Two hours. That was all James had let himself sleep. His alarm, a battery-operated antique from his great-grandfather's time, drilled into his ears, tearing him from slumber. He shot up with a gasp, fumbled out of bed and over to the clock, his limbs fighting against his brain in twitchy, sleepy motions. James hit the switch, holding his breath as silence dripped into the room.

He began his day as he always had: gathering up some clothes and a towel, heading to the bathroom to wash up. James kept his head down, stepping lightly through the halls. Almost as if he didn't want to disturb anyone with the noise, as if his presence felt wrong.

And, well, it was.

The door opened with a mechanical hiss, revealing the room's aqua innards to James. A handful of showers took up the rear half of the bathroom; a set of pearly sinks and stalls ruled the other.

Splitting the room in half was a thick partition with a set of lockers. Some of the locks had been sawed off with lazers, the leftover nubs resting on the floor like amputated fingers. Various scented soaps and shampoos, toothbrushes, and razors remained in the compartments, doors hanging wide open, still waiting for their owners to come retrieve them. James shut them and rounded the partition.

He chose the furthest shower in and hung his things on the hook next to it. Hopefully the water's still clean, he thought as he pulled the curtain aside and turned one of the knobs, cupping his hands underneath the head. Still clear. Safe. For now.

Afraid of leaving himself vulnerable for too long, he showered quickly and threw his clothes on: a fresh pair of slate pants and an old rust-colored button down. As he brushed his hair in the mirror, it crossed his mind that he'd still be carrying his school's colors after he left. He separated the last few knots, gathered his things, and went back to his room to finish packing.

James threw his belongings on the bed, inspecting the items carefully and tossing the things he couldn't bring in a separate pile. In the end, he narrowed it down to a couple of spare changes of clothes, his toothbrush and toothpaste, a towel, a bar of soap, a Garrison-issued multi-tool, a small flashlight he found in a supply closet, and a picture of him with his parents from their last trip to Lake Havasu. He folded it into quarters and slid it in his pocket, then tossed the rest of his things into his backpack. For a moment, he considered stuffing the rest of his things back into the dresser. In the end, he left the pile on the floor: a sign that he'd been there after the invasion.

One pair of eyes stood as witness to that fact outside his door, as did hundreds more in the hallways as he made his way down them, seeking out a few more supplies. He didn't name them as he strode past them, didn't think of who had resided in the dorms as each door swept by. Same for the classrooms and common rooms. All except for one.

James opened the door to the common area in Miller Hall and looked inside. Ina was lined up against the back wall behind a teal armchair, her neck twisted like the pipe cleaner vines he'd made back in kindergarten. He shut the door and continued walking to the dining hall, hand over his mouth as he bit back a sob, sucking in a deep breath. There were still more supplies to get, food to retrieve. Not that he could think about eating after that.

He leapt over the body of an underclassman, swerved around Sanda, tested out a gun he found in the hallway. As expected, there were no shots left. Didn't matter. He could find something in the kitchen.

The lock to the kitchen had been destroyed in the attack, the last sparks of life left in it fading as this section of the Garrison went dark. James flicked on his flashlight and rested a hand on the wall, feeling his way around until he reached one of the pantries. A log from the staff's last inventory check still clung to the door. He pulled it open and shone the flashlight up and down, searching for food he could eat quickly. Cans of vegetables, bags of jerky, and bottles of water lined the shelves. He scooped up a few of each and was stuffing his bag with them when he spotted one more thing: a lone can of peaches. The ones the Garrison had stopped serving a few months ago because they couldn't find a steady supplier. He picked up the can and scanned it, looking for any signs of damage. None. The expiration date wasn't for another year out. I could take these with me, he thought.

James took a look at his stuffed bag, then back to the peaches, then back to the bag. No room. He sighed, tossing them aside.

Rummaging through the silverware drawers was next. He took a set of utensils for himself, sliding them into the front pouch of his bag as he made his way over to the food preparation station. Most of the Garrison's guns were locked away in storage, the lock too damaged for him to open. What few remained behind were either out of ammo or simply too out of the way for him to venture out in search of. A large kitchen knife was the best he could do. He felt around for the largest one and slid it out of the cover, checking the blade. It was adequately sharp; serviceable until he found something better. James tucked it into the water bottle pouch on his bag.

