<\/p>\n
He drove through the sprawling, suburban development where he and his friends held on to a rented rancher. The house was about a mile from the main road, sitting squarely on an acre lot. It was a sweet deal. He\u2019d never be able to afford the rent on his own, but with three people it was a breeze. They didn\u2019t do much along the lines of landscaping, or even mowing the lawn, but the place was still a beautiful pocket in the otherwise soulless suburbs, a development carved out of farmland 60 years ago. All around the development, all the new stuff was townhouses and apartments crowded around a six lane highway, but their old place still had a touch of post-war DC. Before subways and the absorption of the surrounding communities. Their development had been built when the area was rural. There were even a few homes, sitting on larger lots, that kept horses, though the old bridle path had been turned into a one lane road many years ago. It had been the most comfortable living arrangement he had had since leaving home and going to school. He\u2019d miss the places more than neighbors and co-workers. Hell, on a wooded acre, there were no neighbors.<\/p>\n
As he drove through the development, he understood just what it was that had kept him from losing his mind in the subway. It wasn\u2019t really about the people. He\u2019d been soured in that respect, had become cynical. The house had spoiled him, he\u2019d become used to quiet surroundings. He\u2019d become used to being distant from everyone but his closest associates. So what if the world died? Had he ever been a part of it, except to cash paychecks? He shopped online, moved through life alone.<\/p>\n
The road through the development was clear \u2013 only two abandoned cars and a few bodies were visible along the side. When he reached his house, he stopped the van and studied the one-story rancher for a moment, looking at the windows for some sign of life. He didn\u2019t pull into the driveway but, instead, onto the wet lawn, keeping the front wheels on the skirt of the road. The wooded lawn was calm and peaceful in the rain. Azizi\u2019s little Toyota was parked in the driveway and, outwardly, there was no sign of anything unusual.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre they here?\u201d Molly asked quietly.<\/p>\n
Daryl flinched. \u201cOne car is missing.\u201d He opened the door. \u201cStay here.\u201d He handed her the little cop gun.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, like I can use this.\u201d She put the gun on the dashboard, laying it down gingerly as if it were a bomb. \u201cYou may need it more than I.\u201d She stared at it for a moment, then turned to him. She looked as if she was about to say something, then she shook her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust keep an eye out.\u201d He leapt down onto the road and walked cautiously across the lawn to the house. The door was locked, the inside quiet. He dug out his keys and pushed the door open. The possibilities consuming his thoughts were dreadful. He didn\u2019t know which would be worse \u2013 finding his friends dead, or finding them missing. Either way, he felt that any discovery he made in this house would unravel the chain that had kept him halfway calm up to this point. This was home, and his only two real friends. Would he be able to look at their corpses? To leave this place behind for good?<\/p>\n
Outside of Azizi\u2019s room, he had to swallow and remind himself to breathe. He pushed the bedroom door open with his boot and poked his head into the room. Empty. Martin\u2019s room and the rec room were empty as well. He moved into his own room and sat down heavily on his bed, gazing out the picture window at the rain-swept backyard and the roiling grey clouds. What the hell had happened? He fell back on his bed and lay there for a moment, staring at the motionless ceiling fan.<\/p>\n
No time for a breakdown. He sat up and looked at his room for what was probably the last time. CD\u2019s lined one wall, books the other. His plants, vibrant and green against the rainy day outside the picture windows, would soon fade. His computer sat blank and silent, home to so much writing, so many thoughts, letters and emails from past loves. Lost loves. A lava lamp sat on a shelf. It had traveled with him for over a decade. A blue bottle of vodka propped on the very edge of a lower shelf, the title of Kinross\u2019s history of the Ottoman Empire white and bold against it.<\/p>\n
For a while, he wondered what he should take with him. What was useful now? He moved towards the computer desk, looking down at notes and aspirin bottles and knick knacks and binders and checkbooks and movie paraphernalia. He looked at the shelves, at all the books and CD\u2019s. Countless online orders, gifts, hours spent in bookstores.<\/p>\n
There was nothing. He backed out into the hallway, closed the door, and placed a hand on it. Goodbye, he thought. Goodbye Daryl Gillette.<\/p>\n
He turned and walked down the hallway into the kitchen, stopping for a moment in the gloom and taking in the familiar sounds. Refrigerator, heater still on in the basement, the hum of life still busily rolling through the house. The bachelor motif was strong, though age had begun to mellow he and his friends. The house was presentable, the kitchen clean. He reached for the fridge, then froze and stared at a sheet of college-ruled paper, torn along the edges, taped to the door. It was written in Martin\u2019s wandering scrawl. A few lyrics from Pink Floyd\u2019s Brain Damage<\/em>, haunting on paper. \u2018The lunatic is on the grass.\u2019 That had meaning. They had been here, then. The creatures. Daryl didn\u2019t need to make any jumps to understand what his friend of 15 years was telling him.<\/p>\n Then one word at the bottom: Sugar<\/em>.<\/p>\n Sugarloaf Mountain. About an hour out of DC. Martin was alive.<\/p>\n Daryl should have felt elated but, instead, a deeper sense of dread settled upon him. He was suspicious, doubtful. Something comes along and kills everyone, but his friends and the girl who had caught his eye on the train survive. He wasn\u2019t a firm believer in fate and coincidence. There was a sense of design to this situation, and he didn\u2019t like that feeling at all.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[56],"tags":[404],"class_list":["post-504","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-nachos-lousy-novel","tag-nachos-lousy-novel"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/504","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=504"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/504\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":797,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/504\/revisions\/797"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=504"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=504"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=504"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}