After loading the Suburban and discussing the awkwardness of the whole exchange, Emily hopped in the driver's seat and they followed the masked crew of kids, whooping on their ATVs, through the woods on nearly impassable dirt trails before arriving at a nicely paved winding road.

Frank was wondering about the nature of airborne viruses.

He was convinced, back in Cheney, he was the only one immune to the bug. How'd these kids survive? How had Emily and that clan of inbred militants survived?

He asked her.

"Well, my dad was on the ground during the Iraqi Freedom war, or conflict, or whatever it was and really latched on to all that military stuff—even though I think he was, like, a communications officer or something. So, anyway, he built this underground bunker thing and stocked it with canned foods and a water purifier and things—this was years before the zombies. He was just paranoid all the time. A lunatic survivalist. He was a creepy guy anyway, when it comes to religion and all. He'd tell me I had to accept Jesus into my heart, then he'd fall on the floor and speak in tongues and all that shit but to me it just sounded like he was fucking crazy, you know. Pentecostal weirdo." She glanced at Frank, a little roll in her eyes.

"Anyway, he and his friend from his hunting club, Roy—yeah that Roy—and this group of his buddies would meet a couple times a week and fucking jack off on each other's guns—talk about the end of the world and how Jesus was going to take them to the promised land. It was fucking insane watching all these people show off these crazy and totally illegally modified weapons and then pray. It seemed so wrong.

"Then the zombies came, and he was like, 'see, I fucking told you,' and took me and all his sweaty friends and their fat assed wives down into his shelter thing and locked the door. We were in there for months. I don't even know how many. Things get kinda weird when you're locked in an underground bunker with fifteen people for that long."

She tucked a stand of her long black hair behind her ear and took a breath. "My dad had been raping me since I was little." Her expression didn't change. "And when we got down in the bunker, he didn't stop. My mom didn't do shit. She was in denial. But you could tell it was a little awkward for all his friends when I'd be crying and screaming and whatever. So, rather than, you know, stop raping his daughter, he started passing me around. Giving everyone a turn." She paused and looked out the window at the trees, squinting. "Naturally, I hated the fucker. All those fuckers. Especially Roy. He was... brutal."

"Jesus." Frank needed to divert the topic. "How'd you guys breathe down there?"

"My dad had this O2 recycling machine thingy. It was loud as hell. I couldn't sleep for the first few weeks. But the place was completely airtight. The only reason we even got out of there—see, my dad and Roy were the only ones the face and voice recognition lock worked on—I mean, there were lots of times when people wanted out, but they wouldn't let 'em. He said the virus was in the air and if they opened the door, they'd kill us all. He said the good lord would let them know when the time was right. I guess the right time was just after my mom killed herself. She took my dad's gun and put it in her mouth. He cleaned up the mess, then walked over to the door, unlocked it and opened it up. Guess it had been long enough cause no one turned into zombies and when we got back up outside and did find some zombies, they were just fucking bags of shit clomping around. So, we cleaned up the area and set up camp behind the Fill and Feed and... what is that?"

Emily was pointing out the front window.

Flashing in and out of view behind the trees was what appeared to be a building constructed entirely out of glass. When the tree line broke, they saw the road bisecting an enormous overgrown lawn. There was a shiny aluminum sign low to the ground that read, Kinderman ARI Research Center.

"What the fuck is ARI?" Emily asked.

"Man! You know you swear a lot," Frank said lighting a cigarette.

"So, you smoke a lot, but I'm not giving you shit about it."

"Touché."

"It stands for Acute Respiratory Infections," Jane said from the back seat. She'd been listening to Emily's story while checking her face in a little make-up mirror—she was still trying to clean off the blood. Also, all the windows were down, and she was covered in perfume.

Frank thought it might be nice if she hung a few of the little tree-shaped air-fresheners on her body.

Jane didn't like the idea at all.

"How did you know that?" Frank asked.

"I don't know—I've heard the term before—ARI, in college. The kid said something about asthma so..."

"So, you think the masks are for real?"

"I don't know, they look like the respirators kids used to wear at goth clubs—or a nebulizer mask. Maybe it is just for show or maybe they really are sick. I've heard of people who have to wear those things their whole lives—not the paranoid people, like Asian women on airplanes, but for real. Like, if they didn't wear them, they'd get really sick and die."

"First off... wow, racist. But... that would explain why they didn't catch the germ then," Frank said.

"Yeah, maybe," Jane said, clicking her compact closed.

The kids were parking their ATVs in front of the glass building and running inside. Tristen waited, nervously adjusting his mask, pants, shirt, posture.

"Yeah, he's kinda cute," Emily said.

"You can't even see his face," Frank reminded her.

"I know. I think that's why I like him. Guess I like the mysterious type."

"You're a strange girl. But hey—at least you were able to say that without using the word 'fuck.'"

"Who's strange? Mister I-fold-clothes-to-help-me-think."

"That's different."

"Uh huh. So, fuck off with your high and mighty bullshit," she was smiling as she turned off the Suburban and got out.

"And there it is." He looked to Jane. "She can't go more than 10 words without dropping an f-bomb. She's strange right? You think so."

"Hey, you're the one talking to a dead girl," she replied.

Tristen had finally managed to achieve some rudimentary level of composure but crumbled when Emily sauntered up, grabbed his hand and said, "So, you gonna show me around, Darth?"

She led him up the few stairs to the front doors which blindingly reflected the setting sun, casting geometrical shapes on the grounds as they swung open.

Frank stopped and waited for Jane who was fumbling around in the back of the truck.

He looked around. It seemed safe. It seemed good. Maybe this was where they were headed all along.

Jane was grabbing piles of clothes and tossing them around the back, looking for something.

"Hey, I just folded those."

"Who decided what we got to keep?" she asked.

"I did, I guess."

"Where's my bikini?"

"I didn't think you'd really be needing it."

"What if they have a pool?"

"Jane, this isn't vacation. We're trying to live."

She quickly tilted her head at him, scrunching up a corner of her mouth.

"Or not uh, re-die... or whatever," he corrected.

"Well, why can't this be a vacation? Why can't we have fun? It's the end of the world and I don't want to spend my time depressed and afraid all the time."

Okay, Frank thought. Fair point.

She was still looking through the clothes, then stopped. "You didn't forget to pack the thigh-highs I noticed."

"Alright, we can go back and pick up your bikini later."

"Okay. Good. I know it was just a cheap Target thing, but it was cute."

"But you have to make sure when you wear it, you're always holding this gun," he handed her the machine gun from where he had just noticed it under his suitcase. "Always. No exceptions."

"Always?" she took the gun, smiling.

"Always. It's hot—guns and bikinis. That was a thing, right? People were into that. There were calendars in auto shops and biker bars."

She laughed and bent in, giving him a light peck kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad I kidnapped you," she crooned, sweetly.

"Good lord, you smell terrible," Frank said.