Finally, he was done. He slid a finger into his pocket, running it over the folded up picture once more. He knew where he was going next.

Town was a thirty minute hike from the Garrison if you stayed on the main road. He'd made the trip once or twice during his early training days, running down the path with a group of other cadets. Kinkade, Reese, Chen, Rosen - half of them had dropped out three weeks after that run, flying back to one of the States with disappointment in their eyes. He wondered how they were doing, if the calamity that had struck the Garrison had slid its way over to them.

And then there was Kinkade. James had lost sight of him as they pounded down the hallways, an alien tailing them as they came to a fork. He hadn't realized that Kinkade had gone down the other way until the booming footsteps behind him faded, neither of them anywhere to be seen.

A lump formed in his throat as he walked, straying from the main road to avoid any unnecessary confrontations. Though the sun had yet to rise fully, the desert was still unbearably warm, and the heat loosened beads of sweat from the pores on his head. His supplies made his bag sag as he chugged along, their constant clunking almost rhythmic, calming.

A chill ran up his spine as he made his way to the town's entrance, the ingrained reminder that he was breaking Garrison code by heading into town without permission hanging over his head. He shook off the thought by thinking of what he needed to do next.

His plan was straightforward: get in, find his parents, and leave with them. He didn't make it very far before running into a group of them, leaning back on their cruisers and sharing muddy rations between fuzzy hands. He ducked behind a rock and held his breath, burying his face in his sleeve so as to not breathe in the scent of the rotting corpse next to him.

James waited until the sun was halfway up the horizon for them to swap shifts. Then, he made his move, dashing across the street and hopping into the nearest broken store display, tearing his knee on a stray piece of glass in the process. Cursing, he slid his fingers under the fabric, hissing as the contact summoned blood from the gash. Gauze, he thought. I need to find gauze.

Stretched out in front of him were three aisles of beige gondola shelves and gray laminated floors. A door with a sign that read Employees Only stood on the opposite side of the structure, the wood near its base splintered. One corner of the store had been sectioned off as a checkout area; two registers sat behind the counter, their screens still on. Sponge-painted animals decorated the wood beneath, their colors faded from years of sunlight. He remembered being there once, twice, remembered an old woman behind the counter holding her granddaughter's hand as she bounded across the countertop, chattering on about how the store was her kingdom, how the purple elephant and grey gopher were her most trusted subjects.

Hand on his knee, he knelt down and made his way across the store, freezing each time a shard of glass cracked underneath his foot. He stopped every two or three steps, sparing himself a glance above the windowsill each time, waiting for one of them to look in his direction, ears perking at the sound of a bug they were trying to exterminate. As he made his way to the back of the store, he was amazed at how stocked the shelves still were, chills rolling across his skin as he realized just why that was.

James wobbled down one of the aisles, plucked various medical supplies off one of the shelves, and rolled up his pant leg. Blood bubbled from the gash. He cracked open a bottle of peroxide and poured it on, hissing through his teeth.

Behind him, a steel door crashed closed. He jumped, dropping the bottle. Clear fluid spilled out, filling the room with a medicinal scent. The back entrance, he realized. They found me, they found me-

The knob crunched in its socket. James thought of the weight in his backpack, wondered if he had a chance. Taking a deep breath, he swept it up and freed the knife from the pouch, jumping beside the hinges and unsheathing the weapon, dropping the cover as the door flew open.

The figure shuffled into the room, their steps hesitant as their fingers slid against the wood. Fear. James steeled himself against the wall and pointed the knife forward, praying that the door would keep him concealed. It wavered in front of him as the figure made its way past, tapping the tip of the weapon. He could feel them reaching the end, could see the swishing of their shadow as they made to turn around. James exhaled.

The door disappeared. He pressed his back harder into the wall, slamming his eyes shut as he brought the weapon in front of his face, but his attacker was more skilled than he was, slipping the tip of their own blade around to his chin. A drop of blood slid down his neck. For a second, he wondered if he may have already been dead, if the knife had been plunged straight into his throat and he'd bled out before he could even think another word. But then the figure gasped. Took a step back. Uttered his name in a raspy voice, one that he hadn't heard in months-

No way.

