"Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!
Cows are in the meadow,
Eating buttercups,
Thunder, Lightning,
We all stand up!"

—Ring Around the Rosie

On June 6th, 1944, the DUKW's went in behind Hobart's Funnies with my grandfather. Later, his son would ride the same amphibious vehicle in Vietnam. Then I grew up, joined the NAVY and built up the rate of a E-9, Master Chief Petty Officer, in the SEALs.

Should have listened to Dad, I reflected while fishing from my DUKW, he always said NAVY was an acronym for Never Again Volunteer Yourself. Who am I kidding? My son is just like me; joining that dumb militia.

I had told him to use me as an excuse, I'm almost fifty; he didn't need the job. Let the others watch the caravans, screw the gasoline, bullets and bag nasties' he was my son! But do they listen?

About as much as I did to my father.

Branson was a little tourist town with a population just under twelve thousand before Hurricane Miseria. Although the first days were stressful and the military was occupied in the larger cities, Table Lake had become a place of refuge for the first year. I still remember the dozen or so boats next to the other with their anchors dropped, waiting for an Aggro Spike to simmer down. I will never forget the Foggies, standing on the shore in the Fog...

I can't forget.

Never forget, I thought peering into my reflection. What is there to remember though? My wife? My daughter? Both standing on the shore leering at us over this grand green table?

There was a hiss and a flash in the distance. Red light burned brighter and went into sky in the unmistakable glint of a flare. The council had told us to shoot flares into the air if we saw Strays or The Fog but I didn't see any fog. At that moment I got a bite on my fishing rod and deduced if there was an emergency then they'd sound, what we call, the Minutemen Siren. Be ready in a minute... and die in one usually as well.

Ever since hurricane Miseria, tropical storms have brought the Fog. It's an unexplainable and unnatural phenomenon that causes all the zeddies to be smarter, and faster. I'd like to think they couldn't get any stronger but it also makes the Fogged.

Once my fish escaped I dug in my backpack and fingered my gas mask in case the Fog came. The Hurricane had either kicked up, or created a special parasitic mold that reanimated the dead and turned the living dumb enough to be in the Fog. The spores could only live in hosts or the environment of Fog Storms. It's been a while since I ran across a Stray at Table Lake. They usually kept to the forests, trying to get onto the pastures of The Promised Land Zoo.

I heard a boat motor coming up behind me. It sounded like the driver was in a hurry. I glanced back, recognized him from town and got up to talk to the frazzled and frantic man clearly coming to me. He got to me and I leaned out the open air windows of my DUKW as he killed the motor.

"What's up fishstick?"

"W-we-," he huffed.

"Hey, don't nuke it kid- spit it out."

"W-we're under attack."

The air seemed to grow colder and goosebumps popped up onto my skin. My face was a stone.

"Excuse me?"

"A large force is blasting through the Promised Land, the Old Guard is being called back."

"And the Minutemen?"

"Many are captured-" I rubbed my face and spat into the water, as he continued, "men are getting the recommissioned armor and-"

"Look, I care about all that but-" I focused my eyes into his, "if you know where my son is, and don't tell me. I'll 2-6-10 you until you tell me." He looked squeamish and I added, "You know what that means? It's NAVY for 'I will shove my foot so far up your butt it will take two surgeons six hours to remove the ten inches of my boot from your arse'."

"E-escape Code! You know, the fifth best escape room in the pre-Hurricane US?"

My face an unreadable mask, I casually started my DUKW.

"What are you doing? Mule," he gulped a breath after using my codename, "the others are planning attacks."

I gave him a cheeky smirk, "I'll be back."