Breakfast was chicken once again, and it would be for a few meals. My father didn't believe in waste. Every ounce of meat got eaten, and the bones either got turned into broth, or given to Rusty. He wasn't even rationing, not yet anyway, he was just always like that.

We went out and I sent a few hundred rounds downrange, split between stationary targets and thrown discs. I got a little better, but nothing I'd call good, or even really acceptable. Most of Silver's fresh recruits could outshoot me. Although most of them did grow up with a gun in their hand, and I'd only spent a few summers around one.

"We'll stop there for today." He announced. "Make your gun safe and clean it."

I did what he told me, to the best of my ability. I was certain I did everything right.

"Load and fire one shot." He ordered.

Wordlessly I followed his instructions. Loaded one bullet into the magazine, slid it in, turned the safety off, pulled the slide, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked harmlessly in my hand.

He crossed his arms and watched me, still waiting for me to complete his task. I made my pistol safe once again, and pulled it apart. I put it back together, ensuring every piece was in its place, loaded in a new bullet, and click.

"I don't know what I did wrong." I told him.

"World isn't going to be there to help you when you fuck up. Figure it out, or you don't have a gun."

I checked it again, and again. The gun didn't care. Didn't matter what I did, didn't matter what I thought I fixed. I was beginning to panic. Father carried this pistol since before I was born. I didn't want to be, I couldn't be the person who broke it.

"Focus on the here and now. Start at the basics. What did you do, what could have gone wrong." He said firmly.

I clamped down on my worry. I took the gun apart again and looked closely. Not trying to rush, not just trying to get the thing working. Everything was there, I wasn't missing a piece. I wasn't making a mistake.

I put each section together, testing them individually. The firing pin was gumming up, the lubricant was chunky. All it needed was a full clean, ensuring not a drop of oil was left on there before replacing it all.

I put it back together, and successfully put a bullet down range.

"Why did it bind up?" I asked.

"Never mix together two kinds of oil. You never know how they'll interact"

"Why would you give me oil that you knew was wrong?"

"To teach you a lesson. Never trust anything you didn't do yourself. Don't be caught paying for someone else's mistake. Now come on, you shot, clean it again."

By that time I was starting to get comfortable cleaning the thing at least. Repetition is the best way to learn.

Two of us sat down for lunch, chicken again of course. I had to break the silence.

"Is Mother going to be joining us?" I asked.

"I don't know." He answered.

"Is she going to be alright in the city?"

"I don't know." He answered.

"Are we going to be ok?"

"I'm going to make damn sure we are."

He focused on his food after that, eating it quickly. As soon as we were both done, he stood up. "Come on, you can help."

Father always had extra wood stored, both planks and trees he'd chopped down. The two of us got to work building barricades, nailing and gluing wood sheets together, and building little shelves we could stick them on to cover windows and doors. We had everything short of an underground bunker.

I didn't know what we were preparing for at the time, not really. How could I have? I was twelve, kid that young can't comprehend what the end of the world meant. All I knew is that my father had a task for me, and I'd get it done. I was a good kid, that's what I did.

Now, I don't mean to skip too much, but I can't imagine you all want to sit here and hear about me and my father doing chores around the house. It was a few weeks until we flat ran out of things to do. We could barricade every entrance, he walked me through what to do for any number of catastrophes, from people trying to hurt us, to injuries and food poisoning. We even stopped shooting so much, sure he had a lot of ammo, but even that can't last forever.

We were sitting in the living room, our open barrel of water sitting there, and the rest stored in the basement. Rusty was beside me, his head resting on my lap and I was idly petting him.

"So do you know what's happening out there?" Dad asked.

"Kids talked about it at school." No matter how much the teachers tried to stop us from talking about it, that only made us want to do it more. "Dirt is turning into sand, right?"

"And do you know what that means?"

"No."

