Panic on Melody Lane There wasn’t a lot of room in our car. My roommate, Eric, and I packed the vehicle to its maximum capacity. A tent, a cooler, duffle bags, sleeping bags, and a black stash box in a sedan of which we still had to fit one more person and his belongings. I left the apartment and drove to pick up our friend, Jerry, who was an athletic son-of-a-bitch with long hair and piercing blue eyes. He never seemed to break contact with you. We pulled into the parking lot of his dorm-room at the university down the street from our apartment. Jerry walked out carrying a dirty mattress topper which we shoved into the back of the car. “Out of the front seat. I call shotgun,” Jerry said as he opened the door and pulled Eric out of the front seat leaving him fumbling on the ground. Eric struggled to shove his giant gut in between all the boxes, and the cooler, and the tents in the backseat. “Let’s get going,” I said. I was in a rush. “What’s the hurry?” asked Jerry. “We got all weekend.” “I just want to get there.” We picked up the final tent and stuffed it into the back of the car which packed to the brim of its roof. “We can’t drive like this guys.” “Why? What’s the problem,” asked Jerry. “I can’t even see out the back window.” “Who gives a shit!? Let’s just get going!” “Look, I ain’t about to drive four hours with this shit blocking my rear view.” Now Jerry’s smile turned sour. One could never know what to expect with Jerry. J a little crazy. He rarely blinked and rarely ate. He must have weighed 145 pounds, had crooked teeth, and long dirty blonde hair. We’d been in the car all of 30 minutes, and you could already see his leg was starting to twitch and move up-n-down rapidly. “Fine, we’ll have to drop some stuff off at sam’s,” he said. “I bet they'll have room.” We drove to Sam’s. He lived in a house not too far from the university. It had a lawn and a white picket fence and looked like it was transported from a 1950s TV show. Leave it to that beaver, Sam, to find a quaint little spot amid a loud and obnoxious town. I knocked on the door. Jerry brought a cooler, duffle bags, and a mattress topper to the stoop. “Uhh. Hello. Can I help you,” said a voice behind the metal security door. An old man answered. He wore fuzzy pink slippers with bunns, a checkered collared shirt tucked into jean shorts, and a raggedy baseball cap. He was accompanied by another older gentleman. “Who are you,” asked Jerry, who pulled open the door and dropped everything in the middle of their floor. “Look you better get out of here,” said the man in the slippers. “Yeah,” said the other man. He was smaller, and bald. “You guys aren’t gonna be having one of your wild little parties like last weekend. I don’t know who threw up in my closet, but I mean, come on guys. Get some sense, that type of drinking will kill―” “Look, I’m sorry about what happened here a week ago,” Jerry said. “The mess, the noise, the puddles of beer on the living room floor; it’s not gonna happen again I promise. We just need to leave a few things here for Sam to take with him when he meets us out there. We’re going camping this weekend and we can’t fit everything in our car, it would mean the world to us if you could help us out.” By then Sam had sauntered into the living room walking toe-heel instead of heel-toe. His hair was bedraggled. He must have come from a bender of online poker, facebook, and smash bros. “Hi, how are you gents doing,” Sam asked. He was smiling, but his face was blank. He had a strong jaw which jutted out, and a symmetrical face. He could have been an Abercrombie model if his life hadn’t spiraled out of control after the excessive use of Nintendo and marijuana. Often, concurrently. We all stared at Sam and there was a moment of silence. He stood up straight. This man always retained good posture. “What seems to be the issue,” he asked. “Well your buddy seems to—” “Wait, wait, wait wait wait.” Jerry interrupted the old man “There’s no problem here at all Sam. We just wanna leave some stuff here for you to take with you on the way up to the desert.” “That may work,” Sam said. “Provided, we have enough room.” “You’re only riding with Tom,” said Jerry. “You’ll have enough room.” Jerry took the cooler and shoved it against Sam’s torso, pushing him back. “Y-you guys should probably leave now. “I’ll see you guys up there. He led us out of the metal security door onto the front lawn. “Sorry to kick you out, but my landlord’s here and I don’t think he really appreciates you coming by.” “But isn’t he always here,” I asked. “Doesn't the guy live in the house?” “No he lives with his friend in the silver trailer in the backyard.” We looked back at his landlord who was now staring at us through the blinds of the window. “There’s a trailer in the back?” asked Jerry. “Yes! You don’t remember running in there intoxicated last Saturday night, screaming ‘Gahahahaha What’re y'all hiding in here for?’ do you?” “Uh, no. I don’t.” Jerry took a long swig from his water bottle. “Well, anyway,” said Sam. “I’m pretty sure the guy in the slippers is my landlord’s boyfriend―” Jerry spit out the water from his mouth. “They live there all alone in that little trailer,” said Sam. “Hahahaha, Now why would he stay back there when he owns the place?” “I don’t know man, but they are definitely a thing, if you know what I mean.” “Oh my god, I could just picture it… ” The landlord with the fuzzy pink slippers climbing up the schlong of Mt. Baldy. It was a match made in heaven. His landlord came to the doorway. “Hey Sam, are you going to move your car,” he asked. I looked over and his Nissan Altima was blocking his landlord’s blue Fiat. Sam looked at the small man dead in the face. His eyes told the landlord there was no way in hell that he would move that car. With a breath, Sam calmly said, “Alright. Just, allow me to have lunch first, is that okay?” His landlord said nothing and retreated back inside the house, a defeated man. “Hahahah, Oh my god, what was that Sam?” We laughed, got back inside the car, and drove off down the street playing music. “Did we just see what I think we saw,” asked Eric. “I don’t know, what did we see?” “Bro, Sam just big-dicked his landlord.” “You can see why he likes living there, they're the only ones who’d ever let Sam jerk them around like that,” I said. “Yeah,” Jerry said in agreement. “You can really see who wears the pants in that house.” “Agreed,” said Eric. We continued driving along the city-road and then pulled into a gas station to refuel. I sat in the car and watched Eric come out of the convenience store with a brown hot dog, a bag of pork-rinds, and a giant big-gulp of root beer. “Jesus, my guy, you stocking up for the winter, or what?” “No, I just like food,” said Jerry as he shoved the dog in his mouth. In a muffled tone, with a full mouth, he said, “Besides, It’s a long drive.” “How long,” asked Jerry. “About four hours,” I said. “Ahhh shit. This sucks!” Twentynine Palms was on the other side of the state, and with the amount of traffic we faced, the drive became even longer. We drove through one small town after another, inching along the freeway. We passed mountains in the distance. On the left-hand side of the road was an Indian reservation. Several Mexican restaurants and a booze run later, we came across thousands of windmills on the right side of the road. Then it was just a short ride to the city of Twentynine Palms. And they weren’t lying. There really were an abundance of palm trees that lined the main street of this desert-hipster dump. Liquor stores, palm trees, air-b-and b’s, and restaurants seemed to make up the majority of the town. The main street seemed to have undergone serious gentrification. We continued down the road as it began to narrow out. One home had an array of lawn gnomes and odds and ends in the front yard. Pink flamingos and animal sculptures were spread out on the lawn. There was a sculpture of a dog holding up a pizza, and a Tyrannosaurus Rex head mounted in the center of a mansard roof. Another house had lights strung across its yard, surrounded by a fence entirely covered in bottle caps. Another house had pieces of glass and transparent stones with blue tints deep-seated in the smooth green stucco. A minaret sprouted up from the roof like Taj Mahal. We made a sharp left turn onto an even narrower dirt road. We were close. We passed by multiple cars ditched on the side of the dirt road. Some had been stripped for parts. One had a missing bumper and the grill was exposed. Another had busted out windows. And one was missing its hood, doors, and had only one wheel left on its well. They all had one thing in common; no one was in them. It was now dark. We made a right turn into a plot of land. “This is where the directions lead us.” “Let me see that,” I said. I grabbed the iphone out of Jerry’s hands and tried to make out where we were on the map. I couldn’t. We were lost. “Fuck Apple Maps.” Suddenly a light appeared in the distance. We drove toward it. Then there was another light. And another. Three beams of light flashed us, waving back-n-forth from left to right. “Follow it! Follow it,” said Jerry. Driving through the dark, all I could see were the lights.Everything was pitch-black. We drove over some bushes and tumbleweed before we reached the lights. Then they went dim all of a sudden. A horn sounded at us, as we all jumped up in our seats. We heard laughter as the brights of a pickup truck flashed at us. “See, I knew it was them,” said Jerry. “We’re here.” We got out of the car to greet the boys: Tom and Sam. They seemed to have arrived before us. Too many stops. We built a fire together, pitched a couple tents, cooked some hotdogs, and told stories around the circle of the firepit of the rustic