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burning; it was sweet, but had a faint tinge of something unknown, unique. I thought maybe the electrical panel had fried, or at the very least, a circuit had blown. I decided to go back down and check the breaker panel.

As I maneuvered through the maze of camping gear, boxes and other forgotten treasures to get to the panel, I heard the creaking of floorboards above me. I was alone in the house, as far as I could recall. I glanced over at the workbench where there was a large cheap dollar store clock on the wall. 3:35 a.m. it told me with its antique hands and roman numerals. Nicole was not supposed to be here until 8:00 a.m.

"Nicole?" I called out. "Is that you!?"

No answer. I heard the floor boards above me creaking around to the outside door by the kitchen. I did not get scared easily, but considering the time of day and no lights, I became both unnerved and suspicious. The house settles from time to time and creaks like and old man, but this was not the sporadic ticks and pops that the house makes there was someone inside!

I dismissed checking the breakers, set the lamp down on the bench while I crept across the basement, straight for my hunting gear in the far corner of the basement. I found the rifle locker key hanging in the rafters where I hide it in the centre of the basement. I glided quietly to the locker. I found a pair of dirty overalls in a pile of laundry beside the washer. I quickly untied my boots and slipped into the musky clothing, then put the boots back on. I slowly slid the key into the lock of the locker and it clicked through each pin of the tumbler annoyingly loud.

My senses and mind now switched to hunter survival mode. Eager to live and ready to kill, I became calm, silent and cautious. I chose the Remington for its power and intimidating muzzle and the Glock I keep for, well, reasons such as this situation. I systematically went through each weapon, loading them and switching the safety off on each of them. I strapped the shoulder holster on and placed the Glock inside; the grip facing forward under my left arm. I then pumped the Remington, loading the shots into the chamber. The mechanical shifting and clicking of loading the riffle echoed through the basement and the creaking moved out of the kitchen toward the basement door.

I began to sweat, but not from the heat. I crept my way to the stairs with the riffle trained at the upper landing. In my head I was briefing myself on some of the rules of engagement. Identify the target;

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