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"I'm tellin' ya, I saw somebody out there," George insisted. He jerked open the drawer of the desk beneath his gun rack and grabbed a box of shells.

Chris(tine, his wife) wrung her hands nervously. "We should call the sheriff- let him handle it…"

George took down the double-barrelled twelve-gauge shotgun his brother had gotten him for Christmas two years ago. He snapped the barrel open and inserted two shells. "This is all the sheriff I need," he said, and punctuated the statement by snapping the barrel closed. From the hat rack he took the battered cap that he wore when he went hunting and put it on.

Chris followed him through the living room to the kitchen, her hands fluttering helplessly. "George… You're too old…"

He stopped, turned sixty-year old eyes on her. She recoiled. "Look here, woman," he said, his voice ominously low: "I been takin' care of myself since I was fourteen years old. I ain't gonna start yellin' for help now." He whirled and went to the back door, where he paused. Over his shoulder he said, his voice carefully modulated, "Keep an eye out. I'm not back in five minutes… Call the sheriff."

The barn door was two hundred feet from the back door of the farmhouse. There were bushes on either side of the trail that led from one to the other. And trees, at irregular intervals. Now that the sun was setting, there appeared to be a hundred places to hide between here and there.

George carefully closed the door behind him. The lock clicked. He swallowed. He'd walked to the barn a thousand times over the years, day and night, without so much as a second thought. For the first time in his life, he hesitated.

It was those damn radio reports.

All week long, there'd been talk of a plague spreading like wildfire across the country; reports of dead people coming back from the grave. The local station kept going off the air, and the power had gone off twice already. Not very reassuring.

And now there was somebody in the barn.

He'd caught a glimpse of the man as he'd gone into the barn: of average height and wearing a tattered shirt, he had stumbled through the barn door, bumping it absently on the way in, which had caused it to swing shut behind him.

George looked left, then right before crossing the porch to the steps. He swallowed again, ran one calloused palm over his bewhiskered jaw. It'd sure as hell be safer to call the sheriff and let him handle this… But this was private property- and was posted as such. Anybody who ignored those signs had to answer to the land owner.

Slowly, George descended the creaking steps. His grip on the shotgun tightened. He stepped down into his own yard and, for the first time ever, felt like he was standing on foreign soil. He licked his lips. The trees moved; the weeds and the bushes responded in kind. He felt his heart racing.

Get a hold of yourself, he thought irritably.

He took an uncertain step; another; forced himself to push on, despite the fear that threatened to turn his legs to rubber. It took forever to get there. Every breeze, every vagrant noise, gave him pause. But he made it. Finally.

He stood with the shotgun levelled at the closed door, at what he guessed to be the height of the trespasser's chest. He heard something fall inside the barn. He twitched. Squeezed the shotgun tighter still.

"Might as well come on out," he heard himself yell: "I know you're in there!" He tensed, braced himself for the shotgun's kick.

The barn door flew open.

George's neighbor, Jubal Jackson, had died two days ago, of heart failure. He'd been sitting in his favorite chair, in his living room, listening to the radio and sipping a cold can of beer, when he'd heard a thump in the basement. Setting aside the beer, he'd gone to the basement door and put his ear to the wood and listened.

He'd heard a moan.

She's still alive, he'd thought, and jerked the door open to find himself face to face with the woman he'd murdered and buried in the basement the night before. He'd screamed and tripped backing away and had had a heart attack as he scrambled through the house on hands and knees trying to get away from her. He'd managed to get to his feet just as his heart had stopped, and he'd gone through the living room window head first.

He'd died in the yard, his dead wife staring mindlessly out at him from the living room window.

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