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here..."
    Michael's face fell slack, and Chris was gripped with remorse. He was wrong to expect his eight-year-old boy to understand the gravity of their situation. With his life experience up until this point, how was he to know how far men would go for power? One thing he did understand, however, was his father's wrath.
    Looking down at his toes, Michael squeaked in a tiny voice, "Sorry."
    Placing a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, the layers of padded clothing unable to cushion the sharp bones beneath, Chris found himself experiencing yet another example of just how poorly he'd been able to provide for him over the past few months. He was a small boy before the collapse of the world, now he was positively skeletal. "Don't worry about it, mate. I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have reacted that way. It's just..." He paused, hating that he had to admit it to his boy. "I'm scared. We need to be so careful. They can't know that we're here."
    Before Michael could reply, they heard Marie from number one scream. Chris' whole back tensed as his face flashed hot and then turned to ice again. They looked outside.
    Panic stole Michael's breath, and he panted as he said, "What are they doing?"
    Chris saw two springer spaniels circling Marie, Frank, and Tommy, who were being marched from their house and up their sloped driveway by several of the looters. The sight of these men leading the family like slaves to a ship pulled his stomach tight. He had to fight the desire to both vomit and shit. He swallowed against his drying throat as he watched on. Helpless. Dumb.
    Frank, the father, was a huge man at six feet and four inches. He had limbs like tree trunks and a jaw that looked like it could chew hand grenades. He worked in the city but was the kind of man that spent his whole time in the garden when he wasn't working. He should have been a landscaper, or a tree surgeon, but Frank, like many built in his mold, prioritized money over happiness. Because the bear of a man was such a threat, Chris assumed that was why Dean forced him to his knees and aimed a shotgun at his head. There were also three men behind him, weapons raised and ready to use. The men were a tight unit, flushing out and taking prisoners with military precision. Looking at his small and weak boy, and then down at the paunch protruding from his feeble body, he ruled out fighting for their lives when their moment came to react. After all, if Frank couldn't overpower them... His stomach pinched again.
    Tommy, who was Michael's age but had inherited his father's bulk, was led to the top of the driveway by one guard and now stood in the road, his slack boyish face drained of blood and his strong and fearful grip clinging onto his mother's hand.
    Marie was a curvy woman of Italian descent with big breasts and a round bottom. Chris often admired her from afar. She had beautiful curly brown hair, which still looked amazing, despite weeks of no running water. Diane, on the other hand, had ended up looking like a drowned rat. Two men pulled Marie towards the pick-up. At first, she put all of her energy into holding her boy's hand, but with one final, violent tug from one of the two men dragging her, her eight-year bond with her son was broken forever. Thrashing and writhing like demons were crawling beneath her skin, she screamed and spat, kicked and punched, cried and shook. Regardless of this, the men easily overpowered her.
    An overwhelming guilt saturated Chris because he liked these people; he'd even call them friends. Yet, when the chips were down, he sat by like an impotent idiot and watched on as they were dealt their fate. He didn't even have the slightest inclination to help. He wondered if Frank would do the same if the roles were reversed. Probably not. Frank was an honorable man that wouldn't let the actions of this gang go unchallenged. As they dragged Marie towards the truck, her naked ankles scraped along the bumpy road. It looked painful, but she didn't seem to