“I think we ran something over. I just want to see what it was,” he replied, a look of unease in his dark brown eyes.
Day wouldn’t say it, but she felt the same way.
Opening the door, Moore felt the full force of the storm on his exposed skin. Like a thousand tiny needles, the blowing sand stung his hands and face as he made his way down the side of the jeep. Raising a hand to his face to block the sand, Moore peered back behind the jeep and saw a small, dark shape lying in the middle of the road. Cursing his bad luck, Moore walked to the shape, all the while silently praying that they hadn’t just run over a kid lost in the storm. Trying not to be bowled over by the powerful, gusting wind, Moore leaned forward while he made his way over to the dark form lying on the road. Bending down, Moore was relieved to see that it was only a dog that looked as if it had died long before he had driven over it. Taking a moment to study the dog, Moore saw that its body was horribly contorted. Its teeth were bared and there was a lot of dried blood around its mouth and nose. A shiver ran down his spine; it looked to Moore as if the dog had died in excruciating pain. Dragging the dog off the road, Moore wiped his hands on his dirty, old blue jeans and then made his way back to the jeep.
“What did you see?” asked Day the instant Moore jumped back inside the jeep.
“It was just some stray dog.”
“Is it dead?”
“Doubly so,” answered Moore. “I’m fairly certain that it was dead long before we ran over it.”
Day looked back over her shoulder into the sandstorm as a feeling of unease crept into her stomach. “I’m getting the creeps. Let’s get out of here.”
Moore nodded and then turned the jeep’s engine over. Placing it in drive, he eased his foot over onto the accelerator, wanting to put some distance between himself and the dog. He couldn’t say why, but something in the back of his mind told him to be careful.
After about five more minutes of futilely groping around in the storm, Moore spied what he thought was a small house just off the side of the road. Turning the wheel over, he drove their jeep to the wooden building. He came to a gradual halt beside the house and beeped the vehicle’s horn twice, hoping to get the attention of the people in the home… if there was anyone home.
“Maybe they can’t hear us over the storm,” said Day, looking optimistically at the small wooden house that reminded her of her grandmother’s farmhouse back home in Australia.
“Well, we can’t really sit out here waiting for the storm to give up. It’ll be pitch-black soon. Grab your things and let’s see who’s at home,” said Moore as he reached behind his seat and grabbed a worn-looking canvas knapsack. When he opened his door, Moore was hit by a sudden, powerful blast of wind that almost knocked him off his feet. He ran over to Jane’s door and held it open as she stepped out into the blinding storm. Taking her by the hand, Moore walked over to the closest door he could find and then loudly banged on the door with his fist.
As before, there was no answer from inside the house.
“Perhaps nobody’s home,” said Day, trying to be heard over the howling wind.
Moore reached over and tried the doorknob; to his relief it opened. Sticking his head inside, Moore called out. Silence greeted him.
“Let’s get out of this wind,” said Day, pushing Moore from behind. Stepping inside the home, they noticed a dry, stale smell in the air.
“Hello! Anybody home?” called out Day as she brushed the sand from her long blonde hair. She was a tall, lean woman in her mid-twenties, who had grown up in the outback of Australia. A tomboy, she was used to roughing it when she had to. Hank, on the other hand, came from a wealthy Boston family. She knew that he saw paleontology as more of a hobby than a true calling.
“Doesn’t look like anybody is home,” said Moore as he looked around for a light switch. Finding none, he looked over at a table in the middle of the kitchen and saw two old oil lamps sitting there. Quickly making his way over, he dug out his lighter and lit them both. Right away, a warm, golden light filled the room, making it seem less deserted and uninviting. Moore saw that the people who lived here had very little in the way of furniture. Aside from a kitchen table with four old chairs sitting around it, there were a couple of more chairs in the empty living room and that was it.
“Home sweet home, I guess,” said Day as she pulled her long blonde hair into a bun on the back of her head. She turned her head and saw a closed door that she guessed led into the bedroom. She knocked on the door, paused for a moment and then, feeling as if she were intruding, she slowly opened the door. When she peered inside, Day saw an empty bed without any covers on it in the middle of the small room. Closing the door, Day began to wonder what had happened to the people who had once lived here. The house looked to be in good order, just abandoned. A shiver crawled up her spine, making her shudder.
“I’ll get the fire going,” said Moore, stepping over to an old cast-iron stove in the kitchen. After a few minutes, flames roared and crackled inside the belly of the stove.
Jane walked into the kitchen and looked around for some food, but found the cupboards empty. “Looks like supper is water and a couple of PowerBars,” she said with a smile as she rummaged about in her backpack.
Fifteen minutes later, sitting in front of the stove, Day and Moore ate their meager supper in silence while the storm continued unabated outside. Out of the blue, a low hum, like that from a power generator, seemed to fill the air. Both Day and Moore could feel an odd tingling vibration in their chests. Looking about, neither could see where the noise was coming from. Gradually, the sound began to fade and then disappeared, swallowed up inside the swirling storm.
Day was about to suggest that they might want to get their sleeping bags from the back of their vehicle, when she noticed her boyfriend quietly sitting there, his face turning a shade of gray. A second later, he started to rock back and forth on his seat, sweating profusely. Reaching over with her hand, she felt his forehead. Unbelievably, it felt hotter than the roaring stove.
“Hank, you’re burning up,” said Day as she reached for her water bottle to give him something to drink.
Bringing his hand to his mouth, Moore let out a deep, wet cough and then another. He was shocked to see bright red spots of blood covering his hand.
“Hank, what’s wrong?” said Day fearfully, the instant she saw the blood on his hands.
Before he could reply, his body was racked by another painful coughing fit, only this time all of the muscles throughout his body seemed to constrict as one. Dropping down onto his knees, Moore opened his mouth and tried to speak. Another painful spasm struck. He vomited blood all over the wooden floor.
“Hank!” screamed Day, dashing by his side. She could see in his eyes that he was in agonizing pain. His skin was now beet red and hot to the touch. His body constricted again. With a moan on his blood-covered lips, Moore curled up into the fetal position on the floor and began to spasm. Day pulled Moore close to her. Fear filled her heart. What was happening?
With a pained look on his face, Moore turned to look up at Day. “Jane, you have to leave me,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“No, no, I can’t,” said Day, tears streaming down her face.
“No, you have to. I’m dying. Something is wrong here. You have to leave me,” said Moore as his body began to convulse uncontrollably.
“No, you can’t die,” pleaded Day, holding onto her lover with all of her strength, “I won’t let you.”
With a wet gurgle on his lips, Moore looked up into Day’s bright blue eyes and tried to say something. With her heart racing inside her chest, Day leaned down to hear, but heard nothing. Hank Moore was gone.