"Once again, you have my sincerest thanks for attending my first annual bar-beet-Q. Lunch is served!"

Pam's hands found each other and joined in the fairly desultory clapping. She blinked, shaking her head a little. With a concerted effort, she brought herself back to the present. She could hardly recall a single word Dwight had said as he waxed poetic for the cameras about the origins, care, and uses for his favorite pinkish-red root, the humble and oft-overlooked beet. It had a vast number of culinary applications, did you know? Well yes, it's true. Beets are capable of being used to equally great effect in both sweet and savory dishes.

Pam rolled her eyes. Apparently, she remembered more than she thought. To say she was less than thrilled to be spending a beautiful, sunny Saturday at Schrute Farms was the understatement of the year, or at least the summer.

She couldn't help comparing the so-called festivities to the barbecue Jim had hosted a couple years back. Michael had made attendance today mandatory, which naturally put a damper on things. But the real problem was Dwight's lack of personality. He had approximately as much charisma in his entire body as Jim had in a single thumbnail.

"Dude, where are the hot dogs?" Michael asked incredulously.

Pam ducked her head in silent mirth and glanced to her right. Jim was wearing an identical expression. Exchanging knowing grins, they rose from the picnic table as one to get in line for the buffet. Fortunately, and entirely unlike the team-building event at Lake Scranton, there wasn't a single hot dog in sight.

Unfortunately, every single food appeared to be made from beets. Even the beverages were beet-based.

Oh well, at least Pam hadn't been relegated to taking notes on people's indefinable qualities this time. She'd been free to zone out inattentively during Dwight's pompous grandstanding, along with the rest of her co-workers.

"Who knew there were this many ways to skin a beet?" Jim intoned mockingly as they picked at the contents of their plates, trying without success to find anything remotely edible.

Pam's carefree laugh rang across the field and she leaned into his side, just for a second. She quickly reminded herself that their camera-less reprieve had ended, so she'd have to be extra-careful.

Fortunately, Kelly chose that moment to begin screeching incomprehensibly at the top of her lungs, drawing the undivided attention of the documentary crew and their co-workers. If the cameras hadn't been there to record what happened next, Pam was fairly sure she couldn't have recalled the order of events as they unfolded.

Jim was equally as sure he'd never forget. One minute, he was side-eyeing Kelly along with everyone else as she squealed heartbrokenly and wound up to throw the contents of her plastic cup in Ryan's face.

Without warning, she became a fucking grease spot.

Ryan was left alone and splattered with a not-insignificant quantity of beet juice, although it paled in comparison to the amount of blood. Horrified, he stumbled and fell to the ground, instinctively yelling in shocked astonishment at the enormous, vaguely-insectoid creature that just obliterated his newly-ex-girlfriend.

Naturally, he was the next to go.

The nearby cameraman, Nate, had been zooming in on the action with a small handheld. He shouted in a combination of dismay and amazed disbelief that he'd caught such a momentous event on film, then promptly followed them both into oblivion. The only thing that remained of him was the camera, which shattered into pieces of itself as it hit the ground.

“EVERYBODY REMAIN CALM!” Michael bellowed while leaping onto a picnic table, sounding about as far from calm as it was possible to be, trying to regain control of the situation the only way he knew how. Dwight cuffed him by the shirt collar and pulled him out of reach of the monster's talons in the nick of time.

With a squeaky sort of chittering sound, it kept going in a straight line and encountered little Sasha. An inhuman scream issued from Toby's lungs as he stumbled toward the empty air she'd previously occupied. In the blink of an eye he, too, vanished in a bloody spray of innards.

The murderous being, whatever it was, scampered beneath the boom mic, ostensibly on its way to eviscerate Brian, the boom mic operator. Suddenly, a loud EEEEEEEEEEE of feedback issued from the microphone. The ominous alien-thing retracted the claws that had been extended so threateningly and cowered, writhing in something that might resemble pain if it bore any resemblance whatsoever to a human, which it didn't. The harder and longer it squirmed in place, the higher-pitched the feedback became.

The significance of that didn't register with anyone at the moment, not even Brian, although he was so close he could see every razor-sharp tooth in its horrifyingly wide-open mouth. They were all too busy fleeing for their lives, screaming in terror, or both.

Jim was a flighter, not a fighter, with the reflexes of a passably well-trained athlete. By the time the group at large had become aware that a "situation" was developing, he was already halfway to the only safe haven that made sense in that moment, tugging Pam relentlessly behind him. Given that he was dedicating every ounce of air in his lungs to running full-tilt, he didn't make a sound other than the requisite amount of panicked gasping required to move as fast as humanly possible.

Pam stumbled and fell to her knees. She dropped her paper plate, scattering its contents on the ground. That wasn't a problem. Her beet burger, fried beet chips, and beet hummus had tasted fairly disgusting. Honestly, she didn't even mean to bring it with her, she simply failed to notice it was still in her hand. The problem was how utterly incapable she was of keeping up with the unbelievably rapid pumping of Jim's legs. She didn't understand how the hell he was running so fast, much less how she could reasonably be expected to keep up.

She opened her mouth to beg him to wait, or ask him to slow down a little at least, or possibly to say something noble about leaving her behind.

Fortunately, he chose that moment to stop, turn, and bend over. He hoisted her up into his arms without the slightest hint of an audible grunt. Like she weighed twenty-five pounds instead of a hundred and twenty-five. Like he was some sort of action hero and she was some sort of swooning bimbo. Rather than squealing Innndyyy though, Pam's words vanished in a bemused gasp. Relieved, she clutched him silently and closed her eyes, more in love with him at that moment than words could express.

As he turned to scoop up his comparatively non-athletic girlfriend, Jim glimpsed the thing wrapping its lethal pincers around Toby's daughter like it wanted to give her some kind of demented, too-hard hug. He lacked the breath and presence of mind to do more than huff out a horrified, near-silent exhalation. He fucking babysat for that former person. More than once. He literally couldn't believe she was gone.

After a split-second of mournful contemplation, he snapped back into the present, turned on his heels, and bolted away. Carrying Pam slowed him down a little, sure, but he didn't think twice. If she was going to become a grease spot, he was going right with her. He had no intention of leaving behind the woman he loved more than life itself. He'd rather die with her than live one more day without her, no fucking question.

In spite of the delay, they were still the first to arrive. Jim opened his mouth to yell, to demand the fucking code, but Dwight was hot on their heels. Michael clung desperately to one of his arms, Angela to the other. Dwight shook them both off and punched it in before Jim could make a sound.

Eventually, he’d be more thankful for that than he could say.

The door opened with a faint, hermetic hiss and a complete absence of creaking hinges. The five people near enough to appreciate that failed to do so. Dwight gestured impatiently for them to precede him inside and down the steps.

Across the field, Brian realized that he was alive and in one piece, although by all rights he shouldn't exist to think such things. He had no idea how or why, nor did he care in the least what the answers to those questions might be. He recovered from his startled gaping, dropped the boom, and hit the ground running. Even though he was the last to get started, he wasn't at the back of the pack for long. He ran five miles every morning, putting him in the best physical shape of anyone present except for Nate, who was an amateur bodybuilder in his spare time.

Shit! he remembered. Not anymore, because Nate was fucking dead. Not only was he dead, he'd basically evaporated, as though he'd never existed. Whether or not Brian deserved to continue existing, he desperately wanted to, so he ran all the faster.

It wasn't long before the monstrous entity recovered and gave chase. Phyllis and Bob Vance, huffing and puffing hand-in-hand like twin rhinoceri, died at exactly the same time, which was truthfully for the best since neither wanted to outlive the other.

Surprisingly, though, everyone else made it. Stanley beat several younger and fitter people to the door, in spite of his girth and the tween daughter slung over his shoulder like a ninety-pound sack of potatoes. Meredith brought up the rear, stumbling drunkenly inside just after Kevin who was right behind Mitchell, the full-size camera operator who somehow managed to save both himself and the full-size camera.

Dwight threw the door shut behind the last of the survivors, then slammed a heavy metal barricade home. The creature crashed against it with a series of loud pounding sounds that had everyone covering their ears. Fortunately, the door was several inches of solid titanium and held without so much as a dent.

"Turn on the lights!" Angela screamed, because everyone was stumbling into everyone else in the complete blackness. Someone fell down the stairs, probably Meredith, although it was impossible to tell with the amount of bedlam currently underway.

Dwight felt around knowledgeably and flipped a switch on the wall. As he descended the stairs, a series of fluorescent overheads flickered on, illuminating the long narrow concrete hallway below. “Is anyone severely injured?” he called out, injecting authority into his voice.

“You mean besides the several people who were just brutally murdered by a goddamn… whatever that thing was?” Stanley roared in frustration.

“Precisely,” Dwight replied in a clipped, no-nonsense tone.

“He's only a temp. He can't be permanently dead!” Michael shrieked hysterically, huddled against the wall in a fetal position.

"I'd appreciate if you would pipe down, Michael," Dwight countered rationally. "We do not want to start a stampeding panic. If anyone requires medical attention, kindly speak up."

 “You ok?” Jim murmured urgently, running his hands up and down Pam's arms, squeezing her elbows, reminding himself that they were both still alive.

Pam was a lot of things right now. She knew that "ok" was not among them, but she was having difficulty communicating much of anything at the moment. Her lungs were on the verge of exploding from all the hyperventilating. Her entire body was chattering, including but not limited to her teeth. Her cheeks were slick with tears and she had a small patch of rugburn on her knee from the grass.

Still, she nodded quickly, several times. All of her innards were precisely where they belonged, so she figured she'd be fine once the shock wore off. She wondered how many years from now that might be.

She clutched instinctively at Jim's biceps, because the world had inexplicably turned upside-down and she needed something to hold onto. She looked up into the incredible greenness of his eyes and tried to slow down her terrified gasping. Breathing was important, but her stupid lungs were trying to do way too much of it, way too fast. “Wh-what w-w-was–” she stammered stupidly, which was surprising because she truly hadn't believed herself to be capable of speech in that moment.

“Dunno, I dunno,” Jim responded with tearful disbelief, rocked to the core with emotions that he'd never in his life had occasion to feel so strongly. Every inch of his body was shaking from the adrenaline rush. He could hardly speak, hardly breathe, but he was alive. More importantly, she was. After the events they'd just witnessed, he couldn't fucking believe it.

He tugged the love of his life against his chest. They were in Dwight's underground bunker and the door would probably keep them safe. No, it definitely would. It already had. But he couldn't not be holding her right now, keeping her even safer.

At that moment, even though the lights were on and there was no excuse for it, someone stumbled sideways into Pam. Jim spun her away, putting his back to the chaos in the hallway. If he hadn't been holding onto her, she might have fallen. He squeezed her even more tightly.

"J-J-Jim," Pam sobbed against his chest, clinging to him like he was her rock and she was utterly adrift, which was exactly how she felt.

"Pam… Pam, I–" he choked out, just as utterly wrecked, and suddenly they were murmuring I love you back and forth, over and over again, sometimes simultaneously. Except for Jim's initial confession in the parking lot over a year ago, they hadn't said those particular words to each other yet. They'd only been dating for a couple months, but there was no time like the present to tell people how you felt.

If they'd been asked afterward who said it first, they would have argued fairly adorably without coming to any conclusions. Of course, it didn't occur to either of them right now to care who said it first, only that they were both saying it… feeling it.

"You still love me?" Pam asked reverentially when they came up for air. Her smile was beatific. She realized, even as she asked, that it was a stupid question. He'd just said so, like twenty or thirty times. She tried to wipe his cheeks, but her hands were shaking so badly that she only succeeded in smearing around the dampness there.

"Loved you, love you," Jim replied in a fierce whisper. Pam's waterfall of existing tears were being replaced by fresh ones so quickly, there was no point in trying to remove them. That didn't stop him from trying. "Never stopped. Always will."

"Always will," she affirmed tearfully. Her knees went weak in an uncharacteristic, fairly stereotypical manner. She really needed to be sitting down right now. Or even, better, laying down. On a couch, in a bed, on the floor. She wasn't picky, as long as Jim was there too. Either way, remaining upright had become a dicey proposition, as far as her legs were concerned… one that was quickly moving into the realm of literal impossibility. She swayed into him, grabbing his shoulders for support.

