Al's Rabbit Hole
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Tie the Noose Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 20:12:32 +0000 UTCDaniel sat at his kitchen table with a furrowed brow, shoulders aching faintly after another long day behind the meat counter. His jacket hung half-forgotten over the back of the chair, and his boots rested by the door, crusted lightly with grime from a walk home that had felt twice as long as usual. The catalogs were everywhere; some stacked, some spread out in loose fan shapes, and more than one lying open to pages of indecipherable gear acronyms and half-tone black-and-white images of blank-faced mannequins in webbing and armor.
The overhead light buzzed, faintly flickering, but he ignored it. A chipped coffee mug sat cooling beside a small notepad scribbled over in increasingly illegible pencil. Kendo had been good enough to hand over a few of the catalogs after work, along with some quiet commentary about "choosing a rig that fits the fight, not the fantasy." Daniel wasn't quite sure what the man had meant, but he figured it was good advice. Now if only he could figure out what the "fight" was.
He turned a page, eyes landing once again on the term that had already bested him three times: CQBE AVS. It was buried under a bold heading for modular carry systems and followed by a block of fine print so dense it might as well have been redacted. Some kind of high-threat… something with quick-release tabs, probably. He guessed the acronym stood for Close Quarters Battle Equipment or something equally vague. The photo didn't help, just another vest draped over a plastic torso with a dozen attachment points, pouches everywhere, and a price tag that hovered just below the upper end of his comfort zone. It wasn't even what he was looking for he eventually figured out. He didn't need the vest, just the pouches. Probably.
His hand drifted to the edge of the table where the Gridlink sat. The device had become second nature lately, but it couldn't give him what he needed right now. No glossary. No forums. No late-night infodumps from people who'd already tried this gear in the field. In his own time, he would have figured it out in five minutes and been watching a full breakdown video by the sixth. But not here. Not now.
The catalogs were the best he had, and even then, they felt like they were taunting him. They were filled with gear built for men who knew what they were looking for, who knew all the little acronyms and ratios, not some guy running a shoestring budget and trusting his life to it. He missed having answers at his fingertips. No endless rabbit holes of spec comparisons. No instant feedback from people who'd taken the same risks. All he had was paper, a pen, and the hollow scratch of pencil on notepad when he tried to organize his thoughts.
He had some money now, more than he'd expected after nearly two months of living like a ghost. Food, rent, and ammunition had taken up most of his costs, and even those had been budgeted with surgical precision. Mostly for this, if he were honest. He knew that quality equipment would be expensive, and he didn't want to cheap out. If the world was going to burn, he had to be ready. And being ready meant gear… good gear, not whatever tryhard surplus was still floating around in the bottom bins of pawn shops and hunting depots.
He circled a few options. A set of kevlar bracers. Reinforced gloves with leather grips that wouldn't fall apart the first time he had to climb something sharp. Pouches that could mount at various angles for reload speed. There was a hydration system that looked like it was made out of cheap plastic and dreams, but it was better than trying to carry water bottles by hand. All of it was becoming a puzzle he needed to solve, each piece fitted not just to his body but to the way he intended to move, to fight, to live.
The phone on the wall hadn't rung in days. He stared at it for a moment, considering. Ordering this stuff would be easy. A name, a part number, a polite voice. No questions asked. He'd never appreciated how easy the world used to be before internet paranoia and regulation made everything feel like a background check. In 1997, no one cared. If your card cleared, the gear shipped.
The thought should have comforted him. It didn't.
His hand settled over a page advertising a padded belt system with ALICE loops and integrated support. Another circled product. Another decision waiting to be locked in. Somewhere in the background, the refrigerator rattled faintly to life. The room smelled like stale coffee and paper. His back hurt. His eyes burned. He hadn't eaten since lunch and that had been lean.
He pulled a catalogue from the pile, made a small question mark next to something that looked like a leg mounted something or other that wrapped around his thigh, which was probably good since his carry space was a premium and he needed to fit a fair amount onto himself. The Survivalist, bastard that he was, wasn't a liar. That vest had some excellent protection specs, but it also had maybe a third of the carry space and three times the weight of even the heaviest vests in these books. He'd need to figure something out for that.
For now, he closed one of the catalogs, stacked it neatly on top of the others, and rested both hands on the sides of his face. This was the part no one ever talked about, preparing not just your kit, but your head. Making peace with how strange it felt to spend money like this. Weighing it not by cost, but by how likely it was to save your life in the clinch. Like it was life and death.
Maybe it was.
There was a knock at the door. Not loud, not frantic. Just three firm raps that startled Daniel out of his haze. He blinked hard, sitting upright with the dull ache of concentration behind his eyes. The table was still a mess of surplus catalogs, half-scribbled notes, and a pencil worn to a nub. He swore under his breath, then reached instinctively for the Gridlink. With one smooth motion, he slid it under a folded catalog and nudged it further back on the table, out of direct view.
Only one person ever knocked. He didn't really have a large social circle after all, and the people at work were just that, the people at work. No, he knew who it was, and, if only to himself, he admitted he was glad for it.
He rose stiffly, crossing the room in a few steps. The chain stayed off, his hand resting on the knob as he exhaled once more and opened the door.
Rebecca stood there with her hair slightly frizzed and the shadows of fatigue under her eyes. As was tradition at this point, she looked like she was running ragged and had just stepped out of a long shower. Her cheeks were pink from the heat, and her hands were wrapped around a foil-covered baking pan, the faintest trail of steam escaping from a tear in the edge.
She smiled. "Hey. You hungry?"
Daniel's mouth opened, but it took a second for the words to arrive.
"I'm always hungry when you're the one knocking," he said, voice rough with fatigue and a little too honest.
She grinned wider, stepping in as he held the door for her. She carried the pan with practiced care and moved straight to the kitchen like she'd done it before. The oven hadn't been used in a week, but the stovetop was clean. She set the pan down there with a metallic clunk, then pulled her sleeves up and gave him a quick glance over her shoulder.
"It's burrito casserole," she said, tapping the top with one knuckle. "Something pretty simple, you know? Beef, cheese, more beef, lots of protein. I was kinda wiped today."
"You and me both," Daniel said.
He gestured at the table, half-apologetically. "Want to stay? I mean, if you've got time. No pressure."
