Outside the Cafe – Morning
The three of them stood near the car, the dusty morning light catching in Dray's still-healing eyes.
Dray turned toward Nancy and Jonathan.
"You guys go buy the supplies."
Nancy raised an eyebrow. "What about you? Aren't you coming?"
He shook his head, already turning. "Remember our three rules."
Jonathan leaned on the roof of the car, listening closely.
"One: Never mention me. Not to anyone, not even in whispers."
"Two: No phone calls. They track everything."
"Three: If Plan A doesn't work—"
"Don't start Plan B without you," Nancy finished, sighing. "Yeah, yeah, we got it."
Dray nodded. "Gun shops have cameras. That's a problem for someone like me. I've got to hit a grocery store anyway—for food and a few… disguise kits."
Jonathan blinked. "Food? You just ate enough for three people this morning."
Nancy gave him a look. "Are you seriously hungry again? We're literally being hunted."
Dray smirked faintly. "First, I'm injured. I need energy. Second, I've survived too many near-death situations to skip meals. And third, someone has to find Eleven. I'll check around while I'm out."
Nancy rolled her eyes. "Fine, soldier. Go get your chocolate bars."
Jonathan opened the car door, but Dray leaned into his window before he could start it.
"Yo. Do I look like someone who carries cash? Spot me, dude. I'll pay you back later."
Jonathan laughed and pulled a few bills from his wallet. "You don't have to pay me. We'll meet you here in thirty."
Dray took the cash and stepped back. "Got it."
---
Dray's POV – Melvald's General Store
The bell above the door jingled as Dray stepped into the quiet little store. The smell of bleach and cardboard hit him at once. He gave a slight nod to the lone cashier behind the counter.
"Hey, man. Tissues? Big band-aids?"
While speaking, Dray's sharp eyes scanned the walls, corners, and ceiling — searching for any hint of a camera. Nothing. Just some dusty shelves, old price tags, and flickering lights.
The cashier lazily pointed toward the back. "Last row."
"Thanks." Dray gave a polite smile and walked down the aisle.
With every step, a jolt of pain twisted through his back and side. His shirt was damp — not with sweat, but with fresh blood. He clenched his jaw, ignoring it.
He picked up the largest bandages they had, a packet of tissues, a black cap, a pair of dark shades, and — of course — chocolate bars.
He headed to the register, wincing slightly as he set things down.
"You got a restroom back there?" he asked, paying in cash.
"Yeah, just past the mop bucket. Kinda smells though."
Dray nodded. "I've seen worse."
As the cashier bagged the items, Dray casually added, "Hey, sorry to bother, but… have you seen a girl? Young, like eleven or twelve. Kinda short, shaved head maybe. She's my sister."
The man frowned. "Nah, man. No kids around here much."
Dray gave a small nod. "Thanks anyway."
He took the bag and headed to the restroom.
Inside, he double-checked the corners. Empty.
He locked the door and immediately began stripping off his shirt. It was soaked in blood. Every movement sent a wave of pain through his torso — his back, his ribs, his shoulder. He gasped quietly, gritting his teeth, but didn't stop.
He used the wet towel to clean off the blood and sweat, then patched himself up with the bandages as best he could. No time for restitching. Just compression, pressure, and pain management.
He stared into the rusted mirror. Pale, hollow-eyed, hair slightly sticking up from sweat. Not exactly invisible, but not memorable either.
He set the blood-soaked towel and shirt in the sink, lit a match from his pocket, and burned both slowly, watching the flame consume the evidence.
Then, he pulled on the cap, adjusted the shades, grabbed his chocolate, and stepped out — just a ghost again.
---
Nancy and Jonathan's POV
Inside, the place reeked of gunpowder, oil, and stale tobacco smoke. The walls were lined with gleaming weapons—some locked behind glass, others casually racked like tools in a garage. A mounted deer head stared down at them from behind the counter, its lifeless glass eyes adding an eerie weight to the room.
Nancy pushed the cart while Jonathan scanned the shelves with sharp focus. They weren't here for looks—they were preparing for war.
A shotgun—Nancy grabbed a Remington 870. Reliable. Loud. Meant for up close and personal.
A box of 12-gauge shells—Jonathan double-checked the load before tossing them in.
Next came a heavy-duty bear trap, the kind used to immobilize full-grown grizzlies.
Nancy glanced at it grimly, knowing they weren't dealing with animals—but something much worse.
They found razor wire coils, useful for tripping or slowing something down in tight spaces.
Jonathan also picked up galvanized nails—thick, rustproof, perfect for barricades or makeshift traps.
A wooden baseball bat, which Nancy tested with a few practice swings. Solid weight. It would work.
They grabbed gasoline cans and lighter fluid—enough to start a blaze and keep it going. Fire wasn't optional . It was necessary.
"Feels like we're prepping for war," Jonathan muttered.
"We kind of are," Nancy replied, eyes serious.
They packed everything into the back of the car, slamming the trunk shut. As they got in, faint laughter echoed down the block—sharp, mocking.
Nancy and Jonathan exchanged a glance.
The laughter was coming from downtown.
They followed the sound, walking down the dim sidewalk toward the theater. And then they saw it.
Spray paint. Bright red.
Across the giant cinema marquee:
"Nancy the Slut Wheeler"Big. Bold. Cruel.
Nancy froze, staring at it. Her chest rose and fell, anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Jonathan's jaw tightened. Around the corner, Steve's friends were doubled over, laughing—oblivious to their presence.
Jonathan spoke softly. "You don't have to—"
But Nancy was already stepping forward.
"—Okay then."
He followed, silent and close, as she walked toward the laughter.