thick green robe. The man pushed a small curtain aside from the
window in the door and looked at Carl with interest.
“Yes?” he asked loudly, without
opening the door.
Carl was wearing normal clean
clothes, but his face was bruised and unshaved so he knew he didn’t look like
the nicest of strangers to be appearing at someone’s door. He thought quickly.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to get
home to Edwards and my little girl don’t think she can
hold it that long. Could you be so kind to let her use your bathroom real
quick? Her momma died last week in a car crash we were in and I just hate
making her suffer more than she already is. She cried all night.”
The old man had concern in his eyes
as he listened to Carl’s plea. He unlocked the door and as soon as he started
to open it Carl kicked it with the bottom of his boot, putting all of his
lower-body strength in to it. The old man was flung inward with the door and
slammed into the wall. He crumpled to the ground, his body pushing the door
slowly back toward Carl who stuck his arm out to stop it, then let himself inside.
“Anybody home?” he yelled. Probably
no one else there except for maybe an old woman, but he wanted to make sure. No
one responded so Carl cautiously made his way further into the house. The place
sounded empty, he thought, but someone could be sleeping. He went down the hall
and looked in the bedrooms. The floor plan was the same as the house he’d just
left. The master bedroom had an empty unmade bed. The second room looked like
an office with a leather couch and lots of bookshelves filled with more books
than Carl had ever seen outside of a library. He shook his head at the
absurdity of one person having so many books. What was the point? He opened the
last door that he knew would lead to the garage.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin ’ about!” he said, as he a 1932 Ford Roadster
gleaming on the clean concrete floor like it had just rolled off the production
line. The deep red paint was so glossy it looked wet. The top was off and Carl
walked over and looked inside to see if the keys were in it. They weren’t.
He went back into the house. He was
excited about the car. If he could score a firearm or two, he’d leave here in
style, ready to take on the world. If only his head wasn’t still throbbing. He
found a keychain on a hook in the dining room but he did not find any guns
other than a civil war musket hanging on the wall above the fireplace.
He grabbed a banana from a fruit
bowl on the table and went to the garage. He tried to open the garage door from
inside, but it was locked. The key to the padlock was on the keychain. He
entered the garage from the driveway and got into the roadster. Now he just
needed this thing to start. He hoped to hell that it wasn’t just a museum
piece. He turned the key and the sound of the engine revving to life made him
smile. He backed out into the street then shifted into Drive.
He wanted to see what the V8 under
the hood could do, so he floored the gas, expecting to peel out, thinking of
how cool he’d look burning rubber in a fancy hot rod, but the wheels just spun
on the wet rocks, sending gravel flying up into the under-carriage and the
street behind him. Disappointed, he let up on the gas and drove slowly to the
end of the street, turning left onto the paved road which was coated with a
layer of slushy snow.
As he drove down the mountain, he
wondered if he should go back and look for the convertible top, but he decided
to stick with his forward momentum and just keep going. The wind was cold and
wet snow blew around him and stuck to the windshield, but he was too excited to
care. It even seemed like his head hurt less – at first.
Twenty
Angela hated the windows being boarded up so she wanted to
get out of the lodge and go sit in one of the cabins. Things were bad enough
with the possible nuclear war, her friends dying, being stuck on the mountain,
worrying about her family,
window in the door and looked at Carl with interest.
“Yes?” he asked loudly, without
opening the door.
Carl was wearing normal clean
clothes, but his face was bruised and unshaved so he knew he didn’t look like
the nicest of strangers to be appearing at someone’s door. He thought quickly.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to get
home to Edwards and my little girl don’t think she can
hold it that long. Could you be so kind to let her use your bathroom real
quick? Her momma died last week in a car crash we were in and I just hate
making her suffer more than she already is. She cried all night.”
The old man had concern in his eyes
as he listened to Carl’s plea. He unlocked the door and as soon as he started
to open it Carl kicked it with the bottom of his boot, putting all of his
lower-body strength in to it. The old man was flung inward with the door and
slammed into the wall. He crumpled to the ground, his body pushing the door
slowly back toward Carl who stuck his arm out to stop it, then let himself inside.
“Anybody home?” he yelled. Probably
no one else there except for maybe an old woman, but he wanted to make sure. No
one responded so Carl cautiously made his way further into the house. The place
sounded empty, he thought, but someone could be sleeping. He went down the hall
and looked in the bedrooms. The floor plan was the same as the house he’d just
left. The master bedroom had an empty unmade bed. The second room looked like
an office with a leather couch and lots of bookshelves filled with more books
than Carl had ever seen outside of a library. He shook his head at the
absurdity of one person having so many books. What was the point? He opened the
last door that he knew would lead to the garage.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin ’ about!” he said, as he a 1932 Ford Roadster
gleaming on the clean concrete floor like it had just rolled off the production
line. The deep red paint was so glossy it looked wet. The top was off and Carl
walked over and looked inside to see if the keys were in it. They weren’t.
He went back into the house. He was
excited about the car. If he could score a firearm or two, he’d leave here in
style, ready to take on the world. If only his head wasn’t still throbbing. He
found a keychain on a hook in the dining room but he did not find any guns
other than a civil war musket hanging on the wall above the fireplace.
He grabbed a banana from a fruit
bowl on the table and went to the garage. He tried to open the garage door from
inside, but it was locked. The key to the padlock was on the keychain. He
entered the garage from the driveway and got into the roadster. Now he just
needed this thing to start. He hoped to hell that it wasn’t just a museum
piece. He turned the key and the sound of the engine revving to life made him
smile. He backed out into the street then shifted into Drive.
He wanted to see what the V8 under
the hood could do, so he floored the gas, expecting to peel out, thinking of
how cool he’d look burning rubber in a fancy hot rod, but the wheels just spun
on the wet rocks, sending gravel flying up into the under-carriage and the
street behind him. Disappointed, he let up on the gas and drove slowly to the
end of the street, turning left onto the paved road which was coated with a
layer of slushy snow.
As he drove down the mountain, he
wondered if he should go back and look for the convertible top, but he decided
to stick with his forward momentum and just keep going. The wind was cold and
wet snow blew around him and stuck to the windshield, but he was too excited to
care. It even seemed like his head hurt less – at first.
Twenty
Angela hated the windows being boarded up so she wanted to
get out of the lodge and go sit in one of the cabins. Things were bad enough
with the possible nuclear war, her friends dying, being stuck on the mountain,
worrying about her family,
Similar Books
