In 1918, influenza was loving people in a bad way, but many men still felt the permanent impacts of World War I, including Sammy.
Sammy Henderson with his red beard walked up drinking a beer. I caught him with his mug, foam, beer, the whole nine.
"Take these cuffs," I said to Ms Mic.
I recognized she was a DJ at the Dart Bar and I knew it was her because of the jacket she made for Sammy.
"Where do you what me to take them?" she demanded.
"I pictured you standing under the bridge," she said. "I knew it was you because of your big St. Bernard."
"That is true, I do have a St Bernard," I stated.
"When was this?" I demanded.
In front she could answer Sammitron walked up.
"Shirt cuffs, what are you going to serve with those Ms Mic?" Sammitron asked.
We all bore on to Sammy as Sammitron because of the jacket Ms Mic made for him.
"I have a surprise for you at the home," the small lady said in a sweet tone, "Come see what I'm doing."
The house was white and old, older than Ms Mic, but she was in her forties, getting up there at forty-eight.
We all met back at the house.
Thither was a shack out back, which we went into. Within stood a table. It contained various objects on it. She had picked up a pencil that was put on it. Adjacent to that was some other pencils and brushes, chap stick, a magnifying glass, and some ink cans.
The shack was somewhere in Wichita Kansas, just a little back road.
"Is that your dog?" Sammitron asked.
The massive St Bernard pulled the leash out of a boy's hand, driving him over at the same time.
"It is," I responded. "But it's bigger now since I've last seen it."
There was something amiss with the dog, something that I had never seen in Max, the dog Ms Mic gave me before the war. It moved as if happy to see us, but it's eye's were missing.
We slammed the door to the shack shut, and when we looked out to discover if it was there, it was gone. In fact, the son was not moving and prone to the ground.
Then we made a run for it.
The door was opened.
"Deep down," Ms Mic said, "are you guys all right?"
The streets were gay with light. I could catch two men carrying a green air conditioner up to a house porch. Farther down the street some boys playing stick and ball with their parents. Just about then a rainbow appeared and dusk was peaking through the clouds.
"We are fine," Sammitron said. "Help me Taylor."
He looked at me and pointed at the boy. We took him up to the upstairs bedroom and sat him on a wicker chair with a big pillow in it. Then I saw how into sewing Ms Mic was. There were two sewing desks with machines that folded down, converting into desks. A bunch of clothing fabrics, and such.
"This is what she needed the pencