This Morning Our Apartment Complex Was Sealed Off, It Was for Our Own Good | Part 1
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The son of a bitch has a piece of spinach or greens or something stuck in his teeth and it's about to drive me insane. I've been staring at it for the last 20 minutes of this god-awful tenants association meeting. It's not like I can look away. It's Google Meets and his face is framed right there in the top right corner, second from the end.

Google needs to get their act together and make some sort of filter for meetings that take place after lunch. No one should have to look at shit in people's teeth for this long. "Tom? Did you hear that?" A voice calls out from my laptop speakers. "What? Sorry?" I respond. "I was distracted."

"Yes, well, we cannot afford distractions at a time like this," Courtney Hubbard says, her face pinched and serious as she stares out at me from her little box in the top left corner. "Number one spot for our number one tenants association president." That's sarcasm. Courtney can eat a bag of dicks for all I care. "As chair of the maintenance committee, you Tom are responsible for making sure all entries and exits are completely secure," Courtney says.

We cannot afford for a resident or family member to accidentally leave the complex and trigger some sort of response from the authorities. Now, next item. I'm sorry I interrupt, but I'm only the maintenance committee chair because you assigned that to me when Jean left on vacation last week. I didn't volunteer for this, and I don't want the job, especially after all this shit has gone down.

Courtney's face pinches even further. I'm afraid it'll implode in on itself if she scrunches her nose even a fraction of a millimeter more. Tom, we all have to do our part during these trying times, Courtney says. It wouldn't be fair to- Fair? The feds have our buildings cordoned off without our consent, Mike Stover shouts, his square completely covered by the tip of his index finger as he jabs it at his camera. This is tyranny.

Denise Wilmington says, Marco McKeon says, Courtney says,

The authorities have informed us that there is a meningitis outbreak in the area and they are being extra cautious. That's why we are having this meeting so we can- Meningitis? That ain't what happened! I heard that three little kids went all batshit and killed their grandma! I heard they pounced on her and bit her to death! Three little kids! They fucking bit their grandma to death, man! That's some crazy shit!

There's silence as everyone waits for either Marco to keep telling us what we've already heard or for Courtney to finally snap. "May I ask what we are to do about food?" some old guy asks. I don't know his name. I've seen him around, but we usually just smile and nod. And, of course, his square on the screen doesn't have his actual name.

Just his email address, which is apparently goodpops2596 at hotmail.com. Hotmail.com. Because it's 1998. An excellent question, Mr. Foreman, Courtney says. I guess that answers that mystery. We've been told that food and supplies will be provided each morning at 6.30 a.m. Courtney continues.

There will be enough each day for every resident to make three full meals plus some snacks for those that need extra. The look of disdain on her face when she says, "Need extra?" is so obvious that I have to cover my mouth as I smirk. Courtney is rail thin and wears nothing but athletic wear every place she goes.

I made a crack about her needing a sandwich once, and she railed at me in the apartment complex lobby for a full eight minutes on the obesity crisis in America. "Courtney has food control issues." Shit. Courtney just has control issues. I haven't found a subject or situation that she hasn't insinuated herself into.

She once proposed that all wall paint colors chosen by residents must match their furniture exactly. I shit you not. She actually wanted to put together a matching decor committee or some shit where they could enter apartments at will to make sure the aesthetic was appropriate. Her words. If you have medication needs, then please fill out the form I put in the chat. Courtney says.

The authorities have said they will coordinate with pharmacies for timely refills and delivery of all residents' medication needs. What about TP? Ms. Grumman asks. I have IBS. Bathroom tissue is considered supplies and will be part of the morning deliveries, Courtney says. I hope so, Ms. Grumman says, because I have IBS. Yes, Ms. Grumman, we know, Courtney says.

If we can move on, the authorities have asked us to conduct a door-to-door wellness check on all residents. I am asking for volunteers from each floor so we can do this as efficiently as possible. Silence again. Tom? Courtney asks. What? I reply. How about you form a group of four or five residents and conduct the door-to-door wellness checks? I look at the dozens of names listed in the meeting.

"I'm already securing entries and exits," I say. "Wouldn't it make sense to have someone else do that?" "Since you're already going to be on each floor checking the entries and exits, then wouldn't it be appropriate that you also go door to door and check on your fellow residents?" Courtney shoots back at me in one single breath. "No," I reply flatly. "I'm sorry," she replies. "No, it wouldn't be appropriate," I say. "What would be appropriate is for one of the other residents to handle that shit."