"I shouldn't," she started, brushing hair out of her eyes. But then she turned, really looked at the table, and blinked. "Whoa. That's a lot of magazines."
Daniel froze. He'd forgotten about his little project in the face of Rebecca's cooking.
Rebecca stepped closer, hands on her hips, surveying the scattered catalogs with a raised eyebrow. Her nose crinkled slightly as she leaned down to read one of the titles.
"'Tactical Entry Solutions for Law Enforcement?'" she read aloud, then turned her head. There were at least a dozen more of the same vein, too. "Daniel, what is all this?"
He scrambled for a response, pulse spiking in a way that he pretended had nothing to do with fear at being caught out and everything to do with embarrassment. The lie formed halfway before he could stop it, and his voice came out with more hesitation than he liked.
"It's, uh… paintball," he said, as her eyebrow hiked. "Milsim stuff. Some friends of mine- well, friends of friends, really, they go out to Colorado once a year. Big event. Like, a whole-weekend thing. Everyone dresses up and plays capture the flag in the woods with paintball guns." The words tumbled out of his mouth, and he had to fight to not physically cringe. "It's weird, I know."
She blinked at him. Just stared. Then, God help him, she smiled.
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
"You fly to another state to pretend to be a soldier with a bunch of grown men running around in the forest shooting each other with paintballs?"
He raised both hands slightly in mock surrender. "I said it was weird."
She laughed then, a soft, genuine sound that filled the kitchen with something that felt more alive than it had all night.
"I'm not judging," she said, still smiling. "Just wasn't expecting to walk in and find my neighbor with… what is this, twenty?" If it were possible he looked even more sheepish as he nodded hangdoggedly. "Twenty gear catalogues laid out on his kitchen table."
Daniel shrugged, scratching the back of his neck as he looked anywhere but at her. "It's a hobby. You know how it is."
Rebecca smirked. "You're acting like you got caught reading a dirty magazine instead of shopping for tactical suspenders."
"Wha-nah, no I keep those under the bed-wait!" He snapped out as she got a devious look on her face. "That was a joke. Don't you dare."
"I know, I know, don't get your battle belt in a bunch." She laughed, and his hand hit his face with an audible slap. "Besides, it's not that bad. Honestly. You should hear some of the guys at the office fighting over which set of slings hangs better."
He looked away, unable to help the flush creeping into his cheeks. "Yeah, well. Those guys are the real deal. There's something else about a grown man trying to look like the real deal to impress a bunch of randos in the woods somewhere. This is of course assuming I can even figure out what in the nine hells half this stuff is even talking about."
She stepped closer, picking up a second catalog and flipping casually through the pages. Her tone shifted slightly, not serious, but more grounded.
"You know," she said, "this stuff's not all nonsense to me."
He gave her a look.
"I mean it," she said. "Part of STARS training is being able to identify gear in the field- what it does, how it's used, what kind of threat someone's carrying. It's not just about shooting and first aid. You're supposed to know what you're looking at before it becomes a problem."
Daniel paused, unsure what to say. Rebecca picked up on it, and a kind smile crossed her lips, as she motioned him to sit.
She sat down across from him, one hand still on the edge of a catalog. Her eyes scanned over a few pages, and she looked back up. "Do you want some help?"
Daniel hesitated. He could think of ten reasons to say no. This was supposed to be private. Careful. The more she saw, the more she might start to ask the wrong questions. Or worse, the right ones. But he was tired. His head hurt. And the truth was, he'd been sitting here for hours with no real progress. For all that he was an enthusiastic amatuer, he only had so much money and couldn't really afford to make mistakes.
He sighed and met her gaze.
"Please."
Daniel watched from his seat as Rebecca moved through the catalogs like she'd been born into them. There wasn't a hint of hesitation. She compared chest rigs, load-bearing vests, and field gear with a kind of smooth efficiency that made him feel a little obsolete. She knew exactly what to look for and what to dismiss. One by one, she ruled out the cheap imported copies, flagged the sturdier American-made kits, and double-checked harness compatibility on pages that made his eyes glaze earlier in the night.
She didn't just help. She solved it. In less than twenty minutes, she'd done what he hadn't managed in six hours of circling product codes and second-guessing himself.
When she paused at the edge of a catalog to jot down a part number, she glanced back toward the note he'd scribbled earlier. The budget column, specifically.
"This your actual spending limit?" she asked, only half-joking.
"Yeah," he said. "Comfortably under, even. I've been saving up for a while."
She raised a brow but didn't say more. I was a little much, for him, but he wasn't about to say it, and he had meant to take this seriously, which she picked up on.
"I used to have a similar setup," he added after a moment. "Back home. Before I moved."
Her pen stilled, but she didn't look up.
"It's all gone now," he said, quieter now. His mind drifted to a different place, in a different world that only existed in his memories. "It feels weird to think about it. Such a huge part of my life and its just missing."
"Sometimes it's easier not to look back," she said, gently.
He nodded.
"So what do you need this stuff to do?" she asked, shifting gears.
"It has to distribute weight and supplies well," he said. "I'm looking for things that let me haul a lot without relying on using a chest or back rig. Mostly ammo, some tools, stuff like that, with good balance to offset a heavy vest. It has to be rip-proof. Cut-resistant. Breathable. Something that won't fall apart if I'm moving through thick brush or metal fencing. If you can find something with modular hydration, that would be good too. Water can be kind of a pain to haul, you know?"
Rebecca thumbed through another set of pages and tilted the catalog toward him.
"This one's built on the older ALICE frame," she said. "Not comfortable, but it'll carry more than it should. Get the upgraded shoulder straps if you can. The belt system's garbage on the base issue, but some of the modified kits are decent."
He looked at the photo, seeing it was mostly nylon and steel buckles. It wasn't fancy or complicated, and that was a plus for him.
"That's more or less what I was picturing," he said.
"Then don't overthink it," she said, flipping to the next item. "Skip anything that talks about 'ergonomics' and stick to the stuff that looks like it was meant to be run into the ground."
They worked steadily from there, moving through layered shirts, heavy pants built for rough terrain, weatherproof gear built for Forest Service rangers and backcountry SAR crews. She flagged an Israeli combat harness for consideration, one of the newer surplus listings with adjustable magazine pouches and a cross-draw holster.