"Keith," he responded, opening his eyes.

Keith looked away from James and bit his lip, as if he weren't sure what to say. Then again, James wasn't sure, either: Keith hadn't left the Garrison on the best of terms. Punching a commanding officer didn't exactly net someone a good reference. Neither did socking one of the other top pilots in the program in the face. A phantom twinge of pain crawled across his cheek as the memory played back.

"Is anyone with you?"

Oh, how he wished.

"No."

Keith paused, weighed the word on his tongue, and exhaled.

"I'll grab some more supplies. You can hide in the back and patch up your leg." It was more of a command than a suggestion. He rounded the corner of the aisle James had been in and returned with the things he had left behind, holding them in front of him. "Before they see us."

Without a word, James nodded and disappeared behind the door.

They left together, falling into a pattern as they ventured into the streets: crouch, walk, duck, repeat, the lower halves of their faces covered with cloth so that they wouldn't breathe in the stench of rot. James winced, trailing a few steps behind Keith, the gauze brushing against his wound like sandpaper. He didn't look at the bodies in the streets, tried not to think too hard about the dozens of cars, keys still clinging to their ignitions. It's a training exercise, he told himself. An exercise in living out the rest of his days in the aftermath.

After an hour of wandering, Keith ducked behind a curly metal bench and cocked his head, listening for any other movement within the area. When there was none, he stood up, dumped his backpack on the seat next to an abandoned novel, and rolled his shoulders, sighing with relief.

"There's no one around. We can stop and rest for a few minutes."f

James nodded, set his foot on the bench, and rolled his pant leg up. Blood had soaked most of the way through the fabric, but thankfully most of it appeared to be concentrated to a small area. He peeled the bandage off and replaced it with a fresh one. Keith took out one of the snacks he'd swiped, ripping the green wrapper open to reveal two thin granola bars. He slid one out and offered it to James.

The oats were like sandpaper on his tongue, too crunchy and dry to really be enjoyable, but at least it was something. He took a gulp of water from his canteen to wash it down. It dawned on James that he had no idea where Keith was taking him.

"Hey, Keith…"

"Hm?"

"What are we doing, exactly?"

"I'm scouting." He shrugged. "I want to see what resources are here, see if there are any friendly survivors around. Then I'm heading home."

"Friendly?" James gulped.

"Like, nice."

"I know what friendly means, Keith."

"Right, just like how you know not to make fun of your classmate's dead dad." He smirked and took a swig of water.

James fell silent, looking at his lap in shame.

"That was really fucked up for me to say."

"Yeah, that's one way to put it. At least you're apologizing. Not sure I forgive you, but I might have to since you're the only non-hostile person I've met so far." He smirked. "On that topic, sorry for punching you in the face."

"Forgiven. I kind of deserved-"

"Definitely deserved."

"- Definitely deserved that. So what were you saying about the other survivors you've met?"

"Just that they weren't friendly." Keith rolled a rock between his feet. "Some aliens land and slaughter a bunch of people, then most of the ones remaining drop dead right after? Seems pretty straightforward that they did something, but no one knows what.. That's why everyone's scared."

"What do you think it was?"

"I don't know, but I don't think it's anything contagious. Things would have been more spread out if they were."

"Poison, then?"

"Does it matter what the explanation is?"

"It does if we want to be safe."

"Well, I don't have an answer for you. All I know is that something they did killed off most of the nearby population, with a few exceptions."

"Something incompatible with human life." James murmured it as if he were reading through a medical file, detached realization prickling over his skin. Keith tossed the rock aside and looked at James. "Or, well, most of it."

"Did you feel anything?"

"The day they landed?" I felt a lot of things, he wanted to say. Adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Fear, despair. Disgust. Loneliness, the kind you only knew upon entering a solemn place, when silence consumed your ears and you found yourself wondering if anything had existed before it. The words withered in his throat. "I became dizzy all of a sudden. It was like all the energy had been sucked out of me. I couldn't stand for a while after."

Not that he wanted to. The unspoken, You?, hovered between them like thick custard.

"My eyes hurt. So bad that I couldn't keep them open. Then, I became dizzy. Like you, I couldn't stand up for a while. Had a nosebleed, too. I went out on my bike to see if anything had happened. That was when I saw them."