I should focus on entries and exits and make sure they are secure. That would be appropriate for me. Why not have Mike do it?" "No way there, hoss," Mike says. "I'm not leaving my apartment. Not if there are grandma-eating little shits running around," Marco says. "I don't know if they ate her." "Meningitis," Courtney insists. "There are no children biting or eating their grandmas. Please stop with the wild accusations and rumors.

"I wasn't accusing no one," Marco says. "Just saying what I heard, man." "Which is a rumor," Courtney says. "I asked for those to cease as well. Can we all agree to that at least? No baseless rumors?" "I can conduct the door-to-door wellness checks," Mr. Foreman says. "I'm retired police. Thanks for your service," Marco says then under his breath. "That's enough of that, Marco," Courtney snaps.

"Do they deliver food and supplies this morning?" a young woman asks. She keeps looking down and talking to someone, so my guess is she has a kid or two of her own. I don't have kids. I have a turtle named Boris. "I'm sorry, miss," Courtney asks. "I just moved in last week," the young woman says. "I'm Melissa Holliday." "Ah, yes, the young woman with twins," Courtney says. "How old are they?"

21 months, Melissa says. A boy and a girl. Cool, Marco says. How do you tell them apart? Um, it's not hard, Melissa says after a few seconds of pure silence from the entire group. But the reason I'm asking is that I'm also out of baby food and I was hoping there would be some in the delivery. Yes, we did have a delivery of food and supplies this morning, Courtney says, sounding like she doesn't want to admit that.

I'll check the packing list to see if there is any baby food in the crates. A few other parents pipe up about needing supplies for their kids. Then other residents begin to complain that they have special needs too. In seconds, the meeting is in chaos as dozens of little squares erupt into arguments and finger pointing. Especially Mike. I hate this place. Courtney's voice is drowned out by the rabble.

She waves her hands to get everyone's attention but no one gives a shit anymore about what she's saying. "Folks, folks please, folks!" Courtney shouts. The arguments just get worse. And that guy with the shit in his teeth is back and it's pushing me over the edge. "Dude!" I yell. "Get some fucking floss!" He doesn't hear me. Courtney roars as all the voices go silent. I can see people's mouths still moving but I can't hear a single voice.

After a second or two, the residents start to notice and soon everyone's mouths are closed and eyes are staring into their cameras. "I am sorry I had to use my administrative privilege and mute the meeting," Courtney says, not sounding sorry at all. "But this agenda is very important. We need to get through this and then perform our respective duties so we can maintain a semblance of normalcy while we navigate these trying times." "Huh?" Marco asks in the chat.

"Shut up and listen," I respond. He gives a thumbs up emoji. "Once the food and supplies have been inventoried, I will then work out a distribution system," Courtney says. "Either residents will be called down to the common room to pick up supplies, or we will organize a delivery team and distribute throughout the complex so that residents do not have to mingle. Remember, people, meningitis is highly contagious and very deadly."

All kinds of emojis erupt in the chat. "Now, if everyone can promise to be respectful of our time and our process, I will unmute the meeting." Courtney says. She literally waits until everyone has given a thumbs up emoji in the chat.

Great, Courtney says. Continuing on, exactly what type of meningitis are we dealing with? Melissa, the young mom, asks. I'm not sure, Courtney replies, obviously annoyed at the interruption. But that is not something we need to worry about. We'll leave that to the professionals. I am a professional, Melissa says. I'm an RN. Courtney's face doesn't know what to do.

I can easily see that her instinct is to try to one-up Melissa and re-establish her dominance. But I know, and most everyone else knows too, that Courtney married rich and divorced half as rich. But half rich is still rich enough. She now spends her time designing and selling stickers and t-shirts on Etsy. Hard to one-up a registered nurse when you spend your day making heart-filled word balloons for sparkly unicorns.

"Well, that's a noble profession," Courtney says. "But I believe you are on maternity leave, correct? I'm not sure what that has to do with my credentials or education," Melissa says.

"No, I am not on maternity leave. I'm on disability leave due to nerve damage in my spinal column as a result of a very difficult and dangerous birth. I have limited mobility but I can get by. You are disabled and have twins?" A woman asks. "You poor dear. I hope your husband helps out. My husband died six years ago in Afghanistan." Melissa says. I almost laugh out loud at some of the puzzled looks on people's faces.