They spent the evening chatting like that, comparing notes and styles. The food, what was left of the burrito casserole, vanished in chunks between conversations, mostly from Daniel's plate, though Rebecca managed to pick through a second helping while comparing pack sizes. Neither of them had realized how hungry they were until they weren't.
By the time they were wrapping up, most of the catalogs had been either closed or marked. A single piece of notepaper lay on top of the pile, filled with part numbers and phone extensions. Daniel leaned back in his chair, stretching just enough to hear something crack in his shoulder.
"You saved me a week's worth of headache," he said. "I owe you."
Rebecca stood and stretched herself, arching her back with a satisfied groan. "You do. But it wasn't that bad. I kinda liked it. It's different when it's not just me memorizing gear specs and trauma plate tolerances out of a million data books."
He smiled, grateful and worn out.
She moved toward the door and stopped halfway, eyes catching on a sliver of metal under a catalog that had shifted during cleanup.
She bent down, pulled it free, and turned it over in her hand.
"What's this?"
Daniel froze for just a moment. The Gridlink sat in her palm, its shiny black screen reflecting light from the overhead. He scrambled mentally, having totally forgotten it was there amid the stacks of catalogues.
"Oh," he said quickly. "That's a weird garage sale find. Some kind of toy or gimmick thing."
Rebecca turned the dial, playing with some of the buttons, but, thankfully, not turning it on. "Looks almost military."
"I thought so too," he said, reaching for the lifeline. "Yeah, it lights up when you mess with it enough. Pretty sure it's just decorative. Maybe something from a movie prop kit. I don't know. Five bucks, couldn't resist."
She squinted at the casing. "Definitely not anything standard. Might've wasted your five bucks."
He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."
She smirked and set it down on the table, then pulled her hoodie on and moved to the door.
"See you around, warlord," she said, her tone dry but friendly.
"Night, Rebecca."
The door shut softly behind her.
Daniel let out a breath and leaned his weight forward, elbows on the table. She hadn't asked questions. Not the ones that mattered. She'd seen something strange, shrugged it off, and let it go. He let out a silent, tense breath. He'd gotten a little too comfortable with it out in the open, and he almost paid for it.
He pushed the Gridlink deeper beneath the catalogs, out of sight. He wanted to kick himself, and what's worse, his closet was full of even more impossible to explain items. He'd gotten lucky. Real goddamn lucky that she bought that load of shit. If she even suspected something, the whole thing was over and done. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, just head straight to jail for the next few decades.
He needed to find somewhere to stash his stuff. Somewhere quiet and out of the way, where gunshots wouldn't be reported and strange people moving in and out weren't cared about or commented on. He had some ideas, but there was no more putting it off. He needed a real base of operations.
000
Monday and Tuesday bled together, swallowed by long walks and the growing ache in Daniel's legs. Every evening, after work left him sore and caked in the dull smell of meat, he changed clothes and set back out into the city. He kept it casual. Just a man wandering aimlessly after hours with his hands in his pockets and a purpose no one else could see.
He wasn't casing a place. Not officially. Not like a thief would. But the rules weren't all that different.
The first and most absolute rule: no cameras. If he could see one, that area was off-limits. And Raccoon, for all its supposed decay in the industrial fringe, still had plenty of working lenses hanging off light poles and building corners. Sometimes they were obvious, cheap plastic domes mounted near entrances. Sometimes they were older- metal-bodied, bolted in at weird angles, but still connected, still watching. He caught one red light blinking through a grimy lens and didn't even cross the street. Just turned the corner and moved on.
Second rule: nothing with a new lock. If the chain was fresh, if the deadbolt looked like it had seen a hardware store in the past five years, that meant someone still cared. Developers maybe, or a shell company managing a forgotten asset. Didn't matter. Anyone paying to keep people out was someone he didn't want sniffing around once he was in.
Those two rules alone thinned out the field pretty quickly.
Still, it surprised him how much of the city had just been left behind. Downtown was packed tight with storefronts and foot traffic, but once you pushed past the main arteries and started weaving into the bones of the city, things changed. The grid softened. Streets sloped unevenly. Warehouses and fenced lots gave way to long stretches of nothing, interrupted only by the occasional payphone or boarded-up storefront with peeling signage.
He hit every alley he could find, keeping mental tabs on what he saw. It helped that he'd spent weeks walking these streets already. Some buildings he remembered. Others felt like ghosts he was meeting for the first time. The empty corners were plentiful, but truly invisible spots, the places that felt forgotten even to memory? Those were rare.
Wednesday evening, though, he found one.
The building was mostly a wreck. A three-story red-brick structure with one whole corner collapsed inward and vines clawing their way up from the back lot. Whatever company had once operated there had left no name behind. A sun-faded delivery sign hung loose on rusted bolts, and the windows were either smashed out or clouded with grime so thick it looked like concrete.
But near the eastern side, half-covered by a stack of broken pallets and a wheel-less dolly, there was a narrow stairwell that dropped sharply into the earth. No door. Just a concrete arch and eight moss-rimmed steps descending into shadow.
Daniel looked around. No cameras. No lights. Not even a streetlamp within half a block. The neighboring buildings were silent, either dead or nearly so. He waited a few minutes, listening, and when no one passed, he slipped down the stairs.
The basement door was still there. Metal. Old. Hinged outward. There was no handle, and there probably hadn't been one in years from the look of the mounting holes. A weathered padlock ring dangled from the side, rusted through, the matching clasp bent at an angle like someone had tried to force it off decades ago and never bothered replacing it.
Inside was better than he'd hoped.
The basement was rectangular, maybe seventy five feet across, double that in length, with a row of squat industrial machines bolted to the floor near the far wall. Old things. Fabrication tools or presses, maybe. All of them long dead and covered in a thick skin of dust. No trash. No graffiti. No signs that anyone had been through in years.
The ceiling overhead was concrete; rough, solid, unpainted. A good foot thick by his estimate, and supported by wide steel I-beams running the length of the room. They were pitted and orange with rust, but intact. No signs of cracking. No sagging around the braces.
He tested the floor with slow, deliberate steps. It held steady. No soft spots. No unexpected sounds. Just the dry crunch of grit beneath his boots.