Jim hadn't expected that particular reaction to his confession, but of course he loved it. She was practically swooning, totally like a girl. There was a grin on his face and his heart was firing on all cylinders. This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, no doubt, and he was totally going to tease her about it at a more appropriate time.

Fortunately, he was fully capable of compensating for Pam's temporary inability to stand up straight under her own steam. Not to mention how far beyond thrilled he was to have the opportunity. For the second time that day, he hoisted her off the ground. Instead of sweeping her sideways cradle-style, though, he encouraged her legs to circle his waist. If he'd been watching this scene play out in a movie, he would have found it believable, if cheesy… relatively tropey.

The reality was fucking incredible. His world shrank to the size of the well-endowed yet petite, not-at-all-heavy woman in his arms. She slipped her arms around his neck, holding on tight, turning his hair into a rumpled mess and slicking her tongue between his lips like her life depended on it. She clung to him like they were made for each other, leaving no room to think about silly things like monster attacks or movie tropes or who might be watching. He leaned against the wall, needing the support while they exchanged desperate kisses, like maybe the world was ending.

It was, quite literally–or at least, it had started to–but nobody could possibly know that yet.

Jim held on tight with both arms, one around Pam's back, the other supporting her ass. He reveled in the fact that nobody else there knew how sweetly-rounded it was, that it was the exact color of peaches and cream, or the way it quivered when she came from the coaxing of his tongue and fingers. Even though her ass was concealed by blue denim at the moment, he was distinctly and uniquely privileged to know these things. He did his best to ignore the massive erection he was sporting beneath a layer of khaki, but it was going nowhere fast. It was neither the time nor place, but his body apparently hadn’t gotten that particular memo.

It was a testament to the atmosphere of distracted anarchy that none of their co-workers seemed to take notice of the embracing and kissing and heartfelt declarations they were currently engaged in. Pretty much everyone was talking and crying at once, asking questions that nobody had the answers to.

"Goodbye sweet Prince!" Michael wailed dramatically, getting the line wrong, but nobody could be assed to correct him. Oscar had his partner Gil wrapped up tight and they were rocking back and forth. Stanley and his wife and daughter were sprawled on the floor, like a soft pretzel made of arms and legs and crying. Andy sang Everything's Gonna Be Alright to himself in a corner. Darryl, the only one of the warehouse staff who hadn't wormed their way out of attending the event, clutched his daughter to his chest. They were both shaking but soundless, seeming relatively stoic in comparison. Creed looked on with a vaguely bemused air, one of the few who wasn't beside himself with anguish or relief or a combination thereof. Mitchell filmed it all.

Without warning, Meredith gripped the rim of an industrial-size trash can and vomited for dear life. Momentarily, she was joined by others. "Gross," Kevin mumbled in between bouts of frenzied puking, his hands firmly clamped over his ears. "Hearing someone else throw up always makes me have to throw up. Always."

“Frickin’... beet chips… man,” Andy gasped between copious ralphs.

Brian sagged weakly against the wall after evacuating the contents of his stomach. Although he couldn't disagree about the horrendousness of the beet-based foods, he wasn't anywhere near capable of speech just yet. He felt empty, in more ways than one. He didn't have anybody to hug or cry with, though, so he wrapped both arms around his waist and wept by himself.

Dwight's voice boomed out over the general pandemonium. "Attention, everybody! Since it does not appear that anyone is urgently in need of first aid, you are allotted five minutes to grieve the fallen. Those of you who are minors or female may have ten. As you recover your senses, kindly follow me to the Observation Room. In the meantime, I will contact the authorities."

Naturally, nobody paid him the least bit of attention.

A yawning man wearing a straw hat and overalls without a shirt meandered out of a side room. "Sorry to wake you, Mose," Dwight said in an uncharacteristically gentle, apologetic tone. "It is, however, extremely fortunate that you were already here. Since you're awake, would you please make some coffee for…" He took a quick headcount. "Seventeen? Extra-strength. And some powdered milk for the two remaining children?"

"Yupper!" He skipped merrily down the hall and disappeared around a corner.

"He's a good mensch, isn't he Monkey?" said Dwight.

"I want Sprinkles," Angela replied sobbingly.

Dwight guided her down the hallway to a room containing a television and a number of monitors. He flicked a series of switches with one hand, bringing them all to life, and lifted a satellite phone with the other.

Seconds later, Creed wandered in. "Nice setup, Cheroot," he said admiringly, eyeing the internal and external camera feeds. The ersatz arthropod was nowhere to be found. "Where's the speaker system? You oughta blast some tunes. Those cats are goin' crazy. Mellow 'em right out. You got any Eagles? CCR? Blue Oyster Cult?" He clapped Dwight on the shoulder. "Don't fear the reaper, man. Don't."

Dwight held a finger to his lips and relayed the situation and identities of the deceased to the 911 operator. No, they didn't need ambulances. Considering the state of the remains, even hearses would be unnecessary. And, while she was welcome to dispatch officers to investigate the scene, he strongly advised against it. He would not set foot outside the bunker, nor would he open the door for anybody. There was a Demogorgon on the loose in Honesdale, thank you, and they were already over capacity.

He surfed news channels on the television after hanging up. Most of them were business as usual, although a couple local stations were running breaking stories about very bloody attacks by mysterious, multi-limbed predators. The skepticism on the faces and in the voices of the anchormen and women spoke volumes. There was presently a lack of evidence to support the existence of any such things, they warned. They were careful to couch their reporting in weasel words like supposed and alleged, making it clear that the opinions they were conveying were anything but their own.

Before long, everyone had gathered in the room, drinking coffee or milk as appropriate, watching more-or-less silently as the news cycled along. After a field reporter in Harrisburg was decimated live on camera–followed by the screaming cameraman–the footage was quickly picked up and re-broadcast by the major networks. Frames were frozen, studied, analyzed. In spite of their general cynical tendencies, the newscasters changed their tune in a hurry.

As far as anyone was able to determine, whatever the things were had begun attacking Pennsylvania that very day. Nobody was sure what they were or where they came from or could advise what to do at this point, but the speculation was rampant. Maybe they were aliens, or a genetic experiment gone wrong. Perhaps they were an advanced species that had evolved from ants or praying mantises beneath the Appalachians for thousands of years. It could be that they were eating people, but it was also possible that they were simply hunting for sport. If they hit New York City, stock markets around the world would surely be devastated.

Although the only thing anyone could actually know was how incredibly quickly they moved and how lethal their claws were, the creatures were alternately rumored to be possessed of impenetrable insectoid armor, infrared vision, highly-evolved olfactory receptors, and impossibly acute hearing. In all likelihood, they couldn't be harmed by human weapons. As a matter of fact, they could see in the dark. Certainly, they could smell fear from a mile away and hear a pin drop from just as far.

Pam worriedly pulled a cell phone out of the purse that had fortunately been slung over her shoulder at the time disaster struck. "Is anyone getting any bars?" she asked the room, because she had no signal whatsoever. Suddenly, everyone began digging out their own to check.

"You may use the satellite phone," Dwight replied, sanguine as ever. "Cell phones will be unable to function down here in the bunker. The walls are lined with lead, in anticipation of a radioactive event. I believe it would be a wise course of action to institute a five-minute limit, for the time being."

Pam sprang up halfway through his speech. Lifting the handset, she glanced around the room. A line was already forming behind her. She could hardly ask everyone to leave. It was becoming apparent that privacy would be a rare commodity in this place. Sighing inaudibly, she faced the wall, dialed a familiar number, and spoke as quietly as she could.

Jim didn't have to ask or listen in on Pam's conversation to know who she'd called first. Hastily, he dug out a dollar bill and scribbled his parents' phone number and a brief message across the bottom. She took it with a nod, making sure to pass along the information.

After she hung up, Jim followed her into the hallway and slung his arm over her shoulder. "How are they doing?" he asked with concern. He was glad he'd had the presence of mind to pass along a message. Based on the line, the phone would be tied up for at least the next hour.

"I don't know about Penny, I had to leave her a voicemail. But my parents are fine. They're at home, they didn't even know anything was going on. I gave them the number on the phone, but…" She sniffled and flopped her arm fruitlessly at the extended queue. "How are they going to get through, if there's a problem?"

And who’s going to answer the phone? Jim wondered. "I don't know," he said. He didn't say that their ability to do anything for anyone on the outside was all-but-nonexistent. He'd watched more movies in the disaster-horror genre than anyone present, with the possible exception of Dwight. At any rate, he'd seen enough to be very thankful that he and Pam happened to be together today, even if that meant they were stuck with their ridiculous co-workers too. Not to mention their luck at being within running distance of an underground shelter-thing.

All things considered, this situation or debacle or predicament was a far superior prospect than pretty much any alternative. Not only weren't they dead, but they weren't stuck in either of their small, fragile, and relatively-poorly-equipped apartments. Jim didn't harbor any illusions that glass windows or wooden doors would keep those fearsome claws at bay. "What do you say we take a look around?" he suggested, figuring they might be stuck here for a few days while the police and/or military took care of the problem.

Like everyone else in the world, he was vastly underestimating the scope of the problem, but that was understandable. It had only started that day, after all.

Nodding, Pam clung gratefully to his side, feeling more helpless and purposeless than she had since breaking off her engagement to Roy. She wondered idly how he was doing as she wandered down the narrow concrete hallway with Jim.

The structure was a lot bigger than it had looked at first glance, with lots of rooms off either side. First was a kitchen, with a stove and sink and incinerator. No refrigerator, though. She turned on the water. It ran clear and smelled fine, but she wouldn't risk drinking it unless Dwight said it was ok.

The kitchen was adjacent to a large and very-well-stocked pantry that had Pam's eyes widening in legitimate appreciation. Home-canned beets were among the supplies, but fortunately there was a wide variety of non-beet shelf-stable foods. Things like rice, powdered milk, spam, jerky, and granola bars, among many other canned goods. An entire wall was dedicated to medical supplies.

Next up were six small rooms with labels on each door–Irrigation Room, American Room, Nighttime Room, Venetian Room, Mountain Room, and Distillery Room. Each was slightly wider and longer than the twin bed and nightstand inside it. Shelves ran along the back walls for storage, in lieu of closets that would have taken up valuable floor space.

Clutching Jim's arm, Pam continued on to the Recreation Room, which contained some comfortable-looking couches, a card table, and four folding chairs. There were lots of books, board games, a combination TV/VCR, and an appreciable selection of VHS tapes.

Then there was the Shower Room, with folded white towels, bar soap, deodorant, disposable razors, individually-wrapped toothbrushes, and toothpaste. Across from it were two Bathroom Rooms–at that, she almost laughed, but she wasn't precisely capable of humor at the moment–with toilets and sinks. One contained a towering pallet of toilet paper. The other, to her amazed surprise, held a mountain of pads and tampons. Lastly was the Laundry Room, with piles of neatly-stacked white sheets and pillowcases and utilitarian cotton blankets.

Jim rubbed his chin, thoroughly impressed with the size and condition and contents of the shelter. Although he and Pam had privately mocked its existence during the group tour not more than an hour ago, things had changed a whole fucking lot since then. Under the circumstances, how could he do anything but admire the amount of forethought and expenditure that had clearly gone into setting up and maintaining it? He couldn't bring himself to criticize one single thing about it. It could easily have been musty or stale, but the air and floors were dry. It didn't smell bad. Sure, the linens were predictably dusty. The walls and floors were a dingy shade of gray, except for the tile which was dingy and off-white. The surroundings were relatively prison-like, but the shelter was intended to keep the world out rather than the inhabitants in. At that, it would do a far better job than average, which had been proven when the bug-monster had been unable to penetrate the thickness of the door. He wondered what the hell it was made of.