"Them?"

"Aliens, humans. A lot of people were dead in the streets. Some of them were bleeding. Most just…"

"Laid there."

"Yeah." He paused. "I had to stop looking."

Keith agreed to divert their search so that James could check on his parents. They made their way to his family's brown brick building at the western edge of the city, shattering the glass on the front door to get in. The alarm chirped like a banshee. No one came after them.

James tried the elevator first, pushing the button for the tenth floor. He groaned when it didn't light up. Keith raised his eyebrow as if to say, What did you expect?

"It was worth a shot," James muttered as he tore for the stairs, ignoring the pain in his knee, the pulsing in his head, the parched cells of his tongue. All that mattered was that he would see his parents soon.

By the time they both made it to the landing, they were out of breath. Shaking, James opened the door to the main hallway, the musty air hitting him full-force.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. Quiet was the piano behind his neighbor's door, the dog who barked constantly in room 302, the children who ran around in 308. James slid the key out of his pocket, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door, sighing in relief when the door still needed an extra push to open. His home was untouched. Physically, at least.

James was slapped with the stench of decay as he entered. It's from next door, he told himself. The entire floor was silent; the smell could have come from any of the other apartments. Rubbing his shoes on the welcome mat, he repeated that logic until it wove itself into a thin string, a truth he had to cling to in order to keep himself moving. Keith held a hand out to stop him, but James paid him no mind, kicking off his shoes and shoving past with little thought as to what he might see.

"We always take our shoes off by the front door," he explained. "Mom doesn't like the rugs getting dirty."

The entryway was long and thin, lined with photos of James and his parents and paintings of plants. A few coats hung off a hutch near the end. It emptied out into a large, open living room and dining area with taupe walls. Red corduroy couches with ornate cherry frames were positioned against the walls, a few books splayed out on the coffee table in front of them. Mounted on the wall opposite them was a TV, the screen currently dead. A long wooden table with matching chairs stretched along the width of the room behind the couches.

He toed the edge of the beige rug, admiring how soothing the strands were on feet that had known nothing but steel-toed boots and shower shoes for months. Keith trailed behind him, the heels of his shoes scraping against the wooden floor. James turned to say something to him but stopped short, his heart dropping into his stomach.

Splayed out on the couch was his mother in her favorite violet sundress, arms outstretched over her head as if she were just waking up from a nap. Insects crawled over her bloated body. James sobbed, reaching out to brush them off, but Keith caught his wrist before he could. Scowling, James tugged.

"Let me do it."

"Don't. Ten more will just pop out if you do."

"Let me get rid of the!" he sobbed. They don't belong there. Mom's not dead.

Keith shook his head, squeezing tighter. He pulled on his grip a few more times, the skin around his wrist turning white. It was clear that Keith had no plans on letting him go. James relented.

He continued going through the apartment, searching for his father. James found him sitting at the far end of the dining dining room just out of view, slumped in his chair with his black tablet laying down in front of him.

James sank to his knees. Keith knelt beside him, rubbing circles across his back as he cried. After what felt like hours, his tears calmed and Keith pulled him to his feet.

"Come on. Let's get out of here."

They walked through town dazed, seeking out the hoverbike Keith had stolen from the Garrison shortly after getting kicked out. After what seemed like years, they finally found the vehicle and hopped on, the desert winds whipping past them as James closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Keith.

Night had just cast its net over the desert when they arrived. Keith loosened James's arms from him and pulled the bandana off his face, then helped James down from the vehicle, leading him inside.

Keith flicked the lights on. There's wasn't much to the place: just a small room with a set of shelves housing communication equipment that had been phased out when he was five; a thin couch, and a makeshift coffee table of cinder blocks and plywood. The surface was covered in papers and books, their margins filled with sloppily scrawled notes. A large corkboard with maps and fphotos of the surrounding area had been mounted on the wall. Strings of various colors were bolted across, crossing over each other in certain spots where red circles had been drawn. James stared at it with his mouth open, eyes wide with awe and anxiety.

Keith took notice, a hint of red creeping onto his cheeks as he approached James.

"Your conspiracy board?"

"Not exactly." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Then what would you call this?" James motioned to everything in front of him.