desert getaway. It was the kind of place desert locals steer clear from, but the type of place to be praised by privileged hipsters from the city for its novelty and character. “Can you believe they rent this place out? It’s a dump.” I said. “Yeah,” said Sam. “But it’s got character.” Tin bells hung from the framing of the window frame, which overlooked a vast mountain range. There was no ceiling, exposing the entire night sky. I’d never seen so many stars before. We drank beer, red wine, and vodka before passing out underneath the stars. Around 10 a.m. we all woke up. Sam and Jerry cooked the leftover hot-dogs for breakfast. I ate nothing. “I looked off in the direction of old structures in the distance. I think I’m gonna take a little walk,” I said. “I’ll go with you,” said Tom. “Me too.” Tom, Eric, and I left, as Jerry and Sam stayed behind. We walked in the opposite direction of the mountains toward the only man-made structures in sight, until we came across an abandoned home. Its windows had been broken, and a decaying wall contained a mural with a pair of blue eyes, and white circles in the middle of the pupils. The white circles gave the eyes a twinkling effect, meant to look like light glistening off of the retina. There were also yellow polka dots painted around the perimeter of the eyes, like a mask. “I wonder what happened here,” I said. I looked on the ground and picked up a purple shotgun shell and put it in my pocket. “Look at this. A little souvenir,” I said. We climbed in through the window. The house was empty and filthy. Floor boards were missing, and the ones that remained had faded in color. There was a toilet which wouldn’t flush. God only knew how long the excrement had been sitting in the bowl. There was a giant doggie bed that looked like it was made for an animal the size of a bear, and in the middle of the main-room was a wooden table. SItting on it was a fork, a knife with a serrated edge, a plate, and a bib that had ‘Get ready for spaghetti,’ printed on the front. On the stovetop, was a large silver cooking pot for stew. There was also a 1950s fridge. We opened it up and found a leather shoe that was falling apart, and an old tire iron with what looked like the remains of blood on the tip. There was one more room that we couldn’t access. We tried kicking the door down. We took turns ramming it with our shoulders. We even picked up the bed frame, flipped it on its side, lifted it, and tried using it as a battery ram― still, nothing― the door wouldn’t budge. “Guys, this ain’t working,” said Tom. “Let’s just get out of here,” said Eric. We must have been a few miles from the campsite. We knew we had to go in the direction of the mountains. Along the way, we tried to look for any recognizable landmarks, but weren’t seeing any, and the fact that we drove there in the dark didn’t help us familiarize ourselves with the landscape whatsoever. “This place is totally deserted.” I said. “Crazy. Whose idea was it to come here anyway?” “Oh,” Tom said. “It was Jerry’s.” “Jerry’s?” “Yeah. He said he’s been coming here since he was a kid.” We passed a few more gutted homes and trailers and came across a large plot of land with an old metal mailbox that had the name Jenkins painted in white letters on its left side. It was the only place we had seen within a few mile radius that looked inhabited. I hopped over the fence. “C’mon guys what’re you waiting for?” They both stood there dumbfounded. “C’mon!” “Jack,” said Eric. “This is crazy. We can’t just waltz through this guy’s land, he could be a fuckin serial killer for all we know.” “I don’t like this one bit,” said Tom. “Me neither.” “Guys. We need directions back to camp. We don’t know the area, this guy might just be our only hope. Trust me.” “You know what,” Tom said. “Jack is right. We could be wandering out here for hours. We have no water and no directions. I say we go and at least see if the man is home. Who’s with me?” Tom hopped over the fence and stood by my side. “But guys,” Eric said. “The signs on the fence clearly say ‘No trespassing and no soliciting: violators may be shot.” “Ahhhh,” I said. “Keyword: ‘maybe.’ That doesn't mean he will definitely shoot us. Just cause he’s got that sign doesn't make him a man of malice intent, he could just be exercising his constitutional right to keep his land— maybe his family, his livestock even― safe. But how are kids like us in any threat to those things?” “He’s got a point,” said Tom. “Oh really, Tom? He’s got a point? Okay, fine, if you wanna call methamphetamine livestock.” Eric took a few more steps back.” “You know what,” I said. “Suit yourself. But I’m going over there to figure out where the hell we are.” “I’m going too,” said Tom. ` We headed toward the front porch of the house. Eric waited for a minute, heard the shaking of a rattlesnake tail in the brush, and screamed. “Hold on, fellas. Wait