started.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Brennan interrupted me.
“…Tonight? I was going to suggest a rousing game of scrabble.” I finished.
Why was everyone acting so odd?
“No, thank you. I have work I need to do. It’s National Novel Writing Month after all.” Bobby said.
“What?” My friends and I stared at him.
“National Novel Writing Month? Thirty days of literary abandon.” He answered.
“We know what it is.” Dean said.
“We did it every year in high school.” Billie added.
“We just thought it was June.” Sully said.
“Oh, yes. It’s the summer camp version. I’ve been working so hard on it, I get rather distracted. You know how writers get.” Bobby laughed nervously.
Somehow, I didn’t think writing a novel was the only thing going on down there.
Chapter twelve
Bobby seldom came upstairs after that. Amy would coax him upstairs for meals, but other than that, he remained locked in the basement 24/7. My concern was mounting. What exactly was he doing down there? Why did he have fresh scratches every time he came up, that he would try to hide? And why would he lie about it being November?
I sat in the RV, reloading the last of the shotgun shells before moving on to the bullet casings. It had been four days since the supply trip, and Todd had only just started really talking again.
“Good Morning!” Andy said, sticking his head through the open door.
I sighed. “I see my assassin has failed to kill you again.”
He sat next to me, studying the reloading equipment in front of me, and the bomb supplies stashed in the open cupboard behind me.
“You learned how to do all this as a kid?” He asked.
“Yes. My dad was in the military. He wanted a son, but got me instead.” I said.
There was a long, blissful pause.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” He asked.
“Emperor of all mankind. Failing that, a lion tamer.”
“And that stuff?” He pointed to the bomb supplies.
“We all have our hobbies. Grandma knits, the hobo outside the liquor store collects cans…I blow stuff up.” I said.
Samuel knocked on the side of the RV, standing just outside the door. “Are you still going to teach me to reload bullets?” He asked.
“Sure thing kid. Come on up.” I said. “You’ll have to sit next to me. Take Andy’s spot. It has the best view.”
Andy moved grudgingly, Samuel only too happy to join me. I taught him the finer points of measuring the pellets for shells and gun powder for both, and how to pack them carefully. The easiest part was setting them on the tray and using the lever to set the bullet in, or fold over the shell sides to hold the pellets in, though it still took a steady hand.
“What’s going on?” Sully said, walking up to the table, two delicious looking apples in his hands.
“I promised Samuel I’d teach him the tricks of the trade.” I said.
“Awesome.” He handed me an apple and sat down across from me. “How’s he doing?”
“Quiet well.” I said. “The kid’s a natural.”
I smiled at Samuel and he beamed up at me.
We finished up the set, three full boxes of bullets now ready to use. The children played tag in the grass most of the day, their laughter spilling in through the open door and windows.
Some days later, something woke me so suddenly I forgot where I was. I had been dreaming of something strange. I tried to recall it, but gave up the moment I realized what had pulled me from my slumber. Thunder rumbled through the inky sky. In the pitch black of the room, the sound of a torrential downpour dominated all else. I rolled off the bed and stepped to the window, parting the curtain with both hands. Bright white light flashed, blinding me. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand. Thunder rumbled again. I took a deep breath, the scent of moist dirt slowly filling the room through the open window. Smiling, I inched my way back into bed, unable to see anything.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Brennan interrupted me.
“…Tonight? I was going to suggest a rousing game of scrabble.” I finished.
Why was everyone acting so odd?
“No, thank you. I have work I need to do. It’s National Novel Writing Month after all.” Bobby said.
“What?” My friends and I stared at him.
“National Novel Writing Month? Thirty days of literary abandon.” He answered.
“We know what it is.” Dean said.
“We did it every year in high school.” Billie added.
“We just thought it was June.” Sully said.
“Oh, yes. It’s the summer camp version. I’ve been working so hard on it, I get rather distracted. You know how writers get.” Bobby laughed nervously.
Somehow, I didn’t think writing a novel was the only thing going on down there.
Chapter twelve
Bobby seldom came upstairs after that. Amy would coax him upstairs for meals, but other than that, he remained locked in the basement 24/7. My concern was mounting. What exactly was he doing down there? Why did he have fresh scratches every time he came up, that he would try to hide? And why would he lie about it being November?
I sat in the RV, reloading the last of the shotgun shells before moving on to the bullet casings. It had been four days since the supply trip, and Todd had only just started really talking again.
“Good Morning!” Andy said, sticking his head through the open door.
I sighed. “I see my assassin has failed to kill you again.”
He sat next to me, studying the reloading equipment in front of me, and the bomb supplies stashed in the open cupboard behind me.
“You learned how to do all this as a kid?” He asked.
“Yes. My dad was in the military. He wanted a son, but got me instead.” I said.
There was a long, blissful pause.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” He asked.
“Emperor of all mankind. Failing that, a lion tamer.”
“And that stuff?” He pointed to the bomb supplies.
“We all have our hobbies. Grandma knits, the hobo outside the liquor store collects cans…I blow stuff up.” I said.
Samuel knocked on the side of the RV, standing just outside the door. “Are you still going to teach me to reload bullets?” He asked.
“Sure thing kid. Come on up.” I said. “You’ll have to sit next to me. Take Andy’s spot. It has the best view.”
Andy moved grudgingly, Samuel only too happy to join me. I taught him the finer points of measuring the pellets for shells and gun powder for both, and how to pack them carefully. The easiest part was setting them on the tray and using the lever to set the bullet in, or fold over the shell sides to hold the pellets in, though it still took a steady hand.
“What’s going on?” Sully said, walking up to the table, two delicious looking apples in his hands.
“I promised Samuel I’d teach him the tricks of the trade.” I said.
“Awesome.” He handed me an apple and sat down across from me. “How’s he doing?”
“Quiet well.” I said. “The kid’s a natural.”
I smiled at Samuel and he beamed up at me.
We finished up the set, three full boxes of bullets now ready to use. The children played tag in the grass most of the day, their laughter spilling in through the open door and windows.
Some days later, something woke me so suddenly I forgot where I was. I had been dreaming of something strange. I tried to recall it, but gave up the moment I realized what had pulled me from my slumber. Thunder rumbled through the inky sky. In the pitch black of the room, the sound of a torrential downpour dominated all else. I rolled off the bed and stepped to the window, parting the curtain with both hands. Bright white light flashed, blinding me. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand. Thunder rumbled again. I took a deep breath, the scent of moist dirt slowly filling the room through the open window. Smiling, I inched my way back into bed, unable to see anything.
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