Patrick was watching the house through the scope on Rebecca's favorite rifle, trying to be mindful about scraping it against the barricades even as he was broodingly concerned for everyone's safety. Still not much movement in the windows. Eventually he heard the two clicks on the radio they've been hoping for, and glanced at Christine, when they shared a small encouraging smile.

He hated being stuck out here, but Rebecca's arguments were all sound, like usual. More people in tight quarters becomes a diminishing return, they needed someone to cover the front, to coordinate the actions of the survivors outside supporting them, to go get Ronnie if the worst came to be. God, he hated that idea. Rebecca saved him and Chris, Sam was a friend, and the two soldiers seemed like really decent guys.

Mulling on that occupied him for the handful of minutes before the next set of clicks, three this time. Chris raised her hand next to him, he silently counted to three along with her, and then she dropped her hand, signaling the people standing near the vehicles to turn the lights off.

Less than a second after, the two expected flashes of light popped like camera bulbs inside the top floor, along with the first of many, many sharp percussions. He heard the boom of Chris's shotgun reverberate, the sharp cracks of the M4 he inherited from Rebecca, maybe the sputters of the suppressed weapons, along with a discomforting volume of unfamiliar gunfire. The sounds were oddly muffled inside, each corresponding with a flash of light like thunderstorm raging inside.

Movement in the far right window drew his attention and aim, but he only got there in time to see an unfamiliar shadow — larger than the girls, huskier than the soldiers — spin and fall. The gunfire started to taper off after that — several more isolated shots, a few bursts, and a minute of eerie quiet punctuated by a few crashes of furniture.

Then, a radio call came in, Sam's voice. Her tone was distressing and the words were even worse. "Pat, Chrissie... anybody... help. Upstairs."

His eyes widened and met Chris's, and after less than a second of shock, he was running for the barn to grab a large duffel bag they'd brought up from their rides. He came back out to see Chris ordering two of the rescued civilians with guns into the back of the nearest idling Humvee, waving him over when she spotted him.

He was barely into the seat behind Chris when she floored the gas, the clattery diesel under the hood of the Humvee still managing to throw up small gouts of loose earth from the wheels. It only took a few seconds to reach the front of the house, Chris stomping on the squealing brakes as hard as she had the throttle moments before.

As everyone piled out, Pat made eye contact with one of their recruits. "Bring the bag!"

Then, he charged up to the porch, steps behind Chris as she shoved the front door open and started for the staircase, aiming her gun up the same. His mouth was dry, his pulse racing, but he stuck to her like a shadow just as they'd drilled. He could see she was aiming slightly to the left, so he kept his gun pointed at the door on the right, backing in behind her when she moved through the left door. Only when nothing moved beyond the far door did he look over his shoulder and see what made Chris gasp and swear. The room looked the part of a war zone, and from what he could see, the next was even worse.

**

Working, living, sleeping next to someone for several months, you learn what they smell like. Soaps, deodorants, those change, but how their hair smells when they haven't washed it for a day, the faintly acrid note of their sweat when they've been working in the sun.

If Rebecca was nearby enough to smell... that meant it was her that Sam had hit with a table, punched, thrown on the floor. Panic and shock welled in her chest as she felt frantically in the darkness, pleading quietly for it to not be true. Her hand found familiar textures — nylon webbing, the edges of the high-tech armor they shared, and she choked on her words, gasping for breath.

Her eyes... eye... was finally adjusting. She could swear the light in the room shifted wildly for a moment, making her head swim, but she recovered and crawled to where the woman she loved lay. She wasn't sure if Rebecca could hear her, but that didn't stop her from pouring out a heartbroken apology.

"Oh god, Remy, I didn't know it was you. I swear. I'm so so sorry. Please be okay. I'm sorry, please." Between the sobs wracking her chest, Sam heard movement behind her, and then a voice, bracketed by malicious laughter, as she turned.

"Wow. That was... beautiful. Watching you kick the shit out of your friend. Tragic poetry, I tell you." A heavyset woman in her late forties, early fifties was standing in the wide archway to the center room at the front of the house, holding a double barreled shotgun at a lazy angle.

Sam glanced to where her M4 lay just out of reach, her knife a little farther. Maybe that was better in a way, it meant she hadn't stabbed Rebecca.

Maybe... Sam looked over Rebecca where she lay, but no, her knife sheath and her pistol holster were empty. She still bore some ammunition, but the only weapon left was a single fragmentation grenade.

Sam glared back over her shoulder while dragging herself along the floor, still fighting to get each breath in. She reached for Rebecca's wrist, feeling desperately for a pulse an inch back from her thumb. "Mags. You bitch. You utter bitch. This is all your fault."

"Me? Hah. That's rich. I'm not the one who stuck my nose where it didn't belong. You should have stayed out of my business, girl!"

Blocking Mags' line of sight with her body, she slipped the grenade loose, pulled the pin free with a grunt, and turned, showing it to her cupped in an open palm. "You're lucky she's alive," she spat. "So help me god, I'd just take you with me if she wasn't." Please let someone arrive soon. Her friends had to come soon, right? They'd heard her?

"You feisty little shit. You must be the second one, that shot ol' Jace, huh? That means your little friend there is the one who fashions herself some kind of fire artist. Maybe I should just shoot you, let you drop that grenade. You both ruined what I have going here, is it really worth starting over from scratch?"

Sam honestly considered tossing it past Mags and throwing herself over Rebecca. But after what she'd just done to her, that was the chickenshit route.

Mags saw some hint of hesitation in Sam's face and laughed that awful self satisfied cackle again. "Having second thoughts, are—"

Mags' words cut off just as Sam heard the familiar sputter of her Vector SMG for a full second, the whole mag. Blood spattered off at an angle, splashing the wall next to the window while chunks of plaster and lathe churned and fell.

Sam couldn't see Epstein from where she was, but she heard his labored voice and a thump that was probably him collapsing to the floor.. "Oh shut up, you old hag."

She closed her eyes as Mags hit the floor and breathed in a pittance of relief, starting to weep.