Author's Note: This story was set as an English assignment and therefore closely follows Steinbeck's style of writing. The original version is much shorter, so this is the extended version. Some elements and phrases have been incorporated into this AU, so do not be surprised to see certain phrases pop up.

Reviews are much appreciated. If you would like to provide constructive criticism, I would very much appreciate it as it is one of first few attempts I've made at copying an author's style and writing a story using it.

Disclaimer: Of Mice and Men does not belong to me and I hold no claim to it. Other than the plot-line of this story, I own nothing.

Chapter 1

A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River hangs low, close to the dirt path and the hillside bank; it no longer runs deep and green, but shallow and grey. The water is cold and murky, a sliver of orange sunlight peeked through the clouds. One side of the river is derelict rubble; a jagged cliff that once proudly presented the strong Galiban Mountains; which have been reduced to stone and sand. On top of it, a rusted machine stood; dark and out of place.

Two men emerged from the dirt path. They walked side by side, and in the open they would survey their surroundings.

Both were dressed in torn denim trousers and in blood-congealed trench coats. Both carried burlap sacks slung over their shoulders – an assortment of weapons of different varieties was in the bags. The man on the right was short in stature and nimble. His eyes darted across the river and the path – restless. His companion was large with a heavy walk and had sloped shoulders; he dragged his feet as he walked, the way a bear drags his paws.

The short man turned around the bend in the path cautiously, his companion followed suit. The first man held out a hand to inform his partner to back away and draw out a weapon.

"Lennie, I don't want no nonsense this time 'round. Jus' attack when I tell ya to." The young man whispered; his voice was raspy, as though his throat had been dry for quite some time.

"'Kay, I won't. Ah promise, George." Lennie, quiet as a mouse, removed the shotgun from the sack as he carefully chose his words.

"Good." George poked his head out around the corner, quickly ducked and gave a thumbs-up sign: the coast was clear but they had to be cautious.

The road merged with another – just as barren, derelict and desolate as the first. The branches of dead trees rustled and quivered in the cool breeze that enveloped the two men.

Lennie's shoulders stiffened, his hands twitched and his knuckles turned white with anticipation. The rifle was slung over his right shoulder in the event of conflict, should the need arise. Lennie studied George's actions; the steady walk; the intense, beady blue-eyed gaze; the itching hand on gun. He opened his mouth as if to speak but shut it again.

George noticed this and asked his companion:

"Hey, Len, why'd ya do that?"

Lennie's puzzled expression greeted him. "Do what?"

"Nothin', ya jus' seem funny...kinda odd."

"Well," Lennie looked ahead, his charcoal-grey eyes glimmered in the dim light; a tiny fragment of hope in this decayed and ruined world. "…we are the only survivors."

George nodded in agreement. "I guess so…" He stopped short at a clearing in the woods. He cocked his shotgun and set his jaw. "Hey, d'ya wanna bet that that house over there's empty?"

Lennie leaned forward. "Ya never know, do ya, George?"

George shook his head and headed in the direction of the building.

The bunkhouse was a long, rectangular building. It housed two floors and was in seemingly good condition on the outside. Inside, the walls were peeling with plaster and there were cracks in the whitewash, the floor was unpainted and the boards had been hinged open. Three walls had windows; they were boarded up and blocked the few remains of dusk setting behind the sun. In the fourth wall was a solid mahogany door with a metal latch.

The latch was raised. The door opened and a short, broad shouldered man walked in, George, and trailing behind him was Lennie.

"So, I guess we'll stay the night here. I'll take watch first." George said as he observed the area around him.

Lennie had placed their items in one of the rooms upstairs and left George two guns and a flashlight to help him up the stairs, the destroyed bannister and the rotting steps proved dangerous, and more importantly, to take watch.

Silence greeted them – a sound they were still adjusting to after years of human contact and loud, drunk men on Friday evenings at the farm they worked at. So much had happened in the past six months.

The orange sun disappeared behind the clouds and the cold stars came out. Outside, the incessant rustling of branches shook, and twigs snapped in response.

The floorboards creaked in the near pitch-black darkness.