A quick note about style. I started the story as if engaged in a dialogue with Cora. Cora's player responded by writing in first person. The story is our game posts, one after the other. If the paragraph talks in the second person ("you see...."), then I probably wrote it. If the paragraph talks in the first person ("I walk...."), then Cora's player probably wrote it.

Until I decide on a method to indicate what writing belongs to whom, there is no physical way (font, color, size, italics, etc.) to distinguish between the two. The content, on the other hand, should clue you in pretty easily. :)

Once the players get together, I may ask them to write in the more standard third person, so all the writing meshes together well. But, for now, I kind of like the way that the different perspectives work with only two writers involved.

Cora's Dream

It's been a strange year so far, and September isn't shaping up to be much better.

The run-in with 'Johnny Reb' (as you've come to think of him) was unnerving, but he's human. Certainly nothing like the things hinted at in your bad dreams. Human you can deal with. It's the other things that are more challenging.

You are beginning to miss contact with other humans, and hope to find some soon. The Indian Mounds park was a bust. No people, no signs. On to Elgin. Any place that ran 'Johnny Reb' out of town can't be all bad.

Packing up, you leave the park. It's hard to leave; the place seems so serene. Finally, loneliness compels you to depart. But, apparently, the mud wants you to stay. The car is stuck and it's getting dark. You decide to wait it out, sleeping in the car once more.

You have another strange dream. This one, unlike the others, wasn't a bad dream. It was just strange. The next morning, you can recall the dream almost perfectly.

you wake up, exhausted. You hear something howl in the distance. You spend the rest of the night in the car, afraid to look out and unable to sleep.

Fortunately, the rest of the night passes without incident. It is a simple (though messy) matter to get some wood, place in between the tires and the mud, and get moving. You drive south along highway 76, wondering what the dream meant. Time's up? End of time? 'No, the end of time already came...' Your thoughts are interrupted by an annoying grating sound as the car's engine grinds to a halt.

It looks like you're on foot from now on. But which way to go? South, to Elgin? Or North, back through the Indian Mounds?

And what to take with you?

Cora's Day

I try the key again. Just a grinding noise. Get out of the car, pop the hood and look underneath. Well, nothing wrong that I can see. Not that I’d know.

I stare up at the increasingly distant sun. Not too cold, but not that pleasant either. Pulling the jacket a little bit closer around me. Pushing down the hood, I get back into the car and eat the last of a box of Wheaties that I had found. I sit staring out the windshield for…how long? I don’t have a watch and the clock in the car was never really set right. I doubt that it makes a difference.

Thinking about time, and just how much of it, yet how little of it there was kind of motivated me. Zipping up my jacket, grabbing the rucksack, I take the keys out of the car and slip them into my pocket. I’m already 5 steps away from the car when I pause a second. My hand goes into my pocket and just feeling the metal of the key. I kind of give a half smile, thinking myself as rather silly for taking the keys to the car, since obviously it doesn’t work and there’s absolutely no one to steal it. I just can’t bring myself to leave them behind though.

The path is pretty obvious, onto Elgin. The park was nice. Camping there was pleasant, away from civilization and the memories that the cities once held. The wind blew through the hills and trees, almost like a whisper. The bad dreams stopped for a while. The small tent, lantern and sleeping bag that I grabbed were really helpful. Not all the whispers were good ones though. A flip of the head. I guess it was kind of silly driving off with just the bag and the lantern leaving the other stuff behind just because I felt like I was being watched. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew that I had to.

It was spooky though and I felt better after I left. With just the clothes on my back, the backpack, the map a little bit of food and this walking stick, I find myself walking down the road. I’m walking on the shoulder. I guess I don’t really want to be that obvious, in case there’s anyone else on the road. “Johnny Reb” was a trip. Elgin is the only good thing that he spouted out. He kept on swearing he’d get back at those folks. Another shake of the head. Keep on walking. He’s gone now.

Eventually, I find a gas station by the side of the road. I crouch behind some shrubs as I scout out the scene. It looks and sounds abandoned. I sneak up, still a little worried. The windows are busted out and the place looks looted. Rubber on the ground looks like tire marks. A closer look and I think that it’s a couple of motorcycles. Doesn’t bode well.

