A/N: Dearest Reader, I think we can all agree I'm a complete ass for not updating this story in forever, and I'm sorry. I have no excuse. Well, I do, but I know you don't wanna hear it(or read it, if we're being technical).

Anyway, I did some revision to the last three chapters. Nothing plot-drastic, just added a few things here and took out some things there, fixed the typos and inconsistencies I could find. And gosh, there were a lot. I'm surprised you didn't notice, Dearest Reader. Or did you, and you were just sitting back, pointing and laughing at me? You were, weren't you? Well, that's okay. I still love you.

Michael

It was surreal, watching the members of his family get a feel for the pistols he'd put in their innocent, clean hands—something Michael thought he would never have to do as long as he lived. But he wasn't going to pretend like he could protect them from it, what was inevitable. He'd experienced the threat outside, and it was unlike anything he had ever faced, a nightmare made real. They would, sooner or later, have to kill to survive. He could and would do everything in his power to keep his family safe and from having to go down that road, but, realistically, he knew there may come a time when all his power wouldn't be enough. They needed to be prepared for it; they needed the tools to protect themselves and each other.

Amanda and Tracey weren't any more thrilled about it than he was, if the looks on their faces were any indication. They held and stared at their guns as if they were live bombs.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was downright ecstatic, pointing his pistol out in front of him and shutting one eye as he looked down the weapon's sights, grinning from ear to ear. "Fuck yeah! Those crazy motherfuckers don't stand a chance with Dangerous J packing heat! Head shots for days, bitches!" Laughing, he aimed the gun at a wall and squeezed the trigger. It gave a dry, hollow click.

Michael was glad he'd had the presence of mind to give them unloaded guns.

Face contorted in angry disapproval, he reached out and snatched the pistol from Jimmy's overeager hand. "Lesson one, Jim: don't ever point a gun unless you're planning on squeezing the trigger, and the only fucking time you squeeze that trigger is when it's life or death, you or them. You understand me? This ain't one of your fucking video games—you ain't getting points for taking them out. You're getting to live to see another day."

Jimmy glared at him and Michael glared right back as a heavy, awkward silence fell over the room.

Somewhere outside came the distant, muffled din of gunfire; perhaps some poor soul's last ditch effort for survival.

"Michael..." spoke Amanda, frowning at her husband.

He faced her with a stern look. "I ain't gonna sugar coat the truth, Mandy. I know what's out there, what those people are capable of. They're a fucking nightmare—worse than a nightmare." He pointed a finger at his son. "He needs to understand what that means, that it ain't a game. There's a real fucking threat and his actions are gonna have consequences."

"Yeah, thanks, Pop, for the 'fatherly' guidance," Jimmy snapped. "Despite what you think, I'm not a fucking idiot, okay? I was down in that basement too; I heard the same shit you did. I know there's a threat and this ain't a fucking game!"

Michael sighed. "Jim, I love you, I really do, but take it from your old man. Until you're faced with life or death, until you see the life go out of another human being's eyes, you don't know shit."

"And you know all about that, don't you, Dad?" Bitter anger and contempt oozed out of Jimmy's voice, matching the expression on his face. "Like on a psychotic fucking level."

Michael was unmoved by the biting accusation, mostly because it was true. "Yeah, exactly; I know what I'm talking about. So, why don't you can the fucking attitude and listen to me for a change, and maybe we'll all get through this in one piece. Sound good? Great."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, there was no further sass from Jimmy De Smartass. He looked down at the unloaded pistol in Michael's hand and said with a softer, compliant tone, "Can I have the gun back now, or am I, like, forbidden to use one now?"

Michael was hesitant at first, then remembered why he'd armed them all in the first place and held the gun out to him. When Jimmy reached for it, he drew it back and gave his son a stern, business-like look. "No bullshit, James."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "I heard you the first time. Fuck, I get it, okay?"

"Good." Michael placed the gun in his son's hand and hoped to God he had heard him. "All right, time to go over the basics..."

The whole process of explaining how to use a gun and its features took a good forty minutes and all of Michael's patience. Amanda and Jimmy showed promise, catching on quick. It was Tracey who worried him, as she struggled with even the simplest aspects. She was going to be one of those people who needed a lot of practice before they were any good. The only problem was there was no time for practice. They couldn't stay in the house much longer. If a pack of those lunatics out there decided to come inside, there were no doors to keep them out. They would be forced to kill them, and the sound of the gunfire would likely draw more.

