Fallout Dreams

prologue

prologue

eighty-eight more days.

trevor stood in total darkness on the top rung of an aluminum ladder. he pressed his ear to the hatch above his head and listened to the clomping shoes of trespassers as they paced casually through his home. when the steps faded and he was certain they had meandered to another room, he sprayed the hinges with wd-40, opened the hatch enough to peer through the crack, and emerged from the ground in a dead man's blazer and tie.

he lowered the lid behind him (making sure the planks blended seamlessly with the floor), then clenched his leathered hands, left the walk-in closet, strode through the master bedroom, and landed face to face with REALTOR NUMBER FOUR. "it's a lovely suite, mr. heiss," trevor said without missing a beat. "i simply love the attached bath!"

the realtor blinked away his confusion, scrunched his cheeks with a megawatt grin, and leapt into sales mode. "it's a beautiful little ranch, isn't it?"

"just darling!"

"two bedrooms, one and a half baths, original hardwood floors..." the man checked his clipboard. "it was built in the twenties... but it looks like it's been remodeled several times. new roof, better appliances... it's practically brand new!"

trevor crossed his arms and pretended to give a damn about the living room, naked except the white-washed brick and black iron fixtures.

"will this be a bachelor pad?" the realtor asked, "or..."

"just me." trev laughed. "no ball and chain... yet!"

"sounds like a perfect fit. it's secluded. it's got an extra room for an office or man cave. and you're only a twenty minute drive from the college and bars!"

"and surround sound too?" trev nodded to the speakers in all four corners of the living room.

the man's face puckered as he checked his clipboard for the tenth time. "it appears so!"

"price?"

"we're down to sixty-five. that's a hell of a deal, if you ask me."

cheaper every fucking month.

trevor's gaze latched onto the female half of a twenty-something yuppie couple perusing the kitchen. the woman—the antithesis of trevor's "type" with tight bangs and blue blouse—scrutinized every sagging cupboard and stone-age appliance with a half-cocked eye.

another woman inspected the ceiling of the second bedroom while bouncing on her shoulder a toddler too fat for its overalls.

"got any snacks?" trevor asked, returning his attention to the realtor.

"sandwiches and beer on the porch. you must'uv missed 'em on your way in!"

"must'uv!" he shook the man's hand. "you've been very helpful, mr. heiss. if i have any questions, i've got your number." he opened the front door (painted APPLE-GREEN now as a last-ditch effort to make the home desirable), winced in the morning sun, and found the usual platter of sandwiches sitting on the same folding table on his tiny front porch.

no other houses in sight. exquisite solitude.

six magnolia trees stood guard along the gravel drive. their waxy leaves shimmered dark green beneath a dusting of snow. it would be several months before the flowers bloomed.

luckily, the chill was enough to keep trespassers from venturing into the woods.

two more cars snaked between trees and parked outside the garage, a separate structure to the right of the house. trevor grabbed a sandwich, noshed off a corner, shoved two more in his blazer, ignored the shitty beer in the bucket beneath the table, stepped through the ugly apple-green door, and leapt into action.