The house was too quiet. Aaron floated somewhere between sleep and awareness, rolling slightly on the couch, chasing the last scraps of rest. He never remembered his dreams. Sleep, blackout, wake up. That was how it worked.
Except this time, something kept tugging him upward. Metal clanged. A drawer scraped. Something dropped. He groaned into the cushion. The more awake he became, the worse everything felt — his head pounding, his mouth dry as sand, his bladder screaming. His equilibrium tilted slightly off-center, like the room hadn’t fully stopped spinning.
Another clatter. Aaron peeled one eye open.
“Holy crap, John,” he muttered hoarsely. “Is it physically possible for you to be louder?”
He rolled enough to sit up, squinting toward the kitchen.
“How long was I out, brother?”
John didn’t look up. He was methodically lining canned goods on the counter like a quartermaster inventorying rations.
“I figured I’d let you sleep,” John said evenly. “After seeing that bottle last night? Yeah. You needed it.”
He grabbed a water bottle and tossed it without turning. It hit the floor and slid past Aaron. Aaron watched it go.
“If I had to guess,” John continued, “it’s about eleven. We both needed the sleep.”
Aaron ran a hand through his hair and over his face, trying to wake himself into existence.
“You hungry?” John asked.
“You want help?” Aaron shot back, standing slowly and heading toward the bathroom.
“You still hungover?” John replied.
Aaron glanced at his dead phone. No service. Thirty percent battery. Useless. He flushed the toilet. The water went down, but nothing refilled. He stared at the silent tank.
“Seeing as I woke up five minutes ago, genius,” Aaron called out, “yeah. Still hungover.”
John laughed softly. “Then no. I don’t need help.”
“Are you implying I can’t cook?”
“Why are you still talking? Bro, shut up.”
John appeared with paper plates stacked in his hands.
“I slave over a hot stove in this heat,” he declared dramatically, “and this is the thanks I get? Disrespect.”
Aaron burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.
“You sound like Nita!”
John froze, looked upward solemnly.
“I find that highly offensive.”
They both laughed harder than the joke deserved. It felt good. Too good.
Aaron wiped his eyes. “I needed that.”
And then it stopped, and a silence fell. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind. No cars outside. No wind. No birds. Not even distant highway noise. The absence pressed inward. They ate everything on their plates in quiet. The stillness was both a reliefand a warning.
Aaron set his fork down. “So. What’s the plan, military man?”
John leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“Well,” he began slowly, “from what I’ve seen…” He exhaled.
“They’re ruthless. First move? Take out leadership. Make an example. Kill someone important to set the tone.”
Aaron nodded faintly.
“They’re taking captives,” John continued. “Which means they have somewhere to put them. That requires organization. Logistics. Infrastructure.”
“That takes manpower,” Aaron said.
“Exactly.”
John flipped his hand.
“Bombs. Infrastructure down. Water and power gone. Foreign boots on the ground. And…”
He hesitated. “…I think we’re staring at a second civil war.”
Aaron swallowed.
“Who can we trust?”
John looked at him directly.
“Each other.”
Aaron managed a small smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
A long pause.
“We have to survive this,” John said firmly. “They got the jump on us. But surprise doesn’t last forever.”
“So what do we do first?” Aaron asked.
“We lay low,” John replied. “As long as we can stand it.”
“And then?”
John closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know.”
Aaron stood. “I’m going to sleep off yesterday.”
John nodded. “Yeah.”
Aaron barely remembered closing his eyes. The bang at the front door exploded through the house. He was upright before his brain caught up. Shouting. Foreign. The door flew open.
Lights snapped on. Nita. His boys. On their knees. Four Russians. John beaten, face swollen, blood on his lip. Everyone at gunpoint. Everyone except Aaron.
“What do I do?” he screamed at John.
