pivots. The bags of rubber chips were dense and awkward, biting into his palms through the gloves. By the sixth trip, his arms were trembling. By the tenth, his back had started to cramp. He kept going anyway.

  The sun had dipped low by the time the last plank made it inside. The dolly stood propped against the wall, its wheels caked with alley grit. A half-empty bottle of water sat beside the back door, warm and slightly metallic. Daniel drank it anyway, too tired to care.

  The supplies were stacked in tidy rows against the wall, sorted by use. Rubber here. Framing boards there. Tools and fasteners in a crate beneath the work lamp. It looked like the beginnings of something real, even if nothing had been built yet.

  He sank onto the old folding chair by the pillar and stretched his legs, staring at the quiet stacks of material like they might vanish if he blinked.

  It wasn’t what he planned.

  But it would get done.

  Just not tonight.

  000

  Monday marked the start of September, and Daniel felt every bit of it.

  Seven weeks, maybe eight, since he'd first landed in this strange purgatory of forests, alleys, and bad dreams. The calendar said time had moved forward, but his body didn’t believe it. He rolled out of bed with a grunt and almost went right back down. His joints ached like rusted hinges. His shoulders felt packed with cement. Every step to the kitchen carried the stiff, off-balance sway of a man twice his age and three times his weight.

  Building the range had taken more out of him than expected. Hauling rubber chips and lumber wasn’t the kind of workout that left you with a pump. It left you with nerve twitches, low groans, and the distant regret of not stretching properly.

  Work that morning had been slow going. The kind of shift where each movement dragged. He fumbled boxes and took longer than he liked to wipe down surfaces. Still, he pushed through, kept his head down, and didn’t mention the dull heat radiating from his lower back.

  And he had a commitment to keep.

  He could have backed out. Rebecca would have understood. All he had to do was say the word, plead fatigue, and she’d smile and wave it off. No pressure, no judgment.

  But he wasn’t going to do that to her. She had asked, and she trusted him to follow through. That counted for more than comfort.

  So that’s how he found himself, late afternoon, hauling a satchel of rolled-up diagrams on one shoulder and Dummy Dave’s awkward plastic case in his opposite hand, following Rebecca through the front doors of the RPD. She walked beside him, chipper and fast, wearing her usual black boots and a loose canvas jacket with the STARS insignia on one sleeve. The case handle bit into his fingers. His legs already wanted to quit.

  He watched her bounce up the front steps like it was nothing. Same girl who had carried all this herself a few weeks back. He had no idea how someone so small could be so strong. Probably had something to do with her STARS training. That was the only explanation he could come up with.

  She didn’t tease him when he had to pause on the second-floor landing. Just waited patiently, hands behind her back, rocking on her heels. When he finally caught up, she gave him a soft smile and a little sideways glance that said she noticed but wasn’t about to make a thing of it.

  That made it worse, somehow. But also sweeter.

  The library was already filling when they got there.

  He blinked. She had said it was a small seminar. A casual thing. Eight people, maybe ten.

  There were nearly two dozen.

  Uniforms, civilians, a few folks he recognized from around town, all packed into the rows of chairs she’d arranged ahead of time. Rebecca waved at them, grinning, then turned to him and gestured him forward.

  “Everyone, this is Daniel,” she said brightly. “He’ll be helping me today.”

  That alone got a few raised eyebrows. One guy nodded politely. Another, older officer in the back muttered something under his breath. Daniel caught just enough of it to know he wasn’t imagining the glance. Rebecca either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  Then came the worst part.

  She had him climb up onto the long wooden reading table in the center of the room. The same table he had stacked books on not two weeks ago. Now he was lying flat on it, eyes on the water-stained ceiling tiles, arms folded across his stomach like a patient in a morgue.

  Rebecca stood beside him and launched into her lesson.

  He stayed still as she traced the landmarks of the sternum and ribcage, narrating the difference between CPR pressure points and trauma triage. She adjusted his arms, repositioned his head, mimicked airway clearing. She did not hesitate in the slightest.

  He tried not to grimace. The table was hard and unforgiving, especially on a back that already felt like it had been run over. Every shift sent little zaps of protest through his spine. But he held his expression steady. Let her do her work. She deserved his best effort.

  And truth be told, she was good.

  Confident. Clear. She kept the pace steady and didn’t lose the room once. When she corrected someone’s hand placement on Dummy Dave, she did it with a gentle tone and an open gesture. When someone asked a dumb question, she handled it without blinking.

  By the time the hour ended, the group was visibly impressed. A few clapped. A few stayed behind to ask about follow-up courses. Rebecca answered them all with that same cheerful focus.

  Daniel sat at the edge of the table, finally upright again, rolling his shoulders and trying not to groan too obviously.

  She walked over, still beaming.

  “You were great,” she said.

  He smiled. “You mean I didn’t cry out in pain and ruin your demonstration.”

  “That too,” she laughed.

  They packed up Dummy Dave and the posters together. It hurt. Everything hurt. But it was worth it.

  And watching her walk out beside him, proud and pleased, he couldn’t help but feel the same.