He would just have to keep an eye on Tracey at all times and keep her close, until he was sure she could handle herself.

"The guns are a last resort," Michael explained. "Those people out there..." He paused and looked around for Franklin. The younger man stood in the adjoining kitchen, stuffing a backpack Michael had given him earlier with whatever food and supplies he could find. Lamar wasn't far away, feeding his Rottweiler. "Hey, Frank, c'mere a sec."

Franklin zipped up the pack and stepped over the piles of debris that littered the floor. "What's up?"

"I need your voice," Michael said, causing confusion to spread across Franklin's face. "I mean, what we saw out there earlier...I know what I saw, but I just need the extra confirmation, so they understand what we're up against. Make it real for them; tell them everything you and Lamar witnessed coming through the city, in graphic detail."

Franklin hesitated, looking at Michael's family and then at Michael. He leaned over and lowered his voice, "Are you sure, man? You think it's wise to scare the shit out of them right now?"

"I'd rather they have the shit scared out of them now than have the shit scared out of them when we're out there. I mean, they're going to be scared regardless, but if they know exactly what to expect, the fear won't be half as bad as it would be if they didn't know."

Franklin seemed to consider this, then nodded his head. "Yeah, a'ight, man. I get you."

Michael clapped him on a shoulder. "Thanks."

While Franklin explained to the rest of the De Santa clan what was waiting for them outside, Michael stood back and lit himself a much needed cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, watching the foul smoke curl up toward the destroyed ceiling. The young man didn't mince words as he told Amanda, Jimmy and Tracey how those monsters in human flesh literally tore through the army and overcame a tank, how the soldiers manning the other tanks somehow, for some bizarre and ungodly reason, turned on each other; how he saw a fighter jet screaming over the city suddenly change course and fly itself into the Maze Bank building; how the monsters were feeding on the blood of their victims and roamed the streets in groups, like packs of predatorial wolves.

By the time he was done, Amanda was pale as paper, Jimmy's mouth hung open in wordless shock, his eyes so wide they almost took up his face, and Tracey was bawling. She jumped up from where she'd been sitting on the dusty and littered couch and ran to her father through the fragments of their broken home. Her arms whipped around Michael's midsection with a strength that belied her petite size, leaving him winded and stunned as she cried in his shirt. It was the first time she'd hugged him in years.

"I don't wanna go out there, Daddy!" she wailed. "We can't go out there! We'll fucking die!"

Michael patted her back soothingly. "We don't got a choice, Trace. We can't stay here." He pulled her back by the shoulders, looking down into her wet, red, scrunched up face. He was struck by how much she looked like the little girl who used to come crying to him when she scraped a knee, on those occasions when he'd actually been around and not out robbing banks and raising hell. "We're gonna be fine, all right? No one's gonna die." He couldn't know that anymore than the rest of them could. He was merely trying to keep her calm and her spirits up.

Of course, Tracey saw right through him. She had inherited that distinctive(and annoying) X-ray vision from her mother. "You don't know that!"

Michael sighed. "You're right, I don't, but I'm gonna do everything I fucking can to make sure we're all safe. Everything. I promise."

"What about all my friends?" Tracey sniffled. Her eyes widened. "And Roger! Oh, my God, I totally forgot about Roger! We have to find them, Daddy, all of them! We can take them out of the city with us!"

"Tracey, sweetheart," Michael said with barely conserved patience. "I'm sure they're fine." He wasn't sure and honestly didn't care if they were or not. In all likelihood they were dead or had gone crazy like everyone else, and even if they hadn't, there was no way they could help them. It was too much of a risk. He wouldn't tell her that, of course, as he didn't have the heart to break hers. "They've probably gotten out of the city and went north to Paleto Bay or somewhere, where it's safe."

"How do you know it's safe?" Amanda spoke up. "How do you know what happened here hasn't happened up north too?"

Michael shot her a stormy look over their daughter's blond head. Why couldn't she just be on his side, back him up, for once, for the sake of their own children? Did she despise him that much? "Assuming this is some kind of terrorist attack, why the fuck would they bother with smaller towns?"

"Man, I don't think they would," Franklin added his two cents. "I mean, when you hear about all those terrorist attacks on the news, it's always some big city and like government buildings or spots where a lot of people gather. They just want a high body count, do as much damage they can."

Michael spread his hands out before him and said, "Thank you."

"Assuming it was terrorists," Amanda argued.

"What the fuck else could it be?"

