Body count

“Where are you? You can’t hide forever.” I heard a sound. I spun, raised the hammer. There was still some blood on the wooden handle, from last time. “Come out wherever you are!” I called into the quiet aisles of shelves and boxes.

Each box contained the intimate details of a person’s last days on earth: photos, sketches, video tapes. Most of them had been dead for ten years or more, some only a few months. I took good care of my collection, and the intruder threatened to destroy my hard work.

“There you are!” I saw her racing down the next aisle. I ran to get ahead of her, out-pacing her with my long strides. I emerged at the end and cut off her escape. She slid to a stop on the concrete floor. The fear was plain in her eyes.

I stepped towards her slowly. She plainly knew what I intended to do, yet she stood, transfixed, terrified. Then I brought the hammer down. Even as I did so she skittered to her right, flattened her body and slid under a shelf.

“Rats!” I shouted. Then I went to get some lunch.

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