There was a side room too- small, probably once an office or records storage area. It had a door still attached, warped but functional. The kind of thing he could maybe get back into shape with a new handle and fresh hinges. With a little work, it could be something secure, though not impenetrable. Enough to deter someone casually wandering around, but anonymity was his best defence.
The location was what sealed it. No more than five blocks from his apartment if he cut through the alleys. Twenty minutes tops, even if he moved cautiously. No bus required. No long hikes in daylight with a suspicious backpack.
He stood in the dark for a few minutes, breathing through his nose. The air smelled stale but clean enough. No mold. No rot. Just dust, concrete, and the faint oil-stone scent of long-settled machinery.
He couldn't have found somewhere more perfect.
000
Thursday came with a different rhythm. The search was over. Now it was about readiness. Getting the site into shape before the weather turned foul and made access harder. Raccoon was still northern enough that it got a fair amount of snow in the winter, and for areas like this, where the plow trucks went through maybe once a week? It needed to be ready well before then, or else he'd have to sit on it till the access cleared.
After work, Daniel headed home, changed into darker clothes, and packed deliberately. His Jericho went into its holster under the jacket, and the bag carried a flashlight, gloves, a folding knife, pry bar, and a notebook. He moved without drawing attention, cutting through side streets until he reached the alley that led behind the ruined building.
The entrance looked unchanged. Still hidden, still silent. The stairwell remained partially obscured by debris and broken pallets and a rusted dolly pushed just far enough out of the way. He stepped down into the concrete recess, then pulled the door open with a firm shove. The hinges protested, but not enough to slow him.
He stepped down into the stairwell, hand brushing the concrete wall. Eight cracked steps took him to the door, still slightly ajar. Upon a second look with fresh eyes, he noticed the steel was weathered but intact, a little rust around the edges and handle bracket, but nothing too far gone. A salvageable frame, solid hinge mounts. With a new handle and lock, it could hold. More importantly, it didn't look like much from the outside; just another forgotten utility entry.
Inside, he clicked on the flashlight and stepped through.
The beam cut across the dust like a blade. The air was still. Silent. He moved in slowly, boots crunching faintly on dry concrete. The only boot marks were his in the dust, a good sign that nobody had bothered to investigate after him, if the building wasn't quite so uncared for after all. Good news, that, as he'd been worried it was only abandoned because nobody paid it attention. It seemed, though, that it wasn't the case.
He'd made the effort to get a feel for the basement last time he was here, but the concerted effort to really understand the space made a world of difference. The room was larger than most people would guess, tucked away beneath a forgotten shell of a building. A series of eight evenly spaced steel I-beam pillars supporting the roof. The beams were rusted along the base but structurally sound, the metal straight and unbowed. The concrete ceiling above them looked solid, nearly a foot thick. Despite the ruin of the building above, the effects didn't seem to carry through to here.
Along the western wall, he checked out the old machines. The rusted hulks were all CNC units, at least from what he could tell, but the machines were a loss, the insides a tangled mess of webs and bent gears. The tooling arms were frozen in place, welded to the frames with more rust, and completely useless, but too heavy to bother removing. He'd work around them.
The floor was dry, at least. No leaks. He spotted the drainage grates spaced along the perimeter and near the centerline; evidence that this room had been built for utility, not storage. Whoever designed it had been thinking ahead, even if their dreams went unrealized. No standing water, no mold, no mildew. Just dust, settled thick over every surface.
He walked the room's length slowly, marking points in his mind. Ventilation ducting snaked along the ceiling and seemed to be in good shape, terminating in a large, square exhaust port near the far end. It looked old, unpowered, and clogged with debris, but it was still something. Airflow could be restored, if he learned how. That would come later.
The side room was next. Fifteen by twenty-five feet, tucked into the southeast corner. Same concrete construction, and no light filtered through the ceiling or walls, so it was solid. The window that might have overlooked the basement floor but had long since been boarded up. No furniture remained. Just an open box of rotted wiring in the corner and a rusted-out shelving unit. The walls were bare. The ceiling a bit lower than the main space, but that still left a lot of room.
It would serve well as a home away from home, with the right additions. Maybe even a fallback shelter if things ever got too hot aboveground. He could seal it up with a simple deadbolt, or even a bar latch, once he had the right tools.
Returning to the main room, he scanned the ceiling again and felt a small knot settle in his chest. There were no lights. No junction boxes. No obvious power conduits. There were some old bracket holes where the fixtures may have been were still there, though, and didn't look particularly damaged.
He knelt near the wall, brushing aside dust until he found a wall socket. He didn't need to worry about checking for a current, as the cable itself, secured to the wall by an installation, was severed about a foot up from the outlet. Nothing worth trying to salvage, at any rate.
He leaned back on his heels and let the flashlight drift upward again.
He was going to need to learn how to fix this.
He didn't have the background. Didn't know how to wire circuits or restore dead panels. But that could change. He'd find some books. Maybe a few guides from a hardware store or a library. This wasn't optional. He couldn't afford to stumble around in the dark forever. If this place was going to be usable, he had to turn it into something more than just an empty shell.
For now, it was enough to know it was stable, secure, and unused.
He checked the door again on his way out. The steel panel was heavier than he'd remembered, and when it closed, it did so with a deep, satisfying clunk. He couldn't lock it yet, but he marked the latch points in his notebook. A handle kit with a keylock would be enough until or unless he needed more. Something simple, but strong.
Outside, the evening air was cooling fast. He didn't look back as he stepped onto the street and made his way home, already planning out the first supply run. Tools for certain, some manuals, the door parts and a few other odds and ends would be a good place to start. He knew he could talk to the people at the store, frame it like a home renovation project. Hell, it was even partially true. He had enough funds for that much right now, and a little extra, but it had been amazing finding out how fast his money vanished when he'd bought seven grand in tactical gear, and now had to drop what looked like a few thousand for this job too. Still, he had the savings, and it's not like he had anything else going on anyway.
Friday after work, he drove straight to a strip mall hardware store and made his rounds with a list he'd built the night before. First came the toolkit: a full set, complete with ratchets, wire strippers, hammer, hand saw, a drill, and a dozen other pieces that served a mess of niche purposes. He also bought a small box of fasteners and odds-and-ends tossed in for good measure. He tried not to go overboard. Just what he needed to start working, but there was always something else that came to mind. He still had a half dozen power tools he'd need to get going forward, but that was for later.