"Hard to explain. Something drew me out here after I got kicked out. There's this weird feeling I've been getting, and I've been trying to track down the source of it."

"Feeling?"

"Like I said, hard to explain. I'm not even sure what it is, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had something to do with what happened."

Keith stared at his feet as if he were trying to hide. James dropped the topic. Relief spread over Keith's face. He guided James to the couch and pointed at the blanket next to him. James cocooned himself inside it without a second thought. Keith went around to the other side, moved a few squeaky levers and grunted, flattening the other half of the couch. He kicked his boots off and, using his jacket as a blanket, laid down, his back turned to James to give him some space. It wasn't long before Keith fell asleep, leaving James alone in the silence of the shack.

James tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw his parents, Ina, Kinkade. Rizavi laying out in the hallway by his room, stiff and unharmed, how he'd had to see her each time he left his room. How he couldn't even look at her the last time he left because looking at her body only made him feel numb by the end, and that numbness filled him with shame.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and swung his legs around. James couldn't stay in bed; he was too jittery, his mind too overloaded with all that had happened over the last week. Slipping his feet into his boots, he went outside and sank down against the wall.

James breathed in the clean odor of sand, marveling at how far removed Keith was from the rest of society. From here, he could almost pretend that the tragedy that had befallen the rest of the world hadn't happened, that he was going to leave this place in a few days and everything would be back to normal. But then his mind wandered back to his home, to town, to the Garrison. How he couldn't picture any of those places without seeing the carnage he had. How those aliens had stormed the base, a single one of them had taking down the squads standing in their way like bowling pins; how Sanda and Iverson issued orders to a group of frightened cadets. How not everyone listened, too young, afraid, unsure of how to apply their military training when the world as they knew it had toppled over like a glass statue, shattering in an instant.

Not everyone went out immediately. There was one cadet left alive near him after they had passed through; he cried and shouted as she searched the dead. James was hit with a wave of dizziness before he could get to him. By the time he could stand again, he found him on the floor. Unmarked, but unresponsive, his pulse having long since fled.

Silence conquered the Garrison, the kind you only felt when something so utterly horrible, so incomprehensible happened in front of you, penetrating him to his core.

James retched, his tears mixing with vomit. The shack flickered on. Keith was by his side in an instant, helping him to his feet and back to the couch.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. At some point he changed his shirt, the other too stained with bile for him to wear. He remembered a damp towel being in his hands, too, though he didn't remember cleaning his face with it. Eventually, he fell asleep for a couple of hours, waking up as dawn creeped along the horizon.

His head was pounding. James groaned and sat up. Keith, noticing that he had woken, glanced at him.

"You're really dehydrated from yesterday. Drink some water." Keith motioned to an olive canteen on the coffee table. A sticker of an amber space shuttle, its white edges peeling, had been applied to the side. James recognized it instantly - the Garrison had given them out during an information session back in middle school. Takashi Shirogane had visited their school to talk to them, how he'd noticed Keith, a grieving, angry boy with a spark for flying, and forged a path out for him to escape.

James wished he had a plan.

He tilted his head back, taking a sip of water. Warm from the desert heat, it glided along the back of his parched throat, soothing the scratchy, hoarse tissue. He swallowed it back with a sigh and closed his eyes, the simple action taking more energy than he expected. The dryness was back before long; he tightened his grip around the canteen and lifted up again, taking one, then two swigs of water. Keith frowned and reached for the bottle.

"Don't drink too much," he instructed. "You'll get sick."

James glared at Keith, the mouth of the bottle still resting on his lips.

"I passed survival training too, you know."

"Wouldn't have guessed it from the way you were passed out."

"Shut up," James remarked with a scowl, though there was no venom in his words.

Keith frowned and looked away from James, hugging his knees to his chest. James continued drinking, counting thirty seconds between sips of water. He counted eight, nine, ten, before Keith spoke again, his voice barely a whisper above the swishing of liquid inside the bottle.

"Did anyone else make it out?"

James almost dropped the canteen, remembering everything:

He swallowed hard. Had there been anyone else? Had some of the footsteps he'd heard that day come from others fleeing to safety? Had the sickly bright, twisting corridors of the Garrison hidden the survivors from him? Or had those people just been another group of scared cadets staring down the eyes of the enemy in the hope that maybe, just maybe they would be spared?

