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The
next day, Anthony arrived outside the town limits of Evesville about
midafternoon. It was sweltering hot. Even the trees looked beaten down
by the unrelenting rays. The battered sign--EVESVILLE, POP 291--should
have been evidence enough. The crumbling barn he passed, the unattended
fields, a rusted tractor--half on the road--that looked as though it had
been there for years told him all he needed to know before he even
reached the town.
It was abandoned.
Something bad had
happened. He sensed it. A rush of anxiety careened through him like a
flash flood, before finally slowing to a trickle and then dissipating
somewhere in the recesses of his stomach.
The blue 1954 Chrysler
Imperial turned slowly onto what used to be the main street. The
pock-marked road was full of weeds and plants growing from the cracks of
the crumbling red bricks that someone had laid long ago, no doubt
trying to elevate the town's image and at the same time make the
street more negotiable.
Anthony's shoes kicked up small clouds
of powdery dust as he stepped from the parked car and walked carefully
along the street, hoping for some sign of life, but knowing there would
be none. Except for the drone of what sounded like a million crickets
and the occasional bleating of the only remaining inhabitants that he
could see--two goats--there was no other noise but his footsteps.
The
air was still. The town was still, as if waiting, like a child would
wait, looking at a stranger who first entered her house to see what the
visitor would do next. Anthony walked tentatively, looking at the small
cluster of buildings on either side of the street, some with doors or
windows open. Where they once may have beckoned strangers to enter, they
now just stood there, abandoned and forlorn. There would be no answers
in Evesville.
The sheriff's office was easy enough to find
among the worn and weathered buildings. An old, faded wood shingle with
the letters 'SHE IF' still hung from the roof. Not wanting any
surprises, Anthony slowly eased the door open. It whined in protest as
the rusted hinges grated against one another. He stopped to look before
entering. The wood floor creaked as he hesitantly walked to the nearest
desk. Even now, in this empty office that previously serviced those who
enforced the law, he felt as if he were trespassing.
Papers were
strewn everywhere, as if the place had been ransacked. There were only
two cell doors in the place, and they both stood wide open. Chairs were
knocked over, and one desk had a crack down the middle. What looked like
dried blood was splattered on the wall near the desk.
Anthony
backed out and walked quickly to his car. He looked around once more
before turning the car and driving to the town limit. According to
records and newspaper accounts, this was a thriving town in years past.
What made everyone leave so quickly? Was there an epidemic? What
happened there?
Only when he drove for a few miles did he feel
comfortable stopping and pulling out a map. The next town was eighteen
miles away. First he would call Whiting, but he knew what his response
would be even before he made the call. There was another story there. He
felt it.
Something bad had happened in this town, and whatever
it was could be an entirely different story from the one he was assigned
to write.
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