He grabbed two beginner DIY books off a clearance table near the checkout- one focused on home wiring and the other on basic generator integration and power management. The diagrams were simple, but the instructions were detailed with a lot of breakdowns for someone who didn't speak Electrician, which was good because the more advanced books were a mess of vague diagrams that expected proficiency, and he just needed to string some lights for now. He tossed in a spool of electrical tape and several LED work lights on the way out. The units were compact, low energy units that gave off bright white light over a wide radius and could be hung from stands, or, if his planning went the way he wanted it to, the pillars. All in all, not bad for the cost.
The wagon rattled on the way home, back end sagging slightly under the weight of the toolkit. The shocks had seen better days, and the left rear wheel well had a rattle he hadn't been able to pin down, but the engine was solid and the cargo space was the real reason he'd kept the car this long. It wasn't pretty, and the rust creeping along the underside made it an eyesore, but it held tools, parts, and everything else he couldn't carry on foot. The big thing though was that it could slip into the alley where the door to his hideout was and stay out of sight of the road thanks to its size. That made it priceless.
Saturday morning started early. The air was crisp, and the backseat was packed tight with everything he needed for the first real push; tools, a camp chair, extra extension cords, and two gas cans strapped upright. The real prize was in the trunk: a rugged generator he'd picked up that morning from a used equipment supplier west of town.
It was old, and heavy, but surprisingly quiet. Painted in a faded coat of industrial yellow, with a steel frame and reinforced rubber feet. But it had been cleaned, its filters changed, and the fuel tank was spotless. The pull cord was smooth, the power indicator lights intact, and the previous owner had even marked the voltage and ground points with black permanent marker. The receipt came with a handwritten note: "Strong unit. Oil changed last month. Don't flood it."
Daniel liked that. Someone had cared about this thing. He needed gear that would last, not blow up the first time he left it running overnight.
Getting the generator into the hideout was the hard part. He had to park in the same alley as before and use a dolley he'd picked up from the hardware store to ease it down the stairs, taking each step one grunt at a time. The damn thing nearly bucked sideways twice before he got it settled just inside the entry alcove, close enough to be hidden but still ventilated through the stairwell. He had plans to move it under the ventilation hood once he got that fixed up.
He grounded it with a copper rod and lead line, then walked the circuit with the book open in one hand, flashlight in the other. The work was steady, Daniel taking his time to make sure it would be done right. Once the lines were secure and the surge protector was in place, he poured in a measured half tank, primed it, and pulled.
It turned over on the fourth try.
The work lights flicked on, and he gave a whoop of success. A single bright white cone lit the doorway. Ten seconds later, he plugged in the second one and aimed it toward the far corner of the main room. Then he started setting up the rest, using the pillars as posts and hanging the cables off of hooks he screwed into the already-drilled mooring holes. It took a good hour, but he could fill the room with light where he needed it when he needed it, and that was a good first step.
He could run the lights for days on a full tank, which was half the reason he got them, but they were a temporary solution. He would need to get something more permanent up eventually, but again, that was more of a step: later kind of thing. With light restored, somewhat, he then focussed on getting the door sorted. Which… proved to be more of a pain than he thought. The door itself, as it turned out, was an incredibly solid steel unit that weighed close to two hundred pounds. Despite the rusty exterior it was a solid block of steel that almost crushed him when he took it off its hinges, of which there were five. He hadn't expected that, but he managed to wrestle the door off eventually, to rip off the old, busted ones and replace them with reinforced replacements. He also took the padlock loops off, and put in a pick-resistant handle.
He remembered enough old youtube videos to know that there was no such thing as truly pickproof locks, but this would be enough to slow down a determined person for a little while at least.
Interestingly the only major weakness in the door had been where the loops were attached, as rust had eaten through the drill holes and left a small but clearly visible gap through the metal. A file attachment on a drill was enough to widen that, so he popped out back to the store to get an external deadbolt. It took some more work to put in the anchors and he ended up ruining a couple bits, but the door was double secured, with a solid two inch rod that would keep it from getting kicked in easily resting on the inside. He just had to make sure that he didn't lose the keys.
That was most of the day, and despite the open door, he was getting a little whiffy, so the ventilation for the generator wasn't as good as he'd hoped. He'd need to find a solution to that, too, then. Getting that ventilation duct working suddenly went up a step in priority, and with a flick of a switch and a click of a lock, he was headed back to the hardware store for a third time. At least, he thought he could leave all of his stuff there and not worry about being robbed. Probably. This was largely how the rest of the day vanished.
Sunday started with the shooting club. He'd been practicing his draws, getting the feel of things, on and off throughout the week and while it wasn't great progress, it was still better than it was the week before. A former cop, John Doggit, as he'd introduced himself properly, ran Daniel through some exercises that got him moving a little better, and left him off with some advice for how to carry his gun without breaking the lines of his clothes. All in all, a productive morning. The afternoon was spent at the hideout, trying, and somewhat failing, to get the wiring sorted. The ventilation unit needed power to run, and while he had that, the unit itself was a ruin. Plus, everything he read told him that not planning for the rest of his grid would lead to some real issues when he decided to put some lights in. The easy, temporary solution was to buy some thermal venting for a washing machine, use thermal tape to tape it to the exhaust of the generator, and run it out through the door. That helped a lot, but wasn't a real fix. It would do for now, though.
So there he was, fighting once more with a bunch of cables.
The parts he'd bought were basic. Coated copper wire, wall anchors, a staple gun, and a bunch of salvaged fixtures he'd taken from a demolition sale on Friday. He spent most of the morning tracing the walls and deciding where the permanent lighting would go, marking the beams with grease pencil and taping loose guides for cable paths. The end result was a cubic grid that seemed organized enough and did end at the ventilation unit in the far corner.
He didn't get far. A few new anchor holes were drilled, two cable lengths tacked up with barely enough slack, and a test fixture mounted over the door with more hope than confidence. The books helped, but his pace was slow. Every step required a double-check to make sure he wouldn't electrocute himself, his knowledge limited to just diagrams and blueprints. He re-read half a chapter just trying to wire the switch without crossing the lines.