"Zombie apocalypse," Lamar chimed in as he knelt down and scrubbed behind Chop's ears.

"Man, shut up with that zombie shit," Franklin shot at him, irritated. "Nothin' can raise the dead, fool. And even if something could, none of them motherfuckers out there are corpses; they ain't decayed and shit."

Lamar straightened up and gave his friend a serious look. "Nigga, ain't you ever heard of voodoo? Them voodoo priests know them black magic spells, be chantin' and sprinklin' them herbs on dead bodies and shit. Raisin' motherfuckers right outta they motherfuckin' coffin." He stuck his arms straight out in front of him, letting his hands hang at the wrists, and pretended to shamble around. "Be like 'Gimme yo' brains, motherfucker. This zombie nigga hungry for yo' brains.'"

"Oh, for the love of..." Michael groaned, pressing a hand against his face as his son keeled over laughing.

Franklin rolled his eyes and shook his head at his friend's antics. "You done lost your motherfuckin' mind, nigga."

"Look, we can worry about the why and the how later," said Michael, "when we've gotten far away from this hellhole. So let's focus on that. Like I was saying before, the guns are a last resort; we don't use them unless there's absolutely no other choice." He looked at each person in the room, wearing a serious, no-nonsense expression. "Out there, our best friend is stealth. Long as we don't draw their attention, we're golden."

"Stealth?" Amanda asked, putting on a dubious look. "That means we're leaving on foot? With all those cannibal murderers out there? On foot, Michael?"

"Yes, Amanda, on foot, as opposed to driving a car through the littered streets and taking the risk of stalling out or getting a flat tire when those lunatics are around. They overwhelmed a fucking tank, what do you think they're gonna do to a car? And like I just said, we don't wanna draw attention to ourselves."

Amanda folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. "It's too dangerous. There has to be another way."

"I wouldn't have suggested this way if there was another alternative. It'll be fine, Mandy. We just need to make it to the Hills." He gestured at the young man standing at his right. "Franklin thinks that's the safest route out, and I think he's right. It's less populated; just houses, no businesses. This shit started during the day, when most people were out at work, shopping, whatever. If the homeowners have gone nuts, most of them are probably out in the city somewhere. All they wanna do is kill; seems like that's their only purpose now. They ain't gonna return to their homes."

That didn't mean they weren't going to come across any of them in the Vinewood Hills, however. It was just less risky than the rest of city; it was their best way out, probably their only way out.

"Once we make it to the Hills," Michael finished, "we might be able to go the rest of the way by car."

"And if we're able to make it out of the city," Amanda said. "What then? Where do we go?"

"We already went over this. Our best option is Paleto Bay. I don't think these maniacs have moved out of the city, and even if they have, they can't have reached that far north yet. Fort Zancudo is on the way, so we can try it too. Maybe the army turned the base into a safe zone for survivors."

"But we don't know if what happened here also happened in Paleto Bay or at Fort Zancudo," she pointed out. "Or anywhere else in San Andreas, for that matter."

Michael shrugged. "If it ain't safe, then we'll move on. We'll hole up on top of Mount Chiliad if that's what it fucking takes." He checked his watch. "All right, it's half past one, so we need to get a move on if we wanna get out of this nightmare before dark. We are not, and I repeat, are not gonna be caught outside when the sun goes down. It's gonna be dangerous enough in the daylight."

"Man, even if we do," Lamar spoke up from across the debris-laden room, "we can just take over one of them rich motherfucker's mansions for the night. Ain't like they gonna need it."

"Assuming no one's home. And if someone is, they could be armed. This is Los Santos. With all the shit that's happened, the normal people are gonna be on edge and they sure as fuck ain't gonna be trusting."

"You were," Franklin pointed out.

"By circumstance, not by choice. Only time'll tell if that's gonna come back to bite me in the ass."

"Didn't come back to bite yo' ass when we was gettin' them guns. You realize me and Lamar coulda just taken them and left you on that roof to fend for yo'self, right?"

"The chunky nigga got a point, dog," Lamar said.

Michael supposed he did have a point, but that didn't mean they weren't going to fuck him over in the future. He had nothing against the two men; they seemed like okay guys, but he'd be foolish not to carry around a decent amount of suspicion. The situation they all found themselves in was a desperate one, and if there was anything Michael knew from experience it was that desperate conditions gave birth to desperate people, and desperate people do desperate things, even betray the ones they come to trust, fight alongside, and call friends. Sometimes that was the only out you had, the only escape you could see.

