It was a tired duo that made its way back to the sheriff's office, and to be honest, all I wanted was a nice hot shower to wash away the gunk that I had accumulated within the last few hours. Unfortunately, the survivors of Kingsmouth had no such luxuries to spare, so instead of washing myself, I settled for ensuring that my Beretta was positively gleaming.

Priscilla was attending to the wounded inside the sheriff's office with Sheriff Bannerman's husband, the local doctor, so I was alone as I walked over to the section of the compound devoted to repairing the survivors' equipment with a case full of cleaning supplies in hand. It wasn't much to look at: just a bunch of scattered workbenches and folding tables littered with tools of all kinds, though there was a motorcycle parked at the center of the area. Being a teenage boy, I couldn't help but try and get a closer look at it.

It was a jet black chopper, the kind that you'd expect to find roaring down the highway to Hell while being ridden by a rugged, badass Hell's Angel decked out in several layers of biker leather and attitude. The sound of an unfamiliar voice nearby then shook me out of my thoughts. It definitely belonged to an older man somewhere in his thirties and forties, and it was gruff, yet kind. "That's damn good coffee, Andy. You sure know how to make a man happy."

"Why thanks, Sandy. All I did was fill her with water and change the filter, but I appreciate it." Deputy Andy said as I looked to see him standing with a muscular man dressed in a black leather jacket and blue motorcycle jeans. The new guy had somewhat long brown hair and an awesome goatee that was on par with Chuck Norris's, and in his hand was a white styrofoam cup, its contents letting off steam that rose lazily up into the air.

"The offer still stands, Andy." The man, Sandy, said as he sipped his coffee. "When this is all over, you're welcome to hop on the back of my bike and go explore the open road together."

"Ah, geez, thanks." Deputy Andy said as he scratched the back of his head with the hand not holding his coffee "I'm sure it'd be fun, but I couldn't leave this town or Sheriff Helen. It'd just feel wrong."

"Well I respect that about you." Sandy said. "You're a good man, and any woman would be lucky to have you."

Deputy Andy blushed a bright shade of pink at that, and he scratched the back of his head again. It seemed to be a nervous tic of his. "Well, uh, there hasn't been any… But that doesn't mean I, uh, I… Ah, geez, I'm sorry."

"Relax, my friend. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Sandy said as he reached out with his free hand and patted the deputy on the shoulder. All the while, I thought to myself how amazing it was how life could just go on, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. The idea of two dudes serenely taking time out of their day to have a cup of coffee, even while in the middle of a supernatural disaster, seemed too dissonant with the world around them to be true, but oddly enough, the thought gave me a small bit of comfort — hell, maybe a tiny little piece of hope.

Sandy then caught sight of me from out of the corner of his eye, and both he and Deputy Andy turned to look towards me with curiosity. "Well hey, look who's back. Cuppa Joe?"

"No thank you. I don't really like coffee." I said as I patted the Beretta beneath my left armpit and lifted my case full of cleaning supplies up for them to see. "I'm just here to clean my weapon."

"Of course." Deputy Andy said, gesturing towards me with his styrofoam cup. "Proper sidearm maintenance is real important when it comes to making sure your gun works right, Helen always said. Well, guess I better leave you two alone so you can get back to work."

"Alright. Thanks for the coffee, Andy." Sandy said as Deputy Andy nodded as turned to leave with his own cup of coffee in hand. As the deputy left, the biker then turned around to face me, extending his free hand. "Don't believe we've met before. Name's Sandy Jansen, but most people just call me Moose. What's your name?"

"Chase Mercer." I answered as I shook Sandy-now-Moose's hand, which had a grip strong enough to rival a reinforced Priscilla's. After we had made our introductions, I set up shop at the workbench next to Moose's and began field-stripping my pistol. The work came as easily to me as cooking, and it was almost as comforting as I went through the motions of cleaning and lubricating the individual parts with gun oil. "So what's a guy like you doing all the way out here."

"I could ask you the same thing." Moose remarked as he tinkered with the odds and ends scattered around his workspace. There was a mortar and pestle filled with some kind of powder, along with a few pipes and wires. "But anyway, back in my old life, I always wondered what was around the corner I didn't take, down the road I didn't go. That's how I ended up here, up to my elbows in machine grease, rigging bombs."

Moose chuckled as he saw my face go pale and my hands screech to a halt in the middle of scrubbing out the inside of my Beretta's barrel with a brush coated in gun oil. Also, I might've backed away from him just a bit. "Relax, my friend. I've got plenty of experience blowing shit up. I've got a handle on death and the instruments thereof, and no desire to see the infinite darkness claim any of us quite yet. These mechanical servants of the reaper will stay still and silent till I'm good and ready to push the button."

"Glad to hear it." I said somewhat nervously as I refocused all of my attention on cleaning my gun. Perhaps if I didn't think about what was being made right next to me, they wouldn't accidentally go off and ruin what was shaping up to be a lousy day. Using the brush to push a patch of flannel into the barrel, I then pulled it out to see that it was still oily. I would repeat this process until the patch emerged, free of any oily residue that might interfere with shooting.

