screen. A few of the others were strewn across the tiny fenced-in front yard, bent and broken, one folded completely in half and off to the right.
A set of footsteps, barely noticeable under the newly blown dust, led up the steps and toward the front door. I wonder who made those. Did he want to find out? He should go back and get Greg. That’s what he should do. But he was already there, and dragging Greg back for what could be an empty house did not seem like the most efficient use of time. Was the house empty? His thoughts came and went quickly, leaving him a bit frustrated. There was only one way to find out. And he had come this far. He would need to suck it up and see what the yellow house held within its walls. He owed it to the herd to check inside. He owed it to his children.
The first step he took was onto one of the previous footprints. His boot was much larger than whoever had come before him. That gave Mick a tiny bit of solace. At the very least he had the height advantage over some would-be attacker. Then again, it could just be a large man with small feet. It was not out of the question.
His buddy Jake was like that: very tall with disproportionately small feet. Jake stood close to six foot four, and he had size-ten feet. Mick would give him crap about that all the time. He could not for the life of him figure out how such a large man, both in height and ever-increasing circumference, could stay upright with such tiny feet.
Ah, Jake. He had not thought about him since the impacts. The thought brought a quick smile to his face. Mick missed his boisterous laughter and his spice for life. Jake also happened to be a drunk—a happy drunk, but a drunk nonetheless.
S eeing the bright-yellow house coupled with his thoughts of Jake reminded Mick of the time that Jake had dressed up as Santa for a Christmas party at a bright-yellow house like this one in the South Shore. Unfortunately for Jake, and really everyone else at the party, Jake had tied one on a bit too early in the unseasonably warm day. Somehow, in Jake’s drunken stupor, he’d forgotten that Santa tended to wear pants with his big red suit. When he showed up and Mick pointed it out to him, amid cackles of delight from the other partygoers, Jake’s response had been, “I thought this suit was a bit drafty.” Mick laughed, remembering the funny times. The world could sorely use some of the laughter that his large friend used to bring.
Mick ’s next few steps brought him up onto the small wooden deck that spanned the short length of the front of the house. The deck had not fared as well as the rest of the exterior. Bulging and warped wooden boards ran the deck’s length. Protruding nails forced their way free; a few had wiggled completely out and now rested beneath the blown dust like dried earthworms in a shallow grave. The two front windows to the right of the front door had their shades drawn. Mick wished they were not. If they were open, then at least he could sneak a quick look inside without offering his safety as collateral. Now he would be forced to enter blindly to satisfy his curiosity.
The footprints stopped at the closed front door. Against his better judgment, Mick shouldered his rifle and reached for the doorknob, pausing as he grabbed hold of its surprisingly chilly metal.
I could still head back to the shelter. It was not too late.
The voice inside his head begged him to listen. As much as he wanted what was in there, if there was anything to begin with, he hesitated to take the chance. Nobody from the shelter knew where he was. And even if Greg came to find him, it would be next to impossible. The city and its suburbs were vast. And, like all other footprints before his, the dust was sure to erase Mick’s path before nightfall. He would be no more findable than an Internet connection.
Mick turned to leave.
When he did, he was face-to-face with Solomon, a mere two inches separating them.
“ Whoa!” Mick said, stumbling
A set of footsteps, barely noticeable under the newly blown dust, led up the steps and toward the front door. I wonder who made those. Did he want to find out? He should go back and get Greg. That’s what he should do. But he was already there, and dragging Greg back for what could be an empty house did not seem like the most efficient use of time. Was the house empty? His thoughts came and went quickly, leaving him a bit frustrated. There was only one way to find out. And he had come this far. He would need to suck it up and see what the yellow house held within its walls. He owed it to the herd to check inside. He owed it to his children.
The first step he took was onto one of the previous footprints. His boot was much larger than whoever had come before him. That gave Mick a tiny bit of solace. At the very least he had the height advantage over some would-be attacker. Then again, it could just be a large man with small feet. It was not out of the question.
His buddy Jake was like that: very tall with disproportionately small feet. Jake stood close to six foot four, and he had size-ten feet. Mick would give him crap about that all the time. He could not for the life of him figure out how such a large man, both in height and ever-increasing circumference, could stay upright with such tiny feet.
Ah, Jake. He had not thought about him since the impacts. The thought brought a quick smile to his face. Mick missed his boisterous laughter and his spice for life. Jake also happened to be a drunk—a happy drunk, but a drunk nonetheless.
S eeing the bright-yellow house coupled with his thoughts of Jake reminded Mick of the time that Jake had dressed up as Santa for a Christmas party at a bright-yellow house like this one in the South Shore. Unfortunately for Jake, and really everyone else at the party, Jake had tied one on a bit too early in the unseasonably warm day. Somehow, in Jake’s drunken stupor, he’d forgotten that Santa tended to wear pants with his big red suit. When he showed up and Mick pointed it out to him, amid cackles of delight from the other partygoers, Jake’s response had been, “I thought this suit was a bit drafty.” Mick laughed, remembering the funny times. The world could sorely use some of the laughter that his large friend used to bring.
Mick ’s next few steps brought him up onto the small wooden deck that spanned the short length of the front of the house. The deck had not fared as well as the rest of the exterior. Bulging and warped wooden boards ran the deck’s length. Protruding nails forced their way free; a few had wiggled completely out and now rested beneath the blown dust like dried earthworms in a shallow grave. The two front windows to the right of the front door had their shades drawn. Mick wished they were not. If they were open, then at least he could sneak a quick look inside without offering his safety as collateral. Now he would be forced to enter blindly to satisfy his curiosity.
The footprints stopped at the closed front door. Against his better judgment, Mick shouldered his rifle and reached for the doorknob, pausing as he grabbed hold of its surprisingly chilly metal.
I could still head back to the shelter. It was not too late.
The voice inside his head begged him to listen. As much as he wanted what was in there, if there was anything to begin with, he hesitated to take the chance. Nobody from the shelter knew where he was. And even if Greg came to find him, it would be next to impossible. The city and its suburbs were vast. And, like all other footprints before his, the dust was sure to erase Mick’s path before nightfall. He would be no more findable than an Internet connection.
Mick turned to leave.
When he did, he was face-to-face with Solomon, a mere two inches separating them.
“ Whoa!” Mick said, stumbling
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