Morning came quietly, without urgency.
The sun sat low on the horizon, a pale disc pressing gently against the sky, its light stretched thin across the pavement. The air was cool enough to make breath visible for a moment before it disappeared, and the street outside the coffee house was nearly empty, save for the occasional car rolling past, drivers half-awake and unbothered.
The café was small, family-owned and nestled next to a grocery store. It was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in a decade. The trio had just finished picking up some last-minute essentials and filled their cooler for the upcoming trip. Everything was ready.
Now they gathered at the café waiting for the rest of the group in Memo’s truck.
Tony sat at a small metal table outside the café, both hands wrapped around a paper cup, letting the warmth seep into his palms. The Jeep was parked a few yards away, already loaded and waiting. The coolers were strapped down, duffels were wedged in tight, everything packed with the same care Tony applied to gear before a mission. Even at rest, the vehicle looked prepared.
Michael slouched in the chair across from him, sunglasses pushed up into his long hair, coffee untouched on the table. He looked rested, loose, and comfortable in his own skin. It struck Tony, again, how different his brother felt from the man he himself had become.
Hutch stood nearby, shoulder resting against the brick wall, one boot crossed over the other. He didn’t sit. He rarely did when they stopped somewhere unfamiliar. He scanned the street absently, sipping his coffee in slow, measured pulls.
“I can’t remember the last time I was up this early,” Michael said.
Tony smiled. “You usually sleep till ten. This is what 8am looks like.”
“Not always,” Michael protested, grinning. “I took an early lab once for chemistry.”
Hutch glanced over. “Don’t worry, Michael. You’re pretty normal. Unlike your psychopath for a brother over there. Did you know he wakes up at 4am to go workout?”
Still smiling, Tony offered. “The gym is less crowded.”
Hutch shook his head, unconvinced.
Michael grinned. “He’s right, brother. 4am is crazy.”
They laughed. It was easy, genuine laughter. The kind that came from familiarity and relief, not obligation.
The low rumble of an engine cut through the moment. Memo’s Ford F-150 rolled into view, suspension dipping slightly under the weight of its load. The bed was stacked high with gear: tents, coolers, folding chairs, plastic bins of supplies, and bundles of firewood lashed down with ratchet straps.
Vic rode in the backseat, one arm draped over a cooler, baseball cap pulled low. Memo pulled the truck into the curb and cut the engine, stepping out with a satisfied look.
JoeJoe leaned out the passenger window, already animated. “Morning, gentlemen!”
Tony assessed the load. “Jeez, Memo. Are you moving, or camping?”
Memo shrugged. “You know me. I always roll prepared.”
JoeJoe slapped the side of the truck. “We’re ready for anything.”
They split into vehicles. Tony leading in the Jeep with Michael and Hutch, Memo following in the truck with JoeJoe and Vic. Engines turned over, doors slammed, and the small convoy rolled out, merging onto the highway as the sun climbed higher.
After a while, the city began to thin, giving way to open stretches of road and rolling terrain. Music played softly through the Jeep’s speakers. Michael talked about school, about a professor who took himself far too seriously.
For a while, nothing felt heavy.
They passed a sign advertising an upcoming grand opening for a shopping center. Brand name gear at outlet prices. Opening day in a month. Too bad, Tony thought as they passed the large, fenced-in construction site. It would have been nice to stop in and check out some new camping gear.
The highway became a two-lane road that winded into the mountains. The air was cooler and every breath felt fresh.
By the time the small town appeared ahead, hunger had crept up on all of them. Built around the lake and mountains, the small town thrived in ski season. Off-season, it was quieter but still drew hikers and campers.
The tavern sat at the far edge of town like it had always belonged there. Weathered wood siding and a hand-painted sign swayed slightly in the breeze. A few pickup trucks were parked out front, dust coating their tires.
The Jeep and F-150 parked near each other in the nearly empty parking lot. The men piled out, hungry and excited. The mountain air was brisk but not cold. Energy was high.
Michael held up his phone. “Anyone else getting any reception here? I haven’t gotten anything since we pulled off the highway.”
A chorus of negatives followed as each person checked their phone and realized they had no service.
Vic grinned. “That’s why the locals love it here.”
Memo patted Michael’s back, “I bet that’s why your friends haven’t called you. They’re up there camping and enjoying the outdoors and none of their phones have a signal.”
Michael nodded with a smile, somewhat convinced. “You’re probably right.”
Tony pointed to a dirt road that disappeared beyond a thick row of trees. “The campground is about a mile or two up that road. Your friends are probably still up there. We’ll head up after we eat.”
Inside, the temperature was warm. The air smelled like fried food, beer, and old wood soaked with years of spilled drinks. The lighting was low and warm, casting everything in amber tones. A jukebox hummed in the corner, playing something classic and unhurried. The place felt lived-in. Safe.
A local couple sat at the near side of the bar, quietly sharing a moment together. Three middle-aged men sat at the other end of the bar watching golf on the TV behind the bar. At the back of the bar, four frat bros were playing pool and cracking jokes.
