Dillon Connery waves good-naturedly over his shoulder to the owner of the sporting goods store as the tired looking guy finishes locking up. He knows the effect his friendly smile has on folks when he can feel the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. "Thanks! I really appreciate you staying open for me like this!" he calls out.

The portly old guy waves back, catching Dillon's grin like the flu. "No problem, son. You boys be careful on your hunting trip, now, you hear?"

"Always!" The lie had been a necessary function in order legally buy this gun after dark. What self-respecting sporting retailer would refuse to assist a last-minute hunting expedition?

Gun case in one hand, Dillon unlocks the bed cover of a weathered '68 El Camino. He places the case just inside, by the tailgate, and pops the clasps, revealing a long shotgun; Double barrel, over-under break action style with Walnut furniture. Dillon's smile turns almost intimate here, as he runs a hand down the length of the weapon as though it's a beautiful woman.

Now it's 1963, before his El Camino even existed, and he's holding a very similar weapon hanging with the breech open over the crook of his arm. He's outside the long ward of a closed asylum in Minnesota, clicking a couple of shells together in his free hand. The ghouls knew he was here, he knew they were here, so sneaking was pointless. He could hear them huddled at the end of the ward a room over, chattering quietly. Hisses, moans, whispering, they were making no attempt at being covert, just awaiting the inevitable. Their crimes were many, the sentence was short.

Lugging the beefy gun around that he'd neglected to saw short, Dillon is reminded of a cartoon he'd watched a few years back, and smiles that same silly grin of his as he adopts the voice of a dopey redneck buzzard.

"I counts to fo'h, an' then I shoots ya!" He calls out as he nears the the door. The buzzing stops. Dillon starts counting slowly, as if it's something he never does.

"A wuuuuunnnn.... a twooooooo...." He pops two shells into the breach. "Hey Rabbit-Critter? What come after two?"

Dillon places his left hand on the doorknob, swapping his voice out for the Yankee rabbit. "Oh uh... t'ree I t'ink."

The nob creaks faintly, unlocked, and the door is eased open. "A wuuuuunnnnn... a twoooooo.... a threeeeeee...." He's the dopey buzzard again.

And there they were. Nine of them, huddled together like rats. Rats with bloodshot eyes and mottled skin; addicted to Vitae that they were having a harder and harder time finding. Dillon eases slowly forward.

"Pappy!" He yells. The others flinch as one. "What come after three?"

A flick of his wrist snaps the breech closed and Dillon seats the buttstock and levels the shotgun. Realization dawns in eighteen glassy eyes. He drops the voices, using his own rugged tone as he calls out "FO'H!"

*BOOM!*

One of the heads disappears in a gory spray, and eight others scatter. "I plugged 'im, Pappy! I plugged the Rabbit-Critter!" They begin to charge the long distance, and Dillon doesn't make the second shot until they clump together. Instead of aiming for anyone in particular, he aims for the center of the knot. "Elvey. Ya'll didn't plug the Rabbit-Critter. Ya'll plugged ya Pappy. Whadja go an' do that fo'?"

*BOOM!*

As Dillon begins stepping back, he quickly breaks open the breech, plucks out the spent shells, and replaces them with fresh ones. It takes no longer than his sentence. "Dang it, Elvey! Ya gone too fa'h!"

*BOOM!*

"I said FA'H, not FO'H!"

*BOOM!*

The few that are able to fight are getting close; there's not going to be another reload. Dillon flips the gun over and grasps the hot barrel like a Louisville Slugger. "Now ya dunnit, Elvey!" He's not even trying to match the voice anymore, just the accent. "You wait'll ah get mah two-by-fo'!"

*CRACK!*

The shotgun stock hits the first to arrive within swinging distance right on target-- the jaw. Dillon's last thoughts of 1963 are of the sound of every bone between a person's chin and neck shattering at the same time.

He shuts the memories in the case with the rifle with mixed feelings. Dillon will eventually cut the stock and shorten the barrel as he did the other, but for now, it was legal enough to provide its own convenient excuse for its location in the back of a vehicle.