999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [175]
Getting food was becoming an increasing problem. Martin had run out of ready cash a while ago. All of the city’s banks had closed their doors by the second week of December, so his paltry savings were locked up where he couldn’t get at them.
Ultimately it didn’t matter because all of the grocery stores within walking distance of his house had been looted, anyway. Without electricity, all of the perishables had gone bad, but Martin had enough dried and canned food squirreled away to last him at least a month or so, maybe longer if he was careful. As it was, his meals were pretty uninspired—usually nothing more than cold baked beans or vegetables eaten straight from the can. All he could hope was that the situation would eventually calm down and the police would restore order so everything could start getting back to normal.
Whatever normal was in the year 2000.
Every day, as soon as the sun started to set, Martin would make sure the front and back doors were secure, then settle down for a cold meal from a can before going upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the front yard from his bedroom window. Then, usually sometime after midnight, he’d settle down to sleep.
He’d gotten so he could sleep through just about anything, unless a roving band of party-goers came too close to the house. When things started to get out of control, he would wake up and sit on his bed with his loaded shotgun cradled like a baby in his lap. The only light he used was a single candle, which he placed behind him so it would illuminate the bedroom doorway without blinding him if there was any trouble.
So far, though, there hadn’t been any trouble, and for some reason, tonight was unusually quiet. The millennium noting was still in full swing, but some distance away. When Martin looked out the upstairs window, he could see the fire-lit buildings in the distance and hear the sounds of music and riotous voices, laughing and calling out in wild abandon.
“Christ, some celebration,” he muttered.
He was in the habit of talking out loud to himself, having lived alone for the last eight years, ever since his mother had died. He had never known his father, who, according to his mother, had left the family when Martin was only one year old. Like a lot of men in tough economic times, one day he’d gone to the store for cigarettes and never come back.
There was a sharp winter chill in the air, so after listening to the distant block party for a while, Martin decided it was safe to close the window and settle down to sleep. Because there was no heat in the house—even if there had been electricity to run the furnace, there hadn’t been any oil deliveries in weeks—his mattress was heaped high with blankets and comforters. His breath made puffy white clouds as he lay down in the darkness and watched the dull orange flicker of flames against the city skyline.
He had just drifted off to sleep when he was suddenly startled awake.
For a panicky instant, Martin wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The sounds of the celebrations were still far off in the distance. Concerned, he looked around the darkened bedroom, sure that he had heard … something. But what?
Could there be someone in the house?
He felt a tingling rush of apprehension.
It was possible, he supposed, but he didn’t see how anyone could have gotten in without making enough noise to wake him up sooner.
Moving slowly so as to make as little sound as possible, Martin sat up and reached over the side of the bed to where his shotgun leaned against the wall. He felt better once it was in hand. Tossing the bedcovers aside, he swung his feet to the floor. A numbing chill ran up the back of his legs the instant his bare feet hit the icy floorboards.
Standing in a defensive crouch, he tried to stop his teeth from chattering as he waited for the sound to come again. Shivers teased like bony fingertips playing the xylophone