Lockdown Diary of Travis McCord

Hello, whoever you are. Please forgive my handwriting, I grew up using a keyboard, but with the power gone my laptop died last Tuesday. Too dangerous to scope out houses with solar panels to recharge. I found that one out the hard way yesterday, and it’s clear now that my lone expedition outside will cost me my life.

I don’t know how these things follow you, but they do.

I write most of this from memory. If you’re reading this, my laptop is in the plastic storage box with all the duct tape around it. My password is: fleshp!ckle214. I labeled the files so you know which one is my full lockdown diary, and which one has all the pics I took when I could still go outside. There are a dozen quality pictures of them. I realize that if anyone is reading this that you already know what they look like, but just in case, I documented them for you. Just in case you, whoever you are, happen to be reading this far in the future I printed two of the best ones out, and they’re in the back of this binder.

I’ll take you back to May 2020. A week before the Governor announced the lockdown, or social-distancing, or shelter-in-place order depending on which county you lived in. I got off work at my usual time, 11:00 P.M. from working front desk at the Redwood Creek Lodge. I stopped for gas a few blocks away, and that’s when I saw the flash in the sky. I see a lot of meteors thanks to my late hours, and they usually are a green flare streaking across the sky. This was different. It was golden yellow with a trail of sparks behind it, and it spiraled into the Santa Cruz Mountains lighting up the south side of Loma Prieta before it vanished into the trees.

It was weird enough that I called 911 to report a possible plane crash just to be safe.

And that was it. I drove home, and a few days later the Governor tells me I’m out of a job for the foreseeable future.

The state wouldn’t close the parks down for another week, so with my sudden abundance of free time I drove up the road to Nisene Marks, in Aptos. A park ranger was emptying a trash can, and I asked her if there had been a plane crash the week before.

She looked at me funny and said, “This is the fourth time this week someone has asked me this. No, there was no plane crash.”

I asked her who else was enquiring.

“Some old lady, some junior high school kid on a mountain bike, and earlier today a van load of yuppy rednecks.”

I thanked her for her time and drove all the way up to the main parking lot at the base of the mountain. There were a few cars, six including mine, and the van. Its side door was open, and a man dressed in nice hiking clothes sat inside talking on a satellite phone. I could tell it was from the size, and the long black antenna. He wore expensive Oakley sunglasses, and he looked like a guy you’d find in a NAASCAR pit crew. You know, groomed mustache, and thin, but you knew he could take care of himself in a dark alley.

Grabbing my backpack from the trunk, I put my compass in the pocket of my black jeans, and took off up the trail. My plan was to cross Aptos Creek and bushwhack my way up the south side of the mountain. The great thing about redwood forests is that once you get some elevation, the ground clears of the ferns and shrubbery which you find along the creek side. Fifteen minutes later I passed the 1989 Earthquake marker, and crossed the creek. The cool thing about this trail is that it was cut into the hillside by the lumber mill that once owned the land for a narrow gage railroad. Just like walking through a hallway until it opens up into a breathtaking bowl-shaped draw which snakes up out of view.

Thing is, this time there were two NAASCAR looking guys waiting on the trail on the other side of the portal. They had military rifles with all the expensive sights, and lasers, and hand-grips. Guns aren’t allowed in the park.

I didn’t have the stones to mention that to them.

They stopped me, and the shorter guy without a mustache said, “Sorry, son, the trail is closed today.”

I asked him if it had to do with the crash. They looked at each other for a second.

He turned back to me and said, “What crash?”

I told him what I’d seen the other night.

“Okay, what you saw was an experimental plane that collided with its chase plane. It’s what they call ‘Exotic’, with all kinds of high-tech bells and whistles. And that’s why we can’t let folks up there.”

I was in no position to argue with two armed men. I spun around intending to go back to my car, satisfied that I had solved my little mystery. Gunfire from somewhere up on the mountain made me stop. The two men shouted into their radios and ran off up the trail. I followed them a short time until the volume of shooting made me chicken out and run out of there. On my way back to my car I passed the man from the van going the opposite direction. He had a rifle too. I drove out of the park and went home.

I never saw anything on the local news about a shootout, or reports of gunfire.