Inside the store is a mess. Shattered glass and toppled shelves. Most of the merchandise is gone, but I start scrounging around. A lot of loose change, some sunglasses and a couple boxes of cookies crushed under a fallen shelf. I drink a bottle of soda and use the bathroom here. Imagine, finding luxury in a gas station bathroom, something that wouldn’t have happened before.

On the way out, a trampled postcard catches my eye. I snatch it up and keep on walking. Gotta use every minute of daylight. Elgin seems far away. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or not. The postcard has some pictures of landmarks on it. One of them is Mount Rushmore. I walk and think of the dream. Crazy Horse, Cary Grant, Shotguns, Johnny Reb. That was strange. And Cary Grant, where did he come from? I walk and try and think of some Cary Grant movies.

I end up walking for most of the day. Nothing interesting. I see some cars on the road. Not moving of course. Just sitting there. One crashed into a tree, but no one there either. Spooky. By the time that it started to get dark, I was ready to lie down. Dead tired, but not dead. At least that’s one thing. Walk a little bit off the road until I find what looks to be a safe place. Gathered up some fallen branches and make a lean-to to block some of the wind. Eat a couple of cookies from the gas station and lay down. Too tired to make a fire tonight. Only a minute or two after I lie down, I’m fast asleep.

Tired from walking, sleep comes easily.

With sleep, come the dreams.

Nothing new, this time. Same old, same old. Standing in line, waiting for judgement. Alex. Phillip. Unable to move forward with them.

Once or twice, you wake with a start. In the dark, you hear something howling. Fortunately, it sounds far off and you drift back to sleep.

Around dawn, the howling wakes you again. But this time, it's closer.

And it's answered by another close howl--from the opposite direction.

The road is in bad shape, and travel is slow. You had hoped to cross the Mississippi River at Prairie du Chien, but the bridge was out. With the howling still rattling your nerves, you press on. The next major city would be...Dubuque? Your shoulders slump as you realize that Dubuque is probably 50 miles away. With the bad roads, foraging for food, and watching out for anything (or one) that may be dangerous, it could take a few days to get there.

After another hour of walking, you see a billboard by an intersection:

Field of Dreams? Like, the movie? It's about the same mileage to Dubuque. It must be away from the river a bit. It looks like the main road continues to Dyersville. The Great River Road, which cuts southeast to follow the river and pass through Dubuque, looks like no more than an overgrown trail. Without a car, both are passable.

Neither choice is ideal. A better road going somewhere nice, but not where you want to go. Or an overgrown trail, with no signs indicating any towns before Dubuque--foraging there might be difficult indeed.

You sit down, chewing on one of the remaining cookies, before you make your decision.

Cora: Day 2

Sometimes the dreams are worse than the waking. The ones with Phillip and Alex are the worst. Blinking tears from my eyes, I sit and munch on the last of the cookies, colder wind whipping around me today.

Eventually I get the energy and motivation to move. Walking hurts my legs, but I'm getting used to it. Sometimes I use the walking stick more than other, going on, looking at the trees, but in a different way.

Definately not the same as driving. Detail and noise come from everywhere, the rustling of the leaves is loud. I look at them, not as scenery or beauty, but this time, as potential concealment. Either hiding me from whatever dangers are on the road, or else hiding ambushers that may lurk.

This highway looks abandoned. Hasn't been used in a while and even if I had the car, I'm not sure if it would be safe to drive on it or not.

The bridge out at Prarie du Chien was a big disappointment. I sat there for a while. Then looked for a boat, and then considered making my own. No luck. I guess they call it the 'mighty Mississippi' for a reason. Might think about swimming it, but it's getting too cold, and I don't think that I could make it.

More walking and then the sign. I sit down and just stare at it.

I sit thinking for a while. About a lot of stuff really. The sign is hypnotizing. That much promise and so close. Before the times, I used to think that 40 or 50 miles was nothing. Just an hour's ride in the car. Less if Phillip was driving. 10 miles more to Dubuque might mean a half a day more of walking. I sit and think some more. Especially about the last couple months, the devastation, Johnny Reb and everything that I've seen.