"I guess we can always wear togas," Jim joked hesitantly, because they'd run out of rooms to explore and hadn't found the faintest scrap of actual clothing. All they had on them were the clothes on their backs, Pam's purse, and the contents of their pockets. He also wasn't sure Pam was quite up to joking around yet, because she wasn't exactly the type to handle unexpected changes very well. It wasn't really possible to predict how someone would react in a survival situation until they were in one, though, so he tried to keep an open mind.

Pam buried her face in her hands with a sobbing half-laugh. She'd always been vaguely claustrophobic and it felt like the walls were closing in around her. "This is insane," she mumbled through her fingers.

"The fact that this place exists is the definition of insanity," he agreed, wrapping her up tight with his arms, tugging her into the shelter of his body. They wouldn't be able to escape from their co-workers at five o'clock like they normally would, which was the only thing that got him through five-sevenths of the days of his life. "But it could be worse."

Pam sniffled against his chest. Her first, rather uncharitable thought was that things couldn't really get any worse than this. But, she reasoned with herself, of course they could. Although they'd be stuck with their awful co-workers for awhile in Dwight's freaking bomb shelter, they were alive. And it was pretty much the Rolls Royce of bomb shelters–at least, it seemed that way, given her relative lack of experience with such things. They'd have things to do, food to eat, water to drink, showers to take, and beds to sleep in until the police or soldiers solved whatever problem was going on.

And if it became intolerable–which was inevitable with the number of people versus the number and size of available beds–they could always leave. Not that she wanted to yet, she wasn't suicidal and they had no idea what those… things were capable of. But they had the option of leaving, and Jim was here and holding her so steadily and sounding fairly optimistic, all things considered. He'd stopped running from certain doom to save her life, like Indiana Jones or maybe Bruce Willis, and he loved her. He'd never stopped loving her, apparently, and suddenly she was breathing a little easier.

"It could be worse," she whispered in agreement with a firm squeeze of his by-now-familiar torso. She looked up, finding him looking down at her. She thought she saw pride in his eyes, just for a second, before he closed them and lowered his mouth to hers. With very few, very recent exceptions, Pam wasn't a brave person. She knew that. But he made her want to be… now more than ever.

"Found the beet wine! There's an assload of it," intruded a distant, muffled voice. It was Meredith, of course. Her proclamation was met with a number of requests to share the wealth. Jim and Pam poked their heads out of the Laundry Room, not without interest.

"It's for special occasions!" Dwight called, hurrying down the hall to the pantry.

"There's gotta be at least a hundred bottles in there," she volleyed back, already swigging heavily from one. The wine rack had been hidden behind an inconspicuous curtain the exact shade of the concrete walls, but she'd found it right away. "Can't you just make more? I'll pay you back later."

Dwight snatched the bottle out of Meredith's hands. "By the time all is said and done, currency may very well be worthless," he predicted with astonishing accuracy, although that was just a coincidence. "We don't know how long this will take to play out. Fact: the beet harvest is presently stored in the barn. Fact: the yeast is in the house. Fact: the only way to retrieve more of either would be by leaving the bunker. So, unless you are volunteering–"

"Oh, I think this counts as a special occasion," Jim interrupted with a friendly grin. "Do you mind if we have a little?"

"Please?" Pam added, clasping her hands together. Although she was anything but happy, she forced her lips into a smile that she hoped was winsome. Mostly because it was of the utmost importance to stay on Dwight's good side while they were mooching in his bomb shelter, but also because she was incredibly thirsty and didn't know if the water was potable. Also, beet-based though it was, a glass of wine sounded pretty damn amazing right now. Being drunk, or even just tipsy, would be a massive improvement over the existential despair doing its best to crush her spirit.

Dwight rolled his eyes, but conceded. "Very well. I suppose a few bottles for the group would be permissible, under the circumstances." He poured a small plastic cupful for each of them.

Jim and Pam shared a private toast in the corner of the kitchen. Pam thanked God she was a lightweight and that she'd been unable to stomach much lunch, because the alcohol went straight to her head. "Thank God," she huffed aloud, pressing a hand to her forehead. Although less than a minute had gone by, her drink was gone. Already, she was feeling a little better.

Jim handed over the remaining half of his cup. "Here, finish mine." She looked like she needed it more. It also tasted fairly terrible, but then he'd never been a big fan of wine.

She accepted it without hesitation, wrapping a grateful arm around his waist as she chugged it down. "God, I love you," she gasped as she set down the tumbler, clunking it against the counter a little harder than necessary. Being plastic rather than glass, it didn't matter in the slightest.

Thoroughly unaccustomed to hearing those words from that mouth, Jim let out a surprised chuckle and echoed her affectionately. He could get used to this, but he wasn't yet.

A moment later, Oscar's voice rang out from the Observation Room. "You guys might want to come see this."

Jim and Pam made their way back, where almost everyone was still waiting in line to use the phone. NBC was showing a couple dozen riot police in paramilitary gear preparing to attack one of the insect-beings, live. According to the ticker running across the bottom of the screen, they were in the Moyamensing neighborhood of South Philadelphia. The camera was looking down on the scene from above ground level, probably the top floor of a nearby building.

The police began unleashing a substantial amount of firepower into the creepy entity. Unfortunately, none of it appeared to have the least effect. Every policeman and woman on the street was turned into crimson goop in short order. Then, the thing skittered up the side of a nearby rowhouse in an eerily unexpected manner. Naturally, the camera zoomed in and followed the action. Without warning, the monster obliterated a window on the third floor as though it were made of plastic wrap, shredding a screaming woman holding a screaming baby on the other side.

"Jesus Christ, they can climb!" the cameraman panted as the creature clambered efficiently through the shattered window and into the building. "Holy shit, oh my fuck–"

The live feed cut out and was replaced by the utterly shocked faces and dead silence of the anchorman and woman.

"What can we do?" Michael asked nobody in particular with an air of helpless desperation.

"Survive, of course," Dwight opined in a level tone. "We already know they cannot penetrate the bunker, so kindly refrain from panicking. Once everyone has used the phone, we will need to go over a few ground rules in the Recreation Room. If you like, you may stop by the kitchen for a single serving of beet wine on your way."

"It's really good," Pam volunteered in a small voice, trembling and weak-kneed from shock and thankful that Jim was holding her up. Not just for those reasons, of course. She was thoroughly unable to cope with what she'd just seen on television, so she clasped the waist of the man she loved and did her best to ignore it. She wasn't all that happy about all that much that had happened today. But she was glad that she'd finally told Jim the truth about her feelings for him, and even gladder that he had the same ones for her.

He said words that she hardly heard, but the words themselves weren't nearly as important as the comforting way in which he said them. He stroked her back reassuringly and pressed his lips sweetly into her hair. She closed her eyes and took comfort in the way that he was so much stronger than her right now. She found it more than a little surprising that nobody had addressed it yet, but she didn't care. Although they'd previously agreed to keep their relationship a secret from their terribly nosy co-workers and the even nosier documentary crew, Pam didn't give a single crap anymore, not one. They could have died today. If anyone had anything to say, they could freaking suck it.

"Thank you, Pamela," Dwight replied with a touch of pride. "As it is an ancient Schrute family recipe, it could hardly be any less." He turned toward Angela and spoke sotto voce. "Will you serve the drinks, Monkey? Pam, Jim, and Meredith have had theirs already. I can't trust everyone not to go overboard."

"And you shouldn't," she replied stiffly. "It would be my pleasure, D." She took the bottle and made her way to the kitchen with a sense of purpose, giving Jim and Pam a wide berth and a disapproving glance that neither of them noticed.

"Would anyone like to do a talking head?" Mitchell asked the room.

Jim leaned down and spoke quietly. "I don't suppose you'd want to do one with me?" Pam shook her head convulsively. "No worries," he soothed her, letting it go, completely unwilling to leave her side for longer than it would take to use the bathroom.

"How can you think about work at a time like this?" Brian muttered exasperatedly, rubbing his hand over his eyes. They were the first words he'd spoken since coming face-to-face with… it.

"This is fucking history in the making," Mitchell argued, un-shouldering the camera with a distinctly avaricious gleam in his eyes. "I got more than one of those attacks on film. So did Nate, and his memory card might be salvageable. If we play this right, we could be millionaires." He was wrong, of course, not to mention shockingly insensitive.

"Have fun with that," Brian replied stoutly, resolutely refusing to get out of line. He'd been the only one to see the creature up close without dying. After staring his own mortality in the face–or mandibles, as it went–he'd done quite a lot of thinking about what really mattered in life.

Mitchell, unsurprisingly, had undergone no such revelation. There was no love lost between the two of them. As the full-size camera operator who had become the talking head question-asker by default, Mitchell had always thought he was better than the rest of the crew. And that didn't even take into account the fact that he was fat, lazy, selfish, and a serial philanderer.

Sensing the rising tension in the Observation Room, Jim murmured in Pam's ear again. "Hey. Maybe Dwight has Dazed and Confused on VHS. You wanna check it out? If we get there first, we can call dibs on the TV and that awesome plaid couch."

She nodded and held on tight, trusting him to walk her backwards down the hall far more than she trusted herself to walk unassisted at the moment.

Meredith beckoned Mitchell into the nearest bedroom. He closed the door behind them.

"Rule number one," Dwight announced. "Thou shalt not steal, from the bunker or one another. Theft is punishable by immediate expulsion. There are cameras in every room except the bathrooms and bedrooms, and I intend to do a daily count of wine bottles." He'd had little choice but to open a few more. He'd come into the Recreation Room to find nearly everyone talking about the deceased and weeping miserably, not receptive in the least to going over ground rules. Even Angela, who redefined the term teetotaler, had a cup. Creed, of course, had wandered around the room, perusing the selection of books and movies with a detached air.

Thanks in no small part to the alcohol, the discussion had eventually meandered from maudlin sobbing to reminiscent, wistful smiles. Finally, although the crying hadn't totally stopped, it had slowed sufficiently to get down to brass tacks.

Michael wrote the rule on a slate chalkboard that was built into the wall. "Man, this stuff sucks," he complained obliviously. "It's totally low-tech. Why didn't you go with Dry-Erase?" He looked down to wipe the yellow dust from his hand onto his jean shorts, missing the daggers suddenly being glared at him from every direction. The impromptu grief session had been somewhat soured by him in a predictable way, with some help from Andy. Although they'd cried along with everyone else, both had simultaneously done their best to make it all about themselves at every turn. Michael had also spoken ill of Toby, leading Oscar to accuse him of being an insensitive ass. At one point, Stanley even threatened to backhand him.

"Rule number two," Dwight continued with a complete lack of deference to Michael. Jim quickly rubbed his mouth, hiding the surprised dropping of his jaw. "All must contribute in a measurable, equitable fashion. Although everyone should endeavor to clean up after themselves as much as possible, there are certain tasks that make more sense to do in a rotation. Duties such as cooking, dishwashing, sweeping and mopping, cleaning the bathrooms, trash incineration, laundry–"

"Speaking of laundry, what are we supposed to wear?" Andy interrupted him, crammed between Angela and Creed on a flower-patterned loveseat. It was clean and comfortable, if relatively hideous and outdated. "'Cause… I took a look around this place and all I see are sheets."

"Toga party!" Pam cried out impulsively with a giddy giggle from where she was wedged between Jim and the arm of a couch. The Recreation Room was spacious, all things considered, but it was a very tight fit in terms of available seating. Fortunately, all nineteen of them managed to squeeze in without anyone having to sit on the concrete floor. If Pam and Jim and Brian hadn't been so slim in comparison to Kevin, it would never have worked out.

"Thank you, Pamela," Dwight replied. "If–"

"That was my idea," Jim objected with a smile.

"If you say so, Jim. Yes, if we're here for longer than a few days, the sheets will suffice while your clothing is being laundered. If it is deemed safe to venture out of doors at some point, perhaps we can investigate the likelihood of shopping at the local Walmart. Or looting it, as appropriate.

"Rule number three: if anyone wishes to leave at any point, you are free to go. I only insist that you tell me or Mose first, so that we can ensure the way is clear and bar the door behind you. Fact: we are over capacity at the moment–"

"How far over?" Oscar asked with concern from Gil's lap.