  Dummy Dave's case swung in Rebecca’s grip like it weighed nothing at all. She walked beside him with her usual energy, chatting freely as they headed back through the fading late afternoon light. Her jacket was tied around her waist now, and the short sleeves of her T-shirt showed the light taper of her arms. Not bulky, but solid. Everything about her seemed to move with purpose.

  Daniel kept pace as best he could. Pride made it harder than it should have been.

  That case weighed forty pounds, easy. Shaped like it had a human torso inside because, well, it did, and she didn’t so much as flinch while carrying it. Worse, when they reached his apartment building and stopped at the stairs, she grabbed the satchel too, the rolled diagrams, the clipboards, all of it, and tossed it over one shoulder like it was full of pillows.

  He said nothing, just let out a breath through his nose and held the door.

  Rebecca didn’t rub it in. She kept talking, voice upbeat, focused on the class. How the turnout surprised her. How she was looking to the other session at the end of the month. How she might ask to use the big conference room if the turnout stays the same or gets bigger again. She also asked what he thought, genuinely, and he gave her the truth.

  “You nailed it,” he said. “Clean, confident, and half of them actually learned something.”

  She smiled at that, warm and quick. “That’s the hope.”

  “I’d help again,” he added, quietly. “If you needed it.”

  Her face lit up even more. “Really? That would be great. I wasn’t sure if the whole being-used-as-a-cadaver thing would scare you off.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had worse Mondays.”

  She snorted and nudged him with her elbow. “You’re a good sport.”

  They reached his floor. She handed over the satchel but kept Dave. “I’ll drop this off in my place. Think you could swing by later?”

  Daniel glanced over. Her tone was light, but her eyes held something a bit more focused. She wasn’t just being polite. She actually wanted him there.

  “Sure,” he said. “Was thinking about ordering dinner anyway.”

  “Might have you beat there,” she said. “Come by in an hour?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  She gave him a little two-fingered salute and turned toward her apartment.

  He watched her go, then let himself inside and leaned back against the closed door. His body ached like hell, the fatigue from yesterday’s labor still tucked into every tendon and joint. But under it, a quiet hum of something else was working through him. Some kind of anticipation.

  An hour and a scalding hot shower later, dressed in clean clothes and with his hair still damp, Daniel stood outside her door and knocked twice.

  The door opened before he even finished his second knock. Rebecca stood in the doorway, barefoot, hair slightly damp around the edges of her face, wearing a pair of cuffed sweatpants and a navy tank layered beneath a loose zip hoodie. Not done up, just hanging open like she hadn’t bothered to finish getting it on before answering.

  “Hey,” she said with a smile, stepping aside. “Come in.”

  Her apartment smelled incredible. Warm, savory, just a little spicy, like something slow-cooked with an accidental brilliance.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said, moving back toward the small kitchen. “I may have gone a little overboard.”

  On the counter sat a deep baking sheet that looked like it had been loaded by someone cleaning out a pantry during the apocalypse. He could make out bacon, salami, tomato, onion, lentils, rice, black beans, green peppers, mushrooms, and maybe a dozen other unidentifiable additions baked into the thick, bubbling cheese. The crust was more bread than dough, browned at the edges like it had started life as focaccia.

  She turned around with a grin that was somewhere between sheepish and proud.

  “I call it junkyard pizza,” she said. “It’s got everything I could find. But no pineapple. I have standards.”

  Daniel stared at the sheet. “That’s not a pizza. That’s a riot with cheese.”

  “Trust me, I think you'll be surprised, Danny,” she said, handing him a plate.

  The first bite was a cacophony of textures, but somehow everything worked. The lentils added an earthy base. The salami and bacon gave it heat and bite. The vegetables cut through with sweetness. It shouldn’t have been good. But it was. It was outrageously good.

  He blinked, chewing slowly. “That’s... amazing.”

  “Told you.” She sat down beside him on the couch, tucking one leg underneath herself and grabbing a slice. “I used to make this in college when I couldn’t afford real ingredients. Just dump everything together and hope for the best.”

  “It’s criminal how well it turned out.”

  She grinned again, her cheek full of crust. “You’re just saying that because you’re starving.”

  “Maybe. Doesn’t change the facts.”

  They ate in a comfortable rhythm, sitting shoulder to shoulder on her old secondhand couch. The plates rested on their knees. Conversation picked up naturally, circling back to the seminar. She was proud of how it turned out but still picked apart her own performance, noting which slides she’d skipped and where she thought her pacing dragged.

  Daniel offered his perspective where he could. She listened. She thanked him again for being part of it. And then, after a moment of silence, she cleared her throat softly and set her plate aside.

  “So,” she said, eyes on the far wall, “I was actually kind of hoping to ask you something.”

  He looked over. “What’s up?”

  Rebecca hesitated. Her fingers played with the hem of her hoodie sleeve, twisting the fabric once, then again. Her voice was a little lower now.

  “Not that I don’t like just hanging out,” she said quickly. “I really do. And dinner was for both of us, not, like, a setup or anything. But I noticed earlier that you looked a little stiff.”

  Daniel blinked. “Stiff?”

  “You were holding your back funny. Like, favoring one side. And you winced when you got up from the table in the library. I didn’t want to say anything in front of everyone, though.”

