Status: Updates are sporadic and may occur at whim, but I do try to add chapters regularly.
Silent Nights
No Rest for the Wary
“Anything useful?” I toss the aspirin packets on the table and keep walking down the hall. I unzip my jacket and trudge up the stairs, slowly shedding shoes, weapons, and flashlights and carrying them with me. I’ve claimed the first room on the second floor as my own. It used to be an office of some sort. I drop my shoes by the door and toss the rest on the coffee table. The sun’s just coming up; I’ve been out since dusk. It’s safest to move at night.
I sit down on the worn leather couch opposite the door and take the pistol from my shoulder harness. I take out the clip and fill it with some rounds I found in the glove box of an abandoned Jeep. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I put the rest of the rounds in my pocket and set the gun on the coffee table. I lie back and try to relax. I listen for movement downstairs. There’s nothing. I should get as much sleep as possible now. As soon as the sun goes down, I’ll be back out for another night of scavenging. I cross my arms behind my head and slow my breathing.
After several minutes I’m nearly asleep, but I hear something downstairs. It’s a thumping noise. I don’t like it. I grab my gun off the table on my way to the door. I pause at the top of the stairs. There it is again, from the kitchen. I descend the stairs quickly, my bare feet making almost no noise. At the entrance to the kitchen I pause again. It’s colder down here than I remember.
I swing into the room and scan it for movement, left to right and back again. The back door is open. It swings idly on its hinges before a gust of wind slams it against the porch rail. The cold fall air sweeps in through the open door and sends a shiver down my spine. I holster my handgun and pad toward the door. There’s nothing outside that seems out of place. I reach for the doorknob and pull it slowly shut. Just before the latch catches, the unmistakable crack of gunfire cuts through the silence of the early morning.
It came from the front, by the street. I close and lock the kitchen door before jogging into the living room. I pull back on the edge of the dark fabric nailed to the window frame. It rips around the nail and finally pulls free. There he is, standing in the middle of the street. There’s a bottle in his left hand and a shotgun in his right. I press my cheek to the window frame to see what he’s shooting at.
He fires another shot. He can just barely balance the gun with the bottle in his other hand. I trot past the front door, barricaded beyond use, and back to the kitchen door. I jump down the steps two at a time and run to the front of the house.
“Come to join the party?” He turns when I’m within a few feet of him, swinging the barrel of his gun past me recklessly. He thrusts the bottle into the air, sloshing the whiskey down his arm. “Drink and be merry, we’re all gonna die!” He lets out a perverse chortle and tosses the bottle to me. It hits the ground with a dull thud.
“Nah, you never were one to party.” He chuckles to himself and tries to line up another shot. I grab his arm to pull him back to the house. He shakes me off and nearly loses his balance. He takes another shot. It hits a crumpled car halfway down the street. I grab for the gun this time, aiming for the safety. Despite his inebriation, he catches me under the chin with his left forearm and knocks me to the ground.
Before I can get up he rests his boot on my chest and glares down at me. He trains the gun on me now. There’s no way he’ll miss at this range. “Now why don’t you just sit back and relax.” Suddenly he doesn’t seem so drunk. He glances down the street, leaving his gun trained on me. I can hear the movement but I keep my sight on the loaded weapon in my face. I try to push the barrel away. He leans more weight on my chest as he turns his attention back to the street.
I sit down on the worn leather couch opposite the door and take the pistol from my shoulder harness. I take out the clip and fill it with some rounds I found in the glove box of an abandoned Jeep. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I put the rest of the rounds in my pocket and set the gun on the coffee table. I lie back and try to relax. I listen for movement downstairs. There’s nothing. I should get as much sleep as possible now. As soon as the sun goes down, I’ll be back out for another night of scavenging. I cross my arms behind my head and slow my breathing.
After several minutes I’m nearly asleep, but I hear something downstairs. It’s a thumping noise. I don’t like it. I grab my gun off the table on my way to the door. I pause at the top of the stairs. There it is again, from the kitchen. I descend the stairs quickly, my bare feet making almost no noise. At the entrance to the kitchen I pause again. It’s colder down here than I remember.
I swing into the room and scan it for movement, left to right and back again. The back door is open. It swings idly on its hinges before a gust of wind slams it against the porch rail. The cold fall air sweeps in through the open door and sends a shiver down my spine. I holster my handgun and pad toward the door. There’s nothing outside that seems out of place. I reach for the doorknob and pull it slowly shut. Just before the latch catches, the unmistakable crack of gunfire cuts through the silence of the early morning.
It came from the front, by the street. I close and lock the kitchen door before jogging into the living room. I pull back on the edge of the dark fabric nailed to the window frame. It rips around the nail and finally pulls free. There he is, standing in the middle of the street. There’s a bottle in his left hand and a shotgun in his right. I press my cheek to the window frame to see what he’s shooting at.
He fires another shot. He can just barely balance the gun with the bottle in his other hand. I trot past the front door, barricaded beyond use, and back to the kitchen door. I jump down the steps two at a time and run to the front of the house.
“Come to join the party?” He turns when I’m within a few feet of him, swinging the barrel of his gun past me recklessly. He thrusts the bottle into the air, sloshing the whiskey down his arm. “Drink and be merry, we’re all gonna die!” He lets out a perverse chortle and tosses the bottle to me. It hits the ground with a dull thud.
“Nah, you never were one to party.” He chuckles to himself and tries to line up another shot. I grab his arm to pull him back to the house. He shakes me off and nearly loses his balance. He takes another shot. It hits a crumpled car halfway down the street. I grab for the gun this time, aiming for the safety. Despite his inebriation, he catches me under the chin with his left forearm and knocks me to the ground.
Before I can get up he rests his boot on my chest and glares down at me. He trains the gun on me now. There’s no way he’ll miss at this range. “Now why don’t you just sit back and relax.” Suddenly he doesn’t seem so drunk. He glances down the street, leaving his gun trained on me. I can hear the movement but I keep my sight on the loaded weapon in my face. I try to push the barrel away. He leans more weight on my chest as he turns his attention back to the street.