Ron was still afraid of the gun, Rumplestiltskin thought. What did he think, that there was a demon lurking in it that would take possession of him if he gave it a chance and send him off slaughtering everything in sight?

Rumplestiltskin had seen several lovely toys that could do just that to the fools that let them –he had several of them safely stored away at home – and he could have told Ron the gun was guaranteed free of evil influences.

No, any killing Ron did with it would be his own responsibility.

Still, Rumplestiltskin had committed himself to teaching this man some survival skills.

That's why he was heading for the island.

It had the remains of an old, stone house on it. Rumple supposed it was a pity no one had still lived there when this plague had broken out. They'd probably have been safe. With a source of fresh water and fish in the river, they'd probably have been able to hole up and wait for the infected to start dying off – which they would, and soon. What the disease gave in altering the metabolism, increasing the body's ability to draw on its own reserves and to maintain higher levels of energy on less food and resources, it took in other ways. They would last a while yet, but most were already past the point of no return, vital organs damaged, toxins accumulating. In a few weeks, the dying would start.

But the island was deserted and the house had been abandoned for decades. If there had been anyone here, they'd fled earl on.

"Do you see that island?" Gold called to Ron. "We're heading there."

Ron stiffened. Land, after all, was more dangerous than water. "Why?"

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to feed you to anything. You just need a place to practice target shooting."

The island had a long, rocky beach. Beyond that, it had a thick growth of trees (the ruined house was well hidden behind them). Anything could be hiding there. "How do you know it's safe?"

"I've been there before, since the plague broke out. No one lived there, and anyone with a boat to get them to the island must have decided to keep going for the sea. It's safe enough."

Ron didn't look convinced, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

There wasn't a dock. Rumplestiltskin dropped anchor a few yards from the island's shore. It was getting on towards lunchtime – past it, really. Ron had slept much longer than he'd realized. Rumplestiltskin decided to feed them first. He kept it simple, finding cans of stew to heat over the stove, adding bread and some fruit , pears and rose hips (the rose hips, if Ron only knew it, were from a bush growing in his own yard). He calculated how many days it would be before it would be too improbable for him to have fresh fruit without stopping somewhere for more. Moss needed the vitamins, after all.

Of course, there was always the canned stuff these people ate, though canned fruits were cooked almost to the point of tastelessness. Perhaps he should take the time to "discover" some fruit trees on the island, though he shouldn't let it interfere with his other plans.

A large bowl of stew had its expected effect on five year old Moss – helped on only slightly by a spell. He sent the boy to his bunk for a nap. Best not to have him underfoot, after all, with the shooting Ron would have to do.

For what Rumplestiltskin had planned, it would be safer to leave the boat out in the river. That meant finding the right way to get to shore. Personally, he didn't see anything wrong with swimming. It was a sunny day and the water was much warmer than it had been the night before. Ron wouldn't freeze. But it would make it awkward carrying the guns. Boats this size didn't have lifeboats of their own, normally, though Rumplestiltskin had thought of adding one anyway the night before – Ron wouldn't know it hadn't been there all along – but he'd decided against it.

A nice, inflatable raft, that was reasonable enough, the kind that could automatically inflate itself when the right cord was pulled, stored quite sensibly in a locker on deck along with oars, life vests, and other equipment. If Ron had any suspicions (and, looking at his eyes, he did) he kept them to himself.

Rumplestiltskin found a large piece of driftwood once they were on shore and carved a bull's-eye into it (with a pocket knife, he didn't care to dull the edge of his long knives). Then, after a few instructions, he stepped aside and let Ron get to it while he took a walk in the woods.

It didn't take him long to find the small house. It had been bombed some seventy or so years ago, probably during that last war of theirs. Yet, it had the feel of an accident. Rumplestiltskin thought the bomber had likely been trying to hit a ship or a military target.

He thought about pointing that out to Ron, later, a lesson in the importance of good aim.

Well, the way things were likely to go, he doubted he'd have a chance to mention that to him.

He stretched out his senses to the three sleeping in the house.

Sleep didn't come naturally to them, not anymore. If they'd had any capacity for gratitude, Rumplestiltskin might have told them they owed him for this little space of rest, a small respite from the endless aggression and anger.

Well, they couldn't understand the concept anymore and, given the use Rumplestiltskin had for them, he supposed it wasn't much of a debt.

A little tug at the spell he'd placed on them, and they woke up.

It was interesting to watch them. They looked around with the same, groggy disorientation an uninfected human would have had. Then, their eyes narrowed, the hunger seeping back into them.

