This is from Derrick's Perspective
From somewhere in the sprawling house, shattering glass echoed, slicing silence. Mr. Allen flinched visibly, his eyes darting toward the origin of the noise, but he didn't utter a word. We both knew the resident Mrs. Bitch was doing her temper tantrum worse than the kids ever did.
I glanced over my shoulder at the kids still engrossed in their game and sighed with a mix of relief and revulsion.
Taking a deep breath, I started laying out our priorities. "Mr. Allen, we need to focus on the essentials first. We should pack all the important documents. I'm talking about passports, birth certificates, and the like."
Mr. Allen nodded. Groping his pockets, he pulled out a pad and pen from his inside pocket. "Got it, important documents. What's next?" He looked at me, squinting, the hangover still obvious on his face.
"Next up, cash," I replied, stifling a smile. "ATMs and banks will not be operational until the power is back up. That's why I told you to get proof of ownership. It's better to have cash on hand as much as you have at home. Coin's too, if you have any."
"Good point," he acknowledged, scribbling more on his pad. "What else?"
"Clothing is essential," I continued. "Ensure everyone has enough for a few days at least. And while you're at it, pack something warm, just in case."
"Right, clothes... Anything else?"
"We also need to take anything that proves your identity and ownership. Bank account details, share certificates, car registrations, insurance papers," I listed off, "We don't know when previous normalcy will be restored. These will be crucial in rebuilding your life quickly and efficiently."
"Alright," Mr. Allen said, jotting this down. "That sounds like a lot. Anything else?"
"Definitely. We'll need food, water, medicines, toiletries, and so on. Just remember, our focus is on survival, not comfort. Pack light and pack smart, and pack what you can carry," I advised.
Mr. Allen nodded along, absorbing my instructions. After a moment, he hesitated before asking, "What about my firearms? Should I bring those along?"
His question took me by surprise. I raised my eyebrows, looking at him as if he had sprouted a second head. "I didn't even know you had any, Mr. Allen. But yes, if you're comfortable handling them, definitely bring them along."
He nodded in response, a look of relief washing over his face. "Well, I think I'll mostly leave any fighting to you if that's alright," he said with an awkward chuckle. "And, of course, I'll ensure you're appropriately compensated for any... extra hazards. Consider it a bonus. However you'd like to term it."
A sudden crashing noise resounded through the house, originating from the same direction as the earlier shattered glass. I could feel the kids huddle close behind me, their small forms pressing into my back. It didn't bother me - protection was my job after all. Mrs. Bitch, burst into the room, storming in with all the subtlety of a tornado. She was clad in a plush bathrobe, a vision of a disgruntled, spoiled housewife.
"Nothing works in this damn antiquated mausoleum you call a home," she spat, her voice shrill. "You are a worthless husband who can't even provide a simple shower!"
I was surprised there wasn't more cursing. My eyes flicked towards Mr. Allen, waiting for a cue on how to react to this sudden whirlwind of fury without scorn. It took all my self-control not to throw a disgusted glare at her.
With a tired sigh and closed eyes, Mr. Allen heaved himself up from his seat, tucking the notepad back into his pocket. "I'll help you clean up, honey. The power outage affected the water supply too," he placated, his voice resigned and gentile. "We have wipes for circumstances like this. I ensured we have the big ones that smell the way you like."
"Do I look like I'm ready to rough it in the wilderness?" Mrs. Bitch snapped back. "I married a wealthy man for comfort, not to experience the great outdoors indoors!"
Mr. Allen stiffened but continued moving towards his irate wife. "Alright, let's sort this out," he said, his voice tight but patient.
Mrs. Bitch continued her tirade leading to way toward the master bedroom, her voice echoing down the hall. "You really are a worthless man! Sometimes I wish I could just-" The sentence was cut off as the bedroom door slammed shut, muffling whatever hateful words were left unheard by me and the kids.
I let out a weary but subdued sigh, keeping my lips firmly pressed together to refrain from uttering a single inappropriate word. Those were kept between me and the angle and demon on my shoulders. The two little tykes behind me had ears sharp as a hawk's sight and had already heard enough for a lifetime. Even though their mother didn't seem to care about throwing her tantrums in front of them, I wasn't about to add fuel to that fire. A subtle roll of my eyes and an almost silent sigh would have to do as far as my expression of frustration went.
Half turning, I looked over my shoulder at the two youngsters, the innocent souls caught up in this mess. They looked up at me, barely fazed by the outburst. "Y'all hungry?" I asked them softly, my tone as gentle as possible. They were just kids, after all. They didn't need any more scary stuff in their lives.
Their response was so quiet that I strained my ears to hear their almost whispered, "Yes."
