The bell tower struck four o’ clock, sending shockwaves of sound roaring through the city. That was about all that moved through the abandoned streets, other than a few old newspapers stating expired headlines: Dangerous individuals engage in cannibalism, 26 wounded by recent attacks. Everyone had already heard it. Of course, they all heard it too late.
Back on Tuesday, May 23rd, life in small-town Greensboro, Connecticut had been prodding along as usual. Housewives went on morning jogs, convinced that the cellulite on their thighs would fall away with each step. Schoolchildren shrank from the sound of the bell that beckoned them to come to class, and their overworked fathers clocked-in to the Delta Tools factory for another day of droning hums and safety glasses. It would have been important to note that a young bank teller looked out her small window to see a man stumble out of the forest’s edge, but then, no one thought anything of it at the time.
A military-green book bag fell on to a wicker chair, dropped carelessly by a young woman. Upon hearing the door slam, her mother called out, “Evelyn, are you home?”
After prying the headphones out of her ears, she replied, “you know I hate when you call me that. It’s Eva, please.”
“Nice to see you too, honey.”
The blonde teenager strode into the kitchen and looked hopelessly into the fridge, like she waiting for something delicious to present itself. She snatched out a plum and took a bite.
“Where's Frank?” Eva asked harshly. “Evicting people again?”
“Frank doesn't evict people, he's a tax auditor. How were the Dunes?” asked her mother. Eva untied the bandanna that covered her neck, pulled an expensive-looking camera out of her backpack, and began paging through hundreds of pictures. “I got some decent shots; hopefully I can get some published.”
Eva dug around in the couch cushions until her hands found the plastic of the TV remote. She turned it on and found that it was tuned to the evening news. A brunette with too much hairspray and a tacky color of pantsuit appeared and began to relay a report.
“Today, another report of a missing person has been filed, making this the second in just five short days. 19-year-old Michael Syracuse has not been in contact with family or friends for nearly 48 hours, and a frenzied mother is calling out to the people of Greensboro for an answer.”
Eva found herself transfixed on the moving mouth of the disheveled Mrs. Syracuse, but didn't hear a word she said. Her mother walked into the living room and noticed her empty stare.
“Is everything alright?”
“What? I um, yeah. No, I'm okay. It’s just... I knew him – Mike, that is. He went to my high school.” Her words trailed off into the air.
“Well we will all have to hope that he's alright. Now come on, dinner is almost ready and I didn't spend the past two hours cooking for nothing.”
On the dining room table was an extensive meal: two kinds of breads, a giant bowl of salad, a pasta dish with red sauce and sliced sausage, and breaded chicken doused with a cream sauce.
“What kind of occasion is this,” Eva questioned, “is the Queen coming for dinner?”
“Well, no.” The front door swung open. “Oh good, you're just in time Frank.” The housewife took a deep breath. “This dinner is to celebrate the question I was asked this morning.”
Eva noticed for the first time that there was an addition to her mother's left hand.
“Ha, you can't be serious! You're not getting married, come on. Good joke.”
