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Authors: Jackson Spencer Bell
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hanging by their necks from lamp posts. The first victim, slighter than the others,
swayed back and forth with the tips of his shoes drawing invisible circles in
the air. At this distance, the near invisibility
of the hanging ropes made the bodies appear to float.
Oh my God.
In the picture
window, the image of an unremarkable woman in faded jeans and an Old Dominion
University sweatshirt
shimmered like a ghost over the wheelbarrows and rakes and leaf blowers visible
through the glass. The translucent
figure blinked at her, her chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of
Heather’s own breath. She looked
clueless.
She let her gaze
float from the picture window to the City Center Drycleaners next door and
Frizzell Bail Bonds just beyond that. Red-lettered “CLOSED” signs hung in the window of every door. The wind that had set the bodies swaying
dragged stray leaves across the street and sidewalk, making dry sounds like a
hundred castanets. A low creaking noise
joined the leaves, and it took her a moment to realize she was hearing the
ropes from the hangmen’s nooses rubbing against the metal streetlamps.
She drew the
pistol and walked slowly into the middle of the street. She recognized none of the bodies swaying
from their ropes; their faces were purple, bug-eyed masks of strangled
pain. Four men and two women, they hung
there like sides of meat in a butcher shop. Which, at some point in the recent past, the courthouse district had
become.
She shivered and
turned back towards the hardware store. She had thought she would have to break a window to get inside, but
someone else had pried open the door. The broken lock rattled as she pulled it open and stepped inside of
Revolution Hardware. The store smelled
as it always had, the pine-fresh scent of the lumber stacked in the back mixing
with the tang of insecticide and the earthy stink of the organic fertilizers in
bags up front. The overhead lights were
dead, of course, but enough sun blazed through the storefront to illuminate
everything with the full light of day. But for the silence, it could have been any other day.
But it wasn’t any
other day. Behind the cash register, the
glass-fronted cabinets that had held hunting rifles and ammunition were smashed
and empty. Someone had come in here and
cleaned them out.
Bet they’re out of spray paint and wooden
stakes, too , she thought.
“Yeah, they
probably are.”
Heather screamed
and whirled around, drawing the Ruger from her waistband and aiming for the source
of the voice. There in the doorway stood
Clyde, Mike’s friend. Mike’s only friend, actually, that categorical
scarcity the only reason she put up with him coming over. Mike needed friends. And if the only friend he could find was a
little messy, a little drunk, a little
I’m-going-to-stare-at-your-wife-when-you’re-not-looking, then okay. She could tolerate that. For him.
But Clyde didn’t
look like a vampire, so this won him brownie points. She relaxed and lowered the pistol. “Jesus, Clyde, you scared the hell out of
me!”
“I can see that,”
he replied. “Mind putting that thing
away?”
She stuck it back
in her waistband and studied him. Even
several feet away he towered over her, with long, spindly arms and skinny legs
that recalled the branches of trees in winter. Amber had referred to him as “The Mantis.” He stood with a noticeable slump, a habit
perhaps born of a lifetime of being taller than everyone else. His hair, once black but now shot through
with gray, poked out from beneath a Duke baseball cap. The Mantis had survived the apocalypse.
“It’s nice to see
somebody,” she remarked.
He shoved his
hands in his pockets and squeezed his
shoulders together, nodding. He was so
narrow, she could have flipped him upside down and used him to break into
cars. “Nice ain’t the word,” he
said. “I about had a heart
swayed back and forth with the tips of his shoes drawing invisible circles in
the air. At this distance, the near invisibility
of the hanging ropes made the bodies appear to float.
Oh my God.
In the picture
window, the image of an unremarkable woman in faded jeans and an Old Dominion
University sweatshirt
shimmered like a ghost over the wheelbarrows and rakes and leaf blowers visible
through the glass. The translucent
figure blinked at her, her chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of
Heather’s own breath. She looked
clueless.
She let her gaze
float from the picture window to the City Center Drycleaners next door and
Frizzell Bail Bonds just beyond that. Red-lettered “CLOSED” signs hung in the window of every door. The wind that had set the bodies swaying
dragged stray leaves across the street and sidewalk, making dry sounds like a
hundred castanets. A low creaking noise
joined the leaves, and it took her a moment to realize she was hearing the
ropes from the hangmen’s nooses rubbing against the metal streetlamps.
She drew the
pistol and walked slowly into the middle of the street. She recognized none of the bodies swaying
from their ropes; their faces were purple, bug-eyed masks of strangled
pain. Four men and two women, they hung
there like sides of meat in a butcher shop. Which, at some point in the recent past, the courthouse district had
become.
She shivered and
turned back towards the hardware store. She had thought she would have to break a window to get inside, but
someone else had pried open the door. The broken lock rattled as she pulled it open and stepped inside of
Revolution Hardware. The store smelled
as it always had, the pine-fresh scent of the lumber stacked in the back mixing
with the tang of insecticide and the earthy stink of the organic fertilizers in
bags up front. The overhead lights were
dead, of course, but enough sun blazed through the storefront to illuminate
everything with the full light of day. But for the silence, it could have been any other day.
But it wasn’t any
other day. Behind the cash register, the
glass-fronted cabinets that had held hunting rifles and ammunition were smashed
and empty. Someone had come in here and
cleaned them out.
Bet they’re out of spray paint and wooden
stakes, too , she thought.
“Yeah, they
probably are.”
Heather screamed
and whirled around, drawing the Ruger from her waistband and aiming for the source
of the voice. There in the doorway stood
Clyde, Mike’s friend. Mike’s only friend, actually, that categorical
scarcity the only reason she put up with him coming over. Mike needed friends. And if the only friend he could find was a
little messy, a little drunk, a little
I’m-going-to-stare-at-your-wife-when-you’re-not-looking, then okay. She could tolerate that. For him.
But Clyde didn’t
look like a vampire, so this won him brownie points. She relaxed and lowered the pistol. “Jesus, Clyde, you scared the hell out of
me!”
“I can see that,”
he replied. “Mind putting that thing
away?”
She stuck it back
in her waistband and studied him. Even
several feet away he towered over her, with long, spindly arms and skinny legs
that recalled the branches of trees in winter. Amber had referred to him as “The Mantis.” He stood with a noticeable slump, a habit
perhaps born of a lifetime of being taller than everyone else. His hair, once black but now shot through
with gray, poked out from beneath a Duke baseball cap. The Mantis had survived the apocalypse.
“It’s nice to see
somebody,” she remarked.
He shoved his
hands in his pockets and squeezed his
shoulders together, nodding. He was so
narrow, she could have flipped him upside down and used him to break into
cars. “Nice ain’t the word,” he
said. “I about had a heart
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