  He exhaled slowly and leaned back. “Been a rough couple of days. Some heavy lifting. And I didn’t stretch right.”

  Rebecca nodded once, then bit her lower lip and pushed forward.

  “So... okay, this might sound weird, but... would you be up for trying something?”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

  “What is?”

  “You being coy.”

  She made a face, somewhere between exasperated and flustered, and waved a hand. “It’s not like that. I mean- okay, it might sound like that. But I just- I learned some stuff in college. Took a class. And I might be able to help.”

  He watched her squirm another few seconds, then tilted his head slightly.

  “Rebecca.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you asking?”

  She sat up straighter and rushed it all out at once. “Would you let me give you a massage? Like, not a creepy one, I swear. Just a real one. I studied pressure techniques and posture correction and fascia work, and I have lotion somewhere-”

  Daniel reached over and touched a finger to her lips.

  She froze.

  “I get it,” he said quietly. “And yeah. If you’re offering... I trust you.”

  Her face glowed a brilliant red, but her eyes sparkled through it.

  “Okay,” she said. “Then we’ll start with shoulders. Sit forward.”

  Daniel knew within the first thirty seconds that Rebecca had more surprises than she let on.

  Whatever tension he expected to hold onto during this massage melted the moment her thumbs found the bundle of nerves below his scapula and pressed in like she was cracking a code. His breath hitched as the pain sharpened, then rolled out in a flood of heat through his shoulders. Every nerve in his back lit up in sequence, tingling, raw, then loosening all at once.

  If there was supposed to be anything sensual about this, it had long since packed its bags and left the building.

  She worked in total focus, kneeling beside him as he sat forward on the couch. Her fingers moved in practiced rhythm, isolating each stubborn knot with a kind of surgical precision. She didn’t speak much, just hummed softly under her breath when she hit a tough spot, then adjusted her grip and leaned in. Her touch was careful, confident, but not gentle. She pressed exactly where it hurt, and exactly where it needed to be.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Eventually, she tapped his shoulder and murmured, “Lay down. On your stomach.”

  He shifted slowly, easing his weight down onto the rug. His muscles were already half-liquid. Moving felt like sinking. He heard her shuffle beside him, then pause.

  “Would you... mind taking off your shirt?” she asked.

  There was a hesitation there. Her voice was quiet, a little strained at the edge.

  Daniel nodded once and peeled the shirt over his head. He didn’t look back. Just folded his arms under his chin and let the cool air settle across his skin.

  He heard the soft clink of a bottle cap, then felt the first splash of warmed oil across his upper back. It spread quickly beneath her hands, smooth and hot, sending a low wave of relief across his spine. She began again, slower now, using her palms and the length of her fingers to work long, steady passes along the muscles. This time, her nervousness was more obvious, hands slightly unsteady at first, adjusting her pressure too often, but the technique remained sound. Precise.

  And whatever reservations he might have had about lying shirtless in her living room vanished the moment she reached his mid-back, paused to adjust her posture, and pushed her palms straight down into the base of his spine.

  A sharp crack echoed through the room.

  “Oh God, Becca…” Daniel’s mouth opened before he could stop it, a deep, involuntary moan dragging itself up from somewhere primal. The sound filled the silence, echoing slightly against the far wall.

  They both froze.

  He cleared his throat slowly. “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”

  “Absolutely,” she said quickly, voice tight and several octaves higher than usual.

  Neither of them moved for a moment. Then she laughed. Just once, breathless and embarrassed, but not upset. Daniel laughed too, low and exhausted.

  From there, things eased again. She continued without comment, her hands moving more confidently now, gliding over his shoulders, ribs, and back with the kind of focus that spoke of real training. She finished with a gentle press down the spine, slow and even, then leaned back and let out a breath of her own.

  “Done,” she said.

  Daniel didn’t move at first. “I may never get up.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, sounding extremely pleased with herself. “Also, Becca?” She asked, this time with a grin in her tone. Daniel just groaned about how they agreed that didn’t happen. She gave a teasing laugh, and leaned back.

  “I don’t mind it, Danny. I kinda like it, honestly. Becca.” She said, trying out the nickname. “I’ll take it, on the solemn promise you never call me Becky. I hate that nickname. Half the force picked it up from Kevin and I will never forgive him.”

  “On my honor, Danny laughed as feeling started to come back to his gelatin-like limbs. He rolled onto his side with effort, looking up at her from the floor. She was flushed, but her expression held none of the earlier tension. Just pride and a bit of amusement.

  “I owe you,” he said, rubbing his shoulder and rotating the joint. It moved like it hadn’t in years.

  Rebecca looked down at her hands, then muttered, “Maybe next time you can give me a massage,” under her breath.

  “What was that?” he asked, sitting up.

  “Nothing,” she said, way too fast, scooting back and reaching for the oil bottle. “Just glad it helped.”

  Daniel smirked, but he let it go.

  He stood slowly, shoulders loose, legs rubbery, and picked up his shirt from the arm of the couch. Rebecca stepped in suddenly and hugged him, arms looping around his waist without hesitation. “Thank you again, Danny. For today.”

  Then she paused and realized, too late, that she was hugging a shirtless man covered in massage oil.