Almost on impulse, I get up and start walking along the river, towards Dubuque. Yes, it's overgrown; yes, it's longer; yes, it may be more dangerous; yes, there might not be as much chance to forage, (but what about fishing?).

Another shake of the head. At least Dubuque doesn't offer the hope that Dyersville does. I thought about trying to destroy the sign, and all the hopes and dreams that it promises, but I didn't. Maybe someone else still has it in them to visit a 'field of dreams' of this new world.

I don't. All my dreams are gone now, along with those that I love. My only path is onto Elgin. No hope, no dreams, just make the best that I can.

'Dubuque it is!" you think, confidently, as you start down the Great River road toward Dubuque. It's not much of a road any more; the Blues have attacked the asphalt and the Greens have moved right in. Still, it's not a bad walk, though a year from now it will probably be impossible to tell a road was ever here.

The changes from Before are strange in their irregularity. Why does one thing decay, but not another just like it? You wonder as you press on down the road, but no satisfactory answers come forth. Maybe it's all just a crap shoot.

You pass by a rusted sign that says, "Great River Road," and you realize that you can't see the river. Indecisive for only a moment, you decide to trust the sign. Surely, you're on the road still; the accelerated growth of the vegetations just obscures the view.

Doesn't it?

You wish you'd find some one to talk to. Any one. Well, almost anyone. The loneliness is unbearable, and if you could just talk to a nice person for a while, you're sure that you'd be energized for a week. Alas, you have seen no one in over three days and you don't know if you can go another three days without human contact. Dubuque is a large town; surely someone will be there.

In the meantime, you're getting hungry. The cookies are long gone. It's late afternoon, and you are getting hungry. Just as your hunger begins to let fear creep into your mind, you breathe a sigh of relief. There, seen through a break in the vegetation, is the river. What's more, you notice a few rusting road signs. The first says

The second sign, with a familiar U.S. Hwy outline, says

(centered in the highway logo). Underneath, a large arrow points straight up, signalling that a major U.S. highway is ahead.

'The road will get better,' you think. 'It must!'

'And a town. Food!'

It appears that you are on the main street of the town, approaching from the north end.

You walk a little further, and see the offical "20 m.p.h." speed limit sign. You also notice side streets, overgrown with tall grass. There is less grass on this main road. You also notice some railroad tracks to the east (toward the river), but they look to be in really bad shape.

You look for a grocery store and find one--a small one. Unfortunately, it was looted long ago. The local pharmacy looks even worse. "Someone must have needed a fix, and bad!" you say to yourself. "Yes," you answer yourself.

You walk a few more steps and suddenly stop. You're talking to youself. In different voices. You'd better find companionship, and quickly--before you fall off the deep end.

But for now--food. Where to search--one of the houses on the side streets? Other stores? Or press on, hoping there's a bigger store once you hit U.S. Highway 52?

The shadows are getting long; the temperature is dropping. You shiver once, then rub your arms for warmth.

Food. Shelter. Safety. The basic needs never change. It's a long way to self-actualization from here and your stomach doesn't care about that anyway. It just wants some food.

Welcome to Guttenberg, Iowa.

The Blues and Greens really aren't that bad. It makes things tougher, but it's a lot more scenic. All of this undergrowth though is disturbing. Fortunately, all the animals have stayed away so far. The Great River Road doesn't really seem all that Great anymore. Kinda like a path.

Why are those signs still standing? I'm sure that I would have passed dozens of signs, but saw none on the way here. Yanking the Hwy 52 sign off the post isn't that difficult, especially after beating it with the walking stick for a while. It's a little big and awkward, but I manage to attach it to the backpack somehow. Kind of heavy though.

Now a smaller town. At least something. Disappointment when I notice that people have already been here. Not all that surprising. A lot of looting happened towards the end (or the beginning), as people thought that they didn't have anything else to lose and lots of material stuff to gain.

Talking to myself in different voices is starting to get to me. First it was just to hear something, but now it's becoming too common of a habit.

One of the houses seems a better bet than any of the stores. Veering off onto a side street, I pick one almost at random. Throwing my highway sign through the window makes some noise, but I'm hungry. Glass smashes all over the floor. I climb in. It's a kitchen that also looks gone though.

