Bentley Little - The Walking

Sears, looking at the rush of people. Gradually, one face began to differentiate itself from the rest, a wrinkled old lady's visage that drew his attention because her gaze remained fully, unwaveringly focused on him.

Miles blinked, caught off guard.

The woman broke from the rest of the crowd, heading straight over to his bench.

He shivered involuntarily, a slight chill passing through him as his eyes met hers. There was something wrong here.

As a private investigator, he dealt in facts. He didn't believe in intuition or ESP or anything he couldn't see, hear, or record. But the apprehension he felt was not the result of conscious thought or decision. It was visceral and inst inc The old lady stood before him, dressed in clothes that did not match. "Bob!" she said, grinning broadly.

The effect was unnerving. That huge smile seemed in congruous on the small wrinkled face. It reminded him of something in his childhood, something he could not re member but that he knew had frightened him, and again a chill passed through his body.

"Bob!"

He forced himself to look at the old lady. "I'm sorry," he said. "You have me confused with someone else." "Bob Huerdeen!"

The haft prickled on the back of his neck. This was too weird.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"It's me, Bob! You know me!"

"I don't know you and I'm not Bob." He took a deep breath, decided to admit it. "I'm Bob's son, Miles."

She leaned forward conspiratorily, pressing her ancient face almost against his. He smelled medicine and mouthwash. "She's going after the dam builders, too, Bob. Not just us." She backed away, nodding to herself, still grinning though the edges of the smile were starting to fade.

The old lady was crazy. Either senile or schizo. She had obviously known his father at some point, and she had enough brain cells left to be able to spot the family resemblance, but other than that, she was off the deep end.

He stood, hoping he'd be able to make excuses and just walk away, but prepared to confront her if necessary. "I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go."

She reached out, grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, "It's not just us, Bob! It's the dam builders, too!"

"I know," he said politely. "But I really do have to go." "Don't let her catch you, Bob! Don't let her catch you!" "I won't," he promised, pulling away.

He thought she'd pursue him, badgering him all the way about her crazy concerns, but she let him go, remained standing in front of the Sears bench, and he hurried toward the mall exit, more rattled by the old lady than he wanted to admit.

Darkness.

Low whispers. a..

Miles held his breath, " awakened because he'd drunk too much tonight and desperately had to take a leak. Ordinarily, he slept straight through until morning. He'd even slept through two major earthquakes.

But tonight his bladder had woken him up, and he had heard the sound of breathy, hushed voices in the otherwise silent house.

Again, low whispers. "

He still felt a little light-headed--the effects of the alcohol had not entirely worn off--and at first he thought he'd imagined the sounds.

But when he sat up and concentrated and could still hear them, he started to think that he was not alone.

He could not make out what was being said, but he thought he heard his father's name in the whispers, and for some reason that made him think of the old lady in the mall.

He got quickly out of bed, turned on the light, threw open his bedroom door.

Silence.

He stood there for a moment listening, unmoving. Whatever had been there was now gone, and he waited another minute or two before deciding that he'd been right the first time and had imagined the sounds. God knows, he'd drunk enough last night to induce hallucinations. That and the stress would make anyone start heating voices.

He walked down the hall to the bathroom His father was coming home tomorrow.. today. Audra had prepared the bedroom for him, had helped install the new bed and other medical amenities, and she'd be meeting them both at the hospital, coming home with them to help his dad get settled in. Bob was better. He'd definitely improved since those first few days, and he was actually able to talk now, though his speech was still somewhat unclear.

But he wasn't well, and despite Audra's cheery promises, Miles knew he never would be again. This was the best he was ever going to be. Most likely, he would have a series of increasingly debilitating strokes over the next year or two before all of the shocks to his system finally wore his body out completely.

Miles examined his face in the bathroom mirror as he took a piss. He looked tired and haggard. Granted, it was after midnight, but the toll taken on his appearance was not one of sleep deprivation. It was stress, pure and simple. He found himself wondering if he would have to set his alarm from now on in order to check on his dad in the middle of the night. Maybe he'd even have to wake up and give his father some sort of medication at strange ungodly hours. No matter what, he had the feeling he wouldn't be getting a full night's sleep from now on.

It would have been easier if Bob had died instantly.

He felt guilty for even having such a thought, selfish for putting his own concerns above the well-being of his father, but this late at night he was incapable of lying to himself, and he had to admit that he dreaded the prospect of taking care of an invalid. He flushed the toilet, walked back down the hall to the bedroom.

He figured he'd lay awake all night, tossing and mming unable to stop the flood of negative scenarios in his brain, but he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

In the second before he succumbed, he thought he heard the whispers again.

He thought he heard his father's name.

Miles was awakened by the alarm, and he followed his Usual routine: showering and shaving before going out to the kitchen and making his breakfast.

His plan was to work in the morning and take the after noon off. He'd been taking a lot of time off lately, and while the agency was pretty lenient and understanding, he felt guilty. Of course, he had never used a sick day in all the time he'd worked there, so these absences were long overdue; but he felt bad about it nonetheless.

It was cold and foggy out, and as he ate a breakfast of toast and coffee and watched the morning news, the traffic reporter identified accidents and Sig alerts on the 5, 10, and 710 freeways. He decided to take surface streets to the of rice and he ate more quickly than usual, wanting to give himself an extra fifteen minutes.

The car was covered with condensation, and he threw the briefcase in the car and washed the vehicle's windows off with the hose. In Anaheim, where he'd grown up, foggy mornings had always smelled of stewed tomatoes from the Hunt factory in adjacent Fullerton. Although ordinarily there was no odor, fog seemed to draw out the scent and disperse it. Now, even after all these years, every time he saw fog and did not smell tomatoes, he could not help thinking that there was something wrong.

Everyone else must have seen the same traffic report he had because the streets were crowded, and even with the lead time he was nearly twenty minutes late for work.

Hal chided him for showing up at all. "I used to think you were just a workaholic. Now I know you're a souless automaton. What kind of lunatic would come into the office on the day his dad was being released from the hospital after having a major stroke?"

"Me," Miles told him.

'that's sad, bud. That's really sad.

The truth was, he should have stayed home. He had a lot of things to do here, but he got none of them done. He found it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything work related and he ended up staring out the window at the fog.