"Traveling the big country's taught me everything from bull riding to bonsai, enough to cause a man to lose his appetite for destruction, but circumstances require us to yield to the greater good — even when that greater good isn't all that pretty." Moose remarked as he began pouring some explosive mixture into a short length of steel water pipe, which had one end covered by a brass cap. "Road here said I'd be pitching in with soft-shell lobster season. Instead, I found nightmare country, maybe the very rotten heartland of it, but I'm philosophizing."

"So you came here for the lobsters, and stayed to help the survivors of a zombie apocalypse. Ouch." I remarked as I squeezed out a few drops of gun oil around the key parts of my Beretta's slide: the ambidextrous thumb safety, the firing pin, etc. "Must've been quite a shock, to see the zeds moaning and groaning up and down the streets."

Moose simply grunted noncommittally as his big hands and fingers moved with surprising grace around his WMDs. "Andy and Helen — Deputy Gardener and Sheriff Bannerman — they're the reason I stayed behind when I could've just gone. I know the secret roads, I know how to ride out of here, through places the fog can't touch, but folks like them, and like the rest of the survivors here in Kingsmouth, deserve better."

"They do." I agreed, suddenly feeling awkward with the knowledge that I could up and leave at any time through the portal back to Agartha. It just didn't feel right, that I had a way out of here while these people didn't. The fact of even having a home to go back to made it seem as though my part to play in this situation was less significant. "Everyone who's been through something like this does."

Moose seemed to sense my growing turmoil. "I'm not putting you on the spot here, friend. I know you got other places to be, other wars to fight, which is why it's doubly important I stay behind. There's an honesty and an innocence to these people, and they genuinely know and care about one another. Of course, I can't claim total selflessness. My heart's gone soft for Andy, and even if he'll never feel the same way for me, as long as this heart's beating, I won't let any harm come to him."

"I see…" I said simply as my thoughts drifted while lubricating the spring. It's not like I have anything against the LGBT community. In fact, one of the few people I actually talked to back in middle school was a bisexual transgender male named Nick, née Nicole. He's an amazing artist, and we first struck up a conversation back in eighth grade when I noticed one of his drawings, and from there, I learned that he liked manga, boys that looked more like girls, and manga with boys that looked more like girls. While we hadn't been all that close, it was enough to eliminate any prejudices I might've inherited from my mom, who was raised in a Christian household. I digress, however. In a conspiratorial voice, I asked Moose, "So… you have any idea what's going on around here?"

Moose nodded as he finished pouring the explosive mixture into the pipe and put on another brass cap on the open end. "Living on the razor's edge of society your eyes open up to the possibility that there's something more to this world, something most people are too blind or too preoccupied to notice, even if it's right under their noses, and has been all along.

"I only noticed small things at first. Roads that appeared and disappeared. Folks who travelled by way of gates drawn in chalk on brick walls. Houses bigger on the inside than the outside. Magic trinkets sold at yard sales. Street shamans capable of taking out the cancer inside you. But it wasn't until I found myself face to face with werewolves in New Orleans that I realized there's a secret war going on. After that, I couldn't escape it. I saw signs and sigils everywhere. I've met recruiters for the Templars, Illuminati and the Dragon. They all seem to think I'd make a useful operative."

"So… Did you take any of them up on their offers?" I asked hesitantly as I wiped my pistol's frame clean with the brush. "Me, I got snatched up by the Templars almost as soon as the fire started coming out of my fingertips."

Moose shook his head. "I tell them I take no sides, and that I'd be little use to them. But the 'united against darkness' thing, I can get behind. We're all in this together… and we all got work to do, which brings us right back around to blowing up dead guys."

"Alright, so now that we've got the subject of the secret world out into the open, what do you think of this fog?" I asked as I spared a glance from my cleaning to look up at Fletcher Bay. It had been hard to notice when I first arrived with Priscilla, but now that the light of the sun shone over Kingsmouth, I could see it plain as day (pun intended): smoky with a blue tinge to it, and a chill that made me feel little difference between me and the walking dead shambling outside the barricades.

"Traveling the open country, you learn to be prepared for whatever the land throws your way. Faced with the elements, you gain a new appreciation and respect for nature, and you come to accept how small and insignificant you truly are. Nature is neither good, or evil." Moose said with a nonchalant shrug. "Just is."

Moose's voice then turned into a low growl as he took a trip down memory lane. "But there was nothing natural about the storm that rolled in on Solomon Island, or the fog that followed. There was evil in that fog, whispering to everyone in its path. The townsfolk followed the fog back into the sea, as if possessed. It was Deputy Gardener – Andy – that saved my life. He grabbed hold of me when the fog got into my head, tied a rope around us both, kept walkin' the other way. It was like the whispers didn't get to him. When I finally got my wits back, the fog had rolled back out again to where it is now. We shook hands, and we started lookin' for survivors and building this fortress. That man saved my life, selflessly, and I love him for it. I'd go to the ends of the world and back for Andy… I don't think I'll ever win him over though."

