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Dean Days

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A shorty-short burped out for fun in one sitting. I may expand upon it later:    

 

 

 

    The sky melted into a glorious crimson as the sun set on Plum street. Like a great sigh of relief the swell had broken and the heat of the declining day finally abated. It would be a warm summer night. 
    Dean could see the first hint of fireflies dance near the willow tree on the edge of his front yard. Seeing them usually brought a warm smile to his face and with it memories of a happy childhood. Tonight was different. In place of a smile, Dean could only frown as his eyes darted around the neighborhood through the narrow crack he made in the window blinds with a craze.  
    All the neighbors were home - more or less. It seemed that they spent most of their time caught in the drudgery of the same mindless tasks. Nothing new there. He could see Darla Rodriguez standing in the corner of her doorway, shoulders slumped forward. It seemed as if she waited for something or someone. For what? Dean had no idea. A sign maybe? Something along the lines of, "Darla, you need to turn the doorknob to go inside." or "Darla, your neighbors are starting to become concerned with your loitering."
    Oh look, Dean thought. Craig was home too. Dean could see that the lights were on in Craig's living room and that the WWII veteran (dressed in his garden overalls) still busily pounded and bumped up against the glass of his great bay window as he had for the past two days now. The old man was beginning to smear blood across the glass. That was new. This did not deter Craig however, for it seemed the old man did not feel or notice the pain he inflicted upon himself as he continued to beat against the bay window that would not obey him.
    I know its transparent, Dean thought, but you can't actually walk through glass- try the door instead. Nevertheless, Craig persisted with his futile efforts. 
    Finally there was Sandy Hook who sat alone in her car where she had decided to take up residency for the past week. Dean remembered running to the window at the sound of an upturned garbage can and watched as Sandy's car had gently, and rather oddly, drifted into her front yard until it found level ground and stopped itself by means of inertia. Sandy did not turn off her car however, nor did she exit the vehicle to bring in groceries as one would expect. She simply sat inside whilst the automobile peacefully idled... and idled... and continued to idle until the gasoline exhausted itself and the engine choked and sputtered to death. Hours later the battery followed and with it the dull, bassy thud of her electro-mix from the car's stereo.


    "Good night Darla, good night Craig, Goodnight Sandy," Dean whispered into the blinds. 

 

   With a sigh, Dean turned to sit heavily onto the lounge chair propped against his front door. Wedged beside him was his entire record collection, an odd box of free weights, about six bags of driveway sand, a Costco sized box of rice-r-oni and a stuffed Garfield doll (for good measure). If he drifted asleep and someone pounded on the door he would probably feel it. Probably.
  

 "Maybe I'll get a nasal infection tonight," Dean said quietly to himself, "the bacteria will go to my brain and I will die," he smiled, "maybe they try and take my rice-r-oni," he continued with a strained cowboy voice and stroked the pistol in his lap. 

 

"They won't," Dean said behind slitted eyes and with a cold sort of assurance in his voice. Despite himself he giggled.

 

    Now that's unsettling, Dean thought. Maybe not the most constructive way to go about this whole thing. Better see what the news has to say.
    Without rising from his chair, Dean reached into the cushion underneath his right leg and retrieved his tablet computer. He swiped past the login screen and was pleased to discover that he still had internet connectivity. For how long it would last one could only wonder.
    Dean tapped on the weather app first. No chance of rain tonight, nor tomorrow or the rest of the week. Highs in the 80's, lows in the 60's. It was and would continue to remain a beautiful summer. Sandy must be getting smelly in her car with the windows up like that, Dean thought to himself with a smirk. Good thing the weather people are still hard at work.
    He tapped off of the weather app and opened the news tab with a swipe of his finger.
    Dean scrolled the headlines "president delcares marshal law," he read aloud to no one in particular and clicked his tongue with disapproval, "old news. Old."


    Next headline.
  

   "Police baracade in West Point overrun. People are eating people..."

 

    Kind of ominous, maybe begin with the "people are eating people" bit first. More of an attention-getter that way. Still, nothing new there.   
  

    "Three dozen dead in deadly Dallas disaster," Dean frowned, "c'mon guys, alliteration? Really?"
  

    "Seattle Massacre. Thousands dead as Red Cross refugee site overrun. ISIS claims responsibility," Dean rolled his eyes as he read, "oh, they would too."


    The last headline caught Dean's attention and he sat up with a start as he read,

 

    'Kill the Brain and Don't Let Them Bite or Scratch You. You Cannot Save Them. Goodluck.'

 

    Dean opened the article and was suprised to find that no further information was included in the report. The author had simply copy and pasted hundred of times (and in upper case, bold print): 


KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK. KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK.KILL THE BRAIN. DON'T LET THEM BITE OR SCRATCH YOU. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. GOODLUCK. 
    

    Etc.


    Dean powered off his tablet and shuddered. It seemed impossible that he could have become even more ill at ease than he had felt these past two weeks. The reporter, if this person had been a reporter, clearly enunciated this message for a reason.  Cold icicles grew in Dean's stomach. It was the "Goodluck" that seemed to unsettle him the most. 

 

    "I am alone," Dean said to himself and sat back heavily in his chair.

 

 

 

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