"There are sufficient supplies on hand to ensure the survival of ten individuals for a roughly three-year period. Given current numbers, twenty months is a reasonable estimate. Perhaps longer, with intense rationing of foodstuffs and medical supplies."

Stanley's wife, Teri, gasped and clutched her chest. "Good lord. Months?"

"We are prepared for the worst-case scenario," Dwight replied with a curt nod. "After that point, it would be necessary to restock on food, soap, medical supplies, toilet paper, et cetera. The ideal setup for genetic diversity would be seven women and three men, of course."

Pam cackled quietly to herself. That explained the massive amount of pads and tampons in the second Bathroom Room.

"Do you mind?" Darryl thundered, covering his daughter's ears with his hands while Teri did the same to hers. "Jada's nine."

"Twelve," Stanley added in his customary drawl.

His daughter rolled her eyes. "I know where babies come from."

Dwight continued implacably. "Capacity is not an immediate concern, however. Air and water supplies are, for all intents and purposes, infinite. The taps are fed from our well, and all are drinkable. If the electrical grid gives out at some point, we have a gas generator on-site."

"Where is that?" Jim asked curiously. He hadn't seen a generator during his and Pam's self-guided tour.

"That information is on a need-to-know basis, to prevent any possibility of vandalism. Yes, little girl?" Dwight said courteously in response to the raised hand of Stanley's daughter.

"Her name is Melissa," Stanley intoned impatiently.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" she asked.

"Yes, Melissa," Dwight replied patiently. "And you did not have to ask."

With an eyeroll, Stanley said, "This is not school, and he is not your teacher."

"I was just bein' polite," she demurred as she left the room. Jada trailed out after her.

"Politeness is important," Dwight announced. He heard the scratching of chalk behind him. "No Michael, don't write that down. It is not a rule. But politeness will go a long way to helping all of us get along. We have no idea whether this will be cleared up in a few days or a few months–"

"God help me," said Darryl, rubbing his eyes.

"God help us," Stanley echoed.

"You are free to leave at any time," Dwight emphasized, tacitly reminding everyone whose bunker they were currently occupying.

"God is in this bomb shelter," Pam added belatedly.

Jim shook his head at her with a bemused smile. "Exactly how strong was that wine?"

"Forty proof!" Mose piped up.

"When it was bottled," Dwight added. "It will have gotten stronger after aging for a few years."

"You ok, Beesly?" Jim intoned quietly, for her ears only.

She nodded intently, as pinkish-red as the root of the alcohol coursing through her veins, and replied at full volume. "Soo ok."

"Where can I smoke?" Meredith asked.

Dwight rolled his eyes with a sigh of resignation. "The facility was designed to be non-smoking, although the stove does have a robust exhaust system. Perhaps we can vote to allow an exception–"

"I ain't talkin' about tobacco." She dug a joint out of her bra. "If you won't let us have wine, I need to get messed up on somethin'."

"That's what I'm talkin' about," Creed chimed in, revealing a massive baggie of kine bud.

"Are you kidding me?" Angela all but screeched.

"Guys!" Michael protested. "This is a workplace function."

"Shiiit." Darryl grinned. "Not anymore it ain't. You willin' to share?" he asked Creed.

"Maybe I could be convinced to barter. Darnell, is it?"

"Let's put it to a vote," said Dwight with equanimity, surprising the hell out of Jim. After his reaction to finding a stray joint in the parking lot of Dunder Mifflin, he hadn't expected Dwight to be quite so… democratic about this.

"So wait," Pam whispered a little too loudly, ballot in hand. "Are we voting on whether we want to smoke it? Or whether it's ok for other people to smoke it?"

"The second one," Jim whispered back, sneaking a peek at the slip of paper she was taking no pains to hide. Like him, she wrote down the word yes. Then she added a smiley face after it and signed her name at the bottom. He couldn't hold in a shocked chuckle. "Beesly. It's supposed to be anonymous," he chided her affectionately.

"Whoops!" She tore her name off. "But then, ok, why were you peeking?"

He showed her his slip before folding it up and dropping it into Mose's outstretched straw hat. "Now we're even."

"Even Steven," she said happily.

"Have you done it?" he asked in the quietest of whispers. The last thing he wanted was for this particular interaction to be preserved for posterity, and Mitchell was filming the meeting from a chair in the corner. She shrugged, cutely in his opinion. Admittedly, he was biased. He realized too late that his question probably sounded porny, although that wasn't his intention.

"You?" she mouthed silently. Jim returned the enigmatic gesture. He wasn't telling if she wasn't, although her mischievous smile was more than a little telling in itself. Definitely not what he'd expected.

Dwight took the chalk from Michael and tallied up the votes for all to see. "The ayes have it," he said, looking neither pleased nor displeased. Jim couldn't help thinking that Dwight had been one of the two abstentions, and he couldn't help but wonder why. "Let's set up a chore rotation. Then we will embark on a brief tour of the kitchen. Everyone over the age of eighteen will need to be capable of operating the incinerator." He began drawing up a chart.

"Hey! So," said Creed. "Since I'm the supply guy, I don't gotta do any of that crap. Right?"

"Everyone will be assigned to do everything on a rotating basis. It is, of course, your prerogative to trade chores amongst yourselves for favors or other chores. Simply make a note of it on the board if someone else is covering your shift."

"I'll make wine, if you show me how," Meredith offered. "I'll replace what I drink."

"I would be very interested in that, as well," Oscar supplied. Gil nodded his agreement.

"We can discuss adding additional tasks as needed," Dwight replied. "At present, we lack the necessary materials for winemaking–unless someone is willing to go out and retrieve them."

"Yo," Meredith volunteered, raising her hand. "I'll keep an eye on the news."

"As you like. That reminds me, please do not discard the empty wine bottles. And if you feel that anyone is not pulling their weight–" Dwight tapped a small locked box. "Please submit a written complaint in lieu of a personal attack. All grievances will be addressed at a meeting, to be voted on or adjudicated by an ad-hoc tribunal as appropriate. If we are to get along, we all must endeavor to cooperate and foster an inclusive environment." He started adding names to the chore chart.

"Wow," Kevin said slowly, in awe. "You're like, really good at this apocalypse stuff."

"I have to say I agree," Andy contributed with his usual pomposity. Jim agreed as well, albeit silently. "What about sleeping arrangements?"

"In shifts, of course," Dwight said absently as he continued to write. "We have six twin beds, seventeen adults, and two children. Anyone who is willing to share can earn credits against chores, as an incentive. There will also be designated periods of quiet time in the Recreation Room to accommodate napping, reading, religious study, and meditation. Are there any objections?"

"I don't have anyone to sleep with," Michael objected whiningly.

"You could always sleep with a friend, to get out of extra chores," Pam said with a sidelong glance at Jim.

"Absolutely," he echoed in a far more whole-hearted way than he actually felt, because why wouldn't she just acknowledge that they were dating already? They'd made out in full view of everyone, for God's sake. Not that he allowed the frustration he felt to color his words. He looked at Michael. "Why don't you see if anyone needs a sleeping partner? Maybe Andy?"

"Gay!" Michael retorted instantly.

"Fuck you," said Oscar and Gil simultaneously.

Dwight cleared his throat and tapped the complaint box with a quelling look. "You may take this time to work sleeping arrangements out amongst yourselves. If the children require specific bedtimes or naps, please inform me now."

As the room broke out in frenzied negotiations, Pam sprang up and hugged Dwight impulsively. "Wow!" she enthused drunkenly. "You thought of everything."

He touched her shoulder for a fleeting instant, glancing briefly at Jim. "I already have a sleeping partner," he said cautiously.

"Me too. Just, we're alive! Because of you! Thank you!" She bounced chipperly back to the couch.

"What about sleeping on the floor?" Andy piped up. "I really hate chores. And it's great for your back."

"Anyone who is willing to sleep on the hallway floor is immediately relieved of all duties," Dwight replied. "Keep in mind that the lights will not be turned off, and there will likely be some level of activity and noise twenty-four hours a day."

Andy pumped the air with his fist. "Yes!"

"Shit, that is tempting," said Meredith longingly.

Brian spoke up. "Anyone need a partner? I think I'm skinny enough to sleep three across, even." A roguish smile crept across his face. "Male, female, I'm not picky. I uh, like to spoon."

At his pronouncement, Oscar and Gil put their heads together. "Do we get extra credits for that?" asked Oscar after a moment.

"Of course," Dwight responded without judgment, causing Jim to eye him keenly. This was decidedly not the deskmate he'd come to know and prank and sort of hate over the years.

Oscar beckoned Brian over. A quiet, intense discussion ensued.

Kevin propositioned every adult in the room, male and female. Unsurprisingly, he found no takers.

Michael asked all of the women to sleep next to him–no sexies, he promised–but ended up alone. Not even Meredith was interested. She came to an alternating-night agreement with Creed and Mitchell, instead.

Amid the chaos, nobody expressed the least bit of surprise when Jim and Pam signed up to sleep together.

At length, Dwight set down the chalk. "These are the sleeping assignments for now. Chore credits will be worked out as soon as possible. Tasks will be reassigned accordingly starting Monday morning, so please make a note of it. Since we have quite a number of mouths to feed, I am assigning two people to prepare each meal. There are–" He eyed the children warily. "Supplies in the nightstands. And please make sure to take your own linens to the Laundry Room."

Pam analyzed the board. She and Jim were assigned to sleep in the Venetian Room every night, from eight PM until five AM. Then she'd be cooking breakfast in the morning with Darryl. Jim was assigned to cook lunch with Stanley. "Hey," she whispered. "Why don't you switch meals with Darryl? Then we can make breakfast together."

"I'll ask him," he whispered back with a smile.

"Don't let him take no for an answer!" she said teasingly. "You can say we're dating."

"Ok," he said simply, sincerely doubting it was still a secret at this point. He looked around. Almost everyone was looking at the board quietly and making notes, except for Meredith and Creed. She nodded as he rolled a joint in a groove of the chalkboard, looking impressed by his technique. "Hey, how about you call your mom while the phone is free?"

"You try yours first. Go quick!" Pam insisted. "I'll write down your assignments and I'll come get you for the tour."

He chucked her under the chin, loving her more than he'd ever thought possible. "Yes ma'am."

She pursed her lips at him. "Don't call me ma'am. You know the rules."

"Yes, Pam," he amended good-naturedly. Taking a risk, he brushed a very brief, very public kiss to her lips. She sighed and melted before his very eyes, totally like a girl, not looking upset in the least. Naturally, he did it again, drawing it out a bit longer this time.

"Oh my God, are you guys doin' it?" Michael asked incredulously.

Jim released her chin and stood up. He looked around the room. Based on the number of sympathetic eyerolls directed his way, Kevin's knowing and salacious nod, and the resigned disapproval on Angela's face, it was clear that Michael was the only one who hadn't figured that out by now. Jim silently made his way toward the door, resisting the temptation to flip his boss the bird.

"We're dating, so what?" Pam fired back, emboldened by the way Jim had just kissed her in front of everybody. The alcohol currently influencing her also contributed in a fairly major way. "Did you not see him kissing me earlier?"

No, Jim amended internally as his grin broke free. Now he loved her more than he'd ever thought possible.

"Anyway, it's not like you can't share a bed with anyone you want," she continued over Michael's shocked splutters. "Even a relative stranger."

"Or strangers," Brian added from between Oscar and Gil, looking very pleased with himself.

In the Observation Room, Jim picked up the handset of the satellite phone and punched in the number of his childhood home. It was one of the few he'd never forget, although he made a mental note to copy over the rest of his address book before his phone could die.

He had to redial several times before he got a ringtone rather than a busy signal. Either she was on the phone with someone else, or the network was overloaded. "Mom, it's Jim, I'm alright," he said in response to her frantic and harried greeting. "How are you guys? Do you know what's going on?"

"Oh! Jim," she said with tearful relief. "Thank God! I tried to call you! It keeps going straight to voicemail. We're at home. Me, your dad, and Larissa. Pete and Tom are doing ok at their houses, last I heard."

