Free The Hell Season by Ray Wallace Page A

stand, to seek shelter. He was alright where he was for now. None of the snakes had come to bother him. Maybe they had dried up and drifted away much as the bugs had done the previous day, like Ron said they would.
    He squeezed his eyes closed as tight as he could, tried to clear his mind of all thoughts. Silence, that’s what he wanted. A silence of the soul. Of the world around him. An emptiness deep and pervasive and cleansing. But there were images that refused to vacate his mind no matter how hard he pushed them away. Vague, blurry images of long, thin, twisting bodies, flickering tongues, yellow eyes, and the remembered sensations of smooth, dry skin and taught muscles surrounding and entangling him.
    And there was the thunder. Louder now. And the glow of lightning alleviating the darkness behind his eyelids. Then the rain started to fall, dotted his flesh with a demanding persistence. Again, ordinary rainfall. A summer thunderstorm like the ones he used to sit by the window and watch on occasion with his wife in his arms or his children snuggled up close against him on the couch. Sometimes they’d whisper stories to each other, silly little tales that gave the storm outside some magical purpose, that filled the darkness with fantastic possibilities, changing the mundane world beyond that window into a place where witches and were-rabbits and all manner of lovable and terrible monsters might tread. At least for a little while. It had all been for fun, of course, because they knew that inside the house they were safe, that monsters didn’t really exist, that they never would.
    Sobbing, Thomas forced himself to his feet. It was a slow and ponderous process, like the Earth’s gravity had decided to strengthen its pull against him. It was also a painful undertaking as all of his muscles protested the action. He was pleased and just a little surprised to discover that he did not fall apart as a result of it. The rain was really coming down now and the sky was filled with clouds but there was still enough light for him to take in his surroundings. He was standing in the street in front of the liquor store. Empty snake skins littered the area which were shredded by the pounding rain as he watched. Soon they were washed away as if they had never been there at all. Thomas vaguely recalled shedding his own skin, how wonderful it had felt. He shook the image from his mind. There was his car, just where he had left it. Ron and Tanya were nowhere to be seen. He needed to dry himself, to get dressed and find his keys. He needed to get away from this place. Home. He wanted to go home.
    And so he stumbled back into the liquor store, made his way upstairs where he found his clothes and his keys still in his pants pocket. He also found his flashlight next to the bed. Ron or Tanya must have grabbed it when they brought him in from where he’d been sleeping out front. Once he was dressed, he took an energy bar and a drink from the duffle bag that still lay open in the middle of the floor. Then he grabbed his gun from where he’d dropped it—there was more ammunition back at the house—and left everything else in case Ron and Tanya came back. As he exited the building he had to ignore the urge to grab a bottle or two along the way, recalling the promise he made to himself.
    In his car once again, he headed back toward his neighborhood. The rain beat down on the roof and he had to put his windshield wipers on high. Along the road that he followed nothing else moved. It wasn’t long before he was pulling up in front of his house.
    Maybe they’re here, maybe they’ve returned , a part of him couldn’t help but hope. It proved to be an empty wish, however, as he knew it would be. No one was there to greet him as he walked through the front door and into the living room. The only sound was that of the storm outside, and the wind blowing in over the shards of broken glass sticking out like mangled teeth from the window frame.
    He was