closed door on the third room down.
He went into each of the rooms where the doors were open, and predictably they had been trashed. The first one he looked at was a master bedroom, and here again he found evidence of sacrilege. There was a painting of Jesus Christ on the wall, and someone had sprayed brown paint all over it.
One was the room of a teenage girl, which he could tell from the young feminine touches and the canopy over the bed, one was the room of a teenage boy, one of a young boy, and one was a guest room, Jim thought, and another was empty.
Sadness surged in Jim—and anger. It was so sad that people who had once enjoyed so many privileges and rights in the greatest country that ever existed should now not even have the right to live in their own homes, the right that a lot of people had risked their lives for, and died for. Goddamn bastards.
Jim took out a handkerchief and put it over his nose. If the smell was coming through the door, it would be much more potent, of course, inside the room. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The smell was not as bad as he thought, and whoever or whatever or wherever the smell was coming from was not immediately apparent. The room was a study, every single inch of the walls covered with bookshelves, but as was the situation downstairs, all of the books had been pulled out of the bookcases and onto the floor, which was so covered with books it was barely visible. A number of the books had their pages pulled out of them, perhaps, Jim thought, because the looters found nothing and were enraged.
There was a large oak desk in front of a bay window, but nothing on it except what looked like a leather-bound journal, or diary. It was open, and something was written on one of the pages.
Jim picked his way through the piles of books and glanced behind the desk. The source of the smell was there. It was the body of a man, lying on his back, his eyes open, pupils fixed and dilated, who had only recently died. He was past rigor mortis, Jim guessed, but there was extensive lividity and he was just starting to smell.
The man was bald except for a fringe of dark hair and a short goatee. There was a small red hole in the middle of his forehead. He had been shot, Jim thought, judging from the size of the hole, with a small-caliber weapon, probably a .22. He was fully dressed, complete with vest. Jim also guessed that, granted all the books, he was some sort of professor.
Jim covered the remains with a blanket from a nearby couch and leaned over the desk so he could read the journal.
The page began: I strongly suspect, despite the rather ludicrous claims from our government that the bug came from outer space, the virus that is rapidly killing off the world’s population was homegrown, right here on earth. I believe it was an experiment gone awry, released into the air quite by accident from some top-secret lab, perhaps even one financed by our own government. I . . .
That was all that was written.
Lying, Jim thought. The U.S. government was lying? So what the hell else was new?
Jim wondered who the dead man was. He flipped the journal back to the first page, and there was a sticker on it with the name Harold Charles, Ph.D.
Definitely a teacher.
Jim put the book down, and as he did he saw, on the floor among the books, what looked like a diploma—at least the paper was parchmentlike—and he reached down and picked it up and turned it over. It was something else that he decided to read when he was downstairs. He disliked leaving Bev alone longer.
He left the room, closing the door behind him and replacing the towel.
He went downstairs and stood in the hall. The water in the bathroom was off and Bev had stopped singing.
SUSA Manifesto
Freedom, like respect, is earned and must be constantly nurtured and protected from those who would take it away.
It is the right of every law-abiding citizen to protect his or her life, liberty, and personal property by any
He went into each of the rooms where the doors were open, and predictably they had been trashed. The first one he looked at was a master bedroom, and here again he found evidence of sacrilege. There was a painting of Jesus Christ on the wall, and someone had sprayed brown paint all over it.
One was the room of a teenage girl, which he could tell from the young feminine touches and the canopy over the bed, one was the room of a teenage boy, one of a young boy, and one was a guest room, Jim thought, and another was empty.
Sadness surged in Jim—and anger. It was so sad that people who had once enjoyed so many privileges and rights in the greatest country that ever existed should now not even have the right to live in their own homes, the right that a lot of people had risked their lives for, and died for. Goddamn bastards.
Jim took out a handkerchief and put it over his nose. If the smell was coming through the door, it would be much more potent, of course, inside the room. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The smell was not as bad as he thought, and whoever or whatever or wherever the smell was coming from was not immediately apparent. The room was a study, every single inch of the walls covered with bookshelves, but as was the situation downstairs, all of the books had been pulled out of the bookcases and onto the floor, which was so covered with books it was barely visible. A number of the books had their pages pulled out of them, perhaps, Jim thought, because the looters found nothing and were enraged.
There was a large oak desk in front of a bay window, but nothing on it except what looked like a leather-bound journal, or diary. It was open, and something was written on one of the pages.
Jim picked his way through the piles of books and glanced behind the desk. The source of the smell was there. It was the body of a man, lying on his back, his eyes open, pupils fixed and dilated, who had only recently died. He was past rigor mortis, Jim guessed, but there was extensive lividity and he was just starting to smell.
The man was bald except for a fringe of dark hair and a short goatee. There was a small red hole in the middle of his forehead. He had been shot, Jim thought, judging from the size of the hole, with a small-caliber weapon, probably a .22. He was fully dressed, complete with vest. Jim also guessed that, granted all the books, he was some sort of professor.
Jim covered the remains with a blanket from a nearby couch and leaned over the desk so he could read the journal.
The page began: I strongly suspect, despite the rather ludicrous claims from our government that the bug came from outer space, the virus that is rapidly killing off the world’s population was homegrown, right here on earth. I believe it was an experiment gone awry, released into the air quite by accident from some top-secret lab, perhaps even one financed by our own government. I . . .
That was all that was written.
Lying, Jim thought. The U.S. government was lying? So what the hell else was new?
Jim wondered who the dead man was. He flipped the journal back to the first page, and there was a sticker on it with the name Harold Charles, Ph.D.
Definitely a teacher.
Jim put the book down, and as he did he saw, on the floor among the books, what looked like a diploma—at least the paper was parchmentlike—and he reached down and picked it up and turned it over. It was something else that he decided to read when he was downstairs. He disliked leaving Bev alone longer.
He left the room, closing the door behind him and replacing the towel.
He went downstairs and stood in the hall. The water in the bathroom was off and Bev had stopped singing.
SUSA Manifesto
Freedom, like respect, is earned and must be constantly nurtured and protected from those who would take it away.
It is the right of every law-abiding citizen to protect his or her life, liberty, and personal property by any
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