The rest of the evening went by in a blur. Ford managed to convince the remaining agents that the whole ordeal was a meteor shower, and managed to get all documentation of the case handed over. Honestly, the US government was about as clueless as it was in the Reagan administration.

Right after they left, Stan came out of hiding and immediately began gathering up the corpses and dragging them to the Bottomless Pit. Soos came out and helped, having made sure the plumbing was working, and assuring once again that there was nothing he wouldn't do for the Pines family.

Ford surveyed numbly, unable to bring himself to move after what he'd witnessed. He especially couldn't bring himself to go back into the house. He just sat on the porch, staring at his shaking hands that were wringing themselves bloodless in his lap, trying to find SOME way of comprehending all of this. His brother fixed the portal. His brother brought him back. His brother was an undead…THING…

…and he was watching Stanley dispose of dead bodies.

If he hadn't checked the dimensional coordinates, he would swear this was the wrong dimension. But no. It was Dimension 46'\. His home. His brother.

….his blood-stained home and brother.

The sun had set by the time Stanley came back, sans the other man—Soos, was it? He swallowed hard, forcing his hands to stay away from the guns within his reach. "Where…where's the…other one?" he managed to ask.

Stan looked up, and Ford felt his stomach lurch when he saw Stan's eyes practically glowing the same color as the moonlight. "He went home," Stan said, walking past Ford and opening the door. "…You coming in?"

As badly as Ford wanted to say 'no', he couldn't exactly stay out all night. Rumbling of distant thunder of an incoming storm cinched his decision. He stood up and walked inside after Stan, clenching his hands tightly when he saw the splatters and smears of blood on the floor.

"That's going to be a hassle to clean," Stan muttered. "And they had to smash out the windows too, the bastards…" He peeled off his jacket and shirt, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a garbage bag to stuff them inside.

Stan's blasé actions were just making Ford even more nervous. "…What happened to you?" Ford found himself saying, his legs feeling like they were going numb. Stan paused, glancing over his shoulder at his twin.

"…Not exactly the way I wanted you to find out," he replied. "I would've been more than happy if you never found out." He tossed the bag into a corner of the kitchen and grabbed a dishcloth, soaking it. "I would've preferred it if SOOS never found out. Never been more grateful for a guy to be THAT dedicated to me." He walked over to the kitchen table, sitting down and gesturing for Ford to join him.

Ford hesitated before gingerly sitting down across from Stan, his guard up high and tensed. They sat in silent for a good long while before Stan let out a sigh and began wiping the blood off his face with the damp dishtowel.

"I don't know why the hell I'm like this," Stan said, his voice tight. "Soos got bitten by those zombie idiots too, and he turned out fine." He began wiping off his hands. "Bad enough the kids had to go through getting rid of the zombies and curing me and Soos…then they had see…" He growled, making Ford's hair stand on end. Stan calmed down, closing his eyes tightly. "It's getting late," he said, tossing the dishtowel in the sink. "Take a shower if you want, I'm gonna clean up the gift shop."

He pushed off from the table and stood up. "…We'll talk tomorrow," he added. "Don't interrogate the kids, they've been through enough." He left the kitchen, heading to the back of the house, leaving Ford alone at the kitchen table.

Ford didn't know how long he sat there, but movement near the door snapped him back onto high alert. He looked up, expecting to see an undead monster, but instead saw a small form peeking around the doorframe at him.

Dipper edged around the doorframe, his eyes wide with both wonder at seeing his idolized author, but also with caution, hardly blinking at all. It was a disturbing mix that made Ford feel a little uncomfortable.

"…hello," Ford said, keeping his hands on the table as a show that he was unarmed and safe to approach. Dipper edged in further, taking his hands from around his back, showing he was holding Journal 3. "…oh. May I?" He held his hand out for it. Dipper chewed his lip, then opened the journal to the back where blank pages used to be, handing it to Ford.