"Thank God," he echoed fervently. "I'm not at home. I was at a barbecue, for a work thing. My cell isn't working. If you can believe it, my co-worker has an actual underground fallout shelter."

"Wow," she said, sounding fairly amazed.

"Yeah. We saw one of those…" He shrugged, not sure what to call it. "It attacked us. But we made it, me and Pam and most of our co-workers. And we're ok, we're good. There's tons of food and a generator and everything, so we're all set until this sh-uh, stuff blows over."

"Thank God. Pam who? Is that someone I should know?"

"She's my girlfriend," he said proudly. "Pam Beesly. Did you get a call from her mom earlier? Her name is Helene."

"Oh yes, I did. That's how I knew to turn on the news. She just said you worked with her daughter." She sighed wistfully. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend."

Jim heard his sister screeching in the background. "Is he dating Pam?"

"Yes, sweetie," his mom said tolerantly. "Goodness, am I the last to know?" she chided Jim gently.

Suddenly, Larissa came on the line. She spoke so quickly the words ran together. "Holyshityou'redatingPam? The Pam?"

"Hi, Larissa. It's so great to talk to you." He checked over his shoulder to make sure nobody else was in the room. Then he reminded himself he didn't have to do that anymore. "Yes, it's the Pam," he reassured her.

"Since when? Since when? Ohmigod!" she squealed, happy for him.

At any other time, Jim might have rolled his eyes. But his younger sister was the only person in his family who knew what he'd felt for Pam, and how long he'd felt it. She understood, and he was glad to have the chance to tell her. "Not that long," he demurred. "Just a couple of months."

"Just! I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner. I'm going to beat your ass, you freakin' turd." Their mother said something indistinct in the background. "Oh chillax, mom." She returned her attention to Jim. "The next time I see you, better believe your ass is grass."

He chuckled genuinely. "I'd like to see you try, shortstuff."

"Tell her I said hi. Ok, here's mom. Later."

"Well," said his mom, sounding a little winded. "Are you happy, sweetie?"

"I'm so happy," he reassured her. "She's the love of my life." And even though they were fresh on the heels of an unspeakably horrible tragedy, he couldn't stop himself from grinning. They wouldn't have to hide anything anymore, from anybody at all. Not their co-workers, not their families… and especially not from each other.

His mom let out a quiet, paradoxically happy sob. "Oh, I'm so glad. I wish you were both here. Don't go outside, though, not if one of those–"

"Don't worry, we won't," Jim promised, wishing they were here. They'd be so much safer, but… He tried not to think about it, instead giving her the number on the phone. "It's a satellite phone, but there's just the one. I can't guarantee anyone will answer it. I don't even know if there's voicemail set up. And there's almost twenty of us down here, so it might be busy."

"That's ok, I understand. I'm so glad you're safe. I love you. Always," she said tearfully.

"I know. I love you too. And be safe yourselves," he said urgently. "They can… climb, break windows… I saw–"

"We saw it too," she said in a voice laden with emotion. "What happened at your barbecue?"

"It… killed people," he said, holding onto his composure, but only just. "Seven people. Including a little girl I used to babysit, and her dad. He's… he was our HR person. Toby… and Sasha. She… she was only six."

At that, she broke down.

So did he. 

"Good afternoon," Dwight began. "While I'm sure we would all prefer not to meet every day, there have been a few complaints that need to be ironed out." He indicated the crumpled mountain of scrap paper he'd pulled from the locked box. Clearly, there had been more than a few. "There have been a number of unfortunate incidents over the past twenty-four hours. I understand that some of them were unintentional, but most were a result of carelessness. More importantly, it is my belief that all were preventable. On that note, we have several new ground rules. Safety is paramount." He gestured toward the chalkboard behind him, where they were already written. "If there are any that seem unreasonable, you may speak up now or utilize the complaint box at your leisure. This is not a witch hunt," he emphasized, "so please refrain from calling out anybody in particular. This is simply an unavoidable aspect of living in close quarters."

Jim read them over with a critical eye.

4: Under no circumstances may anyone shout FIRE unless there is an actual fire present. Future violations of this rule will result in immediate expulsion.

5: Do not mock the grief of others.

6: Please refrain from derogatory comments based on race/gender/orientation/age/etc. This is an inclusive environment.

Michael, Michael, and Michael of course.

7: Children are not required to attend meetings.

That one was thoroughly unnecessary. The girls were closeted in the American Room with a jigsaw puzzle. Stanley and Darryl had made sure of that.

8: Daily showering is not optional.

Jim side-eyed Kevin. Although he was sitting on a loveseat, he had both cushions to himself.

9: Clothing is not optional in public areas. Togas count if they are knotted firmly and tied to reveal no more than one's shoulders. Bath towels do not.

That one was on Andy, mostly. Also Meredith, although you could make the argument that her exposure was relatively unintentional. At least the kids hadn't been in the vicinity of either incident. Unfortunately, Jim had witnessed both, and it was quite possible more had gone on while he and Pam were asleep.

10: Shoes are technically optional, but are strongly recommended at all times.

He glanced at Meredith's bandaged foot and rolled his eyes.

11: Please refrain from attempting chores of any kind while under the influence of mind-altering substances including, but not limited to, cannabis and alcohol.

Jim shrugged a little, shaking his head, covering his mouth to hide a chagrined smile. Guilty as charged, but they hadn't meant to. It wasn't their fault. Really!

12: If you must smoke, please only do so at the stove after turning on the exhaust. Exhalations must be aimed up the ventilation pipe.

13: Please do not attempt to smoke while meal preparation is underway, no matter who is preparing the meal. The stove is reserved for relatively few hours each day.

Thank God.

14: Public displays of affection are permitted and understood to be inevitable, but please keep them reasonable.

Also partly their fault… say, five percent. Oscar, Gil, and Brian–or, as Jim was beginning to think of them, Oscar et. al.–had been far more indiscreet. Even Stanley and Teri had behaved more inappropriately than him and Pam, especially after the girls had gone to sleep.

15: Please eat responsibly. We aren't at the point of rationing, but keep in mind that we are over capacity.

Kevin and Darryl were the biggest offenders there, but thanks to the weed–not to mention the stress from living in such close quarters in such a bleak situation–there had been a fair amount of overeating and comfort-eating all around.

16: The stove should only be used for cooking as assigned, at designated times when a group meal is being prepared. If you feel the urge to snack, please eat something from the pre-packaged section (granola bars, trail mix, beef/beet jerky, etc).

17: Any unassigned and unoccupied bedroom is fair game for napping or "other" purposes. In order to ensure compliance with rule 14, please keep books, games, and cards in the Recreation Room as much as possible. If you choose to read or play games in a bedroom, please be courteous, leave the door open, and be willing to vacate.

Fair enough, Jim concluded, finding none of them to be unreasonable.

"Is this a problem, PDA-wise?" Oscar asked from a loveseat. Gil's head was pillowed on one of his shoulders, Brian's on the other. They were all holding hands in a complicated way, like a freeze-frame of a secret three-way handshake in progress.

"Yes," said Michael immediately. Brian raised an eyebrow at him and turned his head to nip Oscar on the jaw.

Dwight held up a quelling hand in Michael's direction. "Not a problem, as long as you keep it PG. This is an inclusive environment. Just keep in mind that we have locking bedrooms for a reason. Any other questions?"

"So nobody else has a problem with this… menage a queer?"

A chorus of grumbling ensued. Predictably, Michael was either completely oblivious of the fact that he was the driving force behind rules four, five, and six, or perhaps he simply didn't care. Not that everyone was entirely comfortable with the open displays of gayness and threesomeness, but they were mostly averting their eyes and trying to be tolerant. Except for Meredith, who had taken to staring rather hungrily at the trio.

Brian made to stand up, looking for all the world as though fisticuffs were imminent. Oscar grabbed him by the belt, tugged him back down to the cushion, and whispered something in his ear. Brian's angry expression was quickly replaced by a devilish grin. He gave Oscar a brief, hard kiss on the lips, then whispered something back.

Darryl nodded approvingly with a whimsical giggle. As ever, anything that irritated Michael was all good with him. He was also incredibly stoned, so not much could faze him at that particular moment. "Does anybody even want him here? I mean…"

"Nope," chimed in Stanley, Teri, Oscar et. al. and, surprisingly, Angela.

Jim and Pam exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"This is not a witch hunt," Dwight insisted.

"Juuust sayin'," Darryl mumbled in a singsong voice. "If this was Survivor, he'd be…" He made a fwoosh sound and twirled his pen through the air like an imaginary rocket. "Off the island."

"I dunno, he's relatively entertaining when you're high," said Creed.

Meredith snorted and rolled her eyes. "You're always high."

"What's your point, Mary Beth?"

Stanley spoke up. "What is the point of having rules in the first place if they are not going to be enforced?"

Kevin raised his hand, taking the opportunity to discreetly sniff his armpit. "Yeah, what is the punishment for breaking them, anyway?"

Dwight bowed his head thoughtfully for a moment. "Let's vote on it. We have a few other decisions to make, as well." He handed out sheets of paper hand-numbered one through four. "Simply add a numeral five at the bottom of your ballot. The floor is now open for reasoned discussion."

The air suddenly filled with words and angry talking. Not everyone's, less than the majority, but enough. Mitchell panned the camera across the room, practically salivating at the drama unfolding before his eyes. "He is not a reasonable person." "Like Darryl said. Off the island." "He could have killed someone with his negligence, does that mean nothing?" "Swear to God, I'm going to punch him in the fucking mouth if he doesn't learn to shut it." "My wife's brother died and he made fun of her for crying." "He almost got me trampled. By Kevin."

"I said reasoned discussion!" Dwight objected loudly. It had little effect against the growing dissent.

Jim figured he should probably say something. He would have, if they were in the office and this was a staff meeting. But they weren't, it wasn't, and he couldn't in all good conscience defend Michael's behavior at this point. Nor could he honestly say they wouldn't be better off as a group without his divisive, offensive, and frankly dangerous presence. Hell, even Angela was going against Dwight on this, which–

Pam sprang off the couch without warning. "God, listen to yourselves!" she shrieked, shocking everyone, Jim included. She looked fairly shocked herself. The room quieted instantly. Red-faced, she kept going in a lower voice. "You're talking about killing a person. Or… letting him die, I guess, but what's the difference?"

"Wham, bam, thank you Pam!" Michael cried thankfully and inappropriately.

She spun on her heel. "Shut up! You're not the boss down here, Michael, and saying crap like that is not funny!" she insisted shrilly. "It never has been! Your sense of humor sucks! The only people who like your jokes are jerks like Todd Packer!" They were the words she'd longed for years to say, although she'd never had the courage until now. She didn't stop to think why. If she had, she might have realized that if she didn't shame Michael into reforming–or at least shutting the hell up–he might die.

Closing her eyes, Pam took a long, steadying breath, then turned to face the room once more. "We all know he's an absolute… ass, okay? I'm not defending that. And he shouldn't get away with… but, ok, we've all seen what those… things can–"

"Demogorgons," Dwight added pedantically, because he couldn't help himself. It hadn't caught on yet, not that he'd stopped trying to force it.

Pam stomped her foot. "Whatever! Who cares what we call them? That's not the point. The point is…" She took another deep breath, marshaling her wits. "We've all seen the news and the footage of what happened here yesterday. We've been here for one whole day and it's already like… it's…" She shook her head, speechless for a moment. "This is insane, guys! I feel like I'm in some bizarre Lord of the Flies reenactment."

All at once, the fire of her bravery dimmed to an ember. Her hands clung to one another. She shuffled her feet nervously. She looked at the floor in lieu of at the adults she was basically chastising like children. "It's not right," she said quietly, collapsing back onto the couch and burying the hot redness of her cheeks into the haven of Jim's shoulder.

Bemused, but prouder of her than he could ever express without coming off as utterly condescending, Jim squeezed her waist and cleared his throat in the ensuing silence. "It's not," he said supportively. "What about a time-out from talking as punishment for saying something offensive? How about, I dunno… an hour?”