for me,” he cried. He tried to hop over the fence, but the leg to his pants hooked the fence post. He fell forward over the fence and landed on the ground. Tom and I turned around to look at him. “I’m okay,” he said. He gave us a thumbs up and we continued walking toward the porch. Michael rolled over, got up, and followed behind us. As we walked to the porch down the dirt driveway, the path narrowed out as I focused on the front door. The house was old and unkempt. The white paint on the wooden planks was peeling off. The hip-roof was dried out from the sun and missing a few shingles. A couple of windows were boarded up and there was an American flag flowing in the wind, held up by a pole on the right side of the yard. Along the driveway, were tires and bales of hay. In the distance to the right, you could see a field of wheat. On the other side of the yard was an old blue pickup truck from the 1970s with one red door. Strolling up the driveway, a figure seemed to appear out of nowhere. He stood on the porch. It wrapped around the entire house, and there were bells that chimed in the wind, hanging from the framing. The man watched us. He was a skinny man, had dirty-blonde hair, and a long and scruffy goatee. He wore a straw hat and his hair was shoulder length. He had blue overalls on, but was shirtless underneath, and he was chewing on a blade of wheat which stuck out of his mouth. He was barefoot and had long yellow toenails. He spoke out. “Whut is yo’ kids doin’ wan’erin’ about these parts hyar?” “Sir, we were lost and need directions,” I said. “Can you point us to Melody Lane?” “Wal, sho'nuff ah can he'p yo' fellas out. Yo' look tired. Yo' need ennythin', a jack, a Coky Cola, mebbe a rin' aroun' th' old rosie wif ol’ rosie back thar? The man spoke out with the blade of wheat still dangling out of the side of his mouth. He pointed to the shed on the side of the yard. It looked like an outhouse with a moon-shaped opening on the top of the front door. Chains were wrapped around the shed, keeping the door locked. “Uhhm, you know what,” I looked around and said. “I think we’re good on the old ring. Maybe we’ll just retrace our steps. Sorry to bother you. We’ll be going now.” “Come on let’s get out of here,” said Eric under his breath. We all began to step back, when the old man said: “Wait now, yo' come onto mah propuhty. Then yo' disrespeck me by turnin' yer backs on an old man!? O' ah knows whar Melody Lane is an' ah can hell all yo' fellers out.” I stopped walking, took a breath, turned around, and listened. "Fust yo' hoof it straight on down thet road thar, yo' make a lef' at th' old hangin' tree, then yo' foller down thet road thar about ha'f a mile until yo' see th' old ram skull layin' about. Make t'other lef' an' about an'other mile down yo'll see a sign post thet reads ol’ Melody Lane.” “Wow, thanks mister,” Eric said. “Yeah, thank yo' mister,” said Tom sarcastically.. “Wal shoot, yer sho'nuff welcome! Yo' kids take care now. Goo'bye.” “Let’s go guys,” I said. “Wait,” said Eric. “I have some questions for the guy.” “So,” he said. “What can you tell me about the history of this place?” “Eric, it’s time to go.” “Now hold on, I’m curious.” I rolled my eyes at the sonofabitch. “Continue,” he said. “Wal, thar's not much t'know. Th' place was foun'ed in 1927 when ol’ colonel Henry Warshin'ton was surveyin' th' San Bernadino Baseline, he was. Cor'din' t'lejun, th' origeenal oasis down hyar corntained 29 palm trees planted by th' Serrano varmints fum native Mor'ongo an' Yuhaviatam, dawgone it. Thar's an ol’ lake down at th' basin of th' mountains on over yan'er, but thet done dry up a long time ago. Since then, they fimed th' technicolo' movie, Tell Them Willie Fella is Hyar, aroun' these parts, an' even Robert Billy Bob Plant, fo'mer singer of a li'l ban' called Led Zeppelin, had a hit sin'le called 29 Palms, fum his solo album, Fate of Nashuns, back in nineteen hundred an' ninety three! Yup, this ol’ town hyar has got a lot of histo'y, it sho'nuff does!” “Wow,” I said. “Thanks for the history lesson. Now I think it’s time we―” “In fact,” interrupted the onld man. “I can recall on noomrous occasshuns city fellers a-comin' hyar reckonin' they own th' place, but yo' seem like nice a’yo’ng boy. Now whut in god's name is yo' doin' in place like this ol’ town hyar'?” “We’re camping,” Michael Said. “Campin'?” “Ahh-yep,” I said in a sneering voice. “Down on ol’ Melody Lane, yer campin’?” “Yup.” “Oh Wow. Yo' kids bess be careful now, yep. They say thar's a kinnibal wif a pet mountain lion named roamin aroun' down thar. “What?” I said. “That’s crazy talk.” “Yep,” he said. “The th' ol’ mountain lion's name is Timothy.” “Timothy?” “Yep! Ol’ Timmy-Boy is a real stellar hunter when it comes t'yo'ng fellas sech as yournelves. In fack, ah w'dn't be surprised eff'n he's watchin' yo' all fum a distance right now as we