"It means if someone doesn't find a solution, we're all dead." Father never pulled his punches. "We'll be fine, the two of us. Or at least we will be for a while. We've got a decade or two of water, and more food than we can eat. What we did? That's the last harvest. Ever. Last time anyone pulls new food out of the ground. Mark my words, by this time next year, people are going to get desperate, and we're a damn good target. We're going to protect our own. Our stuff is ours, and we're not going to let anyone take that from us. Got that? It ain't fair, it ain't nice what we're going to have to do, but we're going to do it. I need you to take that to heart."

"Is Mother going to join us?" I asked once again.

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"I don't know. She's got her big city job, and she's got big city things that need done. If she shows up then yeah, I'll be glad to have her here. We'll just have to see though."

"What about my friends from school? What's going to happen to them?" I asked.

"I don't know. They'll have to figure out something on their own. We don't have enough water to keep more than us alive."

"But the well-"

"Is bone dry." He cut me off. "Just like the dirt. Neighbors have all had the same issues."

I stayed silent for a while, the weight of reality weighing heavily on my twelve year old mind. I grappled with it, desperately trying to comprehend.

"Why did I leave school?" I eventually asked.

"Government announced they'd start rationing food and water, and the guard is coming in to keep control. Mariah and I agreed you needed to get somewhere safe, away from whatever's about to go down. Maybe we're both being paranoid and this whole thing will blow past and we'll be back to normal." He shrugged. "I wouldn't count on it though. Which is why you've got to learn."

"Am I going to have to shoot someone?" Just the words in my mouth sickened me to my core.

"Hopefully not. But I'm going to make sure you're ready to if you need to. If you have to pick between saving yourself, or letting some idiot kill you? You pick yourself every time. Mariah and I didn't raise you just for you to end up dead in some ditch with a hole in your head."

That somehow weighed even more heavily on me than the end of the world. That I could comprehend, or at least I thought I could. Killing another, an explosive, violent end to their life. I saw it in movies, experienced it in games, movies I probably shouldn't have been watching and games I probably shouldn't have been playing at twelve now that I think about it. Anyway, both of those were easy, a degree of separation. The idea of doing it myself? I wanted to vomit, but equally, I wanted to make my father proud.

"How do I do it?" I asked quietly.

"You aim for center mass, right in the chest. Aim for the head and you're going to miss half the time, and if you miss, the other guy won't. A clean shot to the chest will put down most anyone, and then you can worry about finishing him off later. Once it's safe, don't leave him to suffer. Just because you fight doesn't mean you can't be kind about it, or at least as kind as you can. Just make sure you don't put yourself in danger again by trying to be merciful."

"I'll try."

"And I'm sure you'll succeed. Nothing can prepare you for it, but when push comes to shove? You're a hell of a fighter. At least according to Mariah, and getting suspended for fighting."

"She told you about that?" I was mortified. I begged mom not to tell dad, I didn't want to disappoint him. "It wasn't my fault! They were bullying Isabella! I had to-"

Dad just laughed.

"She did, and I was proud as hell. You stick up for your friends boy, ain't nothing better than that. You never stop doing that, you hear?"

That brought a smile to my face, for the first time since that conversation started. Heck, maybe the first time since I arrived.

"I will."

We settled into a routine, just us, Rusty, and the chickens. Although the bulk of the flock got culled over the next few months unfortunately. We only kept a few of them, the ones laying eggs and a few to breed. It'd keep us healthy, and we had fresh eggs in the morning most days.

It felt weird to be on the farm and not have much to work on. Every other summer was nonstop work, weeding and cleaning and feeding and watering. Now though? It felt unnatural. I gave those chickens all my attention, just out of sheer boredom.

Rusty slept with me. Though he was my father's dog, he really latched onto me and didn't let go. Always at my heels, always at my side. He was a quiet dog, rarely giving anything more than a soft whine. That's why it was so weird when he bolted upright, woke me up with a single bark, and sprinted out of the room.