- Melissa smirks a little at the confusion. - IVF. - She says. - We had embryos frozen just in case. You poor dear. - The woman says again. - We should organize a childcare committee to help out all the parents. - Several residents agree with her, and soon the chat is filling with requests for help and offers to fill those requests. - People! - Courtney yells. - There is a process for new committees. We will organize according to that process.

No one is paying attention to her anymore. Once the parents took over the chat, Courtney lost her supremacy. I can see the rage building in her. She has a vein by her left temple that throbs when she's close to blowing up. I've witnessed it firsthand more than a few times. The meeting is again in chaos, and I'm loving it. Except for the asshole with shit in his teeth. I should probably learn his name, but his square is blank.

People are talking over each other. The chat is scrolling so fast that I can't keep up. Courtney's vein is the size of a small balloon. Then we all shut the fuck up fast as gunshot after gunshot echoes through the complex. All I see are wide, scared eyes staring out of my screen. Courtney looks down and her eyes widen. "Oh dear," she says. "I think that's all for now. Everyone will be contacted when the distribution of supplies has been scheduled.

I request that residents remain inside their apartments for the time being, until we have more information about what is happening outside. More gunshots ring out, followed by a loud boom. The squares on my screen start disappearing as people drop out of the meeting. Some squares stay, but are empty as those residents hurry away from their computers and over to their windows, which is exactly what I do.

I can hear Courtney behind me shouting from my laptop, but I ignore her like everyone else does as I pull my curtains aside and look out at the cityscape. A building across town is on fire. Thick, black smoke billows up from the top few floors while orange flames lick at the middle floors. Another explosion echoes across the city, but I can't see where it's coming from. Courtney is yelling for people to listen to her so she can officially end the meeting.

I walk back to my laptop and close it, shutting her up for a brief moment. I say brief because I know in about 10 seconds I'll get a text. In 9 seconds, my phone chimes.

"Please begin your duties, Tom," Courtney's text reads. "In light of what is happening out there, a secure building is of the utmost importance." "The utmost!" I text back with three exclamation points. "Please be professional and cooperative about this, Tom," she texts.

"That's what they taught me in door checking school," I text back. "Always be professional and cooperative." Then I toss my phone on my desk as I leave the room I had turned into my office and go to my bedroom. I grab a pair of jeans and switch them out with the sweats I'm wearing. I slip on some shoes, go back and get my phone. Then I snag my keys from the hook by the door and step out of my apartment for the first time that day. Time to secure some entries and exits.

Day 2 Technically speaking, the man who had shit in his teeth says as he stands in front of the supply distribution table Courtney has set up just outside the complex's common room. Distribution of food and supplies should be equitable based on apartment type and size. The same as dues paid. Turns out Mr. Shit-in-his-teeth is named Robert Leighton and he's a retired lawyer. He's cleaned the shit out of his teeth, but I still don't like the guy.

Did I mention he's a retired lawyer? Because he's mentioned it about 15 times since we all lined up this morning. "According to the covenants, residents are classified by apartment type and size," the guy continues, "not by family size or resident makeup within the apartment. If you are paying Tier 3 dues, then you should be afforded Tier 3 distribution of supplies and food."

"You're just one dude, man," Marco says from behind me. "Some apartments have like a mom and a dad and three kids. Irrelevant," Lighten responds. "The Complex's charter clearly states that the city is under martial law," I say. "The covenants and charters and all that legal bullshit doesn't apply any longer."

That is not legally correct, Lytton says. We are all bound by the covenants. It does state in section 4, paragraph 8, that in the event of an emergency, the Tenants Association Board will have authority to make decisions over the entire complex, and the Tenants Association Board is bound by and required to carry out the covenants to the letter.

In accordance with Section 5, Paragraph 2, all complex resources shall be granted to residents per their apartment classification status and dues amount paid. In other words, Melissa says, her twins sleeping soundly in the double stroller in front of her. You believe a class system is what we need right now.

"It's not about what I believe, miss," Leighton says. "It's about what has been established within a legal document that we all signed and agreed to abide by." "You worried she's gonna take your formula and diapers, baby boy?" Marcus says. "We all got our kinks, but taking food from the mouths of toddlers is a special kind of not cool, man."

"That is not what I am saying at all," Layton responds. "I have no need of diapers or formula or any child-related supplies. Those should be distributed amongst the parents as needed with the specific amounts determined per their apartment classification status and dues amount paid."

