Willing her body across the undulating floor of the room, she pressed herself against the barricaded door, listening for any sign of movement. With evaporating time to ponder the lesser of two evils, Rosemary arrived at the conclusion that a quick death was better than a slow one. Her pack had grown conspicuously empty as her rations declined despite her worries diminishing her appetite. Not a drop, but she licked her fingers anyway. She pushed her finger through the opening and squeezed at the elastic lining inside. They double-checked all the trees’ knolls – they might be faces – before doubling back across the bramble and decussated wire fences.
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First across the dark moss lawn whose grass had grown to serpentine lengths, then across the murky street full of iridescent petroleum puddles. Tenuous eyes roved up and down the landscape.
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With a lilting step, she bent over and cracked the window ever so slightly ajar. She dared not take a seat, lest the shifting of her weight cause the dilapidated furniture to cry out – she knew ears were listening, and they were much more potent than hers. The only girl in the abandoned suburban neighborhood, Rosemary crept forward on tiptoe towards the fulgent crack in the window. One could almost hear the heartbeat of the unseen and unknown predator sidling along the shadows. Nary a sound punctured the foreboding atmosphere. The mirror was broken, shattered by impact. The floorboards creaked and crawled in the darkness, each splintered remnant of wood curling upwards like dead rats’ tails.
Rosemary stood wreathed in bituminous dust, only illuminated by the refraction of dim crimson light from the mirror across the room.
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