Solomon Smith woke to the dull throb behind his eyes and the raw scrape in his throat, the kind of cold that settled in like an unwelcome guest and refused to leave. He was eighteen, unremarkable in most ways—five-foot-ten, lean from years of hauling feed sacks and splitting firewood, but no bulging muscles or sharp jawline to turn heads. Short black hair cropped close, deep brown eyes a little bloodshot behind faint acne scars that dotted his cheeks like faded constellations, dark skin warm against the pale sheets. He sat up slowly in the narrow bed, the old pine frame creaking under his weight, and swung his legs over the side. The wooden floor was cool against his bare feet, late-spring warmth already seeping through the cracked window.
Downstairs, the house smelled of fresh coffee and bacon sizzling on the cast-iron skillet—Mom's weekend ritual, even when they weren't going anywhere. But today, they were. His parents had been packing since last night for a rare two-day getaway to a rented cabin on Bull Shoals Lake, just the two of them. No kid tagging along. No distractions. Solomon had come down with the sniffles yesterday—stuffy nose, low fever, the works—and they'd hesitated at first, Mom's brow furrowing with that familiar worry.
"You sure you'll be okay alone?" she'd asked, hand on his forehead like he was still ten. Dad had stood behind her, arms crossed, Marine posture even in retirement—broad shoulders, close-cropped graying hair, eyes that missed nothing.
Solomon had insisted. "Go. Seriously. You've earned it." His voice had come out nasal, congested, but firm. The truth was, he felt a quiet guilt about being sick, about derailing their plans again. They'd sacrificed a lot for him over the years—post-deployment adjustments for Dad, skipped vacations, the slow fade of that newlywed spark Mom sometimes reminisced about with a soft smile. This trip was supposed to be their reset, a mini-honeymoon phase. He wasn't going to be the reason it didn't happen. "I'll rest up, raid the pantry. You two need this."
Mom's eyes had glistened as she hugged him tight, her floral perfume mixing with the faint scent of laundry detergent on her flannel shirt. Dad clapped him on the back—hard enough to jolt, but affectionate in his gruff way. "Call if anything changes. Fridge is stocked, gun safe combo's the same. Stay sharp, son."
They'd left just after dawn, the old Ford pickup crunching down the gravel driveway, taillights disappearing into the pine-thick Ozark hills. Solomon watched from the porch until the dust settled, then turned back inside. The house felt bigger without them—forty acres of woods and rolling fields stretching out from the homestead, a half-mile creek bordering the property, nearest neighbors scattered farms like distant islands. Rural southwest Missouri, quiet most days, the kind of place where you heard coyotes at night and cicadas building to a roar in summer heat.
He moved through the morning chores on autopilot, practical as always. Fed the chickens in the coop out back—though they only had a half-dozen layers these days—then checked the garden rows Mom had planted: tomatoes staking up green, beans climbing poles, herbs fragrant in the humid air. His nose was too stuffed to smell much, but the earthiness lingered, rich loam turned by hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the mild fever; he wiped it with the sleeve of his faded gray hoodie, jeans already grass-stained at the knees.
Inside again, he tackled the gun safe in Dad's study—a heavy steel beast bolted to the floor. Combination: his birthday, 08-15-07. The door swung open with a soft click, revealing the neat rows Dad had drilled into him: rifles oiled and racked, ammo cans labeled, cleaning kits pristine. Solomon pulled out the .308 bolt-action first—Dad's deer rifle, scoped but reliable—and ran a patch through the bore, the solvent sharp and familiar. Flashbacks hit as he worked: twelve years old, backyard range with hay-bale backstops. Dad's voice steady, no-nonsense.
"Four rules, Solomon. Repeat 'em."
"Treat every weapon as loaded. Never point the muzzle at anything I'm not willing to destroy. Finger off the trigger till sights on target and I've made the decision to shoot. Be sure of my target and what's beyond."
"Good. Now stance—feet shoulder-width, lean in aggressive. Grip high, thumbs forward. Sight picture: front post sharp, target blurry. Breath control—pause at natural exhale. Trigger press smooth, like surprising yourself."
They'd dry-fired for hours first—no ammo, just reps until his arms burned. Then live rounds, one at a time, prone on the grass. Dad never praised much, just a nod when the group tightened. "Practical," he'd say. "In the Corps, hesitation gets you killed. But panic does too. Stay controlled."
Solomon reassembled the rifle now, chamber check clear, safety on, and slid it back. He did the same with the AR-15 and the old 12-gauge pump, hands moving with muscle memory. Dad was a Marine vet—two tours in Afghanistan, scars he didn't talk about. Whatever was brewing in the cities on the news—those "violent riots," people attacking each other like rabid animals—Solomon figured rural life insulated them. But Dad's training stuck. Always prepared.
The TV flickered in the living room as he cooked lunch—chili from canned beans and venison Dad had bagged last fall, spices cutting through his congestion just enough to taste the heat. News anchor droning about outbreaks in St. Louis and Kansas City, emergency broadcasts urging calm. Footage of chaos: crowds overwhelming hospitals, "aggressive individuals" biting responders. Solomon muted it, shrugged. City problems. Out here, miles from Springfield even, it felt distant. He texted his parents: *House quiet. Feeling better. Have fun.* They replied with a heart emoji from Mom, a thumbs-up from Dad.
Afternoon blurred into chores: splitting a bit of firewood despite the fever (practical—stack for winter, even in spring), checking the generator in the shed, topping off the truck's tank from the farm cans. The air thickened with humidity, pine resin heavy, distant thunder rumbling over the hills like artillery practice in Solomon's imagination. He showered off the sweat—hot water from the propane heater, steam fogging the mirror—and changed into fresh jeans and a plain black tee.
Dusk crept in purple across the treeline as he ate on the porch, bowl balanced on his knee. Crickets starting their chorus, fireflies blinking in the fields. The house creaked settling around him, familiar sounds amplified in the solitude. His phone buzzed—parents checking in: *At the cabin. Beautiful view. Love you. Rest up.* He smiled faintly, replied the same.
Then the sirens started. Faint at first, winding from the direction of Branson Forks—the small town ten miles north, mix of tourist traps and locals. Multiple tones overlapping, emergency wail carrying on the breeze. Solomon stood, bowl forgotten, scanning the darkening horizon. No lights flashing yet, but the sound built, urgent and unending.
He stepped inside, grabbed the AR from the rack—magazine seated, chamber empty for now—and slung it over his shoulder. Practical. Just in case. Standing on the porch again, he murmured the mantra that steadied him, voice low against the night.
"Dad's a Marine. They're alive. They're coming back."
The sirens faded into echoes, leaving only the cicadas and the weight of the unknown pressing in.