"…it's not perfect," Dipper said quietly. "It's just what I observed…I wrote what I could down, but…I don't understand most of it." His expression turned sober. "…I think Mabel understands more than I do…but I doubt she'll talk to you about it. She's…" He wrung his hands tightly. "…she's protective of him."

Ford looked over Dipper's writing, seeing a mix of neat sentences and panicked annotations, feeling a coldness in his stomach when he saw a few drops of what he was sure to be blood. "…Thank you," he said, swallowing hard. "I'll…do what I can."

"….just be careful," Dipper said, his skin pale and eyes almost haunted. "…Grunkle Stan's not the one you should worry about if you accidentally hurt him." He turned and headed back upstairs.

Ford felt a shudder go down his spine. This wasn't normal, even by Gravity Falls standards. No boy should have that haunted look on his face. No girl should be so comfortable hugging a bloody zombified relative.

And his brother should NOT be some kind of semi-living dead monstrosity!

Not wanting to face Stanley or the mess in the gift shop, Ford instead went upstairs to the bathroom for that shower.

Things were still quiet after the shower, and he was a bit unnerved when he found a pile of clean clothing outside the bathroom door when he was finished. A maroon sweater, dark grey slacks, and, to his surprise, one of his old jackets, still in fine condition for it being thirty years old.

He tugged on the clothing, finding the pants were a bit loose, but that was remedied with a belt. He latched his gun holster to his thigh and tugged on the jacket to cover the gun, gathering up his dirty clothes and creeping out the bathroom.

Even in his own house, he still felt like a creep trying to keep quiet. He crept downstairs and around the foyer, finding his old spare room was tidied and clean, save for a rolled-up blue carpet leaning against the wall. He shut the door behind him, looking around before sitting down on the couch and opening the journal again, reading through his nephew's writing.

The cure for zombification comes with restrictions.

The first is time. The sooner you treat the infected, the more effective the treatment will be. It is best to treat the affected within the first twenty-four hours to maximize effectiveness and minimize pain.

The second appears to be age. A child or twenty-something will have no problem responding to treatment. However, an older adult over the age of fifty will suffer some…side-effects.

Ford frowned, glancing over the bulletined list of 'side-effects'.

**Stronger, more agile, pain from old age seems to be gone.

**Doesn't seem to sleep, just zones out sometimes.

**Eats more meat, drinks less soda.

Here, the writing became more shaky, written in a different pen, on a different day.

Ate a rabbit. He just…ate a rabbit. Caught it and ate it. Tore right into it. Blood everywhere. Hid it from Mabel.

Heard him eat something else tonight. Something bigger. It screamed. Mabel ran out to make sure he was alright. She hasn't spoken. Please be okay, please please…

The writing next to the splotches of blood came next.

Construction guy got drunk on the job. Started mouthing off. Mabel told him to not act like that to Grunkle Stan. Guy looked like he was raising a hand to hit her.

Oh god…oh god…oh god…oh god…so much blood…he just snapped…

Tore the man apart. Right in front of us. Started

—here something was scribbled out hastily—

HE ATE HIM. HE ATE THE GUY. HE ATE HIM.

Tried to pull Mabel away. She jerked away. Ran to Stan. Hugged him and cried. Begged him to stop.

He stopped.

—more scribbling, taking up almost a whole paragraph—

He's so calm when we're around him. But mostly Mabel. Whenever he looks ready to snap again, Mabel hugs him.

('Magic Mabel Hugs'. She told me to write that in.)

It's not magic. It's not right. He's a monster.

Oh god.

What have I done.

Ford's hands shook so hard he dropped the journal, staring at it on the floor. What the actual hell did he just read?

His head jerked up when he heard footsteps outside the door. He snatched the journal up with one hand, the other going to the gun on his thigh holster. The footsteps paused in front of the door for a few moments before heading off. Only then, did Ford finally breathe. He waited a few minutes more before hurrying over and locking the door.

He was sure he wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.