The sun was a hazy globe of fire centered in the sky, veiled by the dark layer of smoke hovering over Los Santos. It made the day seem as if it was cloudy, casting everything in a gloomy, ashen light. The distant bang of gunfire could still be heard from somewhere within the city's bowels and the stubborn, heavy smell of smoke and gasoline still clung to the air. It was abnormally chilly as well for only the second week of November. Los Santos didn't see particularly cold autumns or winters, due in part to the insulating effect of its smog, but this year seemed to be the exception.

Michael thought it was fitting somehow as he stepped down the driveway toward the once gated entry, gripping his firearm of choice, an AK-47. Things were changing, and none of it for the better. And the future now seemed as dark and uncertain as it had before he'd retired from his criminal lifestyle. In that, at least, nothing had changed; his future had always been dark and uncertain.

He lead the group through the open gate and onto the street, his sharp, vigilant eyes inspecting his surroundings, his ears perked for any nearby sounds. Leading was just one of those things that came natural to him. His therapist would've had him believe it was some subconscious need to be in control, one that stemmed back to his abusive childhood. Michael preferred to think of it as a skill. He'd led almost every bank robbery he'd been involved in, and all of them had been successful.

Except one, he thought. But then that particular job, the last one of his criminal career, was meant to go wrong. And boy, did it ever.

He shook his head, inwardly rebuking himself for letting his mind wander. He couldn't afford distractions; too much was riding on him.

Portola Drive, the street on which Michael's ruined home sat, was still as deserted and quiet as it had been earlier in the day. It was eerie not hearing the rumble and chatter of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, or seeing the fancy sports cars zoom by and the people strolling the sidewalks, yammering on their cellphones, on their way to Wherever.

He started up the street, cresting the little hill, Tracey at his heels, his son and wife trailing along behind her. Franklin and Lamar brought up the rear, both armed with assault rifles. Chop walked at Lamar's side, sniffing at the ground, his chain lead wrapped around the man's wrist.

As Michael reached the street corner, he held out a hand to hold everyone back as he checked to make sure the cross street was safe, looking right, then left.

Down the road, there was a pile up of dented and smashed up vehicles. Pebbles of glass and the red shards of broken tail lights were littered all over the street. It appeared to be a massive wreck caused by a dark green Washington that had run into a lamp post. The car sat catercorner on the sidewalk, the steel hood pushed up a little from the front end, making a tent-like shape. The back end was smashed in from a truck that had rear-ended it. The lamp post itself was bent almost in half, leaning precariously over the Washington.

Nothing moved or made a sound, so Michael deemed it safe and motioned the others to follow as he started across the street toward Cottage Park, which was Rockford Hills' little green splotch of nature and recreation.

The plan was to cut across the park, then make their way to Ace Jones Drive, which would take them through and out the western edge of the Vinewood Hills to Richman Glen. From there they would head up Banham Canyon Drive, which would eventually take them to the Great Ocean Highway. The GOH was a straight shot to both Fort Zancudo and Paleto Bay. Michael judged if they moved fast enough and didn't run into any trouble they could make the GOH by sundown. The problem was finding a safe place to stay until morning. They would probably have to rely on the little beachside community of Chumash, hope one of the beach houses there was vacant.

As soon as they reached the other side of the street and started to cross the park, Tracey grabbed hold of her father's sleeve and leaned close, speaking in low tones, "We have to stop, Dad. I gotta...you know, use the little girl's room."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she hadn't gone before they left, then he remembered the roof collapse had blocked off the stairs to the second floor, where the bathroom was.

"Just try to hold it, Trace. We've barely gone fifty feet from the house."

"But I gotta go right now. There's a bathroom just over there." She pointed to a small white building near the eastern edge of the park and started jogging off that way before Michael could further argue. "I won't take long!"

"Tracey!" he hissed in annoyance as he started after her.

Halfway to the building, he checked back over his shoulder to make sure the others were still close. Then he heard a high-pitched scream and his head whipped back around. His body was moving before he even told it to, rushing across the pristine green lawn as his daughter backed away from one of the opened doors along the side of building, her hands clasped over her mouth.

Then he saw the man in the doorway and the blood covering his snarling mouth, running down his chin, staining the front of his blue and white-striped polo shirt. The bulging veins running beneath his skin. His red eyes; Jesus, those unearthly red eyes.

The man moved from the door, fast, his eerie gaze concentrated on Tracey.