The next four weeks are detailed on my laptop, but crib note version is that I blew off the incident at Loma Prieta as Feds running into pot farmers. With direct deposit, I didn’t have to leave the house except to go to Walmart for groceries. I spent most of my time playing X-Box and watching Netflix. Since you’re reading this, you already know I live in a converted garage behind my landlord’s place. That fence outside means I can’t see the street. I wear headphones when I play, so during that time I was in my own world.

I didn’t notice anything strange during my trips to the store, deserted streets were expected. There were a few cars here and there, but I figured everyone was taking the stay- at- home order seriously. And then fewer people were logging onto X-Box Live. In the span of ten days, the number of games I could join online dropped from three-hundred to zero. I started my own game and left it open for a few days. Four days later my phone alerted me that there was a player logged on.

I jumped online, and we played for a while. We talked shit like all gamers do, but as the game went on the other player, a girl from Seattle named Ava, mentioned that none of her friends were answering their phones and texts. I told her I lived alone, but the last time I was at Walmart the crowds were gone, and counting the employees I saw nine people. We managed to freak each other out and we logged off at the same time. This still bugs me five months later. She was the last human contact I had.

A few days later the Walmart was closed, and mine was the lone car in the parking lot. I went to the Safeway but that was closed too. The gas station on the way home was still open, allowing me to raid the mini-mart after I gassed up.

The Arab guy behind the counter looked spooked, and said, “You are the first person I’ve seen in two days.”

I told him about everything being closed and asked him if he’d heard anything.

“I don’t watch the news, but last week a bunch of army helicopters flew over heading north.”

I got in my car and began the drive home. On the overpass my car shook, and a pair of giant, gray air force cargo planes passed overhead low enough that I could see the rivets and panels of the airframes, and smell the jet fuel exhaust. At this moment I remembered my car radio and turned it on, setting it to scan. Most of the smaller Spanish language stations were silent, but I stopped when the dial hit KGO out of San Francisco since they’re news-talk. I caught the tail end of a recorded message, and then the Emergency Alert Network alarm squawked on my speakers. The message repeated.

“An invasion of a species believed to be of extraterrestrial origin is underway worldwide. The creatures are spider like, approximately the size of a large dog, and have a thirty-foot vertical leap, and can climb vertical surfaces at will.  They have been reported as moving easily on ceilings.”

My mouth went dry, but I held onto the steering wheel too tight to reach for my Mountain Dew.

The message continued, “The invaders hijack human bodies by laying eggs inside their abdomens. The larva makes their human hosts compliant to suggestion until the eggs hatch, and the hosts are eaten from the inside out. The incubation period is only a few hours. As a result, every large city in the world has been colonized. The President of the United States, France, and Russia have all been airborne continuously since this crisis began. If you are currently living in a large city you are ordered to evacuate. Do not stop for anyone, even friends or family that you have not been in direct contact with during the COVID-19 shelter in place conditions as they may be compromised by the invaders.”

I felt dizzy but didn’t dare roll down the window.

“Three days from now every major city and metropolitan area will be destroyed with nuclear weapons. Surviving armed forces have retreated to secure locations, and once the action is complete, they will hunt the surviving creatures down and destroy them.”

The radio alarm sounded again, and a new message followed.

“Residents of San Francisco, Oakland, Richmond, Santa Clara, and San Jose are ordered to evacuate. They will be destroyed by nuclear strikes three days from now. This is not a drill.”

When I got home I smoked a bowl to conserve my beer.

I knocked on the back door of my landlord’s house, but there was no answer. She kept the key under a pig iron frog next to the door, and I let myself in. Judging from the stink from the rotting food in the refrigerator, they hadn’t been home in weeks. A postcard tacked to the bulletin board reminded me that she and her husband had a cabin up at Lake Shasta. I hoped they were okay. I was about to go back to my apartment when I saw something move in the street through the picture window of the living room.

A man and a woman staggered down the middle of the street. They moved in spurts, shuffling a few steps before switching to a lurch. Their movements were jerky. Their heads turned sharply to the left and right. I wondered how they didn’t snap their necks. They continued down the street, and I could see their jeans were stained from where they’d shit themselves. Once they were further away, I saw they were being escorted by the space spider things.

They had stubby legs, big black eyes, and a hard shell skin colored black with red stripes which looked like lightning bolts. I didn’t move for an hour until I was sure they were gone. I found my landlord’s stash, and locked my apartment door, and closed the curtains, and smoked another bowl.

