The safe house was actually spacious, Francis observed as he leaned against a water heater. Most of them were so small you could spit and hit everyone in the room. There had obviously been a small pack of survivors living here before them; a couple of padded sleeping bags lay rolled against the corner and the floor was littered with food wrappers and ammunition shells. He wished that he had a cigarette, but Bill was vehemently opposed to sharing his favorite brand of smokes.

"My sister-in-law griped to me for years about smoking", Bill had once told him as he lit up, "Said that they would be the death of me. I say fuck it – lung cancer is the least of my worries now."

And now that he thought about it, Francis had never seen their self-proclaimed leader without a cigarette between his lips. Even now as the old codger talked to Zoey he had a burning stick expertly pushed to one side.

Francis frowned as he watched the old veteran and the lazy college would-be-dropout chat comfortably by the heavy steel door, as though there wasn't a zombie apocalypse waiting on the other side. He didn't like how buddy-buddy the two had become during the past few days. He hated secret alliances.

Francis groaned and dragged his hand down his rugged face. Like stroking the tread of a fresh tire. He glanced over to where Louis, the most productive member of their happy family, was taking inventory. To his surprise, the clean cut man was also smoking a small Marlboro stub.

"I didn't know you smoke, Dark Meat."

Louis turned, looking surprised then angry. "Did you just call me dark meat?"

"Don't get pissy. Can you give me a drag?"

"I'll give you a broken jaw if you call me that again."

Francis actually grinned. That was Louis; his friendly face and monkey suit made him look like the gentlest person on Earth – and usually was – but the man had a mean streak to match his own. He remembered at the Riverside church when Louis threatened to break down the safe room door and beat the coward inside to death if any of them were killed. Threats are empty of course, but Francis knew from the frenzied look in Louis' eyes that he would make good on his claim. Not many men could do that.

"Alright", Francis said, throwing his hands up in the universal 'I surrender' pose, "Alright, sorry. Call me White Meat and we'll be even."

"I don't make prejudicial, derogatory comments like that." Louis snapped with a hint of superiority.

"That's a lot of fancy words. Can I have a drag?"

Louis walked over, removed the cigarette from his lips as though he were actually going to pass it, then exhaled a plume of smoke right into the biker's face. Francis managed to hack out a curse as he choked and flipped the smaller man off as he walked away smiling. He coughed for a few seconds, clearing the smoke from his lungs, and noticed a pair of eyes watching him. Bill and Zoey stared, then quietly resumed their own conversation.

Frowning, Francis stood and made his way over to Louis. The dark eyes didn't glance up to meet him. "I'm not giving you a smoke. Go hit Bill up for one."

"I tried", Francis replied, "He's not putting out."

Louis raised one eyebrow, but still didn't look at him. "For a nice guy like you? I'm surprised."

"Whatever. Besides…" He leaned in close, noticing that Louis leaned away from him an inch. "I don't think he'd be interested in talking to me, seeing as how I'm not Zoey."

Louis finally glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"You don't notice how friendly they've become? It doesn't worry you?"

"They're getting to know each other." Louis shrugged. "It's called common courtesy."

"It's called covering your asses." The other man frowned, but remained quite. "You think if things go South they're gonna stay and fight it out with us? I bet they're up there right now planning a back up."

"You're paranoid", Louis scowled.

Now it was Francis' turn to shrug. "Maybe. But think about it. Bill is old as fuck. He can't keep up with the rest of us; he's gonna get worn out. And Zoey? Yeah, she's independent and feminist and all that shit, but she still needs someone to make her feel safe, someone to lean on. And who's that gonna be? You? The Dark Meat Junior Analyst Electronic store working whatever the hell you are? She's too well bred for that."

"Hey!"

"Or me", Francis continued, ignoring the flushed rage on Louis' face, "The ner-do-well outlaw. Bill is old, yeah, but he's experienced and when he gets tired from this zombie bullshit and Zoey starts whispering about holing up somewhere and having little grizzly war vet brats I bet he changes his tune pretty damn fast."

"You're demonizing Zoey", Louis growled, "And Bill is the most dedicated man I have ever seen. He lives to fight. He didn't abandon his troops in Vietnam, and he won't do it now."

"Fuck 'Nam! You think shootin' Charlies holds a candle to shootin' zombies?"

"You know what I think? I think you're jealous because the only woman in a 100 mile radius isn't interested in you."

Francis huffed. "Jealous? Boy, I've gotten more pussy then I care to. If I never get it with a woman again it'll be too soon."

Louis flushed, but not from anger. His eyes quickly returned to the shell casings on the table. "Oh! I didn't…I wouldn't of….So you're..?"

"A cocksucker?"

"I was going to say homosexual."

"Say it however you want." Francis spoke coolly, as though he were discussing the weather. "What about you?"

Louis was looking less black and more Indian by the minute. "No! No...ugh, I'm straight."

Francis rolled his eyes. Great, an ancient war vet, a whore for horror, and a closeted business lackey.

"And I still think you're wrong." Louis whispered with less conviction in his voice.

"Maybe I am", Francis relented, "Maybe I'm a coldhearted bastard and Zoey's a virgin and the government just developed a cure for this fucking disease." He leaned close again. Louis didn't move away. "My point is, if or when shit hits the fan we gotta stick together. Cause I'll cut off my dick and call myself Lindsay Lohan before I let anyone fuck with my chances of surviving. How about you?"

"Sans the castration…Yeah. So what do we do?"

"Nothing." Louis looked confused. "We don't act, we don't speak, we don't even think about this. Like you said I could be wrong."

"You are wrong."

"But if I'm right, we don't fall apart. We don't sit in a corner and bawl like some fucking Witch. We say 'Fuck you', gather our gear and look out for ourselves, together. Either we both survive, or we shoot each other in the head with our last two bullets. Deal?"

Francis extended his hand. Louis gazed at it as though he were holding a cobra. "Well…desperate times, right?"

Francis nodded. "Damn straight."

Louis regarded him carefully, and then slowly his gloved hand. Francis couldn't help but notice that his palms were smooth and callous free. Spoiled fucker.

A few minutes later, after they had both returned to their respective corners Bill announced that it was time to move out. Francis shouldered his shotgun, grabbing ammo and a scavenged pipe bomb. He reached back to double check that that his pain pills were still in his back pocket, and felt something small wedged next to the plastic bottle. Curious, he pulled it out.

In his palm lay a fresh Marlboro.

Francis glared up at Louis who had a grin that reached his eyes. Instead of barking out his default curse, or making a derogatory comment, he simply brought the cigarette up between his lips.

Desperate times, indeed.