Page 153 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

doors had been blasted open, as if some gigantic creature
had rampaged through the structure. There were signs that
the corpses and damaged objects had been gnawed upon.
“Just a little further, now,” said the sad, dead whisper.
“We’re almost there.”
“Very well,” I said.
As I ascended the stairs to the upper levels of the
farmhouse, I was passed by a small pack of red-mouthed
coy dogs, apparently tempted into the house by a free meal.
We moved to the third story, my journey occasionally
punctuated with more ruined bodies and wild, hungry dogs.
The darkness clung to the hallway of the third floor as
if it had dried upon its walls. I could barely see the ladder
that led up into the attic. Whispers drifted down from above.
“Here we are,” the little whisper said. “Come on up. Its ok,
you’re safe. We promise.”
As I climbed the ladder, I was certain that the smile
stretching across my face glowed. I emerged into the attic,
and the darkness transformed into crows. They took wing
through a large hole in the ceiling. The pecked remains of
more corpses lay heaped into corners.
“Up here,” said the whisper from somewhere beyond the
hole in the ceiling.
“As you wish, little whisper.” I climbed up, making my
way to the rooftop. The sky was a vault of deepest gray.
“Now, look,” my host instructed, hissing out from
somewhere deep within the chimney to my left. I gazed
across the countryside, my vision pushing the haze from its
path, and I spied all the glorious death. Spread all around
the distant fields, glens, and meadows were the corpses of
untold numbers of persons and animals. Fires burned in
the distance, lines of distant houses bleeding smoke into
the blackening sky. Cars and trucks stood motionless in the
middle of the one road that cut across the countryside, their
operators crumpled beside them, red and wrecked.

156 | Mark Anzalone