  She recoiled, laughing and cursing under her breath, then picked up his crumpled shirt and threw it into his face.

  “Out. Go. Gross.”

  He laughed all the way back to his apartment.

  000

  The store shift had drained him in its usual quiet way; nothing dramatic, just the slow erosion of energy that came from too much noise, too many small motions, and never quite catching up. Rebecca’s massage had made a world of difference, though, and he was actually quite excited to get moving on what was arguably his most important project.

  He headed down the stairs with sleeves rolled and drill in hand, ready to pick up where he left off.

  The backstop frame was a project, but not a hard one. A broad, baffled cube anchored into the far wall, built from thick-cut lumber with cross-bracing to keep it steady under weight. The measurements were right, the pre-drilled holes lined up, and most of the parts were stacked in neat piles from the weekend. It wasn’t complicated. It just took time, and some patience.

  An hour or two passed in measured steps. Screw, check, brace, tighten. A few bolts stripped the first time around. He swore at those, but not with much heat. In the end, the box stood firm. He gave one side a shove and felt it push back with its full weight.

  Satisfied, he wiped his hands clean and reached for the rubber.

  That was where the real problems started. He split the first open with a box cutter and started scooping. Within minutes, the air changed. Not just the smell, though that was bad enough, it was the stink of scorched rubber, hot metal, something bitter. The fine particulate hung in the air like smoke. It clung to his gloves, floated against his skin, and crept into his throat. The Ventilation was working to take it out, but it burned in his mouth all the same.

  And his eyes.

  That caught him by surprise. The burn wasn’t sharp at first, just a slow itch, but it built quickly. By the second bag, he was squinting through tears, rubbing at his face with the inside of his arm. His lungs weren’t faring much better. The coughing started low and sharp, but built into full-bodied spasms that bent him forward and left him gripping the doorway for support.

  By the third bag, he was done.

  He left the bags where they sat, dust still swirling in the light, and stepped outside for clean air. A walk helped. So did getting out from under concrete. He hadn’t thought to get a dust mask or cover, and the people at the hardware store hadn’t either, as he was “doing something outdoors”. The mistake was obvious in retrospect. That said, he didn’t want to take yet another trip to the hardware store. It was far enough away that it was annoying to make the trip and the army surplus store was a few blocks over, if that. And one mask was as good as another, right?

  That was the logic anyway as he reached the shop. He slipped inside, meandering around as he looked at the things on offer and immediately ran into the issue of which gas mask to buy. They had a dozen different models on the wall, with a hundred different filters, so he went with his gut and grabbed one that gave the best visual clearance. The… MCU-2P, the tag said, but it had that dome goggle look and a quick test showed it barely blocked his sight. A clerk helped him pick up a bunch of the filters, which were pretty cheap, and he made his way to the checkout.

  He didn’t want to feel that grit in his eyes again. Not ever. And this… served that purpose, among others, well.

  While he waited in line, his eyes wandered toward the display case behind the counter. There were a huge selection of knives there, from folders to fixed blades to models from before Vietnam, all lined up behind the glass. He was intrigued, he had to admit, and while he paid for his purchases, one in particular caught his eye. It was an old blade, according to the clerk, but a good one. A ka-bar, the most basic of knives, but also one of the best. Full tang, reliable design, and sharp as hell, it was seven inches of a classic that worked and he needed a good knife anyway.

  By the time he left, both items were wrapped in brown paper and slung under one arm.

  The sun was low when he got back. That golden stretch of light had taken over the alley. He climbed down into the basement and laid everything out by the bench. The air down there still carried a faint chemical tang, but it didn’t press against his face like it had earlier. He’d need to double check the ventilation, but he honestly felt it might just be a case of too much too fast.

  He sat for a while, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, listening to the quiet hum of the generator, before sliding the mask on and breathing deep, as he got back to work. For what it was, it worked, though he made a note to bring a broom tomorrow. Whatever wasn’t sucked up through the vent was making a layer thicker than the dust he’d cleaned out all those weeks ago when he first started converting this mess. Just one more small thing to the pile.

  Wednesday didn’t feel like anything special at first. Just another warm afternoon, quiet enough that the weight of the coming seminar sat in the back of Daniel’s mind like a side errand. He wasn’t expecting much. Maybe a slideshow. A few too-serious locals and one or two bored beat cops looking to pad hours.

  What he walked into was something else entirely.

  The Neighborhood Watch meeting was held in one of the larger RPD conference rooms. Long tables set in rows, fluorescent lights overhead, and a dry-erase board already marked with call signs and procedural notes. But it wasn’t the room that made him pause.

  It was the people.

  There were more than three dozen in attendance, maybe as many as fifty. Not just retirees and civic hobbyists either, but uniformed officers, detectives in plainclothes, and off-duty staff wearing sidearms openly. Even the so-called civilians stood straighter than average, eyes alert, hands familiar with the weight of their belts. Daniel clocked at least seven visible holsters in the first three minutes. The rest might have been concealed, but the posture gave them away.

  And standing near the head of the room, clipboard in hand, was Albert Wesker.