The next morning I found my laptop had died and the power was out. I snuck out to my car to listen to the radio for news, but the message was the same. I knew there were a couple of houses with solar panels down the street. I put my laptop in my backpack and headed out. I stayed off the street by climbing fences. The houses were all empty, but I didn’t stop until I got to the first one with the panels.

Their back patio door was unlocked. I didn’t hear anyone.  I flipped the switch for the kitchen lights and they came on. I put my pack on the counter and was about to get my computer out when I heard something in the garage. I put my pack back on, intending to get the hell out of there, but I really need my laptop. I crept to the door, turned the knob nice and slow. I opened it eyeball-wide.

A woman was pinned to the ground next to her Subaru by one of the space spiders. I thought it was stinging her but then realized it was pumping eggs into her just below her kidneys. Her eyes were wide and her mouth gaped in a silent, God awful scream. The creature pinned her arms and legs to the concrete. Her head rolled in my direction and she saw me.

She smiled and pointed at me.

The words she screamed were not human, and the space spider shifted its body in my direction. I closed the door, locking it behind me, and I ran out the back. I cleared those fences like I was in the Olympics and locked my door. I moved my dresser to barricade it and spent the rest of the day hiding in the closet drinking the beer I’d bought from the Arab guy the day before since it was going to get warm, anyway.

About four the next morning I woke to hear something on the roof, and something else moving around outside. I don’t know how I kept from screaming. The thing’s feet tapped as they walked like a dog on the sidewalk. I heard rhythmic hissing as they talked to each other. They circled the house for an hour and moved on.

In the past two days their patrols have returned each night.

The radio message changed yesterday. Every town has either been colonized or cut off. They said that travel to a safe zone is now impossible. Residents attempting to flee are being stopped as the creatures swarm their cars. The bombs drop tomorrow at noon.

I changed the station just to see if I could find anything, and I found a station out of UC Santa Cruz. The lady on the radio sounded even more stoned than I was. She said COVID-19 was extraterrestrial in origin, and that the virus acted like a meat tenderizer for the space spiders. All of those people who had the virus but showed no symptoms had a scent the invaders could sniff out. That’s why they haven’t found me, I don’t smell like lunch.

So, whoever you are, this is my plan.

The drive to San Jose is a half hour.  I will go there and wait for the nukes. Better to die fast and stoned than being a meal for space spiders. I’m no hero. I’m just a guy who wanted to manage a Best Western someday. I got a full tank of gas, and I don’t have to worry about the cops, or insurance. I’ve seen them, I can run them over like Texas armadillos. The only thing I worry about is the missiles being late. If you’re reading this, then you know how my story ended. My license plate number is on my insurance card on the back of my driver’s license in my wallet. Maybe you can put a story to the molten wreck you find.

If anything survived.



Van Pelt’s Halloween Problem

Oh rats, it’s Halloween again.

I fucking hate Halloween. When I was a kid all I got was rocks in my Trick-or-Treating bag. Did any of my “friends” share their candy? Hell no. In high school and college I went from rocks in my sack to being the designated driver whose car was the designated vomitorium. Every November I’d freeze my ass off because I’d have to drive with all of the windows rolled down. These days at least I have the luxury of sitting in my dark house binge-watching Breaking Bad until Peppermint gets home from her shift at the hospital.

I don’t give out candy, fuck that.

I’ve thought about getting another dog, a Rottweiler this time, to chase off the few little bastards who stray up to my door. Apparently this is against the law.


I hate Halloween because this Van Pelt is on me to join him in the pumpkin patch – again. Not the old one from our childhood, that land is now home to a mall with a half-way decent Chili’s. No, this new patch is somewhere way the fuck out in banjo-playing, toothless redneck country. Like an hour drive. I really don’t want to go, it’s only going to be colder, and more boring. The problem is that Van Pelt doesn’t have any friends outside of the clinic where he gets his meds and sees his counselor.

He’d lost his shit after my sister got tired of playing easy-to-get and started banging guys on the football team. After she married that investment banker he drove his car out to one of those old covered bridges one Halloween night and set it on fire. The Sheriff found him naked with orange paint all over his body with a red chem-light sticking out of his ass screaming that he’d been forsaken by the Great Pumpkin. After ten years at the state hospital he was deemed manageable enough to return home where he lives in a small apartment next to the railyard. His sister doesn’t want him anywhere near her five kids (pulling out at the last second is hilarious when trying to kick a field goal, but it is lousy birth-control). He lives on disability and makes extra money stuffing envelopes for the city and county three days a week.

