Back in Ogunquit, Harold and Fran had spent more time at the gun-range. They were becoming passable shots. Not marksmen, but... they were getting better. They understood the basics of reloading, how to clear jams, how to brace for the recoil. They had spoken about the meaning of their shared dreams. The topic of the man with no face was among the central core of such.
"Do you believe in the Devil, Harold?" She asked, looking down the sights of her rifle at a target. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM.
"I mean, maybe. There are a few schools of thought about that. Whether the concept of Satan is some metaphor for the human condition, that constant battle between good and evil, or if there's... some outside force. Some corrupting influence that preys on the weak, and the weary. I believe in the concept of evil itself." He said back, doing his best to ensure a clean grouping on his own target. Inhale, pull the trigger while slowly exhaling... He managed to score a headshot at fifty feet that time. Three in the torso, and one in the shoulder area of the target paper.
"What if it's real?" She pondered. She switched to her pistol, and fired at a closer target.
"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Harold replied.
"When we head to the CDC... what if they're dead too?" She asked him.
"Then we head to where the dreams told us to go." He suggested.
"And if there's nothing there?" Fran asked.
"There have to be people somewhere." Part of him, the old part of him, wanted to tell her there were none left. They were the last two people on Earth. Adam and Eve, brought together by the strands of fate itself. He squashed such thoughts like a roach.
"We've got to catch a break somewhere, Frannie. Somewhere, there will be people. Now, if they're like us, or if we're running into nutjobs, either way, we have to prepare." Harold said.
"When do we go to the CDC?" She asked. Harold sighed and thought about it for a moment.
"In a week. We still need to prepare." He replied.
"But... the longer we wait, the more those bodies will rot. If we're headed for Georgia, we're going to have more than the flu to worry about. All sorts of disease."
Harold looked back at her. "You're right. But we still need to learn the basics of this sort of thing." He intentionally jammed a cartridge in his weapon, and passed it to her.
"Unjam it." He asked her. She struggled briefly with the charging handle, and cast it out like a bad tooth.
"I'm not as stupid as you think I am." She replied.
"I never thought you were stupid. I've been reading these manuals for years, even before this thing started." Harold said.
"Why?" Fran asked, with an armor piercing demeanor.
"Because... Well, I thought the collapse would happen sooner. Just didn't think it would happen like this." He looked away, trying not to think of everyone who had tormented him in highschool. He sighed, trying to avoid elaborating. It was time to go back to the house.
Again, strange dreams.
Elsewhere in New York City, a one-hit wonder lay face down in his own vomit. His throat felt like fire. Why wouldn't it? After all, he had just chugged a fifth of rum. His head felt bleary, fuzzy. He took a couple pills and a line of coke. He heard someone approaching. He readied his pistol.
"Hey... You're that guy, right!" Said one of those approaching.
"I'm... I'm nobody." He slurred.
"Nah, man, you're Larry-fucking-Underwood!" Shouted one.
"So what if I am?" He asked.
"Look at this place, man. Ain't no other rockstars alive here." The man was in a business suit, but didn't look the part, not exactly. Surrounding him were three other guys, each holding rifles.
"I'm Jacob. These here are my colleagues Doug, Newell, and Steve. You can put the gun down, by the way. We don't mean you no harm." He explained.
"Why are you carrying those guns for then?" Larry asked.
"Well, I've always been of the mindset that it's better to have it and not need it, then to need it and not have it. Listen, man, you're a legend in my mind, atleast. We don't need to have some Mexican standoff moment here." Jake stated, taking a drag on his cigarette. He looked at Larry curiously.
"You been having the dreams too, Larry?" He inquired.
"I haven't slept in three days." Underwood replied.
"You must be on some good shit then, but... it's complicated, what's to come. You might want to lay off that shit." Jacob replied back, looking at a telephone pole.