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whatever this thing was that his wife had become. Grabbing his daughters arm though, he heard that same, low groan, coming this time from the once composed and beautiful face of his daughter, her own bright blonde hair now greyer than the darkest of clouds. Suddenly she began snapping and gnawing at the air around John’s hand, having herself also apparently blinked, initiating the change that had taken over both of John’s favourite girls, much to his confusion and horror.
    John felt little choice, his eyelids now the weight of a car, he had to close them, if only for a moment. As he re-opened them though, he was taken aback by the change. No light filled the room, save for the smallest sliver of moonlight making its way through a crack in the wooden planks that boarded up the previously unobscured windows. No wife lay with him and no child was happily playing at the foot of the bed, nobody was there to provide any kind of warm, familiar embrace. John was alone, now staring up at that same ceiling, spotting the same cracks and spots of over or under-done paintwork, but in a much greyer and more disgusting colour than the bright, vibrant white of his dream. He closed his eyes once more, hoping that the remainder of the night might be a little calmer, and drifted back off to sleep.
    *        *        *
    As the smog-obscured and seemingly deadened sun rose once again over the motel – that same little sliver of light cracking through the boarded up window – John arose from his bed, briefly and very frantically checking for the presence of any dream rendered family members as he did. Quickly he ascertained that there were none, and so much more calmly set about getting dressed, as well as mentally preparing himself for the day ahead.
    Ready to leave the room, John threw his hooded sweater over his shoulders, only to hear the faintest of metal clangs as he did. Straight away he recognised the noise as the sort of noise that an old tin pencil case might give off, or perhaps a metal ammo box, such as the one he had obtained from yesterday’s run. A menacing smile spread over his still sleep laden face, as the realisation that he had successfully snuck the box back into the camp without handing it over to the guards surfaced on his mind. Quickly he swung the sweater back over his shoulder, removing the box excitedly and retreating to the edge of his king-sized bed.
    Sitting there, box in hand, John braced himself for the very genuine possibility of opening it to find little more than piles of dust and disappointment. But as the cracking sound of opening a metallic box pinged around the room, and the dust coating the container filled the air, sheer joy filled his eyes at the sight of bullets, at least thirty or so of them, many of which appeared to be the very same .22 calibre rounds his Ruger required. There was even some .45 calibre ACP rounds for Andrew’s M1911, provided he didn’t manage to jam it again first. It was like winning the jackpot in this day and age, and the bonus prize was still to come. Underneath the many casings, John pulled out what appeared to be a map of the local area, including visuals stretching to at least two or three hours’ drive in every direction, all on one folded back page of a book, exactly what John had needed.
    Happy he had gotten far more than he’d ever expected, John stood up from the bed, stuffed the map into his sweater pocket, and left the room, locking it tight behind him. He headed briskly downstairs to the main lobby, spotting Andrew and his wife in that same spot at the centre of the room. Walking over – the bullets for Andrew’s M1911 held firmly in his right hand – John couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride over what he was about to do, the wealth he was about to share, and hopefully, the seemingly reliable alliance he was about to cement.
    Arriving at the table, he held out his clenched fist, and dropped the seven ACP rounds onto the table in front of