I scrounge around and find a little bit of food. Staying in the kitchen, I pick up rubbish and start a small fire in the sink for light. Sitting down at a table in the first time in how long, I look at the remnants of what used to be someone's life.

Naturally, you were drawn to the house in the best condition. It's a little larger than most you've seen in this town, and much less decayed. That's probably what drew you to it.

As you sit in the kitchen, next to your makeshift fireplace, two thoughts cross your mind.

First, the back door is ajar. A small smile appears on your face, as you realize you didn't have to break a window and climb in like a common thief. Oh well, what's done is done.

Second, the canned food you're eating is actually quite good. Maybe that's just the hunger--anything would probably taste pretty good right now. No, you decide, this is good. Canned food. As in, canned at home in a glass jar, not a can of food from the supermarket. Perhaps there's more.

You haven't explored the house yet. From your seat in the kitchen, you can see the back door, the window you crawled in, a doorway leading to the rest of the house, and one more door which probably leads to a basement. It is closed.

As you ponder your options, the silence is broken--for just a second--by a soft creaking sound from behind the closed door.

You are not alone in the house.

The House

Never thought it would lead to breaking and entering, but desperate times call for desperate actions. It definitely has been too long on the road and the ravages of this time have taken a toll. Sitting in a mostly dark room eating from a jar is not what I had in mind. It even took more a minute or so to look for silverware, that's how hungry I was.

This house used to look nice. Most likely had good people in it at one time. Good people. That's most likely why they're gone now. Just like Alex and Phillip. Someone had to be left behind with that many gone.

Philosophical thoughts vanish in an instant, when the small creak is noted. A moment of indecisiveness and then action. Hunger and loneliness caused me to be sloppy and careless. This could lead to another 'Johnny Reb' incident.

I throw the table over, silverware clattering and the glass jar breaking on the floor as it impacts. I've already made enough noise as it is. Crouching behind the table with my walking stick leveled in my arms, I order in the most ferocious voice that I can. 'You, come out of there. I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it!'

The dim fire casts shadows over the precious mess on the floor and the tiles of the kitchen as I wait for a response.

You don't have to wait long.

It's a bit muffled through the door, but you hear an older voice say angrily, 'This is my house. You get out. Now!'

From behind the door, you hear the unmistakable clicking sound of a gun being cocked.

'One.... Two.... Three...' The voice is counting. But to what?

It's getting dark outside, and the darkness does not look inviting. You wonder what to do. Fight? Flight? Or something else?

Escape from Then...

The sound of the clicking gun comes and memories flood back into place. Things from The Reckoning and Johnny Reb. It only takes a split second to make the decision.

Grabbing the rucksack (fortunately with a can or two of food in it). I bust through the door and out into the wild. Zigging and zagging really doesn't help all that much when you can't see at all. A sliver of moon is hidden behind the clouds.

Even though I can't see anything, that doesn't stop me from looking back to see if anything is following me. Sadly, that is one of the times that I run into something. Hard. Splayed out and dazed, all I can feel is a horrible pain in my leg.

As you bolt out the door, you could swear you hear someone shout "Wait!"

Nevertheless, you keep running until your encounter with the broad side of a barn. As pain shoots up and down your leg, you try to force yourself to calm down. After several seconds of breathing exercises (remembered from Lamaze class), you can focus your thoughts. The pain is still there, but the intensity is changing. Instead of sharp shooting pains, it's now a very powerful, dull ache. You realize, with a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, that you left your walking stick back in the house.

As you sit there, nursing your injured leg as best you can in the dark with no medicine, you hear something.

"Where are you? I didn't want you to run away. I just....was scared."

Apparently, the old person from the house is looking for you.

A Light in the Darkness

Stars dance between my eyes and there's pounding. I almost can't believe what I'm hearing, but I'm really in no shape to hide. Reluctantly, I speak up, 'I'm...uh, over here.' Panting heavily I manage to grab and flick on my flashlight from the bag.

This guy doesn't sound all that bad. I guess that we're all a little jumpy with all the badness that has gone on. I'd be territorial too...that is if I had anything to be territorial of.

