"Garix!" Malcom breathed the name into the stillness of his room. Darkness had captured every corner dispite the door now standing ajar, with Malcoms frame inside. The tone of his whisper was frantic, and caused Garix to sit bolt-upright.

"Euh?" was the only vocalized sound he could muster after having only slept for three hours.

"The transmissions were true as warned...they're here." He was whispering into the make-shift bedroom as if "they" were standing inches away. Garix siged heavy as a ton. Ever since the start, when he was only 26 and in the Marines he had begun to hear stories of these groups. When the world is seemingly coming to an end, people do strange things. And after what was looking more and more like 9 years of the end, that fact held very, ridiculously true. He grumbled as he yanked on his footwear,

"World gets taken over by Zombies, I get charged with keeping people safe in a SHOPPING MALL, and now these puke-chuckers show up! If it wasn't tempting fate I'd be curious to the next level of WORSE!" Garix was an obvious military cliche, right down to him having taken up hold in the sporting goods store of the mall, where he would have all of the guns and ammo he would need. He slid his boot-knife into its proper place, launched a strapped shotgun over his shoulder, and sprinted out of the store. His goal lay 200 yards beyond the escalators that he rail slid down. When he finally made it in full stride he had just enough time to compose himself before the double doors were opened simultaneously.

From the moment he saw them he could tell that they were some of the worst. Everyone was clad in black entirely, all of them pierce and tattooed, and all were heavily armed. The boy in front was wearing a long jacket that covered most of all of his very pale skin. His weapons were mostly covered, except for the currently brandished Katana, that was pointed at Garix.

"It sure takes few brains to cart a knife to a gun fight." Garixs' southern accent was still a little thick, even after all these years. The boy just smiled wickedly. Garix was deliberate and slow in bringing his shot gun barrels level with the newcomers face. He never left the room unloaded.

"Put down the butter knife boy." he paused for a moment, considering,"

"Un-cock the pea-shooter, old man." his voice was ice, and had a twinge of northern U.S. behind it. The dark garbed boy studied Garix for a moment, and sheathed his blade at his side. Garix lowered his weapon after a long moment. Their gazes remained silently locked for was seemed like hours before anyone spoke. No one felt surprised to hear Garixs' gruff tones first.

"You're not welcome here, ya can leave out the door ya came in."

"And under the new country mandate you'll allow us entry for food and shelter for no less than 48 hours or suffer the consequences of the New United Task Force of America." Garix scoffed openly.

"The united states military still runs this country and is DIRT-BEDDING those N.U.T.F.A. assholes DAILY!" the boy simply shrugged.

"That doesn't change the mandate, or the fact that the Task Force will pay you a visit if you don't comply." Garix gripped his cannon and took a step closer, bringing him within inches of the boys face.

"Let 'em," his voice was a deep growl.

"Commander," Malcom , forever the bureaucrat. Garix took a settling, deep breath.

"Forty-eight hours" he spat, "and you're ghosts." The boy swept into a ridiculously low bow. As he made to pass the commander, Garix gripped him up by his coats shoulder to stop him.

"What name will they carve onto the front of your pine jacket?"

"Centuries from now, they'll engrave Westen into the door of my mausoleum...old man." and tore himself free.

When they were far out of ear shot, Malcom approached Garix. He received a vicious stare.

"What kind of person goes...myth hunting like that in a time like this?" he asked. Malcom shrugged,

"Zombies were myths, I see the logic." Ok, so Zombies were real, but Vampyres, Werewolves really? Garix unloaded the Shotgun.

"Freaks."