"Don't think like that." I spoke up. "Deputy Andy seems like an open-minded guy. It wouldn't hurt to try, and besides, even if he does turn you down, he doesn't strike me as the type of guy who'd think any less of you for it. So go ahead and go for it!"

"Heh. Thanks for the encouragement, Chase." Moose said with a grin, which I acknowledged with a nod of my head as I refocused on my weapon.

We continued working in companionable silence. It was nice, having someone other than Priscilla who knew just what forces were at play here. As I finished cleaning my pistol, a thought popped up in my mind, one that neither my mom nor Priscilla would've approved of, and it elaborated itself as I put my handgun back together with a few quick snaps. "Say, think you can teach me how to make bombs? I think my arsenal needs more to it than just 9mm pistol cartridges and magic fireballs."

"Sure." Moose said easily as he put the finishing touches on his pipe bomb, much to my surprise. That had been a lot easier than I had expected. "If my hunch is right — and they usually are — you're gonna need it, where you're going. Come here and I'll show you."

So began The Art of BOOM 101 with Professor Jansen, where I learned recipes for explosives straight out of The Anarchist's Cookbook and Terrorism for Dummies. Propane, diesel, ball bearings, and oddly enough, kitty litter and orange juice all went into the manufacturing of the mechanical servants of Death. Mines, Molotov cocktails, empty glass bottles filled with propane or shrapnel, pipe bombs, IEDs, homemade napalm, you name it. If Mom were to have seen me right now, she would've fainted at the idea of her little boy turning into a terrorist-in-training or into a pile of dead meat from a bomb prematurely detonating.

"So you really think these will do the trick?" I asked nervously as I looked down at our finished products. Sure, I was pretty good with my hands, but a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon was a lot different than a pipe bomb filled with shrapnel and black powder.

"Relax. You did a fine job with these instruments of death." Moose said reassuringly as he patted me on the back with hand callused from long hours spent working on all kinds of things. "Y'know, back before I found the open road, I made my living as a financial analyst on Wall Street."

"Really?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. I hadn't taken Moose to be an economics kind of guy. Then again, I really shouldn't be so surprised, considering that I've just heard more wisdom come out of this man's mouth within the last hour than I've ever heard from my own in almost sixteen years of life. "Sounds interesting."

Moose shrugged. "Oh, it was, but it just wasn't the life for me. However, it did teach me some important things about numbers and statistics. With enough trial, and plenty of error, I've been able to gauge the effects of my weapons of mass destruction. Now, from what I can tell, no one shoe fits all, and depending on the tools, different screws turn at different speeds. I've noticed that the draug have a tolerance for fire and heat, which makes sense, given their aquatic origins, but like us and the walking dead, they're easily brought down by shrapnel."

"I see…" I remarked as I brought my fist up against my palm and bowed towards him, a small smile crawling up the corners of my mouth for the first time in what seemed like ages. "Thank you for instructing me in the art of blowing stuff up, Moose-sensei."

"It was an honor to have taught you the ways of kaboom, young grasshopper." Moose said, taking my joke into stride as he copied my pose. Snatching up four of the pipe bombs with built-in, button-activated detonators that allowed them to function as improvised grenades, I put them inside the really big inside pockets of my jacket so that I could have them on hand later.

"Chase!" A familiar voice said, and I turned around to see Priscilla coming up towards us, duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She smelled like blood and medicine, though her face had her trademark Colgate smile lighting it up. I envied her for being able to stay positive during times like these. "I just got back from helping Dr. Bannerman with the last patient in the sheriff's office. Ready to go check out the leads in town?"

"You bet." I said with a nod. As Priscilla turned around to leave, I raised a hand towards Moose in farewell, a gesture which he returned as I hurried to follow Priscilla out of the compound.

"Good luck out there, my young friend. You're going to need it…"

My God. What was I thinking (or drinking or smoking or whatever) when I decided to give bombs to innocent little Chase? Am I turning him into a badass? A Gary Stu? A menace to society? A danger to himself? Please help! If you want to see what Chase's new pipe bombs look like, just look at Homura's from Puella Magi Madoka Magica. Go on the Internet Movie Firearms Database.

The Nick mentioned in this story is actually heavily based off someone I know in real life. Amazing artist, though he could stand to learn how to draw other things besides pretty people of indeterminable gender. Then again, I'm no Leonardo da Vinci myself. Anyway, shout-out to Nick.

Also, I think Moose is just awesome. I mean, a gay, kindhearted, badass biker with a background in finance who manages to find time to quote Robert Frost and Herodotus when not blowing stuff up? And that's not even getting into the stuff we didn't see him do in his backstory. This guy is the trope Crazy Awesome incarnate if it ever existed. Also, thanks to Space Viking-senpai for noticing me and posting the one and only review of this story so far. Ciao-ciao.