"A very reasonable suggestion," Dwight said quickly. "Shall we vote on it? On to number two…"

In the end, Jim's suggested punishment received nearly unanimous agreement, with no abstentions and only one nay. Furthermore, it was decided that smoking would continue to be allowed in the kitchen, although the margin between yeas and nays was narrower than it had been the day before. The bathrooms would be converted from gender-neutral to men's and women's, although the number of abstentions suggested that it was mostly the women who cared. A bedroom would not be kept open at all times for talking heads–at that, Brian snickered rudely in Mitchell's general direction. Lastly, a new leader would not be elected to replace Dwight.

That evening proceeded far more smoothly than the previous one, especially after Michael earned himself a second consecutive time-out. He accused everyone of being "fun Nazis" when nobody agreed with him that calling Austin Powers "more fagadelic than shagadelic" wasn't offensive. He openly dared Brian to "try it" before stalking into an empty bedroom and slamming the door. Even Dwight looked relieved to see him go.

"You are not helping, Buttercup," Oscar said affectionately as Brian abandoned their game of Twister.

"Help this," Brian muttered, tugging him into the unoccupied bedroom next to Michael's with a determined gleam in his eye. Giggling mischievously, Gil made a quick trip to the Laundry Room for fresh sheets before joining them.

"Nice save, Beesly," Jim said fondly as he tucked the blanket behind her back in the Venetian Room. "You were great in there."

"You too." Pam sighed nudely, wrapping an arm around him and snuggling closer than the narrowness of the bed actually required. She'd proposed sleeping without clothes, to preserve their condition for as long as possible. Just in case. "Thanks for the backup. I didn't want to defend him, but–"

"Me neither," Jim agreed, equally as nudely, pulling her even closer. He'd agreed to sleep without clothes in half a heartbeat, because hello. "But I know why you did. Someone had to. I'm glad." Because if nobody had, someday it could be him or Pam on the wrong side of the angry mob.

Probably not, because they weren't generally prone to being stupid or inconsiderate, but you never knew. They'd done their share of stupid things that day, starting when Meredith and Creed refused to stop smoking pot while they were cooking breakfast. He or Pam probably should have said something to Dwight, but they tried to ignore it instead and unintentionally got a little high in the process.

They ended up making way too much food and spent the next couple hours making out on a couch in the Recreation Room. At one point, they turned in opposite directions with their legs hanging off the sides, just to see what it would be like to kiss upside-down. Pam called him Spiderman and wistfully sighed my hero, looking and sounding like she actually meant it, which was extremely flattering and sexy. In return, Jim called her Mary Jane and asked if this was the first time she'd ever done herself. That led to a number of increasingly loud jokes about peters and swinging–through the air on spiderwebs, except not really–which induced a prolonged bout of giggling kisses interspersed with inverted fondling.

While their actions didn't result in the removal of any clothing, they nonetheless definitely crossed the bounds of propriety. Fortunately, Mitchell was asleep at the time, so none of it had been caught on tape.

Even so, their own offenses paled in comparison to several other pot-fueled escapades that were far more rambunctious. Jim thought back to Meredith's impromptu table dance during lunch and the foot-slicing that followed… Kevin and Darryl's near-constant pillaging of the canned goods while talking loudly about how amazing everything tasted… Oscar et. al.'s ongoing grabass shenanigans punctuated by deliberately outrageous displays of flamboyancy… Andy's little toga malfunction–nothing little about it, which Jim really wished he didn't know… and Michael's increasingly offensive remarks and blatantly attention-seeking antics.

Jim still couldn't believe Michael actually had the balls to throw open the bathroom door and shout "FIRE!" as steam poured out into the hallway. Dwight had calmed everyone down relatively quickly by yelling that the smoke alarms would be going off in the event of an actual fire, but Angela had gotten knocked over in the initial stampede down the narrow hall. Fortunately, Mose swept her up and out of the way of Kevin's lumbering feet and nobody opened the bunker door, but Brian had been right there. It very easily could have been a disaster of life-threatening proportions.

"I had fun this morning," Pam confessed, twirling her fingers through Jim's chest hair in the darkness. Although the news cycle wasn't any more promising or less speculation-filled than it had been the day before, she'd been able to talk to her parents and Penny, too. She and Jim had cried each other to sleep last night, but now she felt relatively ok in comparison.

She supposed getting a little high on accident probably had a lot to do with that. She'd only tried pot a couple of times in her life. Unlike today, neither of those experiences had been particularly good. The experience today had been more than twelve hours ago, but she was still suffused with lingering feelings of contented relaxation. And with the lights off and the thickness of the door, there was nothing to remind her that they were in a bomb shelter with their co-workers except the size of the bed.

"Mm-hmm. This is pretty fun, too," Jim breathed, slowly tracing Pam's collarbone with gentle fingertips. He couldn't see the bare skin he was touching, but he was familiar enough with her body by now that he didn't need to. And he was beyond thankful that this seemed like it would end up where he'd been hoping it would end up, because it had been a week since they'd last done this. Now that he knew she loved him, he really couldn't wait.

Even so, he eased his way into it, as usual. He could take his time. She liked it that way. Also, in spite of the fact that they needed to vacate the bedroom in a little under nine hours, they didn't have any early morning chores or any of the regular weekday-type responsibilities they would have had on a typical Monday. Who cared if they lost a little sleep, or even a lot?

Pam sighed happily. "Would you want to try it again sometime?"

Jim smiled to himself in the darkness. He'd already discreetly taken Creed's next available chore shift in exchange for a joint. Fortunately, due to demand, that wouldn't be until Thursday. Even more fortunately, Creed had thrown in an extra, because everyone's first was a freebie. Jim hadn't corrected the old man's assumption that he'd never smoked pot before. It had been a long time–not since college–but he'd rather enjoyed it, back in the day. "Definitely,” he murmured, finding the perfect spot below her ear unerringly in the darkness and giving it a tender nuzzle. “Maybe on purpose?"

Her affirmative hum was delightful. "Maybe before bed," she suggested breathlessly, playfully dancing her fingers downward.

"Even better," he managed just before she left him wordless. Not that they had to be quiet–the walls and door were thick–but they'd never been particularly inclined toward loudness in the first place. He coaxed her mouth open with his and swallowed her aroused sigh, wondering if sex with Pam would be better or worse now. Because sure, they'd admitted to being in love with each other, but they were also far too close to their co-workers on a twin bed in a fallout shelter and had no choice but to use the condoms in the nightstand, because her birth control pills were back at her apartment.

Jim was amazed to find that, in spite of all the many theoretical ways it could have been worse, the sex was way better now. Mostly because Pam loved him and said so, which meant he could say it too. But also because she jokingly called him Buttercup afterward while squeezing his ass. And even though he teased her right back, calling her Farm Boy in a high-pitched voice as he goosed her breast, he secretly loved every second of it.

"No," Brian said flatly, stirring a massive pot of baked beans. There weren't really any such things as canned breakfast foods, but the label said they were infused with maple-cured bacon. He figured it was as close as they were going to get, and it wasn't any worse of a choice than spam or canned chili or beef stew. And he'd had enough meat in the past few days as it was.

He smiled mischievously to himself, still glad to be alive and ridiculously grateful for the opportunity to prove it, in any and every way possible. He'd never so much as flirted with another guy in his life, never even considered the option, but he was discovering the reality to be unexpectedly enjoyable and eminently liberating.

"Come onnn," Meredith wheedled whiningly, looking pallid and awful with the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lumpy ponytail her hair was thrown into. She'd tried to switch her breakfast-making shift with anyone, to no avail. Being the only chore that had to be done with a partner and at such an incredibly early time, it had quickly become the least popular by a wide margin. The only people who didn't seem to completely hate it were Pam and Angela, but even they had refused. Cleaning the bathrooms was technically worse from an odor and getting-your-hands-dirty perspective, but you could always get high first and take long enough scrubbing that nobody would ever know.

Hell, the extended scrubbing could even be fairly fun, if you were high enough.

"Piss off," Brian replied nonchalantly. He'd do Pam, Teri, or Angela in half a heartbeat, but not Meredith. Never Meredith. She looked like she had so many diseases that two condoms wouldn't be enough.

"I don't wanna participate," she tried to reassure him. "I just wanna watch… and maybe get myself off at the same time," she added in an undertone.

He tilted his head, considering it. Beyond the fact that he was getting his own dick sucked and had dabbled in handling the dicks of others, things hadn't gone quite as far behind closed doors as the group at large might think. Mostly because it was so fun to provoke Michael's incensed reactions, but also because he was fucking addicted to spooning. And whether they had dicks or vaginas, two people spooning and kissing him simultaneously was pretty much the most amazing feeling in the world, even on a twin bed. He couldn't ever see taking it up the ass, but Oscar never took it up the ass himself. That was Gil's thing. And Oscar was, in his own words, gayer than Liberace's ghost.

Fortunately, the two of them were perfectly willing to let Brian call the shots, since he was the new guy on the block and new to dicks, not counting his own. Also, they apparently found him adorable and weren't the least bit shy or coy about expressing such opinions. It was a breath of fresh fucking air after the last girl he'd dated and the several-month-long dry spell he'd survived, prior to surviving an attack by a massive insectly being.

At length, Brian said thoughtfully, "Talk to Oscar."

"So you do answer to him?" Meredith asked eagerly.

He zipped his lips with a smug, relatively assholeish grin and let her think what she wanted to think. It was almost as much fun to fuck with her as with Michael.

Not like that, though. Never Meredith and never, ever, EVER Michael Scott. He'd rather be skull-fucked into a puddle of intestinal slop by an eight-foot-tall ant-monster.

"I'll give all three of you a joint," she said with desperation. 

He reached into the breast pocket of his polo shirt and pulled out a handful to demonstrate the worthlessness of that offer. "What else you got?" Creed, fortunately, was equally receptive to hand-jobs as chore-trading. And with the mandatory daily showering, he didn't smell nearly as bad as he had in the office.

Meredith grabbed a stack of bowls from the cabinet and thought about it. "What if I go get the shit to make more wine?"

"You never know. Talk to Oscar," he reiterated. He didn't want to speak for Oscar and Gil, but he supposed they might consider it if alcohol was the reward. Although it was Meredith, who they disliked nearly as much as he did. Even if she didn't want in on the action, there was no guarantee they'd be down.

On the other hand, if it'd been Jim doing the asking, Brian knew in a heartbeat what the answer would be. Oscar had confessed wanting to "climb him like a tree" while high the night before.

Brian, equally as high, had shaken his head and explained knowingly that that ship had sailed literally years ago. Jim was Pam's anchor, or she was his ball and chain, they were hook line and sinker for each other… whatever, he didn't know shit about sailing. Also, he sucked at metaphors when he was stoned. They'd all chuckled together when Brian said Jim already bought Pam an engagement ring and showed it on-camera.

And sure, Brian would absolutely lose his job if word got out that he'd leaked the secret, but he found it hard to give a fuck about much of anything these days that didn't involve the relatively immediate promise of physical or emotional gratification.

"That's… kinda creepy," Oscar mused.

"I think it's sweet," Gil contradicted him without malice. Then they went to work.

"Fuuuck," Brian moaned in an incoherent non-sequitur, not giving his opinion at all. It was impossible to care about anything but the four hands and two mouths and one foot rubbing various parts of his naked body simultaneously. High as a kite, he reached down and stroked both of their dicks simultaneously, wanting to return the favor, which also worked in his favor because they worked him even better in return.

"You want to?" Gil murmured against Brian's nipple.

"Huh?"

"Fuck me," he offered casually, like he did this every day.

Brian arched off the bed with a whispered Oh God, shaking his head a little. Even though he thought he might be eventually, he wasn't feeling quite ready for that yet. Still, it was an incredibly pleasurable thought.

Oscar chuckled permissively. "That's not his name. Close, though."

"You can call me anything you want, gorgeous," Gil whispered. "Whenever you're ready."

Taking Brian's words to heart, Meredith practically glued herself to the Observation Room after breakfast. Others wandered in and out periodically to watch the news or use the phone, as usual, but she stayed for hours. She only took the occasional break to maintain her high and grab a pack of beet jerky from the pantry. There was an assload of it and, to her knowledge, nobody but Dwight and his freaky brother were eating the stuff.

