Shane replied fast.
“Sure, man.
I was actually thinking about thanking you in person.”
An address followed , a bar in town called the Rattlesnake.
Leon tucked the phone back into his pocket.
He spent the next two days preparing for the meeting.
First: the supply list.
He didn’t scribble it out like some panicked prepper.
He sat down at the prison’s ancient desktop computer and methodically combed through everything he could find on wilderness survival and disaster preparedness , cross-referencing it with everything he already knew, information that hadn’t technically happened yet , and compiled a list so thorough it bordered on disturbing.
Not “food and water.” Specific brands, specific models, specific quantities.
Not “canned goods” , Spam, Campbell’s Chunky Chicken, Chef Boyardee Beefaroni.
High-calorie, long shelf life, the kind of food that kept you alive when nothing else was available.
Not “medicine” , Cephalosporins, Amoxicillin, Ibuprofen Extended-Release.
For trauma: Israeli Bandage, QuickClot, a full surgical suture kit.
For weapons, he got even more specific.
Magpul P-MAGs for the AR-15.
Plus-two base pads for the Glock.
Gun oil.
Cleaning rods.
It didn’t read like the wishlist of a paranoid man.
It read like a procurement order from someone who had already seen what was coming.
Good.
That was the point.
He needed Shane to understand he wasn’t playing games.
When the apocalypse arrived, Shane would understand everything.
Two days later, Leon had a day off.
He swapped his uniform for a denim jacket and a plain tee, borrowed a beat-up cruiser from the lot, and drove into town.
The Rattlesnake Bar was dim inside, the air carrying that familiar mix of cheap whiskey and fried chicken wings.
Country music wheezed out of an old speaker in the corner, half-dead.
Shane was already there.
Sitting alone at the far end of the bar, a glass of bourbon in front of him, half empty.
No uniform , dark flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, thick forearms resting on the counter.
He spotted Leon and gave a short chin-lift.
Sit down.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, wiping a glass.
“Same as him.”
A pour, a slide across the bar.
Neither of them said anything.
Ice shifted in the glass.
The music kept limping along.
“I watched the video.”
Shane broke first.
He tilted the glass back and finished what was left in one pull, then set it down on the bar with a solid thud.
“Very…” He paused.
“Satisfying.”
He said the word with his jaw clamped shut.
“Good.” Leon raised his glass in a small toast and took a sip.
“It wasn’t just satisfaction, Leon.”
Shane turned and looked at him.
The whites of his eyes were streaked red.
“That was justice.”
He said it like he was trying to convince himself as much as anything.
“Maybe.”
Leon reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, pulled out the folded list, and slid it across the bar.
“This is what I need.”
Shane picked it up and opened it.
His eyebrows went up at first , skeptical, reading carefully.
But the further he got, the heavier his expression became.
Surprise gave way to confusion, and confusion settled into something harder to name.
“Jesus Christ.”
He dropped the list on the bar and muttered a curse under his breath.
“You planning on going to war with the Russians?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Better safe than sorry?” Shane jabbed a finger at one of the entries.
“Military-grade MREs.
Kevlar stab-resistant liners.
You can’t walk into a Walmart and buy this stuff, man.
Half of it’s regulated.”
“I know.” Leon looked at him evenly.
“But you’re a cop, Shane.
Deputy Sheriff, King County.
You have channels.
You know how to find things — legal or otherwise.”
Something shifted behind Shane’s eyes.
He picked the list up again and read it slower this time.
And the more he read, the more he could see the logic underneath all of it.
The items were varied, even chaotic on the surface, but they all pointed in one direction.
Survival.
Long-term.
High-pressure.
Cut off from everything.
“This shelter you keep talking about,” Shane said.
“Where exactly are you planning to build it?”
“That stays between me and me for now.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“When the supplies come in, I’ll give you the drop-off point.”
Shane was quiet for a moment.
He studied Leon’s face , young, calm, unreadable , and felt something he didn’t feel often.
He had no idea what to make of this guy.
Quiet.
Careful.
Bold in a way that was almost reckless.
And completely certain about what he wanted.
