Abby and Lorie were standing on the running boards of the trucks, shotguns cocked and aimed at a strange figure.

It was impossible to determine the woman’s age; indeed, the only way they could tell that the person was female was due to her outfit: a somewhat faded print dress, work boots, a cardigan sweater in spite of the heat and, of all things, an old-fashioned gas mask.

She was, however, pointing the business end of a rusty old rifle at Abby and Lorie.

Abby wiped sweat off her neck and paused for a moment in the hot sun. She and Janey were loading the last of the rifles, and Abby had been particularly impressed with the cache of HK416s that Janey had, somehow, managed to acquire.

A moment later, Janey came trotting around the corner and Abby almost couldn’t believe her eyes.

“Okay, spill – how the heck did you get one of those?”

“Ha,” said Janey. “Don’t ask, don’t tell! Give me a hand here, will ya, and stop gawking.” Between the two of them, they lifted the M2 Browning into the truck bed.