So here I am driving way the fuck out into the hills to humor the guy.

I pull off the main road onto a narrow country lane where the trees on each side form a tunnel. I have to give it to Van Pelt on this one, if the Great Pumpkin doesn’t show up it’s the kind of place where the Headless Horseman will. I drive another three miles until I come to an abandoned farmhouse. Van Pelt is just standing there in the dark with a fucking creepy grin as my headlights wash over him. I stop the car, grab my coat, and get out.

I pull on my coat as I walk up to him, and tell him I’m sorry I’m late.

“Oh no, you’re right on time,” he says.

Something’s off about him but I don’t figure it out until we’re walking among the pumpkins. He doesn’t have his blanket. The guy always carries his fucking blanket everywhere. I ask him about it.

“The Great Pumpkin told me I don’t need it anymore.”

Oh he did, did he? I say, and keep walking, but start to think I’ve made a mistake coming here.

I want to ask him if he’s taken his meds but decide not to. The pumpkin patch is narrow but long. The full moon glides over the ridge-line just enough to light our way. We’re headed to a scarecrow in the middle if the field.

Van Pelt dashes off ahead of me running to the scarecrow.

He pulls out a lighter and a ring of fire erupts around the effigy.

I’m thinking I should go, but someone should be here when the Sheriff’s show up so they don’t shoot him. Van Pelt is now stripping off his clothes again, and I really should just get the fuck out of here, but when have I ever made the smart choice? Certainly not now. I get closer and I feel the heat. He’s dancing around full-on balls-out naked chanting in what sounds like Latin. I stop about twenty feet away. I’m not getting any closer, people will talk.

I look at the scarecrow and piss my pants.

It’s Marcie, or what’s left of her. She’s been disemboweled and crucified complete with her wrists and feet nailed into the wood. I try to yell but I puke instead.

Van Pelt laughs and says, “Figured it out, I had it all wrong.”

I ask him what the hell he means.

“It wasn’t enough to believe in the Great Pumpkin, I needed to show my devotion with a sacrifice.”

I ask why he killed Marcy.

“She was your sister’s best friend. You’re sister lives on the coast, so she was the next best thing.”

I tell him he’s fucking crazy, that he’s always been fucking crazy.

“Perhaps this was once true, but right now I have never felt better.”

I ask him how spending the rest of his life in a psyche ward is better, that is if the D.A. doesn’t nail him on First Degree Murder, and he ends up with a needle in his arm.

“Everything has changed tonight. The police will never know what happened here, and when the world finds out it will be too late. The Great Pumpkin has arrived to rule mankind.”

I ask him why the fuck I’m here.

“The Great Pumpkin needs to feed.”

I tell him there is no fucking Great Pumpkin.

He grins and points  over my head, “Look behind you.”



#78 (a Max Chrome Christmas Story)


“They put a new engine in her along with a new fuel tank after they dried her out. Even put in new seats, but none of the schools would keep her around too long because the drivers would refuse to take her out, usually after a week,” Hunter says. He had rehearsed this speech dozens of times, but that was when buying the bus seemed like a great idea.

Max pats the front yellow fender. “Why was that?”

“They’d see and hear things.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“You know, the kids, the kids who died inside.”

“How did you end up with this thing?”

“I bought it. I thought maybe I could make money letting people go inside and sit for a while. Maybe rent it out to local haunted houses or corn mazes during Halloween.”

Max walks to the open door and looked in. “Why didn’t you?”

“It felt wrong, especially after I started to see the kids too.”

A breeze comes and the smell of the salvage yard’s rusting metal, oil, gasoline, engine fluids, and old tires wafted over them. “Hunter’s Wreckers” was a few miles south of Carbona, California, and a two-hour drive from Hillsborough where Max is spending Christmas this year. He and Hunter are old Army buddies and he jumped at the chance to get out of the house that holds many bittersweet memories.

Max says, “Why haven’t you just crushed this into a big, yellow paperweight already?”

“I’m afraid the kids will be trapped in the metal forever, you know, like the ghost of that airplane guy who got attached to the parts they salvaged from his L-1011. I read that kinda stuff can happen if you’re not careful,” Hunter says, referring to the ghost of Eastern Airlines Flight 401.

“Where did you read that?”

“You know, National Enquirer.”

“So you need me to get the ghosts to leave?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Can you do that?”

