Lionel loaded his rifle. He laid it on the table next to several knives and a 9mm pistol. He picked up the pistol.

“Welcome to the Underworld. Nobody in the real world gives a shit.”

“Frankly, my dear, neither do I.”

“Let the blood flow, let it flow, let it flow.”

“Shitheels might not even come.” Adeyemi leaned back in his rickety chair. His expression was as serene as a grandfather content with himself and the world.

“They might not.” I unzipped my bags and brought out the Kevlar battle-plated jacket I’d seldom had an opportunity to wear, and began to shrug into the cumbersome sonofabitch. I felt like a ronin strapping on his armor before the battle to end all battles and that squared everything. I tested the fit of my gas mask.

Adeyemi watched disinterestedly.

“If they do come and we manage to win, there’ll be another team next week, or the week after, or ninjas jumping out of the woodwork wherever I go. The fuckers will get me. Today, tomorrow, someday.” It wasn’t a defeatist observation, merely pragmatic.

Lionel grinned, dazzling white through brown and black camo tiger stripes.

“Roger that. But it won’t be these guys.” He hefted his rifle, adjusting the bunting scope cover, working the bolt action before slinging the weapon over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the trees. Radio check in five.” He slipped away without a goodbye.

I lit a kerosene lamp and hung it from a hook near the stove. We’d pushed the couch and some chairs near the front door without blocking it so that when the bad guys burst in there’d be an immediate obstacle and we’d kill them while they were delayed. Or Lionel would shoot them as they milled around on the porch. Whichever.

“We’re in for weather,” Adeyemi said. “But we’ve got wood and we’ve got brews. I got a deck of cards, if you play pinochle.”

“Gin rummy.”

I leaned my boar spear against the wall. Its presence comforted my atavistic self. Spears are the single most effective non-projectile weapon in human history. Something can’t bite you if it can’t get close to you. The Mossberg was loaded and ready for action. I hoped and prayed whoever was en route didn’t dawdle. The idea of lounging in that heavy armor for any extended duration was depressing.

He sipped his beer, stoic as a totem. Finally, he spoke.

“My uncle Gage lived in the hills outside of town. By himself in a cabin like this one. Coyote got shot; Gage found him in a ditch a piece down the road. Tweezed the pellets and nursed him back to life. Chomped the ever-loving crap out of his hand too. Coyote made it, though. Recovered and scampered off for the high timber after a few weeks. But he came around every winter, usually when the storms hit in January, and curled up on the foot of my uncle’s bed. Ate the cat food, yada, yada. One of the last times I sat with my uncle, he was drunk and muttering about that coyote. His friend. Hadn’t seen the critter for a couple of years.” He studied the austere vista, shadow and light playing over his leathery face. Mostly shadow. “Said to me, ‘Some nights when it’s this cold and the wind is howling, I worry for the coyote out there. Dumb. Mother Nature will take care of him. That’s her job. That’s the way of it. Coyote’s a pile of bones on an unmarked grave somewhere in the hills.’”