Disappearance Read online

  I make a turn left onto a mile-long road that should make up the good portion of this trip. I don't know why, but coming onto this road inspires me to pick up the pace. I break out into a small jog, which feels stupid even attempting. I haven't run or done any formidable exercise since my sports days in high school. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a good metabolism so I stay skinny.

  It only takes a few minutes before I start huffing and puffing, which I find quite pathetic. Even in my sports days I wasn't always in peak fitness, but I could run a couple miles without breaking a sweat. Now, I've just run a half-mile and can already feel that pain in the left side of my stomach. Why is it that you always feel that sharp pain on one side? It's as if your right and left abdomen are communicating amongst themselves to decide which one is going to hurt this time. This sharp pain makes me stop to catch my breath. I bend over and start to feel my lunch making its way to the back of my throat. All of this from just four minutes of running, it absolutely baffles me how anyone can run for four hours during a marathon. I bend over with my hands on my knees, something my coaches repeatedly told me not to do when you're tired. I never understood this theory either. I start dry heaving, but I don't end up losing my lunch. When I catch my breath, I continue walking home.

  If there's anything that my little run has helped me with, it's that I'm not hungry anymore. I'm more motivated than ever to get home so I can lie on the couch and forget this awful day ever happened. Of course, it's not like I have a lot of bountiful food choices when I get home. It's hard to make anything delicious without a stove, oven, or even a microwave. Monday is supposed to be grocery night after I get off of work but today hasn't exactly been my normal routine. My luxurious food options when I get back will amount to cereal or a couple un-toasted Pop-Tarts. As stressful as today has been, I may give myself a little treat and have both.

  As I continue walking I see I'm close to where I would make a right turn if I was in my car, but since I'm not, I can take my first shortcut through a couple neighbors' yards to save time.

  Right as I'm about to do this though, I hear something. It isn't the small wind rustling the trees or the sound of birds chirping.

  When I turn around, I see it far in the distance. It's making its way toward me down the road I just came from. At first, it looks like a cat but it's hard to tell being so far away. My limited knowledge of cats though knows they are more likely to run away from danger than instigate it. No, this isn't a cat. As it gets closer I see it's a dog -- a rottweiler. A very mean and angry rottweiler that's looking to make me its next meal.

  Chapter 7

  Judging the distance, I guess the dog is about three quarters of a mile away and closing in fast. Its ferocious barks make it sound like it is very angry with me and seeking punishment.

  Unfortunately, I have two fears: a fear of heights, and a fear of being chased. While I sometimes run into my fear of heights when traveling, my fear of being chased rarely comes up. The last time was when some of my drunken college friends and I decided to go to a haunted maze. Everything was fine until Michael Myers came out and started chasing us with a fake chainsaw. Out of all of us, I was the only one who took off running and screaming like a little girl. I honest-to-God thought the guy had a real chainsaw until he got up next to me and didn't chop me in half. He was probably wondering if I was just messing with him; I wasn't. I've never seen my friends laugh so hard.

  Now I have this insane dog running at me and my heart rate couldn't beat faster. It's amazing how life-threatening moments can instantaneously take you from very calm to energetic enough to lift a car. Adrenaline has an unbelievable storage system for moments like this.

  I turn my head to look for something, anything that can keep me out of harm's way. I know I have absolutely no chance of outrunning this dog so I also look for some kind of weapon I can use. There's a tree next to me with a small stick by the trunk. The moment I pick up the stick I know it would do little good to protect me, so I throw it back to the ground. The tree next to me is impossible to climb -- no branches for at least ten feet. If I somehow had superhuman arm strength, I could wrap my arms around it and climb up, but even with my adrenaline pumping it's too difficult.

  About fifty yards ahead is a house with a high fence. I'm not sure if I can climb it but I have no other choice. I look back at the dog, "Oh shit!" he's only a few hundred yards away. I only took my eyes off of him for a second, how is he this close already? His barks get louder and louder, and I've never seen a dog that looks this angry. I might as well call him Cujo.

  Immediately, I sprint toward the fence. I have no clue how I'm going to climb it other than to jump, put my foot out, and hope for the best. Halfway to the fence, I look back and wish I hadn't. Cujo is right behind me, no more than a few seconds away. That precious second, I know, is going to cost me dearly. If he gets a hold of me he'll rip me to shreds in no time.

  The fence is moments away. With its wooden edges at the top, it was probably designed this way so intruders like me don't try to climb over.

  I take one final step and jump with both feet, reaching for the top of the fence and pulling my arms over. I wince as I feel my upper arm being gashed by one of the wooden spikes. With no time to waste, I pull my right leg over the fence. As I do, my left leg is exposed and Cujo jumps to attack. He makes one big chomp but misses. I can feel the hair and slobber from his mouth graze my ankle. I pull my left leg up over the fence and roll over the top landing hard on the other side. Cujo is screaming his fury only a couple feet from me, but there's nothing he can do now. The fence is too high for him to climb and it would take hours of scratching and digging to get through. It was clearly designed for dog owners. This realization makes me dart my head around searching for a dog in the backyard but there's none; I am safe. The fence surrounds the entire backyard and there's a door to get out, but considering I'm only a few feet from Cujo I don't see myself opening it any time soon.