  The man looked as polished as he did in Danie;’s memories. This was someone he wouldn’t ever forget. Dressed in his STARS uniform and sporting his ever familiar black aviators, along with that detached calm he wore like body armor. He didn’t seem particularly invested in the proceedings, more watching than directing, but he handled introductions with smooth efficiency and addressed the group as if he had done it a dozen times before.

  When his eyes swept the room during roll call, they passed over Daniel once. No pause. No hint of recognition. But Daniel’s gut still tightened.

  Wesker being here meant something. What exactly, he wasn’t sure. But it changed the tone.

  The seminar opened with an overview of the Watch’s communication protocols. Officers walked through local police bands, explained scanner codes, and passed out sheets listing the most common ten-codes in use. One of the lieutenants ran a mock radio call using a handheld, playing both dispatcher and patrol unit. They explained how time stamps and call prioritization worked, and how certain codes triggered specific responses.

  It was clean. Efficient. Methodical.

  Then they shifted topics.

  How to report suspicious activity, what phrasing flagged urgency versus routine, and how to give a good suspect description under stress. From there, it moved to response guidelines- what civilians could do when witnessing a crime, when it was legally safe to intervene, and what sort of force was considered reasonable.

  That last part stuck.

  A grizzled older officer took the floor then, walking the group through self-defense laws, local statutes, and court precedent. He didn’t mince words. “We’re not deputizing anyone,” he said plainly. “But you need to know where the line is. Because when bad things happen, you won’t have time to look it up.”

  Daniel listened closely, silent in the back row, notebook resting on one knee. This wasn’t the half-hearted volunteer squad he’d expected. This was a coordinated system. It had structure. Direction. And behind that structure, likely guiding it, was Wesker.

  His eyes drifted across the room.

  Most of the attendees nodded along, taking notes, asking questions with a kind of professional curiosity. Civilians who had already crossed the threshold from passive observation into tactical readiness. Ex-military, private security, off-duty cops. A few looked like shop owners. One looked like a schoolteacher.

  But nearly all of them were armed.

  And they weren’t shy about it.

  The realization left a chill sitting just under Daniel’s ribs. These weren’t people playing dress-up. This was a serious effort by people dedicated to keeping their homes safe, but it also started to become clear just why Wesker was leading things as he marked quadrants, explained how to set up patrols, acting as the head of the group once all the new people were caught up. He was the one who told people where to go, and where not to, and that made all the difference.

  The meeting ended with handouts. Maps of Raccoon City sectioned by district. Patrol call trees. Flowcharts on escalation. A laminated card listing emergency contacts and a list of radio frequencies to avoid. Daniel took one of everything.

  He kept his head down, waited for the bulk of the room to clear, then slipped out through the side exit.

  The packet of documents felt heavier in his hands than it should have. He didn’t stop walking until the station was several blocks behind him.

  Only then did he look down at the top sheet, still clutched in his fingers.

  "Raccoon City Neighborhood Watch – Preparedness Begins with Awareness."

  As he walked home, he also began to realize something else, something that shook him. All these people, the civic minded folks, the ones involved, they were the kinds of people who were prepared for an emergency, who cared enough to organize, to try to keep the peace, who would be leaders in a crisis. All of them, in a room, with their names and faces and addresses and IDs compiled into a single database.

  He’d always wondered how things fell apart so quickly, how the police were overwhelmed and the civic authorities fell to pieces, how nobody was there to stand up and organize when the dead started getting back up. Thinking back to that room, he was starting to understand why that was, now. The thought left him chilled even in the last dregs of the summer heat.

  000

  Thursday found Daniel back in the basement, sleeves rolled and brush in hand, touching up the chalk lines he’d traced earlier in the week. It was slow, careful work, the measuring and taping, stepping back every few minutes to check the angles. By the time he finished, three clean lanes stretched the length of the concrete, marked in bright white against the dull gray floor.

  That part was easy.

  The pulley system wasn’t.

  On paper, it was simple: a clothesline-style setup using steel cable, a pair of fixed eyehooks, and a series of plastic clips to suspend the targets. The pulleys themselves were mounted on the walls, nothing fancy, just off-the-shelf cast units bolted into masonry. Daniel had even installed locking tensioners to keep the cables taut. Everything looked sound. The clips held. The lines ran smooth.

  Then he tested it.

  The first problem showed up at around the twenty-foot mark, when a hanging cardboard silhouette started to spin on its axis. The airflow from the overhead vent didn’t look like much, but the draft caught the target and dragged it like a sail. The further he reeled it downrange, the worse it got, swaying, twisting, snapping back and forth with just enough force to tangle the line.

  By the fifty-foot mark, the entire target began to flutter like a flag in a storm.

  He tried weighting it with washers. That just made the problem worse.

  He tried doubling the clip points. It helped slightly, but not enough.

  By the end of the night, he was kneeling beside the far wall, hands slick from cable grease and patience worn thin. No answer came to him. He didn’t have the time or money to build a rail system, and the ventilation couldn’t be easily redirected. For now, it was a mess without a fix.

  He left the problem where it stood and turned out the lights.

  Friday brought better things.

  Barry’s intermediate pistol class was held at the downtown range, and as always, it ran with the same balance of warmth and authority that seemed to come baked into the man himself. The room was full, around eighteen people, give or take, but Barry never let the size get in the way of individual attention.

