It was quiet. Too quiet. Quiet was usually a good thing, but for this long? It was practically bad luck. Dread was among the many that were sitting still in that darkened space. All of them seemed strangers to a bar of soap, each with dirtied clothes and skin and consciences. They held guns in their hands; guns of every creed and country were strapped and with their safeties turned off. Well, all except one. But he wasn?t in the bundled group in the dark.

Up on top on the rusted metal fire escape was the one without guns. Oh, but he was packing metal. A long sheet of sculpted metal with a curved edge was out of its leather resting place on his thigh, dull edge resting on his shoulder. He sat on the steps, eyes peeled and cigarette between his lips. Smoke billowed out from that tip lazily, ash stacking and loosely attaching to the edge with a dim crumbling threat ever present. His eyes were blue empty pools of strict vigilance. Life was there in the form of awareness. He looked alive.

Even if he didn?t have a gun with him while he kept watch, he still shared that sense of dread. But they knew that noise drew them in. They didn?t want to invite them over, but they did need to emerge to gather supplies. This was rations day. A day in the week where they all split to get supplies. Anybody not back by sundown didn?t get let back in. Call it Curfew, but it was the sure fire way to assure routine. Routine was a demon they all clung to.

Hank the Tank was no exception.

It would be his call that would let them out. Not without his signal would they get out of that dumpster. But he had been searching for about an hour. No movement. No sound. And even if this was an unusual amount of time for it to be peaceful, it didn?t mean it was necessarily a bad thing. Hank was satisfied, and got up, galloping down those rusty metal steps. He stomped on that dumpster?s lid three times with a military grade boot that was once brown. Now, it was a mixture between red and black. He jumped off the dumpster, pacing in a loose circle with a skeptical vigilance. The lid rose, a quartet all climbing out and looking around with that same alertness Hank had.

Two little girls were picked up and passed among two men that were set on the ground. Each held hands of the same man with black bold glasses, blue eyes and black hair on his head. Another man looked a lot like Hank did in facial features, but slightly more aged and wrinkly. Only slightly. Hank upnodded to them over his shoulder and turned around.

?Remember. No later than sundown. Nightfall is when we divide what we got. Girls, remember what Uncle Hank said.?

The twin blondes nodded with sad faces. And then they repeated that command he was referring to in perfect sync, ?Stay with daddy no matter what. Any noise, we let daddy know. And if we get separated, blow the whistle.? Hank managed a tired smile to the girls while he walked over to them, yanking their whistles from under their shirts so they dangled readily. ?Okay, same zones as last time. Just go, get what you?s can find, and get the hell back ?eyah before sundown. Canned goods, non perishables, and vitamins. I?m gonna head to the Hospital the furthest out. See you?s guys tonight.?

The man with two twins had an AK-47 strapped to his back and two nine millimeters strapped to each hip. Each girl was about 8 years old, and had Smith and Wesson M&Ps backpacked to their sides with makeshift straps. And duct tape.

The long older of the men gathered had Glock 19 drawn and a Marlin with lever action strapped to his back. Each of the three brothers had a row of bullets across their chest. Hank gave his guns to his younger brother with the twins. And to the twins. He could handle himself, as he proved over and over when they would be in any brain-eating tiffy where he didn?t fire a single bullet while they all remained safe.

This plan was working. A decent month had gone by with this system. And they were all alive. It was good. As good as it could get. But Hank was browsing for a new safehouse as he went the furthest away. He looked for high rises, and apartment buildings that didn?t have torn walls. But he was proud to have found a decent candidate. He had a red duffle bag with ?PARAMEDIC? printed on it in white. It was filled with hospital food.

Apple sauce, pills, Spaghetti-O?s, beans, ointments and bandages. He stole the juice boxes the most. The girls loved those. They always lit up when he came back with juice. Hank was pretty satisfied with himself. And even wrote down the location of the more civilized place for them all to migrate to in the next week. It was very promising. And today was going so smooth. A few Z?s were cut down on his way there and back, but it went very well.

But he was a little late. Sunset was nearly there, and he was jogging to the dumpster. He even found a Colt Python on the ground with ammo on the way back. He had it in his pocket, handle sticking out like a sore thumb from his dirty jeans. Hank climbed into the dumpster. Lifting the lid and squinting. ?Yo, we don?t gotta be skimpy on stuff like dat! Get me some light!? No answer. But he heard bodies in there. He felt them there. He was too much in a good mood to think much of it. Maybe the twins were asleep. Maybe they all were. He dug into his pocket for a safety flare. He struck it alive as it raged with red vibrancy and held it out.