The light lances through the darkness and I wave my flashlight around while grasping my leg. Noise increases as the light gets closer. I clench my mouth, close my eyes and hope for the best.

You hear the man before you see him. He's carrying a gun, but not in a threatening manner. As he walks toward your light, he stops suddenly.

"You're hurt," he says, the surprise obvious in his voice. "Here, let me help you up." Stuffing the gun in his pocket, he extends his hand and helps you to your feet. He then bends down and picks up your bag. "Come on. We really shouldn't be out in the night."

He helps you back to the house, Fortunately, you hadn't run very far.

In the kitchen, he motions to a chair. "Sit down." He takes a few candles out of the cupboards and lights them. As you try to ignore the throbbing ache in your leg, he starts to clean up. He shuts the door, rights the table, and starts to sweep. He stops, abruptly, and says, "Gotta fix that window. He drops the broom, goes into the basement, and returns a moment later with a hammer and some nails. Setting them down on the counter, he descends the stairs once again and returns with a few boards. He starts nailing them in place, over the window you smashed in earlier. When he's done, he sets the hammer down on the counter. You notice that he has no nails left over. He grabs the broom and sweeps up the mess on the floor. When it's all in a little pile, he sweeps it onto a piece of cardboard. With a shrug, he dumps it in the sink on the remains of your fire.

Done with the clean-up, he sits down in a chair and sighs. "Guess it's time to leave this place." He looks around the room, sadness in his eyes. "In the morning, we can go."

"Where you headed? Where're you from?" he asks.
 

A Friend?

The pain subsides and transforms into shock as I realize that this man may actually be of a helpful demeanor. 'I'm not hurt badly. I think I may have just sprained something.' As he continues on, my eyes dart around. 'What's out here in the night that we should watch out for? Something dangerous around here?'

The journey back to the house is painful, but gleefully short. Sitting at the table and listening to him talk, the words seem to fill my ears and it's nice to hear something other than my own stomping feet and the wind through my hair. 'Sorry about the mess. I didn't think anyone was here. I haven't seen many people about, you? '

A little more frightened now, but oddly reassured, when he says that we'll set out in the morning. 'I'm from Kansas City and heading towards Elgin. It's the only clue that I have where people are. I headed up to one of the parks in Iowa, but really haven't seen anyone so far. It's been so long since I've actually talked to someone. Oh, I almost forgot. I'm Cora. Who are you and where are you from?'

The old man says nothing when you ask him what's dangerous during the night. He seems very intent on getting you both inside as quickly as possible. Once you're inside, he appears to have forgotten your question.

He does smile at you when you apologize for the mess, and responds to your question. "I'm the only one hereabouts. Was beginning to think I was the last person on earth. Just like Charlton Heston." He laughs, a sort of short snorting sound, coming from his wrinkled face. "Almost had ta leave, when the storms nearly flooded the place."

"Don't have much." He leaves the room for a minute, and comes back with a bottle. "Got some Tylenol; might help that swellin' in your leg." He hands you the bottle, and pours you a glass of water from a jug in one of the cupboards. He notices you watching him retrieve the jug. "Can't drink the tap water no more."

"Where are my manners?" he says, almost to himself. "Name's Denny. Lived here all my life. Until tomorrow, that is."

Denny helps you to the couch in the living room. As you settle in, you notice that most of the windows are boarded up from the inside--something you hadn't noticed from the outside. You must have gotten lucky with your choice of window earlier. As you rest, you hear Denny moving through the house. He brings several sacks and boxes of goods from various rooms, and deposits them at one end of the living room. While he carries a couple of loads from the basement, you hear the soft 'clink' of glass hitting glass. Hopefully, he's bringing more food.

Eventually, he sits down in a chair. "Might as well get as much sleep as you can. I'll stay up late as I can, then wake ya if I think I need ta." He pulls the gun out of his pocket. "You got any ammo? I'm plumb outta shells." He grins slyly as he adds, "Fooled you, though!"

"Goin' to Illinois, huh? Don't wanna go there. Mean things in Illinois."

"Got any other places in mind?"

 

Popping Pills

Drinking down the water and taking the aspirin quickly, I look around, seeing the old house in a new light. After finishing the water, I stare at the glass for a minute, it's a wonder how I used to take these things for granted.