  Daniel had learned early on that the man didn’t waste time. Every technique was demonstrated cleanly. Every failure, corrected with quiet patience. But underneath the friendliness was a sharp eye. Barry saw everything. Missed fundamentals. Bad draw form. Hesitation in transitions. And he addressed each with the calm, methodical tone of someone who’d seen it all twice before and helped fix it three times.

  It was easy to lose track of time in that kind of flow.

  Daniel caught sight of Kevin Ryman during the warmup drills and gave him a nod. Ryman looked tired but alert, the kind of exhausted that came from being driven rather than drained. His gear was clean, but his stance was tighter than it had been last time. Less relaxed. The man was a knot of stress and everyone could tell.

  During the break, Daniel spotted Kevin leaning against the far wall, working through a protein bar with a focused scowl. The man looked like he was chewing more on his thoughts than the food. Daniel made his way over, pulling off his gloves as he walked.

  “Hey,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “Wasn’t expecting to see you today. How’d the retest go?”

  Kevin gave a dry exhale and shook his head once. “Not great.”

  He didn’t sound bitter, just disappointed.

  “Couldn’t sleep the night before,” he continued. “Kept running scenarios in my head. Thought I had it handled, but when it came time to perform, everything felt off. Couldn’t get centered. I knew what I was doing, but my hands weren’t listening.”

  Daniel nodded, folding his arms. “That kind of pressure gets to everyone sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not the first time, either.” Kevin’s eyes didn’t quite meet his. “And it’s my own damn fault. I knew I was in my head and still let it eat me up.”

  There was a quiet self-awareness to it. No excuses. Just a man owning a misstep, even if it stung.

  Daniel didn’t push it further. He gave Kevin a moment, then said simply, “You’ll get it next time.”

  Kevin shrugged. “Hope so. I’m tired of spinning my wheels.”

  Later, after the last round of drills and target transitions, Barry gathered the group at the edge of the line. As always, he worked his way around, offering a quick word or firm handshake to every attendee. No one left without something they could build on.

  When he got to Kevin, he clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Solid work today,” Barry said. “You’re right on the edge. Just stay the course. You’ll punch through it.”

  Kevin gave a wry half-smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Appreciate it.” He said, lamely, as he turned and gave them a backwards wave.

  Barry turned next to Daniel, his expression settling into something just short of a grin.

  “You’re getting sharper,” he said. “Clean work. You really took to those speed drills. Getting on-center could use some work, but you have a solid grip on the fundamentals. The rest you’ll get as you travel that road.”

  Daniel gave a slight shrug. “Still got a long way to go.”

  “Maybe,” Barry said, “but you’re going in the right direction.

  He paused, then glanced toward the range’s back hallway. “By the way, I’ve got those books I promised you last Sunday. Brought them in today, left them up in the STARS office. Figured you’d want to take a look.”

  Daniel perked up a bit. “Absolutely.”

  Barry nodded, then added as if a thought occurred to him, “Actually, why don’t you come up with me, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who?”

  “You’ll see,” Barry said, already turning toward the stairs.

  Daniel followed without another word.

  The walk through the station was quiet, boots echoing against old tile and concrete. Daniel kept pace with Barry as they cut through a dim corridor flanked by dusty filing cabinets and low, claustrophobic ceiling lights. It felt more like a converted museum than a police precinct, but that made sense, given that it was, he remembered.

  He glanced at a door with peeling paint and a sign labeled "Records – Temporary."

  “This place really is a maze,” he muttered.

  Barry gave a short laugh. “That’s because it wasn’t built for this. The city bought it cheap a few decades back and tried to retrofit it. Lots of dead ends and narrow halls. The whole place has weird storage rooms no one knows what to do with. Some of them still have statues in them, even, and Chief Irons refuses to do anything about it. Says he wants to preserve the atmosphere.”

  They turned a corner into another long hallway, this one lined with cracked molding and emergency call boxes that looked decorative more than functional. Barry pointed at a rusted side door as they passed.

  “That goes out to a sub-atrium with another one of those giant statues, like the one you see when you come in through the front.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I figured a place like this would be more streamlined.”

  Barry gave a grin. “You’d think. Instead, we’ve got the evidence lockup in the attic, a morgue of all things in the sub-basement nobody wants to clean, and only one locker room.”

  “One?” Daniel looked at him, brows raised.

  Barry nodded. “Yep. Just one. Means we have to set locker shift schedules for the women on the team. Jill and Rebecca mostly, but there are a few others in the main force. They usually rotate time slots so they don’t get walked in on. It’s caused enough problems over the time I’ve been here that there’s a couple of initiatives to set up a new women’s locker room somewhere, but there’s no place to put it.”

  He chuckled, then added, “Despite their best efforts, it didn’t stop us from having an incident though. About four or so months back, the two of them were washing up after drills. Brad, one of our pilots, didn’t check the schedule and walked straight in.”

  Daniel winced slightly. “That didn’t go over well, did it?”