"So a class system," Melissa says. "People, people stop talking!" Courtney exclaims. She holds up an iPad Pro in a bejeweled case covered in rhinestones and crap. "Supplies will be delivered equally amongst residents for their needs. If you have two children, then you will be provided with the appropriate amount of food depending on your children's needs, which includes age as well as health status." She waves the iPad at the line of residents.

"This is per instructions from the authorities," Courtney continues. "Those instructions supersede our covenants." "I do not believe that is the case," Lytton argues. "Unless there is a court order stating that we have to abide by outside instructions, our covenants are still in place."

"That is for state law." "Yeah, but you ain't getting it, man. We're under martial law like Tom said." Marco says. "And I've seen enough apocalypse movies to know that people ain't got shit for rights under martial law. Mr. McKeon, is it?" Leighton says. "I am more than certain that my law degree and license to practice in this state makes me better informed in these matters than your knowledge of crass entertainment. Don't judge, man." Marco says and goes quiet.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. Get up here quick! Mike Stover texts me. You gotta see this shit! Can I get my supplies and go? I ask Courtney as I hold up my phone. I need to check on something. Is it related to the security of all entries and exits? She asks. You know it. I lie. Please let him through, people! Courtney says. Tom has official business to tend to. Sorry. I say as I push through to the front of the line.

Some guy Courtney has suckered into handing out the supply boxes grunts as he lifts a crate and hands it to me from across the table. I don't recognize the guy, but that doesn't mean much in a complex our size. "A quick reminder," Courtney announces. "Be mindful of your rationing. Yes, we have been promised fresh supplies each morning, but let's not rely on that, please." It's actually smart advice. I'm surprised it came out of Courtney's mouth.

"The authorities have issued suggested rationing techniques depending on the makeup of your household," Courtney says and waves her iPad around again. She didn't think of it all. Never mind. I haul my crate of supplies to the elevator and head up to my apartment. After dropping off my supplies, I take the stairs down a floor to Mike's apartment. "You gotta see this," Mike says as soon as he opens the door. He hurries down the hall to his living room, waving for me to follow.

When I get to the living room, I pause and blink a couple of times at his coffee table. "Mike?" I ask. "What's going on here? Huh?" He asks from his large living room window. He glances back at me. "Oh, those. Yeah, I'm cleaning my guns, just in case." I stare at the row of automatic rifles that lean up against Mike's couch, then at the five pistols on the coffee table that sit close to a disassembled rifle and a cleaning kit.

not to sound like Courtney, but firearms are prohibited in the complex. I say to him, "Bullshit," Mike says. "No apartment covenants can override the second amendment, hoss. I have a right to bear arms and it's a good thing too. Come look." I tear my eyes from the guns and skirt the coffee table. When I reach Mike's window, he's pointing to a specific spot down below. Then he grabs a pair of binoculars from a side table and hands them to me.

"You see the dumpster on the left there?" he asks. "The one with the Honda Accord parked next to it?" I reply. "No, keep going left," Mike says. "There's an empty parking space, then a Toyota truck." I swivel my head until I see the correct dumpster. "Got it," I say. "What am I looking at?" "Just wait," Mike says. "For what?" I ask. "You'll see it when you see it," Mike says and crosses his arms over his chest. "Trust me,

I focus in on the dumpster and wait, like Mike said. A minute goes by, then two, then three. "I'm not seeing anything," I say. "Wait means wait, Tom," Mike says. I sigh and keep looking. Then I see movement coming from under the small space between the dumpster and the pavement. It can't be more than 18 inches of clearance, if that. "You brought me here to look at rats," I ask, and pull the binoculars away from my eyes to look at Mike.

"Those ain't rats," Mike says, and gestures for me to keep looking. I do. "Holy shit," I whisper, when I finally see what he wants me to see. "Are those kids?" "Yeah," Mike says. "I'm guessing they came from the complex across the street. Take a look." "What am I looking for?" I ask, and adjust my view so I can see the apartment complex across the street up close. "Nothing," Mike says.

"That's the problem. I've been scanning the area all morning long, and that's when I noticed the kids." "Okay, so?" I reply, as I move the binoculars back and forth, trying to see what Mike is worried about. "No one is at their windows," Mike says. "Not a single resident over there is doing what I have been doing. Maybe they're all busy," I say, not believing my own words.

"Third floor down from the top, six windows in front from the left," Mike says. I follow his directions and zero in on the window. Then I gasp and pull the binoculars away. "That's a lot of blood," I say. "Keep looking," he says. "Now that you've seen it, you'll see the same in other windows." I do keep looking, and he's right. About a quarter of the windows have smears of blood on them.

