by Jeff Olah
Travis continued to monitor the individuals as they moved toward his truck. The larger of the two young men, standing at what he estimated to be well over six feet tall, seemed to take a special interest in the front of the vehicle as he jogged the last few feet and laid both hands on the hood.
Their voices still within earshot, Travis slowly moved through the gate at the front of the yard and behind the large oak tree halfway to the porch.
The larger of the two spoke first as he scanned the parking lot and rubbed his hands together. “Someone’s here…”
“Who cares? Let’s go.”
“No, this truck wasn’t here ten minutes ago. I walked right through here, going to your house.”
“So? Probably just someone coming home from work, or the school janitor. Let’s go; this truck is older than both of us put together. Nothing here I want… and my lady isn’t going to wait all night. You want to meet her friend, or roll this piece of junk?”
“Hold on.” The larger of the two moved around his friend to the passenger side and pulled open the door.
The smaller man stepped back as the contents lining the floorboard spilled out onto the asphalt. “I told you, nothing here for us, just a bunch of pictures. Let’s go.”
“Wait… what the hell is this?”
“What?”
“There are only two.”
“Two… you’re an idiot,” said the smaller man. “There’s probably a thousand pictures in that truck and now on the ground.” Shaking his head, he grabbed his friend. “Come on.”
“No, look.” The larger man reached into the truck and pulled out a handful of photos. “There are only two pictures. This woman… and this little boy. What the hell? Just hundreds of copies of the same two people.”
“Whatever, yeah, it’s creepy. I’m going.”
The larger man looked over the bed of the truck, into the school, and then scanned the parking lot as his friend walked away. He then tossed the remaining photos to the ground and looked back over his shoulder, unknowingly making eye contact with Travis. He continued to stare for the next few moments before stepping away from the truck and moving off toward his friend. “Let’s go.”
His heart beating through three layers, Travis waited until the men disappeared behind the school and squatted into the shadows afforded by the tree. Leaning back, he slid down into the grass. With too many voices battling for his attention, he slipped the revolver back into his jacket and closed his eyes.
One… two… three… four…
In the preceding six months, he’d never had to go to his upper threshold of ten and only twice made it past seven. Both times, he had been sitting in a courtroom full of people, all eyes watching his every action.
Eight… nine…
As two lines of sweat raced from his cheeks to the corners of his mouth, Travis could feel his heart beating in his ears. He relaxed his shoulders and slumped forward. Taking in a long breath, he exhaled slowly through his nose, and then opened his eyes. Three times he repeated the process, until the thunder in his head began to subside.
His hands on his knees, Travis pushed to a standing position and, staying behind the tree, scanned the front and side yards. Nothing.
Pulling back his sleeve, Travis checked the time. With no further distractions, he would be standing at the door in less than four minutes having completed his mission. The man less than thirty feet away would no longer exist, and the voices crying out would finally be redeemed.
One final check of his surroundings, and then stepping away from the tree, Travis was reminded that the call he’d placed less than two minutes earlier was still active. The woman’s words, although unrecognizable buried deep in his coat pocket, held less urgency and were set apart at an even pace.
More concerned with the fact that the call continued than the actual conversation, Travis smiled for the first time as he stepped up to the side gate. He reached over, quietly unlatching the hasp and confidently pushed through.
Closing the gate, he stepped between two overturned trashcans, walked around a partially opened pizza box, and placed his back against the home. The damaged wood siding felt cool against his palms as he moved to a squatting position and waited for his eyes to adjust once again. Although he was wasting valuable time, one misstep at this point could destroy everything.
Peering up from under the shade of his hood and away from the illuminated street lamps, Travis could again read the topography of the side yard. Another trashcan ten feet away, a rusted-out lawn mower further on, and just before the rear yard, a dog kennel, which he assumed hadn’t seen any use in years.
Again, his watch taunted him. Less than three and a half minutes before a black and white would arrive in front of the home, and he hadn’t even found his way to the interior. Weaving his way through the garbage, Travis stopped at the corner of the home and looked out over the backyard. Stepping out, he took a deep breath and jogged the short distance to the rear slider.
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About the Author
Jeff Olah is the author and creator of the best-selling series The Dead Years, The Last Outbreak, and The Next World. He writes for all those readers who love good post-apocalyptic, supernatural horror, and dystopian/science fiction.
His thirst for detailed story lines and shocking plot twists has been fueled over the years by stories from Cormac McCarthy, Ray Bradbury, and Stephen King. He also has a difficult time tearing himself away from character-driven dramas like The Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, and LOST.
Jeff is addicted to lifting weights, running hills, and chocolate protein shakes (Must Have Daily!). He lives in Southern California with his wife, daughter, and seven-year-old Chihuahua.
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