'Denny, so what's with all of the windows? Where do you get your water?' Realizing that I'm asking too many questions and being somewhat impolite, I wait for his response and launch into a story.

'Well, even though I'm from Kansas City, I traveled up to a park in Iowa shortly after, ah, the big mess. I thought it would be peaceful there for a while and no one would bother me, but I was wrong. I really haven't seen many people left.'

'I've passed through a lot of empty towns, but have only really met one guy. He, ah, wasn't that nice. I think that's why I took off from you. Haven't seen anyone that's good hearted in a long time. Anyways, he said he was kicked out of Elgin, so that's the only clue that I have to go on. If they kicked him out, they must be civilized and at least a couple of folk there. He had a gun too, seems like I'm the only one without one. So there must have been more people or a couple guns or something. I really don't have any idea of where else to go.'

With the aspirin kicking in, I relax a bit more and through the calm talking, I start to relax. The next thing I know, I'm asleep. For the first time in a long time without horrible dreams.

"Well," Denny says with a small laugh, "the windows is just 'cause I'm a little paranoid. There's creatures out there, and most 'em ain't too nice. And the water, well, I just boil some every day. Gas still on. But don't know how long that'll last.

Denny listens to your story, nodding as you relate what has happened to you.

"Elgin, eh? Maybe, but I still don't wanna go to Illinois. Last car I saw had Illinois plates, and that was--heh heh--not a nice experience."

"Still, we got to go somewhere. How about we go to Dubuque in the morning. Maybe get a better car. And ammo. Then decide where to head next." It seems more like a statement than a question. You nod agreement before you drift off to sleep.

I awake, still in the chair, but it is morning. Denny is still awake and sitting in another chair keeping watch. My mind plays back to the conversation last night.

'So, what kind of beasties are out there?' I start to converse as I pack up my meager belongings.

'Dubuque is far away, so I'm all up to an early start,' I say as we nibble on a bit of breakfast. Picking up my walking stick and the satchel we head out.

Stepping off the porch, the first things that hits me is the overcast sky and how dreary it looks out today. 'No time -but- the present,' I murmur as we start the journey.

 

Denny's Story

Denny watches you get your possessions together. You notice that the stuff he carried into the room last night is gone. He looks at the "Hwy 52" sign you took, and chuckles. "You fond of highway 52, or somet'in'?"

After some home-canned food, more aspirin, and water, it's time to leave.

You feel Denny watching you as you hobble out the door. Your leg feels better; whatever you did must have been fairly minor, and you're on the mend. Still, you're not looking forward to walking today.

As you start to walk down the road, Denny says, "Dubuque ain't that far away." You turn back to look at him, and see Denny walking around the side of the house. You hear what must be a garage door opening, a vehicle starting, and then an old pickup truck pulls down the driveway, stopping to let you in. Denny gets out, goes to shut the garage door, and returns to the truck. As you get in, you notice what must be his provisions in the back, covered with a blue tarp and secured with bungee cords. Smiling a little sheepishly, you hobble around the truck and get in the passenger side.

Grinning, Denny can't help but kid you. "You didn't think we were going to walk all the way to Dubuque, did ya?" He drives down the side street to the main road. Turning south, he says, "We'll hit highway 52 in the middle of town. That'll take us right to Dubuque. We hafta go through some small towns, but we won't stop until we get to Dubuque."

You notice a shift in his voice--Denny's tone has gotten a bit more serious.

"Them things. The ones in the night I ain't told you about. They're gettin' bolder. Even if you hadn't come along, I'd a cleared outta there in a day or two." You notice that his hands are gripping the steering wheel very tightly; his knuckles are white. "Not sure what there is. In the night, I mean. We could hear 'em." He turns to look at you, to see if you are surprised. "Yes, I said we. There were a few others back in town. Don't know why we didn't live in the same house; guess we was just not thinkin'. Anyhoo, one night, after we'd all gone to our homes, I heard something. Woke me up in the middle of the night. Breakin' glass. But kinda dull, like the sound was far off. I wasn't too sure if it sounded like that 'cause I was asleep, but I wasn't takin' no chances. I got my gun. I kept it loaded. I put another handful of shells in my pocket and headed downstairs. That's when I heard the first screams."