The group took over a long table in the center of the seating area, chairs scraping softly against the floor. Cold beer arrived quickly, followed by plates of burgers, wings, and fries. The food tasted better than it had any right to.
Conversation flowed easily.
Tony listened more than he spoke at first, smiling at familiar jokes, filling in gaps when asked. He talked about work when pressed but kept it light.
When Vic quietly leaned over and asked how he was really doing, Tony answered honestly, simply.
“Good,” he said. “Better. Thank you.”
That seemed to satisfy them.
That’s when the girls came in.
Three of them. They entered the bar laughing, mid-conversation, the kind of ease that came from long familiarity. Chelsey drew attention without trying. There was something effortless about her: jet black hair, bright blue eyes, confident posture, a smile that felt genuine rather than practiced. Veronica followed, more reserved, observant. Jackie trailed behind, pausing at the bar to say something to the bartender that made him laugh.
Everyone in the bar noticed when they walked in. The girls surveyed the room and locked eyes with the group.
“Hey boys.” Chelsey said above the music. She met Michael’s gaze with a confidence Tony had never seen before and a smile to match. “Mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Memo said quickly. Introductions happened naturally.
The girls were roommates and had been friends since middle school. That history showed in the way they moved together, finished each other’s sentences, shared glances that needed no words.
After a couple of rounds of drinks, the groups blended without effort.
Chelsey slid into the chair beside Michael without asking if it was taken.
“You look like you just stepped out of a Hollister poster,” she said quietly. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Michael laughed and shook his head. “Nope. No girlfriend. Just an absentee brother and lots of friends.” He opened his hands to indicate the group.
Chelsey smiled. “You look like the fun one. I need fun. I spend most of my time yelling at people to tighten their cores.”
Michael blinked. “What?”
She smiled. “Pilates instructor.”
Michael asked follow-up questions. He showed genuine interest in her. He laughed at her jokes naturally. Tony watched them and felt something in his chest relax. He couldn’t remember that last time Michael smiled like this.
Veronica gravitated toward Hutch, curious but cautious. She didn’t jump into conversation. She waited.
After a few minutes, she asked quietly: “What’s the worst injury you’ve seen?”
Hutch glanced at her. “You want the real answer?”
“I left nursing school,” she said. “Couldn’t decide if I was strong enough. So yes, the real answer, please.”
Hutch didn’t hesitate. He told her. Not pretty, but honest. She listened carefully, asking questions that showed she understood the weight of what he was saying.
Tony noticed the way Hutch’s usual reserve softened around her. Not much. Just enough.
Jackie and JoeJoe bonded over sarcasm and academia. Both funny and intelligent. Their conversation was easy. They made each other laugh without trying.
Jackie reached for a pitcher and began refilling glasses before anyone else did. “I’ll pour ‘em but don’t ask me to clean up after you!”
That made JoeJoe laugh.
The bar hummed around them. Music playing low, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling. Time slowed down.
They learned the girls were headed to a nearby cabin. It was Chelsey’s uncle’s place just up the trail from the campground. The cabin sat high on the mountain behind the town, on a clearing overlooking the valley.
“You guys should come by later,” Chelsey said, casual but sincere. “We’ll have drinks and play oversized jenga!”
Michael didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. That sounds great.”
Then the music stopped. Abruptly.
The bartender reached up and turned the television volume up. Conversations softened, then stalled. Heads turned.
BREAKING NEWS flashed across the screen.
Reports of unrest. Rioting. Los Angeles. New York City. Video showed crowds pushing against police lines. Sirens wailing.
The female newscaster’s voice tightened as she spoke.
“…authorities across multiple states are responding to escalating violence. The governor has officially activated the National Guard…”
Tony felt the shift immediately.
He glanced at Hutch. Hutch was already looking at him.
The broadcast cut to a field reporter. He was helmeted and looked terrified. He stood in front of a police barricade, shouting over sirens.
Behind him, someone fell.
The crowd surged.
The cameraman yelled and the camera shook.
A man tackled the reporter to the pavement and bit him. Bit him.
The reporter screamed.
The camera jerked sideways. Something red splashed across the lens before the feed cut to static.
Then the studio.
“Oh my God!” The lady at the other end of the bar cried out. Her male companion hugged her.
“Was that blood?” One of the men in the bar asked, shocked. His voice an octave higher than he realized.
The anchor stared into the camera, pale, visibly shaken.
“…we are trying to confirm what you just saw…”
Silence wrapped around the bar like a held breath.
Tony’s stomach tightened.
“This isn’t just unrest,” Hutch said quietly.
Tony nodded once.
The TV screen showed a map of the United States. Red X’s marked every reported incident. The X’s were scattered at first, then clustering along the coasts. When the camera zoomed to Los Angeles, the X’s formed a dense constellation.
The newscaster went on to urge anyone within the “danger zone” to stay indoors.
Michael stared at the screen, brow furrowed, jaw tight. Around them, voices began to rise. Questions, murmurs, confusion hardening into something sharper.
According to the TV map, they were already within the danger zone.