"I," James began, but couldn't immediately bring himself to say more, as if that single letter had swiped the air from his lungs. "I don't know. Maybe a few people. If they did, I didn't see them."

"Did anything seem weird before you left? Smells, aliens?"

"It smelled like a bunch of dead bodies." James said without emotion. "I didn't see anyone else on the way out. Alive, anyway."

Keith was oddly silent after he responded.

"Keith?" James asked.

"There was smoke coming from the Garrison when I left. I passed by, but I couldn't get any closer. You must have made it out just before they came back."

The color drained from James's face.

"Oh."

"I wanted to go in there and see if anyone was left, but when I tried to get closer, I couldn't. Too many aliens guarding it." Keith bit his lip. "My dad would have found a way to get in there."

"What makes you think that?"

"He was a firefighter. He would have found it. He always did." His breath hitched. "He just didn't always find a way back out."

In all the years he had known Keith, it was the first time he'd ever mentioned what happened to his father. James placed his hand on top of Keith's and squeezed as if he were trying to wring the guilt from his body. Keith flipped his hand and gripped his in turn.

"I'm sorry about your dad."

"It's okay," Keith said. "At least I had Shiro after. Until-"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

"Kerberos."

"Yeah. Kerberos." The word rolled off his tongue like venom. Keith got up and went over to their backpacks, pulling out a couple of cans of vegetables and a fork. "You have anything to eat with?"

"Front pouch."

He retrieved the other utensil and brought the cans back over popping the lids in. James peered inside; viny string beans were caked to the inside of the cylinder. Biting back a gag, he scooped a few up and put them in his mouth, chewing slowly. Keith waited until he'd eaten about half of his can.

"I think...I think those aliens killed Shiro."

He threw the fork on the table.

The next few days passed in a haze of sleep and lethargy, the exhaustion of the past week finally catching up to James. Keith closed himself off, often disappearing for long rides on his hoverbike. When he was in the house, he barely said a word outside of inquiring about James's basic needs. Oddly enough, it reminded him of their middle school days, back when Keith refused to speak to anyone in class unless he had to. The only thing that had changed were the stakes.

When he wasn't resting, James busied himself in what little ways he could. He didn't open Keith's notebooks, but he would flip through the reference books scattered around the place, and managed to finish two thick reference books on physics-related phenomena. The routine brought with it an inkling of normalcy. It made him miss school, made him miss pulling all-nighters with Ina and the coffee maker she'd smuggled into the dormitories.

More happy memories had started to pop up. He could think of his home again, could remember the made-for-TV movies his mom would have blaring on the living room screen and his father quietly reading the news on his tablet.

The memories would end just as quickly as they started, and his heart would twinge with sadness as he'd remember where he was, why he was there.

Keith spoke to him on the third night, clanging his fork against the inside of a can of corn. He peered inside and groaned, abandoning the food on the table and flopping against the back of the couch. James peered at him with a questioning look on his face.

"I can't eat this anymore," Keith announced.

"Take some jerky?"

"Too chewy."

"What do you want, then?"

Keith rolled his gaze in his direction, desperation etched into his features.

"A burger."

"Don't say that. Now I want one, too."

"The apocalypse sucks."

Looking back, neither of them would remember who laughed first, only that it was one, then the other, each bellowing louder with each second as the days, no, years of tension between them melted away.

"What do you think about heading back to town," James said. "Find some place that still has some power on and see if they have any meat hiding in the freezer."

"Let's do it."

Keith picked up his canteen like it was a glass of whiskey. James followed suit, clanging his own bottle against it and taking a large gulp. As he drank, something dawned on him, and his smile faded as he set the bottle back on the table.

"What's wrong?" Keith asked.

"Just-" James breathed. "What happens now?"

"We take the days as they come. Some of them will be better than others. We look for other survivors. We stay alive."

"No matter what it takes?"

The burden of that phrase dropped between them like a corpse. Keith clenched his hands and blinked, resolve flashing over his expression as he finally spoke.

"No matter what."

They traveled back to town a few days later for supplies. Neither had any luck finding a restaurant with working electricity, but they did manage to find a month's stock of food with more variety than they'd been consuming as of late.