By late afternoon, the fixture still didn't turn on. It wasn't a failure- just a pause. He wasn't about to guess and short something important. The tools were packed, the line capped, and the checklist marked. It would be working soon enough. He'd see to it.
Before leaving, he brought in a small battery bank he'd picked up from the same shop that sold him the generator. He hadn't wanted to do that first and mess anything up, but with the light coming along he'd wanted to have it ready for tomorrow when he came back. He didn't want to run the generator overnight, not without good ventilation, but during the day? That was another story.
As he walked out that night, locking the door behind him with both padlocks and a fresh brace bar across the inside, he took one last look at the entryway. Dust scuffed, but undisturbed. Tools packed, power off, and plans set.
000
Monday came easier than most. The workday passed without surprises, and though Daniel still felt the usual tightness in his legs, it wasn't sharp anymore. He let it roll off him, riding the rhythm of routine until closing time. By the time he reached the stairs to his apartment, keys in hand and the weight of the evening ahead already forming in his mind, the quiet tap of footsteps behind him made him pause.
"Hey, stranger."
The voice reached him before the person did. He turned, already recognizing the tone. Rebecca was climbing the stairwell with a brown paper grocery bag tucked under one arm. Her hair was tied back, wisps clinging to her forehead from the lingering heat. Her cheeks were a little flushed, either from the climb or the weight of the bag, but she was smiling like they hadn't just seen each other a few days ago.
"Hey yourself," Daniel replied, shifting to the side to give her room.
She took the final few steps and raised an eyebrow as she approached. "No need to clear a path," she said, her voice light. "I'm off-duty, not on patrol."
Daniel let out a dry chuckle. "Supermarket stakeout didn't pan out?"
"Worse," Rebecca sighed, adjusting her grip on the bag. "I caved and bought instant mashed potatoes again."
He raised a skeptical brow. "Didn't you ban those from your apartment?"
"I did," she admitted with a guilty smile. "But they were on sale and sometimes you just need something, and you know how that goes."
"They're not food," he said, shaking his head. "They're salty regret in powder form."
"Yeah, well..." She lifted the bag slightly, the top crinkling. "I've got real ingredients to make up for it."
Daniel glanced at the bulging shape of the bag, then back to her. "Let me guess. Enough to feed six?"
"Five," she said with a grin, clearly amused. "But only because I scaled it back."
He huffed a laugh. "You say that every time, and somehow I still end up with a full container of leftovers the next morning."
Rebecca shifted the bag to her other arm, the motion easy and practiced. "I'm helping the building," she said, mock defensive. "Feeding the masses. Building morale."
"Well, morale is high on my floor," Daniel said, smirking. "Whatever that was last week… chicken and ginger something? I didn't even heat it up and it was still incredible."
"I'm glad someone appreciates it," she said, a touch of genuine warmth beneath her grin.
He gave a short nod. "Cooking for one?"
"Sort of," she replied, nudging the bag against her hip. "But let's be honest, I'll make too much again, and half of it's going to end up in your fridge."
"I'm not complaining," Daniel said, tone sincere. "Better than anything I've managed to throw together lately." Or at all.
"Glad to know it's not going to waste," Rebecca said with a small shrug, then paused. Her eyes flicked to his shoulder bag. "You heading somewhere?"
"Yeah," he said, casually. "Got a few things I need to check off before it gets late."
There was a brief silence between them, the kind that came naturally when neither wanted to rush the moment. Then Rebecca shifted slightly and tilted her head, thoughtful.
"Before you disappear, do you remember that favor you owe me?"
Daniel's expression became curious, and maybe a little playful. He turned to face her fully. "Vaguely. You're not about to hit me with a moving truck worth of furniture, are you?"
She raised a brow. "Tempting," she said. "But no. This one's smaller. Relatively."
"I'm listening."
"I need someone to help with a CPR demonstration," she said. "They want me to start teaching a refresher class each month. It's mostly for civilians, but I've got to haul the dummy, run the room, manage the timing… It's kind of a lot for one person. Learned that after last time."
Daniel squinted slightly. "So… you need a stand-in corpse?"
"Technically, yes," she replied. "Preferably one that can haul thirty pounds and doesn't fall over."
He arched his brow. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended."
Rebecca smirked. "I'm calling it even."
Daniel scratched the back of his neck. "I'm not great with crowds."
She shrugged again, more gently this time. "It's not a crowd. Maybe a dozen people, max. You don't have to talk, just haul the dummy, help reset the arms and legs, maybe sit in while I walk through positioning. That's it."
He didn't respond right away, his mouth tightening into a thin line. She seemed to catch the hesitation and softened her tone.
"Come over Thursday," she said. "My place. I'll cook, we'll talk it through. I promise it's not that bad, but if you still don't like it it's okay."
Daniel gave her a wary look. "So now you're bribing me with dinner."
"I prefer 'strategic persuasion through culinary excellence.'" She said, taking the offering that was given, a look of relief briefly flashing over her face.
That pulled a short laugh out of him. "You're dangerous with an apron. That's cheating."
"I do what I must."
He sighed, feigning resignation as he nodded. "Alright, Thursday. Bring your A game though, I'm not easily convinced."
"Oh it's on now," she said, shooting him a grin that he matched.
She brushed past him then, her steps light as she reached her door. Her voice lingered just long enough to reach him again.
"See you, Daniel."
He turned slightly. "Yeah," he said. "You too."
The door closed behind her with a soft click, and Daniel stood still for a moment, the hallway now quiet again. The moment lingered in his thoughts, warm and faintly amused, before he drew a slow breath and headed out into the evening.
Monday night and Tuesday slipped by in quiet pieces- long hours of work followed by construction which was then followed by sleep that came heavy and without dreams. Once he got the rhythm down, the lighting wasn't as complicated as he'd feared. Most of the grunt work came from the ladder: dragging it from beam to beam, climbing up with a fixture in one hand and tools in the other, then stretching just a little too far for a better angle. He almost took a dive more than once. The first time, his boot slipped on a rung slick with dust and gave his chest a solid jolt of adrenaline. He learned after that to keep one hand braced at all times.
