Fountain of the Dead by Scott T. Goudsward

Author:Scott T. Goudsward
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Post Mortem Press
Published: 2016-01-29T00:00:00+00:00

* * * * *

Sharon sat on the loveseat next to Micah. She brushed the long hair from his eyes. He sipped from a cup of water and looked around the small room. Sharon slumped back against the seat, letting the cushions support her. Micah sighed and finished the drink.

“Do you like the place?” she asked. Micah shrugged and put the cup down on the floor. The front door of the house was nailed shut from the inside. A gun rack hung on the wall. The wallpaper was faded but still in good shape. The stairs to the second floor were laden with boxes of supplies.

“Are you hungry? I can ask them if they have food? Another drink?” Micah shrugged again at the barrage of questions from Sharon. She rubbed her head. What would Nathan want? She thought. His action figures and some TV time. Neither of which she could give this strange boy from the road.

“Are you going to say anything?” Micah shook his head and sat back. Sharon draped an arm across his shoulders and he squirmed out of her touch. Every other kid she’d seen had a wallet, with some kind of ID or a backpack. This one on the road, had nothing. She remembered his screams and the explosions and debris. Then Nathan’s screams flooded her memory and the sight of his broken body under the car. She cried. Micah seemed indifferent to it all.

When Sharon had cried herself out, she walked into the kitchen and poured herself a drink of cold water. She watched through the window as Frank, Gerry and Sam dug fence holes. Beverly sat on the porch of the house in a chair with her young daughter on her lap. In the middle of the road was a Home Depot truck and a man she didn’t know walked along the payload, armed, and protecting it.

There were others on the street she hadn’t met. She felt “happy” they had actually let her in. The woman, Beverly, had been very kind to a stranger. Even with the loaded shotgun in reach at all times. The world had gone to shit, and somehow she’d manage to find a little boy and maybe a place to stay until it all calmed down. The TV was useless, blaring emergency broadcast messages non-stop or news channels with talking heads repeating the same thing over and over. She turned feeling a tug on her sleeve.

The boy stood there looking up at her. He was holding a whiteboard and in very rough purple letters written, was “My name is Micah.”

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