  "Shut up!" I shout at Cujo, who is still in a constant stream of barking. I feel like pulling myself up to the top of the fence to mock him at my escape, but I don't want to upset him any more than he already is. He might actually be capable of jumping over this fence as angry as he is.

  I look down at my right arm, which is dripping with blood. It goes very well with my leg, which is also starting to bleed again. I press my shirt down over the wound to stop the bleeding. Once that's in place I investigate the surrounding area. The backyard is pretty typical compared to the other backyards I've seen in the area, very small with not much in them. This particular backyard has a small patio and shed where they most likely keep their lawn mower. I make my way over to the shed and much to my surprise it is unlocked. I open the door and, just as expected, see a small riding lawn mower. There's also a gas tank. I lift it up, "Sweet!" It's full! I look down to see how much gas this particular tank has. It's hard to read, but it appears to say five gallons, which is enough to fill up a little less than half of my empty Cavalier. I can only hope the gas is unleaded. If not, I'll get to blow myself up later.

  Besides the mower and gas tank, all that's left in the shed is a shovel, an edge trimmer, and a retractable ladder. None of these are useful to me except for maybe the shovel. I suppose I should feel guilty taking the gas tank, after all, it is stealing. I should also be concerned my fingerprints are all over this place but I know first-hand from having stuff stolen from me that police officers don't act like they do on TV - they don't give a shit. Of the three times my car was broken into, they ran fingerprints exactly zero times. In fact, only once did a police officer even come to inspect the damages. The other two times they told me to fill out an online form stating what was stolen so that they could send it to the insurance company. I could have written down that my life's savings was stolen and they couldn't have cared less.

  I'm making my way out of the shed, gas tank in hand, when I am met with a nice surprise - silence! I try looking through the cracks in the fence but the wood panels are too close to
gether to see anything. I listen closely but don't hear any movement or breathing. I can't imagine Cujo has given up so quickly, especially considering the closest non-human food I've seen is a cat that's forty-five miles away, but I'm not sure how much Cujo likes Chinese food.

  After listening for a few minutes, I decide I have to peek out to see if Cujo really is gone. I walk over to the fence door, pull down the latch, and swing the door open. I take a few cautious steps away from the door. Still seeing nothing, I look around the corner and gasp at what I see. Cujo is standing there on the road. He jerks his head up and his expression immediately turns to rage, running after me like he did before. I run to the door, which is still cracked open. Just as I get in and shut the door, I catch a glimpse of Cujo's evil eyes as his attempt to get me fails for the second time. The door automatically locks in place when I close it, and I am safe once again. Cujo continues barking his fury at me.

  "Ha, you little piece of shit. Missed me again didn't you?"

  I suppose I've hit rock bottom, talking trash to a dog by myself with nobody around. Outrunning this little monster twice now though is cause for a little gloating.

  My happiness is short-lived because I realize for the rest of the day I'm stuck here. There's two or three hours of daylight left and I'm sure Cujo has no intentions of leaving any time soon. My house is only a few blocks away; if I sprinted it would take about five minutes. If Cujo is around and sinks his teeth in me, I might not make it back alive. Even though I have a shovel to protect me now, it still might not be a match for Cujo. This dog is mean; a shovel to the head might not even faze him. My best and only option now is to wait it out and hope he's gone in the morning. Then I can make the sprint to my house and pray to God he's moved on to better things.

  That still leaves me here in this empty yard though. I make my way up the patio steps, and approach the back door. Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked! I turn the doorknob, "Damn!" it's locked. Well this is just great. What am I supposed to do now? Camp in the backyard all night? I'm not one to have any problems sleeping, but if it involves sleeping outside I'd at least like to have a tent to keep the bugs out.

  I step down from the patio and see there's one bedroom window. I could take the shovel and bash my way in. My conscience is sending signals this is wrong, but I'm not going to sleep out here in the middle of the yard all night. Besides, my appetite is back and I'm starving.

  I go back into the shed, grab the shovel, and go over my options, making sure I'm ready to commit this felony. If I were a good little boy and tried to make it home, I'm almost guaranteed to find Cujo. That's something I want to avoid at all costs. I could camp out in the backyard tonight, starving and freezing to death. Or, the third option, I smash through this window and have myself a feast on whatever cereal they have, along with a warm bed to sleep in. The only downside to option three is a moral issue. That and if the owners make their way home and see some weirdo sleeping in their bed, they'd beat me to death with this shovel.

  All things considered, I decide option three is worth the risk. With my eyes closed, I make my best baseball swing at the window and hear a loud crashing sound as the shovel successfully blasts through the window. Glass explodes everywhere, but I've managed to stay safe this time. If only I had this shovel earlier today.

  Unfortunately, I've learned that glass doesn't break quite like it does in the movies - shattering into a million tiny little pieces. Instead it breaks into much larger pieces, which are incredibly sharp and painful. My home-run swing has broken through a lot of the glass, but I still have to spend a few minutes jabbing through the rest in order to get through the window. Why didn't the shed have a nice pair of work gloves?