Or was it his cousin? She shrugged. She didn't care. Surprisingly, the beet jerky was actually tastier than the mass-produced beef jerky, but hey. More for her.

Meredith checked the cameras regularly while she watched the news. She didn't see hide or hair of the demi-gorgon, or whatever Dwight called the damn thing. She knew her Greek mythology, so she was aware that Medusa was a gorgon. The bug-dudes didn’t have snaky hair, though, so she was probably getting that wrong.

Anyway, according to CNN, the president had declared states of emergency in much of the Northeast. Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, Connecticut, West Virginia, Maryland, New Jersey, and Delaware were on full lockdown. Naturally, the US military and the best minds around the world were on the job.

Whatever made the things tick was still an unsolved mystery, and nobody could agree on what to call them. There had been increasingly-desperate efforts to kill one, or even just to capture one for more in-depth testing, but so far they had evaded or escaped all such efforts. It seemed as though enormous bear traps and steel cages and advanced first-world weaponry were no more a nuisance to them than spiderwebs and spider fangs were to humans.

That said, more and more of the video evidence cropping up was leading scientific experts to postulate that the monsters were principally attracted by sound, with a particular preference for high frequencies. People who froze and made no noise were ignored in favor of more-distant victims who were yelling or screaming. Children were targeted first, followed by women, followed by men.

That'd explain why Kelly was the first to go, Meredith reflected soberly. She sighed and fidgeted uncomfortably, thinking ever harder the longer she sat. It had been a few days since she'd had a drink and she was starting to feel pretty fucking terrible. Regardless of what she told her co-workers and the cameras about her drinking, she hadn't gone so long without alcohol in years. DTs, the shakes–whatever you called them, she had them. Although the weed was helping, it wasn't enough. She'd scoured the bunker for hand sanitizer, but there wasn't any. And unfortunately, the mouthwash was non-alcoholic.

She considered asking Creed to distract Dwight while she stole sips from several bottles of wine, but there was no chance she wouldn't eventually get caught. And if the consequences for stealing alcohol were being expelled, didn't it make more sense to go outside voluntarily and get to stay? Even if Oscar and pals–as she'd mentally begun to refer to them–didn't let her watch… hell, she'd still be a hero.

"Ta-da!" Meredith said, dumping the heavy sheet full of beets onto the Recreation Room floor with an enthusiastic flourish. She dug the pile of yeast packets out of her bra and pockets and threw them on top. Her reward was general applause and effusive compliments and, as Dwight promised, five existing bottles of wine.

He launched into a little speech which nobody, not even Stanley, seemed to mind. Although Dwight didn't waver from the steadfast claim that leaving the bunker for the equivalent of a booze run was quite possibly the most foolhardy thing imaginable, because it was only for alcohol and not something necessary to survival, Meredith's bravery was commendable. That she'd made the trip and returned safely, no matter the reason, was an important and valuable data point in terms of getting a grasp on the local situation. The nationwide news cycle was far more concerned with places like New York City and Chicago, you know, and not at all concerned with Wayne County in general or small rural bastions like Honesdale in particular.

Blah blah blah Meredith thought, popping one of the corks with an elated grin. Before long, she felt better than she had in days, both physically and emotionally. She was the center of attention for something positive, for once, and it was far from unwelcome. She wasn't used to it at all. But by the radiant grins on pretty much everyone's faces and the hugs from several–Pam and Jim and Teri and Gil–well, shit, you'd think she lassoed the fucking moon or something. Even the people who weren't big drinkers were excited by the prospect of having something new and interesting to learn and do. And that didn't even take into account the unspoken–yet pervasive–hope that it might be safe to go outside sometime soon. If she hadn't run into the monster-thing, maybe it had moved on to greener pastures.

In a thoroughly surprising gesture, Dwight also gave a bottle of wine to each and every adult present. He explained that it was certainly a special occasion, they'd be able to replace it soon, and they would need a number of empties to start with.

Meredith received even more adulation as a result. She lapped up the praise and basked in the atmosphere of camaraderie. She was supposed to wash dishes after dinner, but Andy volunteered to take her place, which was pretty killer of him. She even got a high-five and a friendly backslap from Darryl, which was a first. He was extremely high, but she still counted it.

Mitchell made his way over to the Recreation Room where she was sprawling on the flowered loveseat. "Hey, so," he began with a smile. "Thanks for the wine."

She lowered one eyelid in a drunken, drooping wink. "Anytime, brother."

"You didn't run into that thing out there?" He knew she hadn't. Like everyone else, he'd watched the security camera feeds obsessively as she crept stealthily to the barn and the house and back. But asking questions he already knew the answers to was a hard habit to break.

"Nnnope," she slurred, sliding her arm around him companionably and tilting her open wine bottle in his direction with a tantalizing little wiggle. Even though Mitchell was a chubster and balding and a mediocre lay at best, her standards had never been high. He was younger than Creed, at least. Smelled better, too. "Didn't even fuckin' see it."

He tamped down the urge to sidle away and accepted the proffered bottle, taking a shamelessly massive slug of its contents. Meredith was one of the few people who'd consented to do talking heads after the attack, and the only single woman present. Pussy was pussy, he told himself, although it would be much easier to tolerate her touch if he were drunk.

Fortunately, she kept passing the bottle his way. As Mitchell's sobriety faded, it was replaced by liquid courage in more ways than one. He mulled, he contemplated, he grunted in response to Meredith's blathering, he did the cost-benefit analysis in his head. He wouldn't have nearly as much ground to cover as she just had, nor would he be outside for nearly as long. Eventually, he decided the potential rewards were high enough to be worth the risk and asked Dwight to open the door again. As before, everyone gathered in the Observation Room to watch the journey.

On his way to the shattered remains of Nate's busted handheld, the cell phone in Mitchell's pocket connected with a tower and chimed brightly with notifications from the dozens of voicemails and texts he'd received over the past few days. Everyone else's phones had died or been powered off by now, but he carried a charger in his camera bag at all times and habitually left his phone on 24/7. He hadn't mentioned the charger to anybody, nor had he offered to share, because it wasn't his problem.

He looked around warily. He didn't see or hear any sign of the thing, so he figured he was fine. He hadn't seen the news reports that Meredith had watched that day regarding the creatures' hypothesized attraction to noise, particularly high frequency sounds. He'd been far more concerned with creating his own news to pay much attention to the television, in all honesty.

As he leaned to pick through the shards of the camera, Mitchell's phone began to ring obnoxiously with an incoming call. Rolling his eyes, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, declining the call on his way back to the bunker door. He didn't dilly-dally unnecessarily, but neither did he display any particular sense of advanced urgency.

As he walked, he turned the memory card over in his hands, examining it carefully. It was blood-free and appeared dry and intact, which was incredibly fortunate. He had no way of knowing whether it might have been rained on at some point, but that didn't stop him from beginning to plan how best to spend the impending fortune that was his due.

The gory evisceration that followed might have shocked him, if only because it actually involved him. But he never saw it coming, and he wasn't alive for long enough to feel anything but a fleeting moment of indescribable agony before vanishing into a pool of former skin and fat and viscera. His wallet, his phone, and the memory card were all that remained, soaked in blood, utterly ruined to a one.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Pam bleated helplessly from the Observation Room, burying her face in Jim's shoulder. It was too late to unsee, of course.

"Fuck!" he agreed wholeheartedly after a shocked inhalation, amid similar responses from the majority of people watching. And as quickly as the mood had been lifted by Meredith's heroic actions, it shifted again to melancholy, the shared fantasy of possible safety dashed in an instant.

Meredith fainted dead away, although that could have been as much from combining too much pot with too much alcohol as the shock. Fortunately, she was sitting on the floor, so all that happened was a quick, unceremonious slump sideways. Dwight busied himself tending to her, ensuring that her heart hadn't stopped and her airway was clear. Fortunately, and entirely unlike the time Pam had fallen off a barstool in Chili's, he kept his shirt on.

"Welp," said Creed fatalistically. Wine bottle in hand, he wandered toward the kitchen in search of a corkscrew.

Jim guided Pam's sobbing form past Oscar et. al. Not unlike Creed, they appeared unsurprised and relatively untroubled by the turn of events. He eyed the Recreation Room. Seeing Melissa and Jada playing Trouble and laughing in a carefree, childish way, he led Pam into the American Room. All the bedrooms were unoccupied at the moment, because it was one of the daily six-hour windows when nobody was assigned to sleep. The people who were taking unscheduled naps had been invited to watch Meredith's impromptu trek for winemaking materials. Nobody wanted to miss it, of course, so it was the first time since their second meeting that literally everyone was awake at the same time. Even Michael came, in spite of his recent and thoroughly uncharacteristic surliness. He'd been blessedly quiet in general since Pam's amazingly intuitive speech in the Recreation Room.

Beside the doorway of the Observation Room, Brian nibbled Oscar's earlobe before scraping his teeth along Gil's jaw. "Shall we, gentlemen?" he murmured expectantly, but not loudly. Frankly, he was overjoyed, but he wasn't insensitive enough to think that his honest reaction would go over well with the crowd.

"You are one crass motherfucker," Gil whispered appreciatively, tugging him by the hand into the Nighttime Room. Oscar followed them inside after a brief detour for clean sheets.

"He was motherfucking vermin," came Brian's derisive, decisive reply once the door was firmly closed behind them. Even if nobody else would be amenable to hearing such things, he could be honest with Oscar and Gil. He trusted them in a way he'd never trusted anyone else in his life, and not only because of the spooning and kissing and sexualized touching.

"You have a point," Oscar conceded, because Brian had told them behind closed doors about the many ways in which Mitchell was not only an intolerable co-worker, but an all-around terrible human being. "But how are we going to convince Michael to go out there now?"

Snickering together as one, they made the bed, slipped out of their clothes, and got comfortable.

"One of you has gotta fuck me," Gil moaned at length.

Oscar chuckled and eyed Brian appraisingly. "What do you say? You can do it, or you can watch. Or you can leave, if you'd rather."

After the frisson in his spine faded, Brian stood up to give them more room to work with, but he didn't go anywhere. He'd never seen actual gay sex before, not even in porn, except a couple of times on accident before quickly navigating away.

"Or you can participate," Gil suggested, rising onto his hands and knees, patting the top of the bed and licking his lips salaciously. The intent, the invitation, was clear.

Entranced and wide-eyed, Brian willingly gave himself over to temptation. He'd had Gil's mouth on his dick more than once already, so that part would hardly be new. It wasn't so big a step as it otherwise might have been.

He knelt where indicated, threaded his fingers through Gil's short hair, and watched the action while simultaneously participating. He made occasional eye contact with Oscar, but he was far more interested in the hitherto unseen events happening further south. Sensation streaked up and down him like lightning, in time with both Oscar's thrusts and Gil's gratified moans.

If Brian hadn't previously proven his stamina, he might have been thoroughly embarrassed by the speed and ferocity and incredibly vocal appreciation with which he finished. As it was, he lacked the presence of mind for mortification. Afterward, he resisted the urge to slump forward and lose consciousness. Instead, he arched backward and rested his elbows on the headboard. He sucked in lungfuls of air while he recovered, panting God's name over and over, interspersed with various epithets.

When he could open his eyes again, Brian found both men staring at him, biting their lips in tandem. "Damn," the pair murmured as one. They'd stopped moving, although neither one of them was anywhere close yet.

He blushed becomingly.

"Oh babe… you're so fuckin' pretty," Gil groaned, wrapping his arms around Brian's damp, hairy abdomen.

"Dios mío, papacito," Oscar added emphatically.

Brian went even redder. "Gracias," he murmured with a touch of irreverence. "Y ustedes."

"Mmf," Gil grunted. "Cógeme, Jesucristo."

"Sí, amante," Oscar chuckled, getting back to it.

In the American Room, Pam wept inconsolably. Not that Jim didn't try to console her regardless, doing his best with his arms and lips in spite of the fact that he was terribly upset himself. Watching Mitchell's slaughtering would have been bad enough on its own, because even though his outdoor jaunt had been for a selfish and fairly hubristic purpose, nobody deserved to die.