Max leans against the side of the bus and folds his arms. “Ghosts aren’t really my thing, but what the hell, right?”

“Thanks man, I didn’t know who else to call, you know.”

“I need to get some stuff out of my truck.”

They walk from the bus to the other side of Hunter’s mobile home where his Pitbull, Bone, leaps up barking until the chain snaps him back. Hunter shouts and the dog sits and growls.

Hunter pats him on the head. “Don’t worry about Bone, he won’t go near that bus. Never seen him afraid of anything until I brought that thing here, do you have a dog?”

“No, I’m never home.”

“So what do rich people do for Christmas?”

“My Uncle Ted and I celebrate on the Twentieth, partially because of Panama, but mostly because neither of us are big on Christmas day, and I like to be alone…usually drunk.”

“Sorry man, I didn’t know.”

“No big deal, I’m happy to help. Anyway, we spend a few days giving big checks to charities, you know, soup kitchens, shelters, S.P.C.A., toy drives, and then I take Uncle Ted and his boyfriend out on the town in S.F. which includes Beach Blanket Babylon.”

“Oh shit, that’s right, I forgot about your Uncle. That’s cool though.”

“And I would have been on my way back home to Bixby if you hadn’t called. But that’s cool though.”

“I really appreciate you coming, man. Hey, at least it ain’t no werewolf this time.”

Max pulled his Go-Bag from the rear of the cab of his Nissan truck. “See, it’s already a Christmas miracle. I need to work alone on this one; if I need something I’ll call you on your phone. You’ll be in the house, right?”

“Yeah, it’s getting cold. Just give me a buzz.”

Max walks past the growling Bone and back to the bus. The sun has dropped below the horizon making the sky orange and purple. Climbing into the bus he sets his bag on the driver’s seat, and pulls the lever that closes the door. The seats still smell new. Opening his bag he takes out his sage-green fleece pullover jacket, and puts it on. He pulls out a pair of small tactical flashlights, and his NVAG-9 aviator night vision goggles.

Max doesn’t have a normal job. Most recent holidays have been spent overseas working as a private security contractor.

Hunter knows this, and knows that Max’s work isn’t always about guns. Sometimes his old Army buddy is hired to deal with weird things. Back at Fort Ord in 1989 there was a werewolf. The Army denied this, but everyone knew about it. Max was the one who figured out who the werewolf was, a sergeant recently transferred in from Germany, and dealt with him.

The sergeant disappeared while the company was in South Korea, and the Army pretended like nothing happened.

Max walks to the rear of the bus and stretches out on the back bench. He was out of the country when the accident happened so he only knows the basic story about the bus. The year before during the wettest winter in a decade the #78 bus made a turn and drove down a road before the Sheriffs could block it off. The Russian River had jumped the banks on both sides and the rain was so thick that the driver never saw the water sweeping over the road. The river lifted the bus off its tires, and deposited it six miles downstream in some fallen trees. Twenty-eight kids on the bus, Kindergarten through Fifth Grade, and only twelve survived. The local news was full of harrowing stories of survival and loss, but Max never read them.

The last of the daylight is gone.

He looks toward Hunter’s double-wide mobile home and sees a small Christmas tree through the sliding glass doors. The blinking lights hypnotize him for a few minutes.

He smells wet, rotting vegetation.

Sitting up he inhales deeply to confirm the odor. He walks slow up the aisle, the scent is strongest in the back, so he turns around to stand where it is strongest.

A little girl in a dress cowers on the floor between the bench and the seat in front of her. She is wet and shivering, her eyes are wide from fear.

In the next second she is gone.

Max notes the time, just after six in the evening. The smell fades until only the new-seat fragrance remains. He sits back down and puts on his night vision goggles. His world turns green, but there is nothing to see. The bus is empty, the junk yard is empty, and Hunter is sitting in his recliner enjoying a beer. Turning the goggles off, he puts his feet up on the bench. Ghosts don’t show up on night-vision, contrary to what the TV paranormal experts say, but they are great for catching the living.

He is the only living thing on this bus.

Tapping jolts him awake. For a second he is angry about falling asleep until the sound overtakes his thinking. The tapping is fast and faint at first, but grows louder. He knows the sound, yet cannot place it. The tapping fills the bus accompanied by hissing. Sitting up he straightens his jacket and notices the rear windows are fogged.

He recognizes the noise – teeth chattering and shivering.