I didn't hesitate to follow him. He whined at the front door, pacing back and forth. I thought he just needed out, and opened it for him. Soon as the door cracked open, he was off like a shot, and I finally heard what had him all worked up. The chickens were screaming, an unearthly sound.

I sprinted after Rusty, around to the other side of the house.

Barking, snarling, and yelping came before I arrived. I turned the corner and saw a whirlwind of flying fur and flashing teeth. A coyote had gotten into the pen. It was a poor, desperate thing. Rusty had grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him out, only for it to turn on him.

Father insisted I kept his gun on me at that point, and I drew. In the moonlight and what little light was streaming through the windows from the kitchen, I took aim. I watched that fight, heartbeat after heartbeat. I didn't want to risk shooting my dog, you know?

Rusty fell to the ground, and the coyote stepped back, both of them covered in blood. I pulled the trigger. The coyote yelped and sprinted off, his side gushing blood. I didn't care about that though, that was my dog he hurt.

I tore off my shirt as I ran to him. The creature had sunk its teeth deep into Rusty's side. I pressed my shirt into the wound as hard as I could and cried.

Dad made his way over just a moment later. He was always cool under pressure. Just a minute later he was back with our medical kit. The two of us worked, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grab bandages for him, and so many tears in my eyes I could hardly discern what was what.

My father wasn't like that though. A cold seriousness took over him, his hands rock steady. The two of us got Rusty's wounds disinfected, sewn up, and his cuts bandaged. He just laid there through it all, never once complaining. He had complete trust in the two of us.

"Alright boy, you'll live." Father said, and helped Rusty to his feet. He was unsteady, but stood on his own. "Vincent, do you remember what I said?"

"No?" I answered back.

"Once it's safe, don't leave him to suffer. Just because you fight doesn't mean you can't be kind about it, or at least as kind as you can." He pulled a knife out of his waistband and handed it to me. "Don't let whoever did this suffer, alright?"

"But-"

"But nothing. I'll go get Rusty some meds, you go prove you're not the same as the monster who did this." He gestured to the chickens. I finally took them in. Not all that many were dead, thankfully, and we'd had Rusty to thank for that. The whole pen was covered in feathers and fresh blood regardless, chunks of meat the coyote hadn't eaten yet laid amongst the refuse.

I wrapped my small hand around the hilt and stood up. I didn't want to disappoint Father. Rusty, for his part, took his place next to me.

"Oh no you don't." Father knelt down to pick up Rusty, only to get a growl and bared teeth in return. It was the first time I'd ever heard him do that. "Well, alright then. You two keep each other safe. Go on boy, fetch."

Rusty put his nose to the ground and began to search. It wasn't a hard search, the poor thing was bleeding profusely the whole way, but Rusty stayed on its trail regardless.

Poor creature didn't get far. It was hiding beneath a nearly dead bush. Rusty didn't bark, just walked up to it and stared, from a safe distance thankfully. The coyote was breathing shallow, ragged breaths. It could barely lift its head up and look at our approach. Its lips curled back in a snarl, but it just didn't have the breath to make noise.

I put it down. I'm not ashamed to say I vomited.

I cried there for a while. Rusty brought me back, he slipped his head beneath my hand, and I started petting him reflexively. It grounded me.

We walked back in a haze, Father was already waiting on the porch. He had a glass of water for me, and pills wrapped in cheese for Rusty.

"Focus Vincent." He forced the water into my hands. "Focus on here and now. What do you see? What do you feel?"

I focused on the cold glass in my hands, and the hard floor beneath me. The way my clothes fluttered in the breeze. I watched father taking care of Rusty, giving him meds and checking his wounds for anything that reopened. I felt the water go down my throat, washing away the burning stomach acid that still coated its walls.

I learned a lot that day, about myself and about what it'd take to survive. And not to cut the drama short, but Rusty would make a full recovery. He was young, just a few years old. Although he did start sleeping with the chickens for a few months, and I stayed out there with him.

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