The closer I approach the front door of the house, the more familiar the place becomes. Christine and I may have once taken refuge here not so long ago— But how do you explain the lawn? It’s been mowed — very recently. “There you are!” a voice behind me calls out. I reach over my shoulder as I swing toward the voice, only I find no weapon on my back. My rifle and pack must have fallen away from me during my tumble down the hill. I’m defenseless to the man hustling out of the tree line, and the closer he moves forward, the slower and more cautious his footsteps become. This strikes me as quite odd; the pursuer is more reserved and hesitant than I am. Even stranger, this man is clean-shaven and wearing a black suit, with a white longsleeved shirt underneath and a tie hanging loosely around his collar. Peculiar attire for the end of the world. “Where have you been, Dwight?” the man asks with his hands raised in mock surrender. He knows my name. I recognize him. I know him. But I can’t place him. “We’ve been scouring the woods for you,” this man tells me. His voice and his eyes convey a sense of genuine concern. He carefully approaches, each step more wary and deliberate than the last. “We saw your pack and rifle were gone. Figured you went camping since you and— ” He hesitates. “You had everybody worried.” I take in my surroundings, this house, this yard, blinking the sweat out of my eyes. “Where am I?” The man frowns at me. Then he turns his palms out and spreads his arms as he slowly approaches. “You’re home, Dwight. Come on. It’s time to go. We can’t start without you.” Home? How could this be? My home is gone, destroyed. Who is this man? And where is Christine? Who is everybody, and what were they worried about? What is it they can’t start without me? “Come on, Dwight,” the man says with a pat on my shoulder as he passes me. He’s heading toward the house. “We’ll get you cleaned up.” The man opens the front door and waves at me to follow, and then he turns inside, leaving the door open. Beyond that door, I see, at the far end of a long, narrow hall, Christine. My wife is sitting in a den near a fireplace, completely still, her profile facing me. She doesn’t seem to notice the man proceeding down the hall, moving closer to her. I sprint across the lawn, slowing down and quieting my steps as I reach the inside. The man moves through the hallway, making his way straight toward my wife. I sneak up behind him, wrap my arms around his neck, and squeeze. Reeling him backward, we both fall to the floor. The man squirms and chokes, but my arms don’t let up. I hold the pressure, strangling the life out of him. It lasts a minute, maybe more, and then the man is no more. I shove him off me and sit up, peering down the hallway where I saw my wife sitting a moment ago. She’s not there. “Christine?” I call out. “Christine, where are you?” With no answer from within the house, I set out into the apocalyptic landscape. Searching. No. 148
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