Some have entire handprints made in red, covering the glass like someone was trying to smash the glass with their palms. "They were trying to get out," Mike says, reading my thoughts. "They were so scared, they were willing to break the glass and jump six stories to get away from whatever was after them." "Shit," I say, and hand him back the binoculars. "This shit isn't meningitis, is it?" "No," Mike says, shaking his head.

"Marco may be a space cadet stoner kid, but the rumors he heard are right. The kids are attacking people?" I ask and laugh. "Come on, there's gotta be something else going on." Mike sighs and holds the binoculars back out to me. "Dumpster," he says. "Keep watching." I don't take them right away. He sighs again. "Okay, fine," I say and take the binoculars back. I focus on the dumpster once more.

Rows of red-rimmed eyes peer out from under the dumpster. Then one of the kids slides out and runs across the parking lot after something. I lose sight of the kid, but I see four more kids scoot out from under the dumpster and give chase too. After a couple of minutes, the group of children returns to my line of sight. "What the fuck? They're taking care of the stray cat population damn fast," Mike says. "That's pussy number six so far this morning."

"They're eating it," I say, and almost drop the binoculars. Mike takes them from my grip before they slip through my fingers. "How secure are those entries and exits?" Mike asks. "Half-assed," I admit. "They're all locked, but that's it." "There are chains in the basement lockers," Mike says. "We should chain all of the outside doors." "That's a fire hazard waiting to happen," I say and hold up my hand to stop his protest. "That's what Courtney will argue."

Mike points down at the gang of toddlers ripping the stray cat to shreds. "Tell her to argue with that," he says. "Let's go get those chains." "I thought you weren't leaving your apartment," I say. "I'll sleep a hell of a lot better at night, knowing those little fucks can't get inside our complex," he says. "I don't disagree," I say. "The problem will be the kids already inside our complex," he says. I lower the binoculars and give him a worried look.

He waves me off. "Don't worry, hoss," he says. "I'm not gonna help round up toddlers. I may not have many lines, but that's one of them." "I'd keep that thought to yourself," I say. "You know how parents can get." "Yep," he says. He picks up a pistol, checks the clip, then slaps it back in. He holds the pistol out to me. "I don't do guns," I say. "And toddlers shouldn't be eating cats," he says. I take the pistol.

He gets one for himself, then leads the way out of his apartment. We are three doors into our project when Courtney finally shows up. I knew it was only a matter of time before she sniffed out trouble. "Do I have to even mention all of the fire codes you are breaking right now?" She snaps at me. Then she looks past me to Mike. "And what are you doing, Mr. Stover? You were not on the maintenance committee and should not be performing duties assigned to said committee."

"Whatever you say," Mike says as he hefts a large crate filled with various sizes of chains as well as several padlocks we found in one of the supply lockers in the basement. A ring of keys jingles and jangles from a clip on his belt. "Have you looked outside lately?" I ask Courtney. "Of course I have," she replies, and I can see from the look on Mike's face that he doesn't believe her any more than I do. "Show her," Mike says and gives the crate a shake. "I'll keep locking up."

"You will do no such thing," Courtney says. "Remove the chains from the doors and return them to the supply lockers immediately." "You're gonna want to see this," I say and nod at Mike. He nods back and hands me a set of chains and a lock. Then he walks off with the crate. "Where are you going, Mr. Stover?" Courtney calls after him. "Mike? Do you hear me? Mike?"

She throws her hands up in the air and turns to me. "This is unacceptable!" she shouts. Then she looks at the chains in my hands. "And what do you think you are going to do with those?" "Shut up and come look!" I say. The stunned look she gives me almost makes me laugh. But the image stuck in my head of the gang of cat-killing toddlers kills the laugh before it can even escape my throat. "Stop looking so offended and follow me!" I say and walk off.

After a second, Courtney does follow me. We make our way to the apartment lobby, and I move cautiously to the front doors. I peer outside, but don't see anything, so I move on to a set of floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the lobby. There, I say, and point at a red mass of flesh and fur over by the lawn with the communal picnic tables. What is that? Courtney asks, as she moves up next to me. What am I looking at?

"Leftovers," I say. "That used to be a cat, until a gang of kids ate it. According to Mike, they've been at it all morning. I was just as disbelieving as you until I saw it with my own eyes." "You say kids did that?" she asks, pointing at the mound of dead cats. "I saw them catch and kill a cat in the parking lot by the dumpster around back," I say. "Mike says they're coming from the apartment complex across the street back there."