What he saw had the joy seem a ghost on his face. The two twin girls were holding each other, motionless, eyes closed. But they weren?t moving. They were the first thing he saw, and he came closer to them. ?Girls? Hey, sweethearts. Wake up for Uncle Hank?? He already had a feeling that they couldn?t hear him, but he said it with that tone of weakened denial that had him swallow hard. But two massive arms slammed onto his shoulder while he felt a skull brush against his own.

It was cold, and he smelled bloody breath. He shoved away those arms and turned in a whip to hold the flare. It was the older wrinkly one with light blue irises that were vacant with hints of sadness there. His face was ripped open at the jaw, presumably where a bite landed.

?No, Mawk.. Come on.. Cut the sh*t. Don?t fook with me like dhis. It ain?t funny.? Denial, as he backed away, stopping when his heel bumped into the limp bodies of the girls. He looked back, and turned around quickly. The gun backpack on one of the girls was empty, while the other limp body held the gun. He snatched that gun, and aimed it. He was slouching against the wall of the dumpster, weak with shock and disbelief. Mark, the eldest of his brothers, was one of Them now. Hanks eyes got wet, and he blinked them dry only for them to get wet all over again.

?Mawk Emerson.. No man.. Come on.? It was pointless, while he kicked him further away. But then his eyes caught something else. Well, he only caught it when Mark tumbled to the ground when he tripped over it. He looked down, and saw a black haired man, face down. And glasses crushed beside his skull. Stomped by Mark, probably. Or by Hank. It was too dark in there. Way too dark, even with that safety flare.

?FRANK!? He shouted, and ran over to him. He used the gun to lift the man?s chin up, and turn it so he can see his face. Dead. Eyes weren?t blue though, but his eyes were open, unblinking. He kicked his brother onto his back, even with the recovering Mark getting up with that slow death-speed that gave him ages to ready for his next strike. He saw that he was shot in the chest, and the puddle of blood made Hank?s knees and hands wet with warm red.

?Sh*t.. Franky.. You?s was supposed to help me with the girls, ?member? Come on.. Not you too.? He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but his red arm smeared some blood onto his forehead in a red deep smear.

He didn?t know the story. What happened? And nobody was alive enough to tell him.

Frank was gone. Mark was approaching, slowly and groaning with a fake ghastly gurgle that was sickening. Yellow and red dribbled onto Frank?s face. Mark was finally where Hank was. But he stood up and backed into the wall. He climbed out of the dumpster; falling onto his stomach sloppily onto the ground of the alleyway they took refuge.

?F*ck.. No.. What happened?! What the sh*t happened ?eyah. No man.. Not the girls. I gotta check the girls.. Got to. I gotta.. Maybe they?re just hurt.? He slammed his fist into the ground, the one that held the gun. He saw his elder brother?s big hands clawing the dumpster, groping the edges and clawing it stupidly. He rolled onto his back, and held the gun to the side of his head, while his other hand clenched his head. His world was spinning, empty yet eruptive with anger and grief that he didn?t know what to do with it.

Hank Emerson was now alone. But he threw himself up to his feet, walking with a heated painful rage back to the dumpster. He stood on the edge of it, at the corner of the big metal box peering down. Frank was still on his back, looking with a fake and empty gaze up and at the sky. Mouth was parted open, but no breath came out. The girls weren?t moving, still in each other?s arms. Mark was reaching up; eyes open with that fake life of a brother that was gone. He squatted, to clench his head again, looking at the dead family inside. He began to tremble. Like a boiler about to explode with heated steam into a bomb.

And he busted out in a cry before emptying out that Smith and Wesson M&P into Mark. All in the head. But even when the expired ghost of his brother was on the floor, he kept shooting. And he pelted that gun into the dumpster, clenching fists into his hair enough to rip some of it out. He was holding his head in his hands squatting above them all seeing their still bodies in that dumpster. He finally jumped inside, crying so outright and weeping like any man would. He held one of the twin girls, trying to see how they died. And then he saw it. A bite was on one of their ankles, and then a hole from a gunshot was in her neck. The other one had a bite on her hand, gunshot in her tiny stomach.

That dumpster wasn?t a shelter anymore. It was a stew of dead bodies all from the same blood and flesh of Hank Emerson. He didn?t know what happened. How did this all happen? It was working so well for so long that it was almost unbelievable that this happened. It was midnight by the time he climbed back out of that dumpster. He took whatever supplies they did get, their backs and boxes placed on a broken shopping cart he found nearby.

He took that empty Smith and Wesson M&P too. But he used the gasoline either Frank or Mark found that day, emptying it into the dumpster. He used his lighter and lit up a balled up newspaper, throwing it in the dumpster. His face was smeared with tears, dirt, blood, and hate. It would be a long night of no sleep.

That was the night of his first Hunt.