speak.” We all stared at the old man, dumbfounded. He smiled at us revealing his rotten teeth. He hacked up a ball of phlegm and spit at one of the bells hanging on his porch. The bell chimed from the impact of the glob of spit. “On that note,” I said. “I think we’re gonna get going. Thanks for the directions, and you have yourself a fine day, Mister.” I waved to him, turned around, and started walking to the front gate. He proceeded to warn us as we were walking back. “No problem at all. Yo' fellas stay safe out thar, an' remember, eff'n yo' hear ol’ Timothy callin', bess be on yer toes, b’cuz his old master might not be too far, an' eff'n he git yo', well, yo' might as fine beg th' old lo'd t'take yer life right then an' thar, on account o' when he takes yo' back, an' yo' see them blue eyes he got up thar, yer gonna knows thet life’s was a precious gift t'be treasured, in all t' tarnation.” He raised his voice. “Like hay! Fry mah hide! Now make it while th' sun still a’shine! Fry mah hide!” I turned around and looked at the old man one last time as he let out a diabolical laugh, turning into an intense series of coughs. I turned back around at my friends, who both gave me nervous looks. “Ah, nice boys,” I heard him say under his breath. We left the house and never looked back. “Crazy old hermit.” I mocked him, “Ju guys hear thar's a kinnibal on over yan'er?” Pshhhh, give me break.” Eric looked at me, concerned. “You guys don’t think there’s actually a―” “What,” I said. “A cannibal? With a pet mountain lion?” He looked back at me anxiously. “No,” I said. “It’s a silly story the guy’s just using to scare us. He probably just doesn’t like us, coming from the city, and disrupting his isolated little world. But you know what? We have just as much of a right to be here as he does. Now c’mon. Let's get back to camp.” We exited the campsite. I looked back at the old gutted house and could still make out the pair of painted blue eyes from afar. We took the hermit’s directions. We made a left at the old hanging tree and followed the road until we saw the ramskull lying on the corner of the intersection of two dirt roads. I looked back at the wall and saw someone walking from up the road ahead. It was the first person we’d seen walking out there. He walked off in the other direction. We made another left and continued along the road until we saw the signpost that read Melody Ln. “I see it,” said Michael. “I see it.” Smoke was rising from the boys’ barbeque and we could see our camp in the distance. We walked toward it. “Where did you guys run off to,” asked Jerry. “Oh. Nowhere special,” I said. Jerry shrugged and sat down by the fire pit. He went to the car, and dug through the trunk. He pulled out the black brief-case and took it over to the homespun shack. “Guys, check this out.” He entered the briefcase’s combination and put on a pair of rubber gloves as everyone gathered around. Sam turned on a song I’d heared on the radio. “Overthinking’s got me drinking. Messin’ with my heaeaeaead. Tell me what you hate about me. Whatever it is I’m sorry. Yeah ayeee, yeah, ayee yeaaahh. Yeah ayeee, yeah, ayeee yeahhhh. “I’m coming to terms with a broken heart, I guess that sometimes good things fall apart.” I hated the verses but (in the moment) the chorus gave me goosebumps as I sat and listened to the music. I saw the mountains in the distance, and with the sun shining on our campsite, I thought the world is beautiful. “Guys, do you see this,” I asked. “What man? What is it,” asked Jerry. “This. All of this. Do you see?” “It’s a great spot.” said Eric. “It's amazing.” We stared off into the distance. There wasn’t a road in sight. There were no cars, or buildings, and aside from a few old farmhouses and trailers, there weren’t any people. The only thing in front of us was a vast mountain range overlooking a dried up lake. From where I was standing, it was hard to tell how far the mountains actually were. “I think I’m gonna go out there,” I said. Sam looked at me in disbelief. “Out there?” he said. “Yeah. I’m going out there.” I walked toward the mountains. They looked to be a least a few miles off. I stared back atTom, Eric, Sam, and Jerry. “Come on guys,” I called out. “Let's explore.” “You know,” Sam said. “There isn’t anything out there besides barren land and desert trash. Now, if you wanna make the best of this experience, sit down, and just listen to the music. It’s hot out and if you go out there alone, you’re just going to get severely dehydrated.” I kept walking. I wanted to make it to the mountains and I was also wondering who was willing to follow. I saw some power lines in the distance. If I could make it to the power lines, I’d have a clearer sense of how far away the mountains were. I walked through the basin. There were some plants scattered around, but it was mostly just rocks and dirt. I stepped in a tiny mound