Still, the lights went up. The wiring held. The generator didn't sputter, and the new bulbs burned bright, throwing clean white light across the raw concrete and rusted steel. He hadn't finished every row yet, but the place was starting to feel real, like a space being shaped into something useful.
But the duct in the western corner was another story.
At first glance, it looked solid. Rusted on the outside, sure, but the seams weren't flaking apart, and the frame hadn't shifted. It wasn't until he removed the bolted vent plate that the problem made itself known. Inside was a mess of old plastic wrappers, rat droppings, what might have been part of a bird nest, and enough grit and leaves to choke airflow entirely. He followed the duct's run as far as he could and found the outlet mangled and open to the elements. The collapsed remains of the upper factory were half-burying the exterior vent, which explained the clog. At some point the cover must've snapped off, letting the rest of the world drift in.
Clearing it had taken all of Wednesday evening. There was no angle of approach that didn't suck. Dust coated his forearms up to the elbow, and some rust flaked into his shirt collar before he managed to wedge himself into position with a metal pole, scooping the debris outward an armful at a time. He'd cursed out loud more than once when a chunk of twisted aluminum slipped and banged into his shoulder. By the end of it, he was sore, filthy, and too tired to do more than shove the vent plate halfway back into place with a duct-tape seal to keep any curious critters out.
Now it was Thursday afternoon. He had more than enough he wanted to get done today, even before hitting up Rebecca's for dinner, but he wasn't needed until around eight, and that left him a good four hours to make use of.
Daniel locked his apartment door and stepped into the hallway, shoulders heavy from the shift. The dull ache in his thighs reminded him that concrete floors had no give, and he'd spent too many hours standing on one. He took the stairs slower than usual, letting the tension ride itself out.
As he reached his car, the thought returned again to the ventilation. He couldn't just leave the duct wide open. Even cleared out, it was just a rust-lined tube waiting to suck in rainwater, rodents, or anything else that found its way through the broken debris pile above. He needed a cover- something durable, something secure. Mesh, maybe, or one of those angled metal hoods construction crews used for building exteriors. But even that wouldn't be enough on its own.
The fan was the real sticking point.
Without active airflow, the whole setup would just stagnate. The generator's exhaust wasn't a big problem right now, but in colder months, or if he spent any long periods working with chemicals or fuels, he'd need proper ventilation. Something quiet, low-power, and rugged. Preferably a unit he could install without having to rebuild the entire duct assembly from scratch.
Hardware stores might have something in stock. He'd seen wall-mount fans before, the kind they used for crawlspaces and utility sheds. Not ideal, but with some modification, it could work. A salvaged inline duct fan would be better, but he'd have to look around. Maybe the local junk shops or construction surplus yards. He'd have to make a trip this weekend, no way around it.
Daniel slid into the driver's seat and shut the door, letting the silence settle in. The street outside was quiet, the usual chorus of Raccoon City's background noise barely audible through the window. He rubbed his face once, trying to push some of the fatigue away, then turned the key.
As he pulled out of the lot and headed toward home, his thoughts circled around to the work that still needed to be done. He was making good progress, but the rush was there, and he felt it.
000
Thursday night found Daniel standing in front of Rebecca's door. Daniel had cleaned up, made sure to look presentable, and tried not to overthink the fact that he'd actually looked in the mirror before leaving his apartment, maybe more than once.
He knocked twice, knuckles firm on the wood.
"Come in!" she called from inside, voice bright over the soft hum of something cooking. "It's open!"
He hesitated only a moment, then turned the knob and stepped in.
The warmth hit him first. Not just the ambient temperature, though the kitchen radiated heat from the stove, but the air itself, thick with the scent of simmering stew. Rich and savory. Meat, vegetables, garlic, herbs. Something sharp like paprika, maybe cumin. His stomach responded immediately, a low growl he hoped she hadn't heard.
Rebecca was moving in and out of view past the kitchen doorway, a blur of motion. She wore a comically bright yellow apron with Mr. Raccoon grinning across the front, big letters beneath it reading "DIG THAT GRUB!" Her hair was tied back messily, one sleeve pushed up higher than the other, a wooden spoon in one hand and a small glass jar of seasoning in the other.
"Dinner's almost ready!" she called out. "Just give me two minutes and don't get between me and the stove unless you want to lose a limb!"
Daniel smiled quietly and stepped further in, easing the door shut behind him. Her apartment hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been there. The overhead light in the kitchen was on, the table already set. Plates, silverware, glasses of water, and at the center of it all: a small pile of notebooks and pads, fanned out like a study session was about to begin.
Rebecca peeked her head around the corner.
"Go ahead and sit," she said. "The notes are there. I figured it's easier to show than to explain."
Daniel pulled out a chair and eased into it, eyeing the notebooks. Each one was covered in her neat, angled handwriting, the rows of bullet points, diagrams, and itemized lists compiled in organized rows. Everything was color-coded. One pad had notes on mannequin positioning. Another had CPR instruction steps broken into phases: Approach, Check, Respond, Act. The last one had some kind of outline with time stamps and marginalia- clearly a lesson plan in progress.
"Looks like you've been busy," he said.
"I like being prepared," she replied from the kitchen. There was the sound of a lid settling onto a pot, followed by the clatter of a spoon being dropped into the sink. "Plus, if I look like I know what I'm doing, people are less likely to ask questions I don't want to answer."
Daniel flipped through a couple of pages. She really had planned for nearly everything, and more than that, it was extremely professional. Well, except for the occasional cartoon doodle in the margins. A stick figure with a lopsided head, labeled Dummy Dave, grinned up at him with Xs for eyes.
"I see Dummy Dave didn't make it," he said.
"He died tragically," Rebecca replied. "Massive cardiac event. Couldn't even say goodbye."
"Brutal."
The timer on the stove went off, and Rebecca returned with a pot in one hand and a ladle in the other. The smell intensified the second the lid came off. She served him first, careful but confident, steam rising off the thick brown broth. There were chunks of meat, soft potatoes, carrots, onion, and what looked like diced green beans or peppers. Hers followed quickly after.
They both sat. Daniel didn't wait for a cue. He took a bite and nearly moaned in contentment. The broth was deep and rich, the seasoning perfectly balanced. The vegetables were tender without being mush. The meat practically fell apart on contact.
