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Fiction. © Copyright 2001, Jim Loy
Andrew Williams parked the family station wagon in the driveway. There was no longer room for it in the garage. As he got out of the car, he heard birds chirping. He heard the Johnson boy next door, playing in his sand box, making race car noises. Andrew took a deep breath. Nice day, really nice day.
He entered the house and closed the front door. "I'm home, Honey." No answer. Hm, she must be out back. He heard his two children playing in the living room. Andrew walked into the kitchen. And there was his wife, sprawled on the floor in a huge pool of blood. "Oh no!" He kneeled down and felt for a pulse. No pulse. She's dead. No pulse. Someone murdered her, someone still in the house?
He raced to the living room. The kids were busy playing. Cindy was playing with her dolls. Billy was waving a toy airplane about the sky.
Andrew's parents lived upstairs. Mom, Dad! Andrew ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. "Mom, Dad?" He entered his parents' bedroom. There was his father lying on the floor. The carpet was stained almost black by blood. "Mom?" His mother lay dead on the bathroom floor.
The kids! He ran down the stairs and into the living room. Billy said, "Hi Daddy." He continued to play with his airplane. He had blood all over him. Then Andrew saw a steak knife in Billy's other hand. Cindy turned toward him and smiled. She too was covered in blood. She had a small hatchet in her hand.
Andrew stumbled out of the room, and then out of the house. He got in the front seat of the station wagon, and locked all the doors. The kids? What's going on? Gotta think, gotta think. Can't call the cops. Gotta call the cops. No phone in the car. Gotta go back inside, and call the cops. Gotta...
Then a brief flash of light caught his eye. It came from the sandbox next door. Dennis Johnson, the neighbor boy was sitting in his sandbox, holding a knife. Again, the sun reflected off it. It was a knife. It looked like a knife. Andrew got out of the car. Then he saw small red footprints on the sidewalk coming from the Johnson house. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. He turned the door knob, and opened the door. "Hello?" Andrew was startled by the sound of his own voice in the silence. He looked around and walked in. There was the bloody body of Mrs. Johnson, lying on the floor. Andrew turned to leave. And there was little Dennis Johnson, holding a big knife.
Andrew ran out the back door, and across the alley. He looked over a picket fence. There was a woman lying on a lawn chair, beside a swimming pool. Gotta use a phone. Call the police. "Hey Lady!" He couldn't remember her name. He let himself in through the gate. "Lady!" She was dead. He saw small, bloody footprints leading to her back door.
Andrew ran around the side of the house and out into the street. He saw no one. He looked at the houses, up and down the street. Are all these people dead?
It was only three blocks to the police station. He ran all the way. He burst through the front doors. There was no one at the front desk. The police can't all be dead too.
He barged through a door, and found a room full of desks and policemen, living, breathing policemen. A startled officer rose from his desk and drew a pistol. "Stay right there Mister. Don't move." Andrew tried to get his breath back. Two other policemen approached with pistols drawn.
Andrew gasped, "Murder, there's been some murders. My wife's been murdered." He sobbed loudly. "My mother and father have been murdered. Mrs. Johnson next door. Another lady. There may be more." The kids. How do I explain the kids?
One of the policemen said, "Drop the knife."
What? What knife? He had no knife. Andrew looked at his hands. "I don't have a knife."
Two of the policemen shouted, "Don't move!" One of them repeated, "Just drop the knife."
Andrew was about to repeat that he had no knife, when a woman came through the door behind him. Andrew's hand moved toward her. The last thing Andrew heard was a loud roar as three bullets ripped through his body and into the wall behind him.
Andrew's knife clattered on the concrete floor.