with black ants crawling about. It was an anthill. My body tensed up as I scurried away, shaking my foot around. It was another twenty minutes or so before I reached the power lines. I thought once I had reached them, I’d have a better sense of the distance to the mountains. But it looked like the mountains were about twenty times the distance I had just traversed. Suddenly I felt a breeze and heard footsteps from behind me. Someone grabbed me by the shoulder. I turned around and it was Eric. “Eric.” I shook my head. “ It’s not smart to sneak up on somebody, especially when there's no one else around.” “Bro,” he said. “This place is beautiful.” “Yeah it is.” I looked out at the mountain. “I can’t tell how far those mountains are. I thought once I got to these power lines they wouldn’t feel so far, but now they seem even further.” “Some kind of optical illusion,” he said. “You know, I run track laps at school and here I am trying to quantify the distance between me and these mountains― wondering how many track laps it would take to reach those mountains, but out here in the wild,” I said. “There are no measurements, no track laps, and all these numbers…”, we shared a look and both started laughing. “They don’t mean shit,” he said. “Exactly,” I said. “It doesn't matter out here. It’s just endless land.” “Do you see how the mountain’s are at different distances? It looks like they’re stacked on top of each other.” “I feel like Mosses, wandering around this desert.” “What are you on about?” “You know all these biblical guys who wandered around the desert who say they spoke to god?” “Yeah,” I said. “What about them?” “Do you ever wonder if maybe all they did was exactly what we’re doing right now? You always hear stories of the burning bush and, well, who knows? Maybe Moses just took a whiff of something he shouldn’t have, and had a vision.” “Could be true,” he said. “I know I’m definitely feeling some type of way right now. Out here, looking at all of this, I could see how someone could feel connected to a higher power.” He had black sunglasses covering his eyes, and a smile was brewing on his face. “You know you don’t have to follow me out here,” I said. “In fact, you probably shouldn’t. I’m a fool. I'm the type to wander alone out here and get lost.” “It’s okay fam, I wanna be out here the same as you.” He took a deep breath of air and let it out. He walked ahead of me looking as though he were ready to conquer the mountains ahead. After a few more steps he collapsed to the ground and vomited. Then he sat on the ground and looked up at the sky. He kept vomiting as I patted him on the back. He then made his way into a meditative position as the wind passed through his body. You gonna be okay?” I asked him. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “You go on.” “I won’t go far,” I said. I walked out into the basin. The landscape shifted purely to desert. There were no plants or animals. There weren’t even any bugs on the ground. Just reddish soil and rocks. It looked like Mars. I came across an old rusted out Volkswagen Bug. There were bullet holes on the driver’s-side door, but there were no remains of a body to be seen. I figured the scene had to have been from a while ago, so I kept walking. I found an old refrigerator with more bullet holes, except these bullet holes were tiny and clumped together in concentrated areas. I looked around the refrigerator and found a purple shotgun shell. My heart skipped a beat and I dug through my pocket. I pulled out the other purple shell I had found, and held the identical shells side-by-side up to the light. They were exactly the same. There was a lump in my throat. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and opened the door. A skeleton plopped onto the ground in front of me. The arms and legs had been removed and the breastplate on the upper left quadrant of the torso had been broken. Someone had gone for its heart. On the inside of the refrigerator door ―just where the shells had hit― was a painting of two eyes; the same two eyes as the wall of the empty house. I slammed the refrigerator door, and saw a figure in the distance coming towards me. I was able to make out its silhouette. It was a brooding man with long hair and he held an iron in his right hand. I sprinted to the mountains as fast as I could, but felt a hand on my left shoulder pulling my body back around. I couldn’t fight it. Then I heard his voice. “Hey Jack, what’s the problem?” I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times. “Jerry?” I said. “Why do you have a tire iron?” “Protection,” he said. “You never know what you’ll run into out here.” “You sure don’t.” He laughed, relieved that he had found me. “You've been out here a while, man, I was worried. C’mon I’ll take you back to camp.” He gave me a pat on the back and we headed off together. The sun beginning to set.