John mouthed something. Aaron couldn’t hear. Everything moved like water. John spat blood into a soldier’s face. Aaron’s stomach dropped. A gun pressed to John’s head. John turned. Smiled. Winked. The shot echoed like thunder.
John dropped. Aaron’s mind shattered.
“NO! TAKE ME! TAKE ME!”
Another gunshot. Nita collapsed. Aaron felt something inside him rupture. He lunged forward, tackling the nearest soldier, fists flying. Rage beyond language. Beyond thought. Three shots slammed into his back. He barely felt them.
He rose again. Another gun aimed. A final flash. BANG.
Aaron tore upright in the dark, screaming. John burst into the room with his pistol low and ready.
“Aaron! You okay? It’s still dark!”
Aaron scrambled blindly for his own weapon before recognition settled in. John. Alive. Aaron grabbed him and pulled him into a crushing hug.
“They killed you,” Aaron gasped into his brother’s shirt. “They shot you. They shot Nita. The boys were there…”
John held him quietly.
“My kids were on their knees,” Aaron whispered. “What if that’s how it really happened?”
John wiped his own eyes in the darkness, grateful for the cover of night.
“We don’t know that,” he said carefully. “And until we do, we don’t assume the worst.”
He took a breath. “In times like this, we pray. We hold the line. We don’t fall apart.”
Aaron sniffed. “This sucks.”
“Yes,” John agreed softly. “It does.”
A pause.
“And you need to quit drinking.”
Aaron squinted. “Not now.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s what gets me through the night.”
John hesitated. “My dream was bad too,” he admitted quietly.
He described running. Being hunted. Finding his wife bleeding in his arms. Saying “I love you” one last time before gunfire ended everything.
“At least I got to say it,” John finished. “Dream or not.”
Aaron squeezed his shoulder.
“Get some sleep.”
“Yeah.”
They separated.
Morning came hot and sticky. Aaron woke sweating. For a moment, he panicked. Then he heard John moving. Alive. Aaron went to the bathroom. No water. He stared at the toilet.
“Well,” he muttered. “That’s a problem.”
He stepped out. John looked equally miserable.
“More nightmares?” John asked.
“Hope you don’t have to use the guest bathroom,” Aaron said. “Left a surprise.”
John smirked. “That’s going to stink.”
“Not helpful.”
They both laughed. Small moments. They mattered.
The day dragged. They avoided the windows. Avoided outside.Avoided their thoughts. By nightfall, the question came back.
“Be honest,” Aaron whispered from his couch. “What are our chances?”
John stared at the moonlit window.
“Statistically? Not good.”
Aaron groaned.
“But,” John continued, “statistics don’t account for faith.”
Aaron threw a sock at him.
“Go to sleep.”
“Night, brother.”
“Night.”
Morning came again, hotter. John sat up, sweat forming instantly. Aaron was already awake, eating. John grabbed an MRE and sat across from him. After a few minutes, he disappeared down the hallway.
He returned with a pink backpack.
Aaron blinked. “What’s that?”
“You’re going to need one too.”
A shift had happened. John’s voice was unfamiliar.
“I can’t sit here anymore,” he said. “It’s killing me.”
Aaron nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Me too.”
John tossed him another pack.
“Fill it. Food first. Water second. Clothes if there’s room.”
They packed in silence. When they finished, John stood still in the center of the living room. Aaron watched his face change.Memories lived here. Christmas mornings. Arguments.Laughter. Children running down that hallway. John inhaled once.
“Close the door behind you,” he whispered as he stepped outside. “I don’t think I’ll come back.”
Aaron didn’t argue. He shut it. They walked past the yard without looking directly at the bodies still there. John wanted to bury them. He couldn’t. The road stretched ahead. Aaron felt doubt pressing at him.
He suspected what was coming. He wasn’t sure he was ready.But he looked at John — steady, soldier-straight, carrying both grief and resolve in the same posture — and something in him firmed. For now, it was simple. Two brothers.
Against whatever came next.