Free Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala by Rick Hautala Page A

he could hope was that the situation would eventually calm down, and the police would restore law and order so everything could start getting back to normal.
    Whatever “normal” was in the year 2000.
    Every day, as soon as the sun started to set, Martin would make sure the front and back doors were secure, then settle down for a cold meal from a can before going upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the front yard from his bedroom window. Then, usually sometime after midnight, he’d settle down to sleep.
    He’d gotten so he could sleep through just about anything, unless a roving party of thugs and partiers came too close to the house. When things started to get out of control, he would wake up and sit on the edge of his bed with a loaded shotgun cradled like a baby in his arms. The only light he used was a single candle, which he placed behind him so it would illuminate the bedroom doorway without blinding him if someone broke into the house.
    So far, though, there hadn’t been any trouble; and for some reason, tonight was unusually quiet. The millennium rioting was still in full swing, but it was a couple of blocks away. When Martin looked out the upstairs window, he could see the fire-lit buildings in the distance and hear the sounds of music and riotous voices, laughing and calling out in wild abandon.
    “Christ, some celebration,” he muttered.
    Having lived alone for the last eight years, ever since his mother died, he had gotten into the habit of talking out loud to himself. He had never known his father who, according to his mother, had left the family when Martin was less than a year old. Like a lot of men in tough economic times, one day he went to the store for cigarettes and never came home.
    There was a sharp winter chill in the air, so after listening to the distant block party for a while, Martin decided it was safe to close the window and settle down to sleep. Because there was no heat in the house—even if there had been electricity to run the furnace, there hadn’t been any oil deliveries in weeks—his mattress was stacked high with blankets and comforters. His breath made puffy white clouds in the darkness as he lay down and watched the dull orange flicker of flames against the city skyline.
    He was drifting off to sleep when he was suddenly startled awake.
    For a panicky instant, Martin wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The sounds of the celebrations were still far off in the distance. Concerned, he looked around the darkened bedroom, sure that he had heard something … but what?
    Is someone in the house?
    A slight rush of apprehension ran through him.
    It was possible, he supposed, but he didn’t see how anyone could have gotten in without making enough noise to wake him up sooner?
    Moving slowly so as to make as little sound as possible, Martin sat up and reached over the side of the bed to where his shotgun leaned against the wall. He felt better once it was in hand. Tossing the bedcovers aside, he swung his feet to the floor. A numbing chill ran up the back of his legs the instant his bare feet hit the icy floorboards.
    Standing in a defensive crouch, he tried to stop his teeth from chattering as he waited for the sound to come again. Shivers teased like bony fingertips playing the xylophone up and down his spine. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled with anticipation until—very faintly—the sound came again.
    It was the soft sound of someone knocking ... knocking on the front door.
    Martin’s heart pulsed heavily in his chest as he thumbed the hammer back on the shotgun and took a few cautious steps forward. He was breathing rapidly, trailing his frosty breath like a tangled scarf over his shoulders.
    Before he made it to the now door-less doorway of his bedroom, the knocking came again, louder this time. It echoed through the cold, dark house, which resonated like a huge kettledrum.
    Martin was shivering terribly when he stepped out into the hallway and paused to look over