OneThreeThirteen (A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 1)

OneThreeThirteen - Chapter 2

JOHN SCHMIDT thought he knew, without a doubt, what had shaken his house. Damn water heater had finally exploded!

He had quickly pried Grace's fingers from around his arm so that he could get to the basement and assess the damage before she could see for herself what had happened.

One look in the basement and Grace would know that he had taken the money they'd managed to scrape together for a new water heater and used it for his own purposes. There was little doubt in his mind what the consequences would be, a heated argument, followed by several days of icy cold silence, culminating with him sleeping in the downstairs guest room.

As quickly as a fireman answering a three-alarm fire call, he'd pulled on his robe, jammed his feet into his slippers, and rushed out of their bedroom.

The house was completely dark. But he'd lived in the house for eight years now and could easily find his way around, even on the darkest of nights. So he plunged onward.

"Son of a bitch!" he yelled. In his haste, he'd hit his big toe on the hallway table that normally stood upright against the long hallway wall. The explosion must have caused it to lose its grip on the wall and topple out into the middle of the hallway.

He stood in the darkened hallway immobilized by the pain in his toe resisting the urge to kick the table out of revenge. After thinking over the futility of that gesture, he figured the smartest thing to do was search for the flashlight Grace kept in the table's top drawer. "Damn table!" he muttered in the darkness. He'd have time later today to get even with the table by turning it into kindling.

Grudgingly, he pushed the table back into its customary spot, being careful not to let the contents of the drawer spill out onto the floor. Rummaging in the top drawer, he found what he was looking for, the yellow and black Eveready flashlight that Grace had purchased from Wal-Mart.

Retrieving the flashlight, he thought, had been a better idea than turning on the lights. No telling what the explosion might have done to the wiring in the old place. And as long as the place was dark, Grace might stay in their bedroom, giving him extra time to think up a believable lie.

Aiming the flashlight's circle of light at the stairs, he noted with some despair the large amount of dust covering the hallway's burgundy carpet. "Oh shit!" he thought. All that dust could mean only one thing – structural damage.

"Please God," he prayed before aiming the flashlight upwards. He winced as he made out a series of vivid hairline fissures snaking across the upper portion of the hallway walls. Letting out a new string of four letter words, he raced for the basement.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! If only that piece of crap had held out for just a few more weeks, he could have replaced all of the money and more, he muttered as he took the stairs two at a time.

Rather than buying something as mundane as a water heater, he'd used the money to refit his sailboat. He was sure that with his sailing experience and a refitted boat, he could easily win the Mackinaw. Winning the coveted Mackinaw race would garnish him untold prestige and a chance at fulfilling a lifelong dream -- sailing around the world. He would have made a small fortune in endorsements.

But none of that mattered now. The house was a wreck. And Grace would surely berate him over this latest financial disaster.

"An entrepreneur! An adventurer! Ha! She'd say. Who do you think you are, Steve Fossett? You're not him, John! And it's time you grew up! That's a rich man's dream. Steve Fossett is a millionaire. He can do childish things. But a grown man puts his family's needs before his own. You need to start thinking about this family, John, and not just about you!"

Even though he knew it was just his conscious playing with him, the words still caused him pain, as they floated around in his head, banging into one another. Because, those were the things he'd say if he were Grace.

At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped. "Grrooowl. Grrooowl. Grrooowl." Was the floor vibrating under his feet? He wasn't exactly sure, his own legs were trembling so. Was it his imagination, or were his ears picking up a rumbling sound?

Puzzled by the rumbling, he stood completely still and let his eyes search the darkened house. Damn, water heater was rumbling as if it were on the verge of exploding again?

Panic stricken, he resumed his guilt-ridden race to the basement. And that's when he saw something that brought a smile to his worried face.

The living room and study were to his right with the dining room, kitchen, guest bedroom, and entrance to the basement, to his left. The living room was pitch black.

The 1890's style street lamp that had illuminated his living room windows for the past eight years was out! As were all the streetlights on the block. A smile crossed his worried face. Hurrying to the front door, he flung it wide open reveling in the dark, and ran into the streets a consoled man. "Yes!" he screamed.

Whatever had occurred had happened to the entire block – not just his house! For the first time since he'd opened his eyes tonight, John Schmidt let out a sigh of relief.

Jubilant and full of joy, he ran next-door to Stan's, his neighbor since he and Grace had bought the place, and started beating on the door. If anyone knew what had happened, it would be Stan.

Stan was an 'ear-to-the-ground' type of guy who knew everything about everyone on the block. He wanted to confirm his good luck before going back upstairs to Grace.

While he dialed Stan's number, one by one, his other neighbors emptied out into the street. "Something's definitely up," he thought. "No way Grace can blame this on me now." But his joy was short lived when someone in the crowd yelled, "Oh my God! Look!"

By
Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
Flight 404
Ruby Sanders
Jared Anderson
Dancing With The Fat Woman
Thou Shalt Eat Dust
STALKED! By Voices

OneThreeThirteen is a finished work available on Amazon, Kobo, and Nook books.