“This is going to take time,” Shane said finally.
“And a hundred grand might not cover all of it.”
“Anything it runs over, I owe you.”
Shane gave him a long look.
“Forget it.
I’ll eat the difference.” He shrugged, slow.
“Call it my way of saying I want you as a friend.”
He flagged down the bartender with a wave.
“Two more.
Doubles.”
After that, they left the list alone.
Shane had opened up, and once he started, he didn’t stop.
Glass after glass, he talked about Rick.
About the two of them when they were still green, chasing down a suspect and Rick stepping in front of a knife meant for Shane.
About Carl being born, Shane said he’d been more worked up than Rick was, first one through the door of the store, came out with a full cart of toys.
About Lori, Rick’s wife, a girl Shane had known since high school.
About the three of them spending every weekend at Rick’s backyard, cooking out, just the family they had become.
The whiskey was doing its work.
Shane’s words started to blur at the edges, and his eyes had gone red.
“God damn it.”
He brought his fist down on the bar.
The ice jumped in both glasses.
“You understand what I’m saying?
He’s my best friend, Leon.
My best.” His voice cracked on the last word.
“I was right there when that piece of shit shot him.
Right there.
I should’ve — I should’ve taken that bullet.
Should’ve been me.”
“Now he’s lying in that hospital bed like a goddamn vegetable.
Doctors say he might never wake up.” He stopped.
His jaw worked.
“Never.”
He pressed both hands over his face, and his shoulders started to shake.
The man who faced down criminals without flinching was coming apart at a bar at the end of the world, crying like he had nothing left.
A few other patrons glanced over , and then quickly glanced away.
Whatever Shane was radiating right now, no one wanted any part of it.
Leon didn’t say a word.
He sat with him and drank.
He knew what Shane needed.
The guilt, the rage, the helplessness , it had been building for too long.
This was the only valve left.
By the fifth glass, Shane dragged his hands away from his face.
His eyes were completely red.
He grabbed Leon by the shoulder, fingers digging in, and spoke slowly, each word deliberate.
“Leon.
I don’t know who the hell you are.
I don’t know what you’re after.” He held his gaze.
“But I owe you.
Huge.
You understand me?
The kind of debt that keeps a man up at night.”
Leon had been waiting for exactly that.
He looked at Shane , drunk, scraped raw, right at the edge , and knew the moment had arrived.
“One favor,” Leon said slowly.
“I’m not sure that covers it.”
Shane blinked.
“What?”
“Getting that bastard killed — that’s one favor.” Leon’s voice stayed level.
“But it didn’t change anything, did it.
Rick is still lying in that hospital bed.”
The muscles in Shane’s face pulled tight.
The light went out of his eyes.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Nothing changed.”
“No.” Leon shook his head and leaned forward, just slightly.
He held Shane’s eyes and let each word land on its own.
“What if I told you I could wake him up?”
The noise dropped out of the room.
The music, the low conversations, the clink of glasses , all of it seemed to vanish.
Shane’s whole world narrowed down to Leon’s face, perfectly calm, and the words that were still echoing in the air between them.
“You…
what did you just say?”
Shane stared at him.
He wondered if the whiskey had gotten into his ears.
Leon didn’t repeat himself.
He just looked back, steady and still, not a trace of amusement anywhere on his face.
Shane’s hand shot out and grabbed Leon by the collar.
The force nearly hauled him clean off the barstool.
His eyes were wild, the veins in his forehead standing out.
“Don’t.
Don’t you dare play that game with me, man.
That is not funny.
That is not a joke you get to make.”
Leon didn’t resist.
He let Shane hold him.
He even smiled.
“I never joke, Shane.”
He let that sit for a second.
“You know this world has problems that official channels can’t touch.
You’ve seen it yourself.” His voice was quiet and even.
“Same goes for medicine.
There are things conventional doctors can’t explain.”
He watched Shane’s mouth fall open slightly, disbelief cracking into something desperate, and set the hook he’d been holding since he walked through the door.
“But I have a channel, Shane.”
“One that can bring Rick back.”
➤ Next: Painting the Grand Picture