The Reset Read Online Free Page B

evening’s
events in his mind. What was it the old man had said?
    Been a long time since that road
produced any travellers…
    He thought hard about it while he
finished his drink. “Well,” he finally muttered, ditching the sodden leaves in
the bushes, “it can’t be helped. If someone comes, then someone comes.”
    He went inside and ate the softened
apples, chewing slowly while his stomach adjusted to the sensation of solids.
He thought he could actually feel it expanding, the long-forgotten fullness
a shock to his beleaguered system. He ate the apples and had a cup of steaming
water, and the effects were almost instantaneous. He rushed down the hallway
and just made it to the toilet before violently evacuating his bowels. He was
racked with cramps and the pain was excruciating, but the spell lifted about as
rapidly as it had come and he was able to stand and wipe the sweat from his
brow. Carefully, he worked the handle on the toilet, certain that nothing would
happen. The old man must have kept an outdoor latrine, and he’d just consigned
himself to a pretty horrible morning chore.
    But the damned thing worked. Like the
freezer in the barn and the faucet in the kitchen, the toilet was operational. Ben
whistled in appreciation and made for the pantry.
    Inventory. Somebody had put by scores of
canned peaches and cherries and apple preserves; there were plastic canisters filled
with walnuts and pecans and dried berries and a few more bricks of tea. There
were herbs—mint and oregano and rosemary—and there was some mealy flour that
the old man had somehow milled. There were a few cans of long-expired processed
foods, including a can of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. There was a plastic
container filled with strips of dried flesh, which he placed outside on the back
step.
    When he had a feel for the pantry, he
moved into the parlor. The mantle was covered with porcelain figures—statues of
little kids with wide eyes in various outfits and poses. He picked up a little porcelain
boy. The words My Little Town were stamped on the bottom. Narragansett,
Rhode Island . There was a boy dressed as a postman, a little girl dressed
as a nurse, and an infant being rocked in a cradle by a large dog. A couple of
die-cast racecar models were parked in the corner. That antique clock stood
watch in the center.
    He leafed through the magazines: Field
and Stream and Southern Living and one called Georgia! Somebody sure had a high opinion of the Peach State.
    He sat and studied the room. Something was
off. After a moment, he figured it out.
    The walls were speckled with holes. Lots of holes—entire constellations of them. Otherwise, they were utterly bare.
Someone had put everything away. In the corner stood an old piano—the yellow
keys chipped and worn. He lifted the lid on the bench and found dozens of
framed photographs inside.
    His heart lurched at the sight of them.
The picture on top featured a youngish couple and two children, a little girl
and her slightly older brother. They stood before a Christmas tree, blissful
smiles for the camera. Ben touched the picture, placed his fingers on the cheek
of the woman. It was her . He turned the frame over and undid the clasps
on the back. Someone had written Christmas Eve, 2046 , on the back.
    “Damn,” he muttered. He carefully
returned it to the bench. They had been making a go of it as a family.
Surviving. Thriving .
    Bert Winston hadn’t lived here since he
was a boy. He, or somebody , had done away with the family at least a
couple of years before.
    What was it the old man had said? Ayuh,
been my place since I was a boy…
    Ben had heard that phrase before, but
where? The fellow outside of Pensacola. He’d been from Boston originally, and
he’d peppered their conversations with the Yankee affectation.
    Jesus, what had he done to them?
    Ben cycled through the photographs, a
catalogue of happier times and a testament to the power of persistence. Here,
tucked away in the isolation