Free WIREMAN by Billie Sue Mosiman Page A

brick, and dust filled the air. The ground trembled. Helpless screams rose and drowned out the concussion.
    Willie saw a soft bare spot ahead in a vacant backyard and he aimed for it, his body a hurtling bullet. He took the roll, head ducked, knees brought up to his chest. He rolled like a basketball. He slammed against a hidden retaining wall made of oddly shaped stone that used to be a garden. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing the hurt shoulder. That would be a bruise for sure. "Got it dodging bombs, " he would say, and smile without explanation.
    The shadows were deepening. Willie eyed the nearest house, knowing he either had to check it out right away or else wait until the next day. And on Sundays there was church service, dinner in the dining room with his father, and very little free time left over for exploration. It was do or die. Brave the heavy, ominous shadows or lose face.
    The last time he had come here he had found treasure--a galvanized metal box full of rusting hand tools. The wrench and the pliers worked wonders on his ten-speed Schwinn after they had been oiled and cleaned. True, two screwdrivers were broken-ended, but still he had his own tools now and did not have to borrow his dad's. What might he find today? Next week whatever discarded treasure he could find in the rooms might be buried under a ton of wreckage, never to be rescued. Could he take the chance even though the sun was going quickly and the light was fading?
    Quickly Willie crossed the yard and mounted the rickety unpainted steps. He paused briefly on the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the murky interior. One of the walls in the room was gone, exposing studs that looked naked and raw. The floor was piled with plaster, wine and beer bottles, and a piece of tin with blackened lumps of burned wood in its center.
    Willie pulled his brown corduroy jacket closer. It was much cooler inside than it had been in the yard.
    It was when Willie hunkered down to open a low cabinet door that he realized he was not in the house alone. He caught his breath. He had not heard a telling sound or smelled an unusual scent. It was just there.
    The idea that eyes were watching his every move. He tensed and held his breath.
    He stood slowly. Taking a deep breath now, he turned from the door. He did not call himself a coward or try to shake off the dread. Willie knew there was someone lurking in the shadows and that someone did not want him to get away from the abandoned house.
    Suddenly Willie was running. He was a supersonic jet, his body sharp and pointed, his head plowing through space. He cleared the doorway, and the steps barely shook from the touch of the soles of his tennis shoes. The yard and the old garden wall vanished. At the overgrown driveway he had to make a split-second decision: run down it to the street, or cross it into another yard strewn with fallen brick and shattered boards. He took the yard, his instinct telling him if he was being followed, it would be harder for a grown-up to maneuver the obstacle than it would be for him with his boy's natural agility. And he knew whoever was there was an adult. Kids had never made him feel so creeped out.
    Halfway across the yard he looked back. Looking back did two things. It confirmed the thoughts he had had inside the old house. There was a man behind him, and the man did not intend to lose him. Looking back also caused Willie to catch the toe of his right sneaker on a brick hidden in the grass. He stumbled and spun around, his arms flailing in the air for balance. Even as he desperately tried to get up, Willie saw the man closing on him, his wide shoulders blocking the sky.
    "No," the boy whispered. "No, no, no, no..."
    He scrambled to his feet. Run, Run, Run , his mind screamed at his legs. Faster, lose him, faster, lose him!
    The man's running footsteps grew closer. The air Willie gasped into his lungs was full of ashes and dust.
    Tears streaked his cheeks. The tendons behind his knees throbbed