  Once I've broken through all the glass, I make my way through the window and try my best to avoid another incident. As luck would have it, I make my way in unscathed. My first breaking and entering is off to a roaring success!

  As I predicted, this is indeed a bedroom, although it doesn't look like the master. Most of the houses in this neighborhood are two-stories, where the master bedroom is upstairs.

  I begin exploring the rest of the bottom floor, which is very tidy and clean. The family room has a big screen TV with a nice, long leather couch surrounding it. My favorite room in the house, the kitchen, is right behind it. The two rooms have a very open feel that all housewives love, being able to cook and watch their husbands watch Monday Night Football at the same time.

  When I go to the pantry, I'm delighted by the plethora of cereal options. They've even splurged on the name-brand cereal, something I usually don't buy because I'm cheap. I open every single cabinet until finally the last one I choose is the one with the cereal bowls. I grab the biggest one I can find and start digging in. Normally, I eat cereal with milk like every other normal person. Milk now may be a bad idea since it's been warming for almost a day now. I'm starved, so dry cereal is more than enough for my taste buds. I am, however, a bit thirsty. It occurs to me I haven't drunk any water all day. Fortunately, at the bottom of the pantry is about a half-dozen bottles of water. I waste no time opening one and chugging the entire thing. Once I finish, I'm reminded again the power is out and I go into a panic. I run over to the faucet to see if the water works. Just as I expect, it doesn't. I've learned from somewhere that a person can live for several days without food, but much less time without water. With no faucet water, I'm left with drinking only the bottled water I can find.

  It's starting to get dark so I begin opening up drawers and looking for a flashlight. To my surprise I find a nice, bright flashlight in one of the kitchen drawers.

  While I still have daylight left, I begin surveying the rest of the house. I can't help feeling creepy doing this. I'm in somebody else's home, without their permission, snooping around through their stuff. If they came home now I would die of humiliation. What on Earth would I say and do if they came back? I think I'd find the first door I could and take off running. I'd rather face Cujo than experience that level of embarrassment. If I told them the truth about my story they'd probably think I escaped from the nut house.

  As I peek through their rooms, it looks like they have one teenage boy and a younger girl. One room is filled with heavy metal band posters on the wall and black Misfit clothes on the floor; I'll bet this kid is a troublemaker. The little girl's room couldn't be more different. It's clean, tidy, and pink from floor to ceiling with unicorn posters hanging on the wall.

  I think of anything in the house I might want to take back with me. The first thing, obviously, is all of the cereal, peanut butter, and other food that doesn't need to be cooked. I look for something to put everything in and find a large suitcase in a closet. It's a little unorthodox to put food in it, but it's easy to carry and should get the job done.

  Looking through the master bedroom, there's really nothing of use I can find. I have all of the clothes and other items I need at my house. Opening up the underwear drawer, it looks like mama has a few pounds to lose. These panties are large enough to cover a small child.

  Dad needs to get over his obsession with plaid, flannel shirts. Seeing these redneck shirts makes me wonder if dad is packing something else - guns. I've never actually shot a gun before, but the thought of protection sounds like a good idea. After all, how hard can it really be? Insert bullet, take off the safety, and then pull the trigger and blast away. I'm not an evil person, but I would love to take on Cujo with a gun rather than a shovel.

  I make a mad dash throughout the house looking for any kind of weaponry. My father wasn't a hunter, so I'm not sure where you keep this kind of stuff. I suppose with two kids it isn't something you have lying around on the kitchen table. I check under their bed but only see another flannel shirt and a pair of socks.

  I revisit the closet, but no weaponry there. I check to see if they have a basement but it doesn't look like they do. I even revisit little Misfit's room but expect to find pot more than I expect to find a gun. As it turns out though I find neither, not even a pack of
cigarettes. Little Misfit must be bad boy on the outside and good wholesome boy on the inside.

  I don't even bother revisiting the little princess's room; I doubt she's packing heat. I do decide to visit the last place in the house I would expect to find a gun - the garage. I don't know why someone would have a gun in the garage but it's my last hope. As I'm reminded again, garages are extremely dark when there's no electricity so I get my first opportunity to use my new flashlight.

  Surprisingly, there are no cars in the garage. Did they go where everyone else went? As I scope out the area, Mr. Flannel appears to have a nice tool collection and a bench to work on. He must be a handyman. The bench takes up a lot of room, enough that they most likely can only fit one car in here. Surveying the tools, I would think some of this would be of use to me but I can't think of anything that would. There's a hammer but if I were going to attack Cujo I'd rather use a shovel. There's also an assortment of wrenches and screwdrivers but I'm not working on a car or putting a toy house together anytime soon. It's hard for me to believe, but with all of this junk I can't find anything useful to take with me. No guns or weapons in the entire house. It looks like Mr. Hunter Flannel is a poser just like his son. I go back inside empty-handed.

  I can't find any clock, but the sun is getting ready to set so it's probably around seven o'clock or half past. It's starting to become very dark already, and I realize it's about to become extremely boring too. I'm in an empty house all by myself, and it's about to become pitch black. Unless I feel like snooping around the house some more with my flashlight, there's nothing for me to do other than sit here with my thoughts.