I dreamed about the house again last night. It’s an old white farmhouse built in 1906. It’s right across from the cemetery on Paradise Road. The place is a REO or bank owned property, a foreclosure. Inside it’s nice enough, but the previous owner left everything behind; quite a mess to clean up. The yard backs up to a cow pasture and the side yard is chain link enclosed, perfect for raising veggies and a few hens.
There’s a huge metal garage outback with a fifteen foot tall roller door and a regular garage door off to the side. The garage has a dusty concrete floor, skeletal wall framing, and is empty except for a metallic thing in the far shadowy corner.
It’s a beat up old gurney, dully reflecting some of the light from the door. It’s the collapsable kind, like they use in ambulances. It’s been patched up and re-welded many times, old and bearing the weight of a body lying inside a dusty, yellow zippered bag. The bag has yellow reflective strips sewn onto it and there are pieces of red reflective tape arranged around the gurney’s frame. The reflective tape glows, warning any who approach to keep their distance. This thing obviously belongs to the fire department and has seen a lot of accidents.
Duct taped to the side of the gurney’s tubular frame is a beat up Remington 870 pump shotgun. The tape encircles the barrel and it’s end strip is folded in on itself, making a quick release tab for fast removal. An emergency shotgun on a fire department gurney…why not an oxygen tank? It would make more sense.
Why would they leave something like this in an abandoned house?
Suddenly the sack sits up and unzips from inside. A young, broken man in a business suit emerges with a menacing smile.
He grins, “Now you know what the shotgun’s for!”