Somewhere far back in Michael's mind he was aware of his daughter and wife screaming. At the forefront it was just him, the assault rifle in his hands, and the bastard that meant to kill and feed on his flesh and blood. His sweet, blonde-haired, darling girl who'd once loved to prance around in her princess dresses. No parenting book ever told you about the danger, how it had the power to fuck with your eyes, to make you see your offspring as children even when they're adults. Those books could never prepare you for the paternal rage that took control of mind, body, and spirit. In that moment, Michael was not a man, a husband, or a retired bank robber in the midst of a midlife crisis. He was only a father.

"Get the fuck away from her!" Time and the world slowed to crawl as the AK in his grip rose, called out, and recoiled, the butt jamming back into his shoulder. He knew it was a good shot before he even squeezed the trigger.

The man fell dead at Tracey's feet, a ribbon of blood streaming down between his wide open eyes from the hole in his forehead.

As the world began to move at speed again, Tracey's voice came to the surface of his mind, her screams loud as an air raid siren.

Franklin's frantic shout accompanied it, "Shit, man, we got company!"

Michael looked around, spotted the small group of five maniacs darting fast across the park from the north, snarling and growling like a pack of wild animals. "Try to hold them off!"

Franklin didn't need telling twice, taking aim and firing off a few rounds from his assault rifle. After pushing Chop's chain leash into Jimmy's hands, Lamar joined his friend, shooting insults at the lunatics for every bullet he shot from his rifle.

Meanwhile, Michael hurriedly ushered his family into the park restroom. "Stay put, keep calm." He didn't wait for a response from anyone, grabbing the door and pulling it shut.

He turned just in time to see one of those maniacs advancing in on Lamar's left while the man was mowing down another with his assault rifle. Michael leveled his AK and fired, the bullets tearing through the lunatic's brain in a little spray of blood. The body crumpled to the ground and Michael hurried across the lawn to the two men, panning his rifle toward the next target.

He was momentarily surprised to see a familiar face. Amanda's tennis coach, garbed in his white polo and matching shorts. He couldn't remember his name, and he'd never liked the guy. The asshole was always giving Amanda those looks, those same looks men had given her back when she used to strip for a living. And she, his loving wife, would bask in them and flirt with the bastard, right in front of him. If it had ever gone beyond that, Michael couldn't say for sure, but he was guessing it had. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd strayed. Or the second.

With that in mind, he sneered at the growling, lunatic tennis instructor and squeezed the trigger on his AK, filling his head with lead. "Die, you wife-stealing prick!"

The man's body jerked and toppled to the ground, his life spilling out into the grass.

Michael didn't hesitate, looking around for another maniac to kill, but Franklin took down the last one, a snarling woman in a blue sun dress. When he shot her in the head and she fell, she landed face first in a dead man's crotch. Lamar apparently thought that was hilarious, his laughter rolling across the park.

"Hey, man, we gonna check the street they came from, make sure there ain't more," Franklin said to Michael.

He nodded. "Good idea. I'm gonna check on the wife and kids."

As the two men started off across the park, Michael jogged back to the white building. He announced his presence before he opened the door, not wanting to frighten them more and get shot as a result. When he stepped into the bathroom, he found them standing near one of the opened toilet stalls, Amanda and Jimmy staring into it, their faces grim and pale. His wife had her arms around their daughter, who stood facing away from whatever they were looking at, crying on her mother's shoulder. Even Chop, standing at Jimmy's side, was transfixed by whatever was inside that stall.

Michael's instinct told him something bad was in there.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked as he stepped over to them, gripping his AK by its long frame.

They didn't answer. They didn't need to.

When he peered inside the stall, he saw a corpse sitting on the toilet, reclining against the tiled wall. There wasn't much left of the head and the face. In place of the mouth and nose, there was a gory, ragged, gaping hole. An eye hung out of a socket by its red rope of nerve, dangling there against a bloody, shredded cheek. The person's clothes were soaked in red and a shotgun and a black marker lay on the floor of the stall in a congealed pool of blood, along with a few bloody teeth. The pool had been disturbed, likely by the lunatic that had been in here moments ago; a confusion of bloody footprints tracked all over the bathroom floor. A great splatter of blood and brain and skull fragments painted the wall behind the corpse, as did a harrowing message written in black marker with a shaky, hopeless hand:

The Believers believed and were called fools. They knew the Truth; they warned us this day would come, but no one listened. No one listened. The Government was warned and did nothing. They could've been prepared for this. Now the End is here.

Who are the fools now?