It was someone’s home office, and it looked like a bomb had gone off in there. Disheveled papers littered the desk and the floor, file cabinets were open, crammed too full to close, and the walls themselves were used as a giant cork board. Terry guessed the missus of the house probably didn’t venture in here too often. It smelled of cheddar cheese and rank sweat. He closed the door and moved on to the last one.
The smell hit him like a Freightliner, and now he knew why no one answered. Ma and Pa Bennett were here all right, but they weren’t well. Or maybe they were; Terry didn’t know. They might be with Jesus now, but their bodies weren’t well. They lay on the bed together; the old woman clutched a Bible, which supported the Jesus theory and the old man clutched a shotgun. Terry figured he could use both and helped himself, though reluctantly. There’s something about stealing from the dead that just didn’t sit right with Terry, and there was something about that smell that would turn anyone's stomach.
The old man’s skin had turned black already, and the old woman was a lovely shade of purple. They were both bloated with bulging eyes and the old man’s tongue protruded from his mouth like an inflated appendage. Terry dry heaved when he took the gun, for the flesh on the old man’s hands ruptured and unleashed a stench, unimaginable. He snatched the book, the Good Book , and ran downstairs as fast as he could. He knew he would have to go back up there to rummage around, but not until he found some variety of a mask.
He drew a glass of water from the Brita on the counter and regained his composure. Maybe there was some Vick’s in the bathroom. He’d seen that trick in the crime dramas he liked to watch on television.
There wasn’t, but there were ear plugs which he stuffed in his nostrils without a second thought. He tied a towel around his face like a gargantuan bandana. Something liked panic tried to grip him as he climbed the stairs, but he shook it off. This is life now. How do you like it so far?
He turned the knob and went back into the death suite. The smell was less, but the taste was more. On the nightstand beside the bed were a box of shotgun shells. Terry grabbed them and ferried them to the door. He looked through the drawers, then under the bed where he found a deer rifle. It was a Remington .308 and five boxes of rounds. As unpleasant as this was, at least it was profitable.
The smell and thick taste of putrefying flesh overwhelmed him, and he vomited into his makeshift mask. Terry stripped it off and threw it aside. He almost ran out again but decided against it. He was going to finish this little raid once and for all, and then this door would not be opened again.
In the closet, he found a Taurus .357 revolver and some clothes in his size. Close enough to his size anyway. He grabbed a change of clothes as well as winter gear. He wasn’t sure how he’d carry all of this, but he was sure summer wouldn’t last forever. In fact, it was probably coming up on September by now. It was getting harder to keep track of the days as they added up.
He closed the door on the Bennetts allowing them to rest in peace, and Terry ate a cold can of beef stew. He enjoyed every, tasty bite too.
----
With the unpleasantries behind him and his belly full, Terry packed up his loot. He found a decent sized backpack in the shed and a wheelbarrow behind the house. It was one of those two front wheel jobbies, so he figured it wouldn’t be too bad a companion. I guess this is my rickshaw…. Though he didn’t relish the idea of shooting anyone, he was glad to be armed again and with the rifle he could hunt. Torpedoes be damned, Seattle, here I come.
At lunchtime, he thumbed through his new Bible, but it was no more interesting now than it had ever been. Time’s passage was washing Dean’s admonitions from Terry’s mind. Still he wondered, but his mind seemed to have a better capacity for doubt than
The smell hit him like a Freightliner, and now he knew why no one answered. Ma and Pa Bennett were here all right, but they weren’t well. Or maybe they were; Terry didn’t know. They might be with Jesus now, but their bodies weren’t well. They lay on the bed together; the old woman clutched a Bible, which supported the Jesus theory and the old man clutched a shotgun. Terry figured he could use both and helped himself, though reluctantly. There’s something about stealing from the dead that just didn’t sit right with Terry, and there was something about that smell that would turn anyone's stomach.
The old man’s skin had turned black already, and the old woman was a lovely shade of purple. They were both bloated with bulging eyes and the old man’s tongue protruded from his mouth like an inflated appendage. Terry dry heaved when he took the gun, for the flesh on the old man’s hands ruptured and unleashed a stench, unimaginable. He snatched the book, the Good Book , and ran downstairs as fast as he could. He knew he would have to go back up there to rummage around, but not until he found some variety of a mask.
He drew a glass of water from the Brita on the counter and regained his composure. Maybe there was some Vick’s in the bathroom. He’d seen that trick in the crime dramas he liked to watch on television.
There wasn’t, but there were ear plugs which he stuffed in his nostrils without a second thought. He tied a towel around his face like a gargantuan bandana. Something liked panic tried to grip him as he climbed the stairs, but he shook it off. This is life now. How do you like it so far?
He turned the knob and went back into the death suite. The smell was less, but the taste was more. On the nightstand beside the bed were a box of shotgun shells. Terry grabbed them and ferried them to the door. He looked through the drawers, then under the bed where he found a deer rifle. It was a Remington .308 and five boxes of rounds. As unpleasant as this was, at least it was profitable.
The smell and thick taste of putrefying flesh overwhelmed him, and he vomited into his makeshift mask. Terry stripped it off and threw it aside. He almost ran out again but decided against it. He was going to finish this little raid once and for all, and then this door would not be opened again.
In the closet, he found a Taurus .357 revolver and some clothes in his size. Close enough to his size anyway. He grabbed a change of clothes as well as winter gear. He wasn’t sure how he’d carry all of this, but he was sure summer wouldn’t last forever. In fact, it was probably coming up on September by now. It was getting harder to keep track of the days as they added up.
He closed the door on the Bennetts allowing them to rest in peace, and Terry ate a cold can of beef stew. He enjoyed every, tasty bite too.
----
With the unpleasantries behind him and his belly full, Terry packed up his loot. He found a decent sized backpack in the shed and a wheelbarrow behind the house. It was one of those two front wheel jobbies, so he figured it wouldn’t be too bad a companion. I guess this is my rickshaw…. Though he didn’t relish the idea of shooting anyone, he was glad to be armed again and with the rifle he could hunt. Torpedoes be damned, Seattle, here I come.
At lunchtime, he thumbed through his new Bible, but it was no more interesting now than it had ever been. Time’s passage was washing Dean’s admonitions from Terry’s mind. Still he wondered, but his mind seemed to have a better capacity for doubt than
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