"I have no words, Rebecca," he said after the second bite. "This might be your best one yet."
She beamed at that. "It's just a beef and bean stew with a little kick. Nothing fancy."
"I'd trade half my pantry for another bowl." Daniel gave her a lazy grin.
Rebecca took a bite of her own, then leaned back slightly. "So. The favor."
"Right," Daniel said, already knowing where this was going.
"I'm doing the first class on Monday, then the next will be at the end of the month," she said between bites. "Apparently Chief Irons and Captain Wesker both agreed it was a good use of my time. Which I didn't exactly get to vote on."
Daniel gave her a dry look. "Voluntold?"
"Exactly," she said, stabbing her spoon into a carrot. "But I don't mind, honestly. This is the kind of thing I like doing. I just wish it didn't feel like a chore from the people upstairs."
He nodded, chewing thoughtfully.
"Anyway," she continued, "you helping out makes it way easier. I've got to demonstrate the proper partner technique, and you're already tall and quiet, so you'll look great standing behind the dummy."
"Quiet's easy," he said. "Not sure I'm built for stage presence."
"You'll be fine," she said. "And you're already committed. You're eating the food. That's binding."
He raised his glass in surrender. "I'm trapped."
She clinked hers against his. "Glad you understand."
000
Friday came with the heavy thump of spent brass and the rhythmic crack of gunfire echoing off cinderblock walls. Daniel stood alone in his usual stall near the end of the range, squared off against a paper silhouette hanging twenty-five feet out. He wasn't here for fun. This was about repetition, familiarity, control. Practice made perfect, and when he used to shoot, it was maybe once a month. Now it was twice a week. Three if he had the time and energy.
The Jericho sat in his hand like it belonged there, the weight balanced just right, the grip conforming to his hand. He exhaled through his nose, found his front sight, and squeezed off three quick shots. The recoil hit cleanly into his wrist, the pattern tight but drifting slightly right. He made a small correction, adjusted his stance, and fired again.
The smell of burnt powder and gun oil hung around him like a coat, and he didn't mind it. It helped him focus, something simple to anchor him while his mind pushed through the motions.
He holstered slowly, then reset.
Draw. Fire. Two rounds, center mass. Reholster. Breathe. Do it again.
The quickdraw wasn't smooth yet, not exactly, but it was improving. The weeks of dry fire practice at home had helped, and now the muscle memory was starting to settle in. The first inch of movement was faster. His grip didn't fumble. And when the shot broke, it came without hesitation.
He repeated the cycle until the magazine clicked dry. Then he reloaded, checked the feed, and started again.
The Jericho kicked with a familiar pulse, its weight rolling through his arm with each pull. Center mass, slight drift right. He adjusted, fired again. The slow movement of steady progress. His thoughts were less organized.
The coming week was stacked. Not that he hadn't chosen most of it himself, but the hours still had to come from somewhere. Sunday was the shooting club meetup, which he'd promised to show up for, looking forward to the light drills, a little friendly competition, and the unspoken understanding that everyone there was there to shoot as much as chat.
Monday was Rebecca's CPR class. He was already committed, both in spirit and in stew. He didn't regret it, exactly, but the idea of being the center of attention, even passively, still made something in his chest coil up. He'd figure it out. He always did.
Then there was Wednesday. The Neighborhood Watch seminar.
He'd almost written it off. His original idea of getting in on that was looking less and less promising with all the other pulls on his time. But the flyer had caught his attention with one sentence: "Learn how to coordinate with emergency services in crisis situations." Not a throwaway line. If they were serious about walking through what police and first responders needed to hear in a panic, that was worth knowing. Better to sit through an hour of awkward community outreach if it meant being better prepared for what came later.
Friday had a big intermediate pistol course. Barry was running it himself, and Daniel didn't intend to miss that. Every time the two shot together he learned a new trick, got a little bit better, and it showed. And… well, he was starting to like Barry. Nevermind all the rest, he'd promised to be there anyway, so he would aim to keep it. It would be a good way to round out the week, assuming nothing else landed in his lap.
But that was the other thing.
The Survivalist.
Still no word.
That hung like a pendulum over his life, slowly ticking down. He knew the man would get through to him eventually. There was that sense of finality about his little deal that he'd actively avoided thinking about. The problem was a question of when, because when he did, whatever was on the docket was going to be cleared and that would be the priority. For all that he wanted to get things moving already, however, he wished it would be sometime after next week. The weeks after would be slower, easier, with more space, but if it fell that way, then it fell that way.
For now, though, there was nothing else to do but prepare.
He reloaded, checked the chamber, and started again.
Saturday morning brought a change of pace. The range was behind him. His gloves were on, and his shirt was already damp from the heat.
The ventilation project had sat in his mind like a pebble in his shoe all week. Every time he thought about the Hideout, it came back to that damn duct. Wide open, vulnerable, and useless without airflow.
He'd started early, figuring it would be a massive project, and hit two hardware stores, a construction salvage yard, and a strip mall HVAC supplier before noon. Surprisingly, it didn't take much hunting to piece together what he needed. A low-profile in-line fan with a three-speed control. A vent cap with a spring-loaded flap and mesh screen. A few brackets, some sealant, and a rust-resistant mounting plate. Hell, he'd even gotten a few cans of rust-away spray-on coating for the parts of the fan he had to look at to pretty them up.
Once he had everything laid out in the wagon's back seat, Daniel leaned on the roof and stared at it all.
That's it? The words hummed in his head with a slightly bitter, slightly chagrined tine.
It annoyed him how straightforward it had been. All that stewing over logistics, airflow, size compatibility, and now the entire solution almost fit in a cardboard box he could carry one-handed.
Back at the Hideout, he moved with focus. The duct was already cleared. The frame just needed reinforcement and mounting. It took the better part of the afternoon to get it all lined up, drilled, and sealed in, but the result was solid. The fan installed cleanly, wired into the auxiliary tap from the battery bank. When he flipped the switch, it kicked on with a soft hum, drawing air through the old ductwork with quiet efficiency.
He watched it for a while, arms crossed, the low vibration of the fan filling the quiet space around him. It worked. Just like that. One more piece down. One less issue to care about. Still no word from the Survivalist, but that just gave him time, and the hard part was done for the moment. He could live with that.