  “About how you’d expect,” Barry said, clearly enjoying the memory. “Jill decked him hard enough to lay him out flat. Rebecca then tossed him straight back out before he could get his bearings. The two were pissed, let me tell you. And for as scary as Jill is, I ain’t never heard some of the things Rebecca called Vickers that day.”

  Barry paused, shaking his head in fond amusement.

  “Brad looked like someone’d unplugged his brain. Completely red in the face, under the massive bruise Jill left him. Swore it was an honest mistake.”

  Daniel tried to hold back a laugh. “Bet that didn’t save him.”

  “Not even close,” Barry said. “Wesker made him run drills until he was seeing double. Then gave him to Chris and Forest for remedial takedown training. They uh… were not gentle with him.”

  He glanced sideways, voice turning a shade drier.

  “Nobody’s repeated the mistake.”

  Daniel nodded. “Good. And Rebecca?”

  Barry’s grin faded slightly into something more thoughtful.

  “She’s... careful now. Won’t use the locker room unless she absolutely has to. Keeps most of her gear under her desk in a footlocker and tends to take off after her shift ends. Nobody blames her for it, even Wesker, and he’s a hardass.” Barry sighed. “I think we almost lost her over that, honestly. She’s had a rough adjustment.”

  The statement put a frown on Daniel’s face.

  “What about Jill?”

  Barry shrugged. “Jill didn’t seem to care nearly as much. But after that, she made it real clear that if anyone tries it again, accidental or not, they're eating their sidearm. Nobody questioned it, and I promise you she was serious. Jill doesn’t mess around.”

  They reached the far end of the hall, where the RPD’s newer additions met the original structure in a subtle change of flooring and trim. A reinforced door stood ahead, its frosted window stenciled with a worn but unmistakable badge.

  S.T.A.R.S.

  Barry stopped at the threshold and glanced back.

  “Just a heads-up. You’ll probably get a few questions.”

  Daniel lifted a brow. “From who?”

  Barry smirked. “You’ll see.”

  Barry opened the door to the STARS office and stepped in first, Daniel close behind, still thinking about the stack of books he was about to receive. As expected, Chris Redfield was at his desk near the back, sleeves rolled up and a thick folder spread open in front of him. He looked halfway through filing reports, brow faintly furrowed in concentration.

  What Barry hadn’t expected was Jill Valentine, perched casually against a side desk with one leg propped up and her arms crossed. The sunlight behind her traced the edge of her short hair, and her expression shifted from idle interest to something more focused the moment her eyes landed on Daniel.

  She gave him a once-over, deliberate, amused, accessing, maybe a little predatory, and then tilted her head slightly.

  “So,” she said, voice light with amusement, “you’re the guy?”

  Daniel blinked. “The guy?”

  Jill didn’t clarify. She looked him over once more, this time with something almost like sympathy, and muttered under her breath, “That poor girl.”

  The words weren’t sharp, just quietly fatalistic. Daniel glanced at Barry in confusion, but the older man was already walking deeper into the room without comment.

  Chris looked up and stood as they approached, brushing off his hands and stepping around the desk. The two looked like they’d been talking before Barry arrived, but his attention shifted quickly to Daniel.

  Barry gestured between them with a small nod.

  “Chris, Jill? This is Daniel Carter. Danny, these two are part of STARS Alpha with me under Captain Wesker.”

  Chris raised an eyebrow. “So you’re the guy Rebecca keeps talking about.”

  Daniel froze, caught a little off guard. “She’s... been talking about me?”

  Jill smirked without looking away. “A lot more than she thinks she is.”

  Daniel let out a breath and offered a helpless shrug. “Didn’t know I made that much of an impression.”

  Jill tilted her head the other way and gave a small sigh, clearly entertained. “Oh god, she’s going to eat you alive,” she muttered.

  That drew a quiet laugh from Barry, but Chris stepped forward before Daniel could ask what that particular statement meant. Offering a hand, his grin was a touch cocky, his stance just a bit squared, as if sizing up a sparring partner.

  “Barry says you’re good,” he said. “I admit I’ve been rather curious myself. I’m Chris.”

  Daniel shook his hand, matching the firmness without posturing. “Daniel, and I do alright. Barry has me beat on pretty much everything though.”

  Chris grinned wider and glanced at Barry. “This is the guy you think might give me a run on the course?”

  Barry nodded. “He’s quick, and driven. Dan’s got a good read on movement too, and solid control. You’d get a kick out of watching him work.”

  Chris gave Daniel another look, less casual now, more thoughtful. “Then yeah. We’ll have to see what he’s made of.”

  Barry was already moving past them toward the supply locker. “He’s part of my weekend shooting club, if you’re really curious.”

  That set something off in the younger man that pulled a groan and a set of rolled his from Chris. “I see what’s happening here. No, Barry, not this again.”

  Daniel looked between them. “This again?”

  Chris gave him a flat but amused look. “Barry’s been trying to drag me into his guns-for-geriatrics club since I got here.”

  “Since he joined, really,” Barry called back over his shoulder as he dug through a shelf. “And he still pretends he’s not tempted.”

  Chris shrugged. “Because I’m not.”

  Jill raised an eyebrow and spoke just loud enough for the room. “Uh-huh.”