Some days will be better than others, James repeated to himself after they rode back to the shack and unloaded their supplies, filling up the entire table. After taking inventory, they plucked two cans of vegetables from the stack, a box of saltines, and a jar of peanut butter they stumbled upon.

"I didn't know I could love peanut butter so much," James said as he spread it on.

"Same," Keith responded, covering his mouth to keep himself from spitting out cracker crumbs. "It was all dad used to make me for lunch. I got sick of it after a while. Then, he died, and I couldn't find the brand he used for a long time. I started missing it. This is the one he used to get."

He smiled as he munched on another saltine, blissful.

"Someone at the Garrison was obsessed with peanut butter," James remarked. "I think he joined after you-"

James cut himself off when he realized that Keith had stiffened, his attention focused on a whirring noise beyond the walls of the shack. An aerial cruiser. It had stopped just outside the door.

"Fuck," Keith whispered, hand moving to the hilt of his knife. "I think they followed us."

James crawled to his bag and slid his own knife out of its pouch. The creature slunk past the window, the top of its head cut off by the frame. Keith shivered as it thumped on the door.

James took one look at him and uttered, "No matter what."

"No matter-"

The door fell off its frame, revealing an alien with a long, angular face and horns. Both boys leapt into action, running to either side of the shack. It charged after James, wrapping a hand around his neck and slamming him onto the floor, the knife falling just out of his reach. James's vision went black as Keith pounced on it, shouting as he dug his knife into its neck. The creature sputtered and fell to the floor, the earth shaking beneath them as they tried to pull the weapon out. Keith grunted as he tugged it out, blood gushing from the wound like one of those neon ice-cream push-ups he used to eat during his grade school summer breaks. James rolled over and coughed, a hand on the tender flesh of his neck.

With glazed eyes, Keith pulled James to his feet and dragged him over to their things, yelling that they had to get out. Behind them, the creature thrashed in pain. The more it moved, the more jerky Keith's movements became and the louder he screamed. James threw a few extra cans of food into his bag, covered his weapon, and grabbed the blanket off the couch. Suddenly, the room fell silent.

The creature had stopped moving.

Keith stood over the body gasping, tears streaming down his face. His arms hung limply t his sides, dangling the knife between his fingers. James wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

"Come on, Keith. We need to go. Before more find us."

Keith nodded and picked up his bag, wiping his face.

Keith sat at the entrance to the cave they found nearby, his knife listlessly balancing between his middle finger and the ground. Smears of blood still danced along the blade, brown and crusty in the sun. Dirt sprayed out as he spun the weapon with one of his free fingers. He hadn't said a word since they'd left the shack.

James's stomach twisted as he sifted through their bags, towering over the kingdom of food inside: a few cans of vegetables, a couple of bags of jerky, some bottles of water. Wouldn't last either of them long, let alone both. He took one of the packets of jerky and tore the seal open without fervor, wrinkling his nose as the scent of pepper wafted from the open bag. Shook it once, twice, scoping out the bigger and smaller pieces.

He wasn't particularly hungry, but knew he had to eat something. He plucked out a few of the little chunks and popped them into his mouth one-by-one, chewing them slowly as he stared at his water, willing himself not to take a gulp until he had swallowed his food. His jaw wore out before long. Torn jerky still floating on his tongue, he cracked open a bottle, allowing himself a handful of sips before grabbed the blanket and joined Keith at the front, setting the jerky down and wrapping the blanket around Keith's shoulders.

James pulled Keith to his chest, squeezing him tightly and offering him the bag.

"Not hungry," he muttered.

"I know," he said softly. "But you should still eat something."

Keith rolled his eyes, slid a hand inside, and pulled out one of the strips, holding it to his lips. He nibbled on it here, only biting into it when it became apparent that the piece was close to breaking. The knife continued spinning.

"They trained us for stuff like this," James rambled. "You were protecting us."

"But it still feels shitty."

"I know," James said. "I know."

"Now what?" Keith asked, gulping down another round of tears.

James closed his eyes and thought hard.

"We take the days as they come. Some of them will be better than others. We look for other survivors. We stay alive. And," he added, pressing his lips to the back of Keith's head. "We'll be okay."