With another sigh, I pushed myself up from the seat on the coffee table. "Alright, come on then. My place's got some grub," I said, gesturing for them to follow me. Their small figures moved obediently, slipping on their crocks by the door into the garage before wading after me towards my "modest" bungalow.
I had never really been a kid person before these two entered my life. But seeing them witnessing their parents' ugly squabbles twisted something in my gut. It wasn't fair, and I added it to the tippity top of my shit list.
Maybe second or third, but still way up there.
A lingering scent began to waft towards us the second we left the house. The kids quickly picked up on it, wrinkling their noses in disgust. Emma was the first to comment, her tiny hand swiftly covering her nose as she exclaimed, "Ew, it stinks like smoke here!" Her words were muffled behind her palm, but her tone was clear enough. Michael echoed his sister's sentiment, his little face scrunching up as he lifted his hand to shield his nose from the unpleasant, smoky odor.
As we hurriedly entered my humble abode, Emma paused, a look of curiosity etched on her young face. "Why is the door broken?" she asked innocently, her gaze moving between me and the splintered frame.
Her question made me pause, my brain frantically trying to concoct a convincing, kid-friendly explanation. "The power outage messed up the lock, kiddo," I said, hoping the hint of truth would sell the lie. "I had to give it a little push to get inside."
Michael piped up, a glint of admiration in his eyes. "You're strong."
I used a boot to prop the damaged door closed as best I could and tried navigating through the dim-lit living room. The kids claimed their seats at the dining table, making themselves comfortable.
I moved over to the windows, drawing the blinds to let the light the smoke couldn't stop to flow into the space. I headed to the kitchen and pulled some sandwich bread and deli meat from the fridge. In no time, I had a couple of sandwiches prepared and set them before the kids. I was still full of my leftovers.
As they slowly devoured their food, their animated chatter began to fill the room. They seemed to have settled into their usual selves again.
Feeling better that the kids were back to their typical selves, I decided I had some time to attend to my own packing that I advised Mr. Allen to do. "I'll be in my room taking care of a few things, alright? Don't wander around too much, and holler if you need anything," I told them, doing my best to keep my tone casual and reassuring.
I've prided myself on teaching the kids about gun safety early on. They were well-versed in the dangers of firearms and had a healthy respect for them. That being said, I never kept any of my weapons or gear out in the open when the kids were around. It was a rule I'd set for myself when I first moved in. Emma picked up a revolver from my coffee table and asked me what it was. That was the last time I left anything out, and Mr. Allen agreed to take them to the range to explain guns and how they work.
Slipping into my room, I started gathering my spare tools and equipment. The backup firearms, the extra ammunition, the additional gear - everything was meticulously packed into sturdy cases. My concentration was entirely on my task. My mind singularly focused on securing my gear and making sure nothing was overlooked.
So engrossed was I in the process that I failed to register the growing silence in the house. The kids' chatter had slowly petered out to nothing. It was only when I heard the soft, inquisitive voices of the kids behind me that I realized they had snuck up on me. "What are you doing?" they asked, catching me completely off guard with their silent approach.
My hand instinctively shot towards my holster at the unexpected question. But even as I moved, my brain kicked in, recognizing the small, curious voices as friendly and not a threat. My fingers relaxed and dropped away from the holster before they arrived.
"Just packing up some stuff, just in case," I replied nonchalantly, trying to keep my tone light.
"In case of what?" The simple, innocent question hung in the air, punctuating the quiet room. I mentally cursed myself for not thinking that question through.
Shrugging, I opted for an easy answer. "I don't know, just a feeling, I guess," I replied, trying to keep my tone casual. "Just felt like it was time to clean up and reorganize some stuff."
Before their youthful curiosity could pry any further into my mysterious task, I gently ushered them out of the room and back into the living room. "Why don't you find a board game to play? I'll be out in a jiffy," I suggested.
Once they were safely out of the room, I returned to my task, packing the coin, cash, and important documents into a separate bag. My clothing went into a 3rd bag. I was leaving all the suits Mr. Allen had purchased me, focusing on cotton and jeans. I put way less care the further I packed. Clothing was more forgiving than papers and bullets.
Taking the case and the two bags, I made my way into the kitchen, neatly placing them on the floor beside the table. Walking to the living room, the kids were engrossed in some board game I didn't recognize.
I watched them for a moment before breaking the silence. "I'm heading over to check on your mom and dad. And I need to grab some stuff from the garage. You two want to tag along or stay here?"
Their little faces lifted from their game to glance at me, their expressions reflecting a mixture of incredulity and amusement as if my question had been the most obvious thing in the world. In complete sync, they both chimed, "Staying here!" Their fingers pointed emphatically at the board game that had consumed their attention.
I chuckled at their response and gave them a mock salute. "Alright then, hold down the fort for me," I said, turning on my heels. As I stepped out through the front door and made my way toward the garage.