Things used to be so simple.

She kept walking, scoping out the town. Maybe she could find a place to stay the night. The houses were old, but it was better than sleeping in a bush. It would be warmer and safer.

Elle looked ahead and stopped dead in her tracks.

At the end of the road, just past a big metal building, was a dog. He was beautiful, silently standing there, watching Elle.

Elle didn’t move.

The dog didn’t move.

Elle took a deep breath. The dog cocked his head, tilted his ear. He was a German Shepherd, honey colored with swaths of black. And then he barked. It wasn’t an obnoxious bark, nor was it a warning bark. It was different.

Desperate, Elle thought.

He barked again, shaking his head and trotting back and forth on the road. He wasn’t growling. Just talking. Elle moved closer and he became more excited. She kept her right arm held straight out, but her left was within easy reach of the katana strapped across her back, beneath her pack.

Just in case.

As she got closer, the dog backed up, barking again. Elle raised an eyebrow, hesitant. What if this was a trap? The dog looked healthy, well-fed. Somebody had to be taking care of him.

She paused and drew the Smith and Wesson from the belt on her waist. The dog watched her, wary, but continued to back up. She kept the gun in plain sight, snapped the safety off. She didn’t want to be caught with her guard down.

The dog kept moving around the edge of the metal building. Elle followed. The dog stopped in front of the steps of one of the older mining houses. The roof was still intact, but the rest of the edifice was in shambles.

The dog climbed the steps and paused at the door, whining softly. Elle’s heart sped up, hammering against her rib cage. What was he trying to tell her? Was she walking straight into a death trap?

“What is it, boy?” Elle asked.

The dog’s whine became more intense, more desperate.

What the hell, Elle thought. Might as well.

She climbed the steps and followed the dog through the open doorway. The house creaked under her footsteps. It was a single-room cabin. The windows were missing. Pieces of the wall had rotted away. It smelled like mildew… and blood.

Elle looked at the dog, sitting silently in the corner, beside a still human form. She gripped her gun and held it defensively, forcing herself to breathe evenly.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice raspy.

No answer. She took a step closer. The dog whined again.

She lowered the gun and walked toward the figure, cautiously touching his leg with the toe of her shoe. Nothing. Her eyes adjusted to the shadowy interior of the building, and she could see the man clearly. He was wearing black combat fatigues and a white shirt. The shirt was stained with blood. He lay on his back, sweat running down his misshapen, swollen face. His chest barely moved with each labored breath.

“Hello?” Elle said. Her hand hovered just above her head, within reach of the katana handle. “Are you okay?”

The man coughed. He turned his head. Elle braced herself for an attack, but it never came.

“Ah, Bravo,” he sighed. “Good boy.”

Elle blinked.

“Sorry,” he said. His voice was strained. “My dog is intent on helping me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The man shifted, groaned softly, and returned to his original position. “So. Are you friend or foe, kid?”

Elle raised an eyebrow.

“I could ask you the same question,” she replied.

“Fair enough.”

“You got a name or what?” Elle asked.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” The young man winced and leaned his head against the wall, sweat slipping down his face. “Ladies first.”

The dog stood near his feet, tense.

“I’m Elle,” she said at last, standing her ground.

“Nathan.”

“Nathan?” She shrugged. “You don’t look so good.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been shot about nine times. That should do it.”

Elle shook her head.

“How’d that happen?” she asked.

“Omega,” he replied, wincing again. “They’ve got a nasty bite.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it.” Elle took a step closer. The dog lowered his head, growling softly. “Hey, your dog looks like he wants to eat me.”

“He probably does.” Nathan waved his hand. “Down, Bravo. Relax.”

The dog pulled back a little, taking a defensive stance between Nathan and Elle. Nathan’s clothes were soaked in blood. His hands were slick in the stuff. It ran down his arms and pooled on the floor.

“I can help you,” Elle stated. “You can’t do this yourself.”

Nathan took several great, heaving breaths and dropped his arms.

“I could,” he said, cracking a tired smiled. “But I’d probably screw it up.”

“You can trust me,” Elle replied.

She heard the tinny irony in her voice. Trust. What a false word.

“Really,” Elle said. “I promise I won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me.” Bravo growled. “And if your dog doesn’t eat me.”

Nathan laughed, then stopped.

“Okay,” he rasped. “It’s a deal.”

Elle dropped to one knee and rummaged through her pack. She pulled out her medical kit and walked to Nathan, kneeling next to his trembling form. He was wearing an armor-plated vest, but that hadn’t saved him from the onslaught that had wounded him.

“What happened?” Elle asked again.

She pulled the Velcro apart on the vest. Nathan gritted his teeth. She undid the straps as best she could and pulled the vest over his head. There were bloody bullet holes in his shirt, two near his left armpit and one near his right.

“You weren’t shot nine times,” Elle said, forcing a grin. “Just three.”

“Yeah. But there was… an explosion.” He exhaled. “Sent me flying.”

“Are you with the militias?” Elle asked.

“Technically, yes,” he replied. “I was on a routine patrol with my men. Bravo and I were checking out an abandoned FEMA camp about forty or so miles from here. We came under heavy fire. I lost all my men. Bravo and I escaped…” He laughed harshly. “We’re as good as dead now.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Elle lied.

She pulled back the layers of his jacket and shirt. Pieces of glass and twisted metal had burrowed deep into his chest, embedded in his skin. The bullets were still inside him. She bit her lip — she had no way to remove the shrapnel, no tools with which she could pull the bullets out.

Just do your best, she told herself. That’s all you can do, anyway.

Elle took a cloth from her backpack and poured some water on it, swabbing the open wounds, cleaning them with alcohol. Nathan swore under his breath.

“So it was Omega?” Elle asked, attempting to distract him from the pain.

“Omega mercenaries,” Nathan corrected, huffing. “Hired hit men. Those suckers are dangerous. They come in from all over the world, and they’re brutal as hell. They don’t fight like we do.”

Elle nodded. She understood that. In Los Angeles, the Klan was a warring faction of uncivilized anarchists, thirsty for blood and desperate for survival. The apocalyptic environment drove them to archaic measures. They had no sense of right or wrong, no code of conduct. There was no such thing as fighting fair.

Brutality ruled everything, especially war.

“Are you sure they were mercenaries?” Elle asked.

“Pretty sure, why?”

“I’m tracking a bunch of Slavers into the mountains,” she answered. “They took my friends. They disguise themselves as rogue militias and pick up civilians. Sell them into slavery, I guess.”

“We’ve heard of the Slavers,” Nathan replied, groaning as Elle swabbed antiseptic over the deeper wounds. It was several minutes before he could talk again. The dog, Bravo, stood there the whole time, watching Elle with dark, intelligent eyes.

“The real militias and the National Guard have had more to worry about than them,” he said at last. “One of these days we’ll take our men up there and wipe them out.”