They could hear Ron's gun.

They began moving swiftly through the trees.

Silently, suppressing the urge to giggle, Rumplestiltskin followed after them.

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They moved soundlessly through the forest.

As they came closer, they could smell the man, a scent of sweat and weariness with lingering hints of fear.

They knew the scent of fear. What little mind any of them had left remembered how thick that smell was in the air when they fed.

They smelled each other, too. But, that smell was wrong. It was like rotting meat. It repelled them. They would not attack it. They would not eat it.

But, it would not drive them away, either.

They reached the edge of the trees. They saw the man. They smelled his blood.

The man was holding his gun pointed down at the ground. He looked up and saw them.

He froze. The scent of fear went from being stale and old to being fresh and blossoming.

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Ron saw them just as they were coming out of the trees while he was trying to reload the gun. He didn't know why he looked up. He must have heard something, a twig breaking, a tumble of loose stones, but all he could remember was the cold chill that had touched him.

It seemed as though he stood there forever, just watching them.

Then, they began to move.

Their lips peeled back in grins – not a predator's barred fangs. Grins.

They looked almost human.

They came rushing at him.

He'd seen them attacking before. Weeks ago, when it all began. Days ago, when it ended.

It still surprised him, how they moved like men.

His fingers, without his realizing it, finished snapping the bullets into place.

He raised the gun.

These bullets go in, Gold had said, They hurt the target. Nice and solid."

He shot. He saw red blossom on the infected's chest. It didn't slow down.

The infected were impervious to pain. They ignored injuries that would have stopped a normal human. The only way to stop them was to stop them.

He fired again. And again. A stream of bullets.

The first one fell. Finally.

He turned his gun on the second. There were only a few feet between them.

Aim, he though desperately. Get it right the first time.

Because there wasn't going to be a second.

He shot it in the eye. It jerked back but didn't fall. He shot again. The chest. Upper left. Hoping he hit the heart.

It went down.

He turned to the third –

As it closed the distance between them, grabbing at his wrist, jerking the gun aside (it went off, missing, Ron heard the sound of the bullet hitting wood).

He tore his arm free, bringing it up and hitting the creature under the chin before it could bite him. He tried to aim the gun at it, but it threw itself against Ron, knocking him down onto the rocks, its full weight against him.

It was still smiling, but the smile widened. He could see the spit along the corners of its mouth, felt a drop against his cheek as the creature hungrily lunged in –

And was jerked back.

It was pulled off Ron. He had a brief vision of it flying off him. It might have been nothing more than a rag doll.

He saw the gray-gold, black clawed hands holding the creature by its head. Heard Gold's giggle – high pitched and less human than them – as he twisted the creature's head. Ron heard its neck snap.

Gold tossed it aside. "Hold still," he said to Ron, covering the distance between them in a single leap.

Ron's brain told him to get up and run, but his body wouldn't respond.

Gold knelt beside him, pulling out a handkerchief and wiped his cheek where the creature's spit had dripped on him.

"There," Gold said. "All better," and giggled again. He pulled out a match and striking it alight against his thumb. Then, he lit the handkerchief with it. "I suppose that will make you happier than if I just send it out to be laundered, won't it?"

"You – you said there weren't any of them here."

"No, I don't think I did. I said no one lived here and no one had stopped here once the outbreak started. Oh, and that it was quite safe."

Ron was shaking as he tried to pull himself up. "This was not safe."

Gold opened his eyes wide, mock amazement written all over his face as he reached out and hauled Ron off the ground. "Whatever do you mean? You're alive, aren't you? You killed two of them, didn't you? And I had plenty of time to get to the last one, didn't I? I told you those lessons would help. Although, you need to try harder. Ten seconds. You held them off for ten seconds. I told you, try for fifteen."

"You – you knew they were here."

"I should hope so, dearie. I'm the one who brought them."

Ron stared at him. "Brought –?"

"Hmm, you know, you have the same look some of them do, as though parts of your brain are closing down. Yes, brought. How else do you think they got here?"

"That –" the simple impossibility of that statement – when had he brought them? And how? – didn't seem to matter. Gold meant what he was saying. And Ron believed him. And that was all it took for the rest of it to fall into place. "That's why you left Moss on the boat. Why you left it anchored out there instead of coming closer to shore. You meant for them to attack me."

"There, you see? You can figure these things out. Given enough time. And help. And obvious hints –"

Which was when Ron had had enough. With a madness that had nothing to do with plagues, he threw himself at Gold.