Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER Page B

yes. One thing nineteen-year-old privates learn to do is drink. While I am not technically yet twenty-one, I doubt she is suggesting we go out. Since I can’t go inside her place, I assume this means back to mine. I wonder what my mother will think of me drinking. After Jarrod’s drunken tirades, I hesitate to inflict that worry on her. Before I can explain my concern to Izzy, she’s walks past me, taking my hand. Up the front steps to Dickey’s front door we go. She fishes around the top door trim until she comes back with a lone key. It unlocks the knob and the deadbolt. She winks at me and replaces it above the door.
    “You’ve been here before,” I suggest with a raised eyebrow.
    “Yeah,” she jokes. “I’m Dickeys love muffin , but keep that on the down low.”
    I choke a bit trying not to laugh too loudly. She pulls me in and shuts the door, flipping the dead bolt. The curtains are all pulled, leaving us in darkness. Izzy walks away, her steps creating a soft shuffling sound on dusty wood floor. As my eyes adjust I am greeted with a time warp. There’s a fireplace with a huge oaken mantle and a Queen Anne style couch under a clear plastic sheet. As a matter of fact, all the places one might sit down are likewise covered.
    Izzy flips on the lights, which are akin to carriage lights you might see mounted on exterior walls near a front door. There are identical fixtures scattered around the living room. On the mantle there are framed pictures. One couple I take to be his parents, but there are several older looking black and whites that have to predate his folks. Over the fireplace hangs an oval gold frame with curved glass on its face. Very old portraits were curved to give them depth that the photographic technology of their time could not. The glass is also bowed out in a similar fashion. The face staring back is like a scary gothic nightmare. A woman, with hair pulled up tight wearing a scowl. Why would anyone take a picture like that? Izzy points at the portrait with a hand holding the necks of two beer bottles.
    “Make a good book cover for a ghost story?”
    “Be nice or she’ll haunt you.”
    “For that she’ll have to wait awhile,” Izzy grumbles cryptically and takes my hand, leading me through the kitchen.
    We come out onto a back porch with two wooden Adirondack lawn chairs. There are supposed to be flowery cushions on the seats, but the padding is nowhere to be seen. Handing me a beer she flops into one sideways with her legs dangling over the arm. I sit, but can’t get the top off my Lone Star beer.
    “You bring an opener?”
    She shakes her head and places the lip of the cap on the arm of the chair. Raising her hand, she slaps the top of the bottle, popping the cap off. After taking a sip she points at me to try. The first time I whack my hand but the cap remains. It takes three more tries to get it, after which I receive fake applause and rolled eyes.
    “It’s like a museum in there?” I comment, wagging a thumb over one shoulder.
    “I don’t think he’s moved one thing since she passed.”
    “Covered everything in plastic to boot,” I add, sipping my beer and making a face. “This is warm.”
    “Yeah the fridge doesn’t work too well,” she admits drinking hers without the scowl. “And he didn’t cover up anything, that’s how it was.”
    I have heard about people who have a second living room with furniture under plastic, but never suspected that Dickey came from such a family. What did I expect to find? I’m thinking on this when the whine of an engine echo’s across the backyard. Like most blocks in small towns, you can see the next street over if you look between the houses behind yours. I catch only a flash of yellow, but then recognize the noise.
    “Violet,” I mutter.
    “Huh?”
    “That’s Violets’ Porsche,” I mumble, standing and watching it pass between another set of houses.
    “The hooker?” Izzy balks. “Graham’s hooker is named