  Barry returned a moment later, carrying two thick binders and a worn folder. “Here you go. Training manuals, some RPD certification breakdowns, and evaluation notes from the academy track. Give you a better sense of how they do things. Don’t mind the marks, they were my nephew’s.”

  Daniel took the stack with a nod of thanks. “I appreciate it, Barry. Seriously.” And he did, if not for the purpose it was given.

  Barry looked at Chris again. “So? Sunday?”

  Chris exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between resignation and anticipation. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll come.”

  Jill smirked. “Translation: he made up his mind ten minutes ago.”

  Chris gave her a look. “Translation: I’m not letting you guys gang up on me.”

  Daniel smiled faintly. “I’ll try not to make a fool of myself.”

  Barry gave a short nod. “Good. Bring your A-game.”

  They didn’t linger. Jill waved them off lazily with a flick of her fingers. Chris gave Daniel one last measuring glance before turning back to his desk.

  On his way out with Barry, the two made small talk, but Daniel’s mind wasn’t there, not really. Barry just grinned and told him not to obsess over it, maybe mistaking his distraction. Daniel just shrugged with a wan smile and made his way home. It was a strange thing, though, finally meeting the Big Names from his memories. He’d long since gotten over the odd dissonance of them actually being people, but there was something oddly unique about the experience all the more. Jill reminded him of a hawk, circling until she struck with a rather poignant comment, while Chris was the bull, all horns, no breaks. The two were an odd pair, but decent. He’d seen stranger, for sure.

  It didn’t do much to assuage the small pang of guilt he felt every time he met someone new. Knowing what was coming and still having to smile and pretend he didn’t felt like a betrayal somehow, but now, as then, he knew that his extraordinary claims would need some really extraordinary proof, and how did you tell someone that the zombie apocalypse was coming without a living, rotting snapper to show them in the meantime?

  Daniel sighed, and knew it would bother him the rest of the night.

  000

  Saturday came and went in a blur of sweat, dust, and no shortage of trial-and-error engineering. But by the end of it, Daniel had found his solution. It wasn’t elegant, and it definitely wouldn’t impress anyone, but it worked, and that was good enough.

  The fix, no, his grand masterstroke, had come from an unlikely source: a gardening scooter. One of those low plastic tubs on wheels that suburban retirees used for weeding their flower beds. It had a five-gallon bucket body, a padded seat on top, and four locking rubber wheels. He found it at the hardware store for thirty bucks, still wrapped in the original plastic.

  Stick a length of steel pipe in the center, top it with a clamp, and just like that, instant mobile target stand.

  He bought six of them.

  The rest of the supplies were easy enough. A fifty-pound bag of quick-set concrete, a few pipes of varying sizes, and some more clamps and odds and ends, rounded out the shopping trip. It was the kind of solution that didn’t need to be brilliant, just stable. Daniel was kind of proud of it though, so he chalked it up to being a little of both.

  Mixing and setting the pipes was a process. Messy, uneven, and slow. He had to work in batches, using a battered wheelbarrow and a flathead shovel to keep the consistency right. But by midafternoon, all six scooters sat lined up near the back wall of the range, each one with a vertical pipe fixed into its center and a clamp already mounted at the top. Were they fully set? Not really. Did he now have six detached scooter seats he had no idea what to do with? Also yes, though that he figured he might find a use for eventually so he kept them anyway. But they would work, and for what he needed, that was good enough.

  He rolled them into position, some near, some far, and marked their initial lanes with tape and chalk. Nothing fancy. Just spacing and distance. It was crude, but it would hold. For the first time, he finally had something resembling a working range.

  By the time the sun was going down, everything else had found its place too. His gear, tools, spare parts, and ammo had all been moved to a heavy wooden bench he’d “liberated” from somewhere nearby. He didn’t ask questions, and no one seemed to miss it or be around to care, so whatever. The bench was scarred and old, but solid. It made the perfect staging area.

  With the backstop finished, the lighting stable, and the airflow manageable, there was only one thing left to do.

  Try the P90.

  He set up the weapon carefully, gone through the user’s manual, memorized the specs, and even did some dry reloading drills, which, admittedly, were a bit complex. But he did it. The reloading tool was a godsend for loading up three magazines worth of training rounds, and the weapon felt weighty in his hands now that it was ready to roll. He’d waited long enough, and tonight felt like the right moment.

  At first, everything seemed fine. The weight was good. The grip was solid, as he hit the fire selector from Safe to Auto. He braced himself, aimed at the closest target, and sighted down the built-in scope.

  Then he squeezed the trigger.

  The gun roared to life, barking out its first burst with a surprising amount of upward pull. He hadn’t expected the cyclic rate to be that aggressive, and he gripped the weapon too hard in reflex. The muzzle jumped higher than he wanted, and for one awful second he almost lost control.

  He overcorrected. The barrel dipped. His rounds sailed low and wide, clipping the edge of the backstop before smashing into one of the low-mounted lights near the concrete risers.

  The bulb exploded with a pop and a shower of glass.

  The cardboard target remained untouched.

  Ten rounds, gone in less than two seconds. All of them missed.

  He lowered the P90 slowly, his heartbeat louder than he liked, and let out a breath.

  “Well. Shit.”

  Well shit, indeed.