You'd swear that Denny was reliving the moment, because he suddenly looks very nervous. He keeps his eyes on the road, and his voice cracks a bit as he asks you to pour him some water from the thermos next to him. You get the drink ready, and he gulps it down. "Thanks." He hands the "cup" back to you, and you screw it back onto the thermos.

"The screamin' came from more than one place, and I figured something had come for us. It was weird. I can remember the screams, and each one was distinct. I clearly heard Bonnie. George, too. And I'm positive I heard Chris, even though she lived far away. That's how loud she musta been screamin."

"I thought about goin' back upstairs. I thought about blowin' my brains out. But they're my friends. Were my friends, anyway. I thought 'Maybe I can save 'em.' I decided to head to Bonnie's, since she lived the closest. But when I opened the door, something was comin' right at me. Biggest damn dog I ever saw. Freaky, too. Its eyes were...different. Smart. Real smart. I brought my gun up to take a shot, and I swear that animal swerved. Knew what a gun was and tried to avoid it. Don't even remember pulling the trigger, but the next thing I know, it's dead, the gun's empty, and I'm pulling the trigger and just gettin' a 'click click click' against the empty chamber."

"By then, I couldn't hear George screamin' no more, but I could still hear Chris and Bonnie. I tried to reload the gun, but my hand was shakin' so bad, it took about forever. By then, the screamin' had stopped."

"I didn't care."

"I snuck over to Bonnie's house. A window on the ground floor was smashed in. That front porch makes a lot of noise, too, so I went around to the back door. We all had keys to each other's places--at least we were that smart. I unlocked and went in. I heard something movin' around up stairs. More than one, whatever it was. Crunchin' away on something. Probably Bonnie. Figured it was too dangerous to take on more than one at a time. So I fixed the stove. Put out the pilot light and turned on all the burners. I could still hear 'em crunchin' away, even with all the gas noise. I went back to my house. Soaked a rag in gasoline, tied it around a rock. Snuck back to Bonnie's place, lit it, and threw it in the smashed window."

"Ka-pow," he says softly.

"Blew them fuckers sky high."

"I don't always know what's out there, in the night. But it ain't good and it ain't friendly." Denny sighs, appearing exhausted from the re-telling. You see his eyes welling up, but he wipes them before any tears spill out.

"Couldn't sleep after that. Good thing, too. Something came to my house. I mean, all these houses in town and they came to mine. Like they knew. Scouted us out. And knew where all the humans were. Used up the rest of my ammo, and they didn't come back. But that was only a few days ago; I bet they'll be back some day. They just gotta think of a better plan."

A silence falls over the truck as you continue on to Dubuque. Eventually, after what feels like a period of mourning for Denny's friends, the silence turns normal. Denny's story almost seems like a bad dream. A bad dream which, fortunately, you didn't have to live through.

There are no major obstacles on the way to Dubuque. Denny cautions you to roll up your window and make sure your door is locked every time you go through a town. You can't go too fast here, just in case something shoots out of a side street, or a curve meant to be taken at 10 m.p.h. lurks downtown. It's not much comfort, but the locked door and safety glass are the only protection from anyone--or thing--that might attack the vehicle as you slow down during town.

Between the towns, Denny speeds up and you can roll down the windows and get some air. It doesn't help much with the humidity, but you'll take what you can get.

You pass a sign that marks the way to Dyersville. It, too, has a billboard promoting the field of dreams. Denny doesn't seem to notice, and you make no comment about it.

Eventually, you get to the outskirts of Dubuque.

"You know," says Denny, "maybe we should go car shoppin' while we're here. This old--"

Denny suddenly stops speaking and stops the truck. His face is pale. You look around, but don't see anything that warrants such a reaction. With a sinking spirit, you realize the problem is Denny himself. He appears to be having some kind of attack. Before things get worse, you slip the truck into park and turn off the ignition. Denny is clutching his arm, his face a grimace of pain.

Outside, a black SUV drives by, slows down, and stops.

 
 

 
 

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  Page last updated 26 April 2003