Seize the Night

remained close by my side, as though to remind me that my four-legged brother, who usually occupied that spot, was missing.

6
    Half the cottages and bungalows in Dead Town have only stoops.
    This was one of the other half, a bungalow enhanced by a set of brick steps leading up to a front porch.
    A spider had built a web between the pilasters flanking the top of the steps. I couldn't see this construction in the dark, but it must not have been the home of a giant mutant species, because the silk-thread spokes and spirals were so fragile they dissolved around me without resistance. Some of those fine-spun filaments clung to my face, but I wiped them away with one hand as I crossed the porch, no more concerned about the destruction that I had wrought than Godzilla is concerned about the demolished skyscrapers he leaves in his wake.
    Although events of recent weeks had given me a new and profound respect for many of the animals with which we share this world, I'd never be able to embrace pantheism. Pantheists regard all forms of life, even spiders and flies, with reverence, but I can't ignore the fact that spiders and flies—bugs and worms and wriggly things in general—will feed on me when I'm dead. I don't feel compelled to treat any creature as a fellow citizen of the planet, with rights equal to mine and deserving of all courtesies, if it regards me as dinner. I'm confident that Mother Nature understands my attitude and is not offended.
    The front door, its peeling paint somewhat phosphorescent in the moonlight, was ajar. The corroded hinges didn't creak but rasped like the dry knuckle bones of a skeleton making a fist.
    I stepped inside.
    Because I had come in here for the express reason that I felt safer under a roof than in the open, I considered closing the door.
    Maybe the birds would suddenly shake off their eerie stupor and come shrieking after me.
    On the other hand, an open door is an avenue of escape. I left it open.
    Although I was wrapped by silky blackness as effective as a blindfold, I knew I was in the living room, because the hundreds of bungalows that do have porches also share exactly the same floor plan, with nothing as grand as a foyer or front hall. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and two bedrooms.
    Even when well maintained, these humble homes had offered the minimum comforts to the mostly young military families who occupied them, each family residing here for only a couple of years between transfers.
    Now they smell of dust, mildew, dry rot, and mice.
    The floors are tongue-and-groove wood covered with many coats of paint, except for linoleum in the compact kitchen. Even under a self proclaimed master of stealth like yours truly, they squeak.
    The loose boards didn't concern me. They ensured that no one could enter from the back of the bungalow and easily sneak up on me.
    My eyes adapted to the gloom enough to allow me to see the front windows. Although these panes were set under the porch roof, they were visible even in the indirect moonlight, ash-gray rectangles in the otherwise pervasive blackness.
    I went to the nearest of the two windows, neither of which was broken.
    The glass was dirty, and with a Kleenex I polished a cleaner circle in the center of it.
    The front yards of these properties are not deep, between the Indian laurels, I had a view of the nearby street. I didn't expect to see a parade go past, but since I find majorettes in short skirts to be as much of a turn-on as anybody does, I thought it wise to be prepared.
    I switched on my cell phone again and keyed in the number for the unlisted back line that went directly to the broadcasting booth at KBAY, the biggest radio station in Santa Rosita County, where Sasha Goodall was currently the disc jockey on the midnight-to-six air shift.
    She was also the general manager, but since the station had lost the military audience—and thus a portion of its ad revenue—with the closing of Fort Wyvern, she was not the only one of the surviving employees to have assumed double duty.
    The back line doesn't ring in the booth but activates a flashing blue light on the wall opposite Sasha's microphone. Evidently, she wasn't doing on-air patter at the moment, because instead of leaving the call to the engineer, she herself picked it up, “Hey, Snowman.” I don't have sole possession of the back-line number, and like many privacy-minded people, I directed the phone company to prevent my number from registering on caller ID, yet even