They're killing and eating the cats, then tossing the remains onto this pile. That's absurd, Courtney says. And I do not appreciate you wasting my time like this, Tom. As a chair of the maintenance committee, you should know better. All right, I say and take a deep breath. I'll show you. I walk back to the doors, pull a set of keys out of my back pocket, unlock the doors, and push one open.

I take the pistol from my jeans pocket and hold it by my side. "Tom!" Courtney exclaims. "Firearms are not allowed in the complex at all!" I hold the door open wider and lean against it so whatever Courtney says she can be easily heard outside. "We'll see how you feel about that after this," I say. "After what?" Courtney cries, her voice getting shriller and shriller with every protest.

Chaining doors! Carrying illegal firearms! Unacceptable! There's movement off to the right of the concrete walkway that leads to the lobby. Then there's movement off to the left. I track the movement carefully, timing things as close as I can. Mike and I had tested this before we started chaining the doors. I knew we'd have to give Courtney a demonstration. So I saved the chaining of the lobby doors just for her. Tom! Courtney exclaims. Are you listening to me?!

A small screech from outside rips her attention from me to the parking lot. Then there's another screech from the right of the walkway, and her head whips around in that direction. A third screech comes from the left, and her head whips that way. Then a fourth screech from far across the parking lot makes her stare straight out. "Are there children out there?" she asks me. I hear the fear and uncertainty in her voice. "Tom? What is that?"

"Marco wasn't as high as we all thought," I say. Then I lean out and yell, "Hey! Come and get us!" I quickly close and lock the lobby doors. As I'm feeding the chain through the bars, kids stream out of their hiding places and race straight for the entry. Courtney cries out and covers her mouth with her hands as she stumbles backward a few steps.

The kids slam into the glass doors just as I get the chain secured and locked. Their bloody little hands and faces press against the glass, leaving smears and streaks of gore behind. I take a couple of steps back and watch as the toddlers throw themselves against the glass over and over, their red-rimmed eyes locked onto the two of us inside. I look over at Courtney and her mouth is hanging open. She closes it and tries to speak, but nothing comes out except for a frightened squeak.

As chair of the maintenance committee, I say, I'm going to need some help boarding up these doors and all the windows so the little fuckers don't bust their way in. They ate the cats? Courtney asks when she finds her voice again. Yeah, I say. And a couple of dogs too. Little ones. But there aren't any cats or dogs around anymore. They all hightailed it the hell out of the area, as far as we can tell. I wait for that to sink in.

Courtney's an overbearing control freak, but she's not stupid. Well, not that stupid. If they have nothing else to eat out there, she starts saying, then they're going to try to get at us in here. I finish for her. Yes, Courtney says. What? I ask. Yes, your request for more help has been approved, she says. She leans forward slightly, and I can't tell what she's looking at.

"Out there," she says, and points past the mob of toddlers assaulting the lobby doors. "Do you see them?" I follow her finger and do see them. Several new gangs of toddlers are slowly walking from the street and into our parking lot. None of them should have the speed and coordination that they do, but then, none of them should be feasting on Whiskers or Mr. Mittens either. A row of Humvees come roaring into the parking lot and block our view of the new mobs of toddlers.

"National Guard!" I say just before heavy caliber gunfire erupts outside. Both Courtney and I scream as we dive to the lobby floor. We cover our heads with our hands and try to press ourselves into the tile. The gunfire continues for several minutes before finally falling silent. When I look up, I see soldiers dragging dead toddlers to a huge trailer that the last Humvee is pulling behind it. One of the soldiers looks our way, then breaks off from the group and walks up to our blood-smeared lobby doors.

He gestures for me to come closer as I get to my feet. "We have a crew coming in 30 mites," he says. "They'll board up these doors and your windows." He points at the floor-to-ceiling windows and shakes his head. "And that's all we can do for you," he says. "You need to handle the rest of your ground floor windows yourselves, and you'll want to get to it fast." "Thank you, sir!" Courtney shouts as the soldier turns and walks away without waiting for a response from us. We stay there until the Humvees pull away.

Our eyes are locked on the pools of blood that flow around and between the residents' cars parked out there. "How many more of those does Mike have?" Courtney asks. "Huh?" I reply as I tear my eyes away from the bloody scene. "Guns!" Courtney says, and I see she's eyeing the pistol I'm still holding. "How many more does he have?" "A lot," I say. "Hopefully enough."