Lots of teeth.

Walking forward he doesn’t see anyone this time.

He starts to say something when he is overwhelmed by fear and sadness. This drops him to his knees and knocks the air out of him. Regaining control is a chore, but he gets to his feet, and starts breathing again. He understands that those feelings weren’t his and that they are imprinted in the bus, but it doesn’t make things easier.

“Kids, I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to stay here. You can go.”

The sound of chattering teeth and shivering is joined by tiny voices crying. Turning one of his flashlights on he sweeps the beam around the interior, but sees nothing. He runs to the front of the bus where he slams the door lever open, and jumps outside.

The noise has stopped and all he hears are his own gasps. He keeps his eyes closed until he clears his mind, and when he opens them he sees tiny hand-prints in the fogged rear windows.

Okay, Max, what do you do now? He thinks. He wasn’t kidding when he said ghosts weren’t his thing, but just like any extraordinary situation there is always a solution. He walks to the front of the bus and stands a few feet away. Bone barks a few times from inside the house until Hunter quiets him.

The golden rule of phantoms is: Ghosts were people too.

He strips the problem to the basics, there are a bunch of kids on #78, and he needs to get them out.

“How do you get kid outs off a bus that are too scared to leave?” he says aloud. He has no idea, he has no children, and he hated school busses when he was a kid. Bone barks one more time and he looks at the dog and waves. Bone’s tail is mostly straight up, its tight wagging knocks an ornament from the Christmas tree behind him.

Duh, the Christmas tree!

Pulling out his phone he calls Hunter and tells him they need to bring the tree outside into the yard by the bus. He gets up on the deck as his friend slides the glass door all the way open, and they both lift the tree out. Once it is deposited a few yards from #78 Hunter dashes back inside for an extension cord, all the time Bone is barking up a storm, but never steps out. With the tree plugged in, Max goes back into the bus.

“Guys, it’s Christmas, do you really want to stay on this stupid bus on Christmas?”

He gets off the bus and stands on the back deck next to Hunter.

Hunter says, “What now?”

“I have no idea. I’m hoping the tree lures them out.”

“And then what?”

“One thing at a time.”

Bone’s barking changes to a whimper. A blue ball of light appears inside the bus fallowed by a second, and then a third, and continued until sixteen were floating in the center aisle. One by one they drifted out of #78 and formed a circle around Hunter’s tree. Their heights were staggered, and Max assumed this was due to their different ages.

“What happens now?” Hunter’s voice is a whisper.

“I don’t know, this is my first bus-clense.”

“Whoa, check it out!”

A white-golden light forms above the tree and grows into a human shape, but is eight feet tall. The night air is instantly warm. The balls of light start to circle the tree, and the light form above them widens at its shoulders.

Hunter lightly kicks Max’s ankle. “It looks like it’s growing wings.”

“Yea it does.”

“Think it’s an angel?”

“I think so.” Max had seen angels before, this is a new one to him.

“Think it’s the angel of death?”

“No, too flashy.”

Hunter is about to ask how Max would know but decides he doesn’t want to hear the answer. The entire scrap yard is bathed in the golden light. The wings stretch thirty feet from tip to top. The circling balls of light rise until they form a blue belt around the waist of the tall light being. For a moment Max sees the balls of light change into the shapes of children, and change back. The tall being never reveals its face.

The scrap yard goes dark except for the Christmas tree.

Bone runs past them out into the yard where he runs around the tree a few times, and goes into the bus. He is back outside by the time they reach the tree. Max helps Hunter put the tree back into the house.

“Wanna beer?” Hunter says?

“No, I have to drive back to Hillsborough.” Max goes back out to the bus to get his bag. The air inside now smells like peppermint.

Hunter is waiting for him when he climbs off #78. “I owe you bigtime.”

“Tell you what, day after tomorrow how about you and I painting S.F. red. I’ll rent a limo, well hit Beach Blanket, and then take over the VIP room at Roaring 20’s for the rest of the night.”

“What’s Roaring 20’s?”

“The strip club on Broadway.”

“Like Wolfhounds of old.”

Max laughs; he hasn’t heard the nickname of his old unit in a while. “Like Wolfhounds of old. Lightfighter ‘til I die.” He starts to walk to his truck.

“Yo, Max, it’s a strip club with chicks, right?” Hunter grins.

“Fuck you, and Merry Christmas.”