He wiped his feet on the doormat as the wind swung the screen door closed behind him.  The rocking chair still shifted on its axis, the way it did when the old lady used to sit there by the window.  He removed a map from his pocket and unwrapped it, stretching out the long roll over the floor without taking any time to remove his coat or wet trench jacket.  He heard nothing but the fall of water outisde, a concentrated blast of rain which hit all spots with the same precision and enveloping the outside world like the darkness.

            It didn’t stop raining anymore, and the map showed it.  The majority of locations were waterlogged on the map the same way they were outside, undecipherable pieces to a wet puzzle.  He dreamed of a faucet somewhere he could just turn off. 

He thought he heard stirring in the kitchen, but when he got there it was nothing. His eyes caught on a letter sitting on the kitchen table.  The numerous gears and moving pieces of the cuckoo clock wt the Tootsie Roll style owl wearing the graduation gown and hat ticked away as he grabbed a butter knife from below the sink to open the letter in one clean cut.

“Dear Mortimer,

You’re the only one left other than me now.  With the rain, there are no trails

To follow, and now I don’t know what I’m running for.  I hear it’s chomps, sure,

Feel it’s eyes follow me, see it’s face in my reflection in the puddles.  You are at post 5  (Mortimer recognized post 5 easily now that he was reminded), by now I’m as far as the gully.  Although you will be tempted to stop and rest, you must listen to me when I say the rain is only the beginning of it.  Your strength may be wavering, but as long as there is further to go there is a path of resistance to take.  I should have more to tell you, but I’m afraid to say too much.  Take this key atleast, it will unlock the silo,

Sincerely,

Mr. Winchester”

            Mortimer removed the key and cursed the old fool.  Tearing up the letter into tiny pieces he deposited it into the garcan under the sink.  He put the key in his pocket, eyeing it incredulously, and raided the fridge.  The motor pured as he pulled the door open, like an older cat who hadn’t received attention in years.  There was milk, still cold, and a carton of eggs which revealed itself to be empty.  On further examination of the milk, the expiration date read  10/1992, and he decided better than to drink it.

            He heard the door open, and the soggy muffled sound of a man plodding in from the night.  He carred with him an instrument case, wore a gas mask under a hooded tunic, and as he removed his boots he didn’t first remove the mask.  In fact, he left the mask on as he removed a long needle from his bag and filled it with a vile cloudy green serum from his bag. 

            Mortimer pulled the secret fake book out of the shelf and the pressed the red metal button that lay hidden inside of it.  The wall pulled itself open, and he leaped inside, pressing the button as he reached the other side. 

            This was the fresh zone he had heard about but not cared to visit.  It was a sterile, drafty corridor which distinctly felt like it was being monitored.  Mortimer held up a cross over his head as he walked, and the gas masked man followed close behind.  Kissing the cross and placing it again on his chest, it hung with increased weight. 

            Mortimer remembered leaving the ranch, through the doorway no one could see beyond.  He assured his choir boys he would return, truth be told there was another priest in town waiting to take his post, but tributes adorned his front porch when he returned home.  His adopted son, Mitch, was too young to come with into a perilous world, this he knew, so he left her with a nun in the seminary.  Mortimer did not cry.  His scant belongings fit in their completeness inside his pocket or on his person.  He took a few candles, a Bic lighter his grandfather had given him, and small Bible over his heart.  He was an action movie junkie, and believed the Bible over the heart idea couldn’t hurt.

            The small fellowship organized a breakfast for him in the morning, which predisposed him to a separation anxiety he ostensibly had an immunity to.  He saw the tall gate made out of a black stone which held the portal of an opaque bubble, the thing as a hole looking like it was ready to burst.

            He walked slowly with the nuns, his hands bundled at the knuckle in front of him, breaking the silent revelry with a smile over his shoulder.  As he stepped inside the tangible void, he was at once sucked through like dog hair in a vacuum cleaner.

            He urged his feet to continue forward on the other side, unnerved by the orderliness of the creamy white mirror of the room he had just exited.  He expected to see a mirror version of himself, or of the nuns, but the room lacked anything of interest. 

            That was a year ago, he thought, give or take.  His mind flashed back to the present, and he was darting around corners, running down an endless labyrnthe of walls and doors.  The gas masked man had become lost himself in the sinuous hallways, or had simply disappeared into the night.  Mortimer turned around, and attempted  to follow his path back to the entry point, but could not remember what he had done with the key.  If he could jus get back out into the night, he thought, under an open sky, the world would start making sense again.  He knew he