But the real bitch was the goddamn timing of it all. That it had happened so soon after they'd all been so happy and hopeful made it all the more fucking depressing.

"I didn't really think it would still be here," Pam moped through her tears. "I had no idea! Why didn't we ever see it on the camera? Was it hiding? Why didn't it keep moving? Or was it a different one this time?" She knew it was stupid to ask Jim these questions, because he didn't know the answers any more than she did, but she couldn't stop herself. "If I'd known, I would have tried to stop them from going." She wrung her hands together, standing on the narrow strip of concrete floor because there was no sheet on the bed and she didn't dare to sit on the bare mattress. She knew what she and Jim did in these beds, and could only begin to guess at the things the unambiguously gay trio got up to when things progressed past PG.

Jim thought it was a good sign that, even though Pam was too upset to control her emotions at the moment, she was asking pertinent questions and seemed to be thinking clearly. All things considered, she was handling the entire bunker fiasco with intelligence and a significantly above-average amount of grace and good spirits. They'd smoked pot together a couple of times, but she didn't go crazy with it like so many of the others. She didn't seem to depend on it. He knew she'd drink wine tonight and enjoy being drunk with him, as he would with her, but he couldn't ever see her needing it just to function every day.

He guessed he shouldn't find it completely surprising, given the way she'd successfully managed Michael's unique brand of chaos over the years. But he couldn't help it, he did. And as shocking as all that was in itself, it was even more impressive. He already loved her more than words could say, would have died for her days ago without hesitation, but he was starting to trust her in a way he'd never before trusted anyone in his life. Except maybe his parents, when he was too young to know any better. Before he learned the folly, foibles, and fallibility of adults.

So, knowing it would upset her, but trusting that she could handle the information, Jim related the contents of a brief news report he'd seen that afternoon. Although he and Pam generally tended to stick together like glue, she'd been moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer at the time and hadn't seen it. The reporter had speculated safely from California that the arthropodian predators might conceivably be territorial and hang around locations where they'd previously attacked. They had outsmarted humans so far at every turn, so it stood to reason that they were intelligent enough to do such things.

Pam's eyes fell despairingly closed. "What are we going to do if we're still stuck here six months from now?"

Survive, Jim thought lamely but didn't say, and not just because Dwight had said it already. He knew that wasn't really what she was asking. Of course they would survive, as long as the gas generator didn't crap out or run out of gas. There was no reason to think either of those things would happen, because everything in the bunker had worked exactly the way it was supposed to.

But surviving wasn't living. It felt like they were simply marking time here, stuck in a holding pattern, waiting for their future to begin. It was made all the worse by having to tolerate a group of people who, for the most part, weren't easy to get along with. He had plans, she had plans. He wanted to propose, get married, have kids, buy a house and make it a home. Their home. She wanted to continue her art classes, become an artist, and maybe hopefully also get married and have his kids and live in a house with him someday.

He hoped, anyway. It wasn't that Jim didn't want to know whether Pam might share the same hopes and dreams he had, but it was far too soon to have discussed any of that shit yet. "I don't know," he said at length. "But at least we'll be doing it together."

"That's… what she said." She covered her mouth with both hands, but couldn't prevent the escape of a gasping half-laugh, half-sob. "I'm so sorry." She shook her head ruefully, not looking or sounding sorry in the least, more like an adorable, paradoxical mix of happy and sad.

"No, you're not." Jim wouldn't want her to be, and she knew it. He hugged her with a ferocity that astonished them both. "Never change, Beesly. Ever," he implored her in a quiet, intense tone.

She pressed her lips into his neck. "You either. Unless maybe you want to keep growing this out." She gave the short, bristling hairs on his jaw an affectionate ruffle.

"Oh?" he inquired innocently, because this was new information.

She nodded. "That would be… um."

"Uh huh…" he prodded her, deliberately rubbing his stubble against her temple in a teasing way.

"It would, just, that would be an ok change, I mean."

He grinned at the fluster in her tone. "I'll think about it," he lied, because he'd already decided to grow a beard. More because the single-bladed disposable razors available in the Shower Room would probably mutilate his face than because he had any clue Pam was into facial hair. What a lucky coincidence, he mused delightedly. "So what do you say we crack open these bottles and learn how to refill them?" Because even though Jim wasn't into the taste of beets specifically or wine in general, he was very into getting tipsy with the woman he loved and learning how to do something new.

"Duh," she drawled, grabbing their bottles of wine off the shelf. They rejoined everyone in the kitchen for Dwight's live winemaking tutorial, with Mose assisting. It was already in progress, but they hadn't missed much. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, since Angela was writing down the steps for future reference.

Before long, Oscar and Gil and Brian came out of another bedroom to observe. They stood in the back of the room, hands clasped in the complicated way they so often did. Brian kissed Gil while Oscar kissed Brian, and Pam had to smile to herself. Because, even though thinking about the amount of fluids they'd probably just emitted was kind of gross, they looked flushed and happy and…

Well, she couldn't say for sure, but in love? Maybe possibly? She really hoped so. Having so recently admitted to being in love herself, Pam only wished everyone could be so happy. And given the shortage of single women in the bunker and Meredith's lack of… well, suitability, the rather unexpected tripling was probably Brian's best chance at finding it.

Although she had trouble wrapping her head around the concept of loving and/or making love to two people at once, because Jim on his own was enough for her. More than enough, honestly. With as well as he used his hands, she would swear he had more than two sometimes, and wow she should really be paying more attention to Dwight right now.

Next, he explained while simultaneously demonstrating, you washed the peeled beets with a stiff scrubby brush. Then you chopped the beets, boiled the beets, strained the beet water–they used a clean pillowcase, staining it pink–and allowed it to cool.

"Beet beet beet," Darryl said at one point. "It don't even sound like a word anymore." He was higher than an airplane at cruising altitude, of course, but everyone present was thinking the exact same thing.

"We got the beat," Creed added, apropos of nothing.

"That is the psychological phenomenon known as semantic satiation," Dwight affirmed pedantically as Mose began cutting a second pillowcase into strips. "It will take a couple of hours for the water to cool. At that point, the yeast and sugar are added. The resulting mixture is poured into a bottle using a funnel, covered loosely with a strip of cloth, and allowed to age for a minimum of two weeks. Then it is corked and may be consumed at any time. This process creates a sparkling wine, meaning it possesses a natural carbonation. That effect fades the longer it is allowed to age, although the alcohol content will intensify at the same time. I've found the ideal combination to be approximately six weeks out. However, that is a purely individualistic determination." He filled a fresh pot of water to boil and invited anyone who was sober and interested to help make a second batch.

Pam sprang right up, glad that she hadn't opened her wine before the presentation as she'd intended. If she'd been drinking, Dwight definitely wouldn't have allowed her to handle the sharp knives or go near the hot stove.

It wasn't long before a measure of the jovial atmosphere from earlier returned. Nobody had forgotten what happened to Mitchell, but nobody aside from Brian had done much interacting with him outside the office. And not that Brian said anything negative about the dead man, but he was slicing beets between Oscar and Gil with smiling gusto and obviously the opposite of terribly broken up about what happened.

Moreover, it could be argued that Mitchell had sort of brought it on himself, between trying insensitively to capitalize on the tragedy that had befallen them and lacking the forethought to leave his phone behind, or at least to silence it.

Most of all, there was an undercurrent of relief that none of their actions risked being caught on film anymore and sold to the highest bidder.

After they had made enough wine to fill the empty bottles that were currently available, Mose gathered up the huge pile of remaining beets and stored them in the pantry. Nobody was quite sure how long they would last, but Dwight lifted the moratorium on saving the wine for special occasions. He did still caution them that the beet and yeast supplies on hand, while ample, were hardly infinite. The faster they drank it, the sooner they would run out. At that point, either somebody would have to retrieve more materials, or they would simply have to live without alcohol.

Fair enough, Jim thought as he and Pam clinked their bottles together in a moderately-cheery toast on the plaid couch. They swigged directly from them, because neither of them had any chores left that day to stay sober for, and what was the point in dirtying cups unnecessarily?

Later, pink-cheeked and smiling, she beckoned him closer while the Oompa Loompas on TV rolled an enormous Violet Beauregarde down a hallway. "I have a secret," she whispered in his ear, talking quietly due to the number of other people also watching the movie.

Jim grinned at her and kept his voice low. "You have a secret? Where are you keeping it?" He made a show of lifting her arms, as though he might find it hiding under one of her armpits.

Snickering quietly, she tugged her hands away and put one over her heart. "Right here."

He stared at that spot, enjoying it because… well, come on, how could he not? "I don't see it," he said playfully when she didn't go on. "Are you going to tell me what it is, or not?"

She bobbed her head in an amiable way. "I love your beard when I'm drunk."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "You only love it when you're drunk? Because I gotta say that's… fairly weird."

"Noo!" she giggled protestingly, but not loudly. "But I can only say that because I'm drunk."

He nodded sagely. "Well. Because I'm drunk, I will admit that I'm growing it out just for you, Beesly. And we'll never speak of it again."

"'Kay," she replied agreeably, turning to face the TV again and snuggling into his side.

He brushed his mouth deliberately against her ear, delighting in her involuntary shivering response. "What do you love about it?" he pressed, in spite of the words he'd just said. He held his liquor much better than she did, but he had a very nice buzz going on and he was dying to know.

Her pinkness deepened into an even adorabler shade of red. "Well, um, you know." She shrugged cutely and avoided looking at him, going back to watching the movie as though that were the end of the conversation.

He refused to let her off the hook so easily. "I'm afraid I don't. You'll have to enlighten me."

"It's not just me, ok," she whispered far too quickly. "It must just be an extension of the same evolutionary um, principle that makes guys like long hair on girls." She was gathering steam now. "If we did a poll, I bet everyone would say you look better with one than without one."

"Hmm," he murmured, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "So I'm cuter now than I used to be?"

"That's, hang on, it's not even the… that's so not the right question, I mean… you're just hairier, ok?" The last four words came out in a triumphant shout, setting Jim to laughing at the top of his lungs.

A number of shhs from every direction served as a reminder that they were in a room full of people watching a movie. Even if it was an old one that everyone, even the kids, had seen multiple times before. "Sorry," they stage-whispered simultaneously. "Jinx!" they shouted simultaneously and fairly obnoxiously. Their eyes widened in shock as one.

"Good lord," said Stanley, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"Get a room, you two," Kevin contributed.

"You guys play jinx?" asked Stanley's daughter, sounding genuinely perplexed and a little disdainful, as though even a twelve-year-old girl was far too old for such things.

Pam scrambled up, but not to get a room. Jim watched her curiously, remaining silent as she pulled a blank piece of paper and a pen out of the desk against the wall. He couldn't help wondering what to do now. They'd never tied at jinx before. Did it mean they both won, or both lost? She'd always won in the past, always, but her reflexes were a trifle hampered tonight by the alcohol. Either way, he wouldn't risk talking until she did.

He took the sheet of paper she handed him.

What do we do now? she'd written. We've never tied before. If we have a rule for that, I don't remember it.

Me neither he wrote back. New rules of jinx? Unless you want to be stuck not talking until we get out of the bunker… no coke down here.

Grinning, she wrote Not unless you want me to go delightfully mad. I release you. Do you release me?

Oh, I'll give you release alright was his smart-assed handwritten reply.

"You're the worst," she intoned lovingly in his ear with a fluttery little kiss.

He groaned quietly. "If you're not going to let me watch the movie, let's get a room," he proposed. She surprised him by getting up again and making a trip to the Laundry Room for sheets.

"That can't be real," Meredith groused jealously once the Mountain Room door closed behind them, silencing their quiet giggles.

"I give it a month at the most," Michael added. He didn't say much these days, especially when Oscar etc. were in the room. Unfortunately, that was most of the time because they were assigned to sleep during the same shift, but the queermos were fucking around in the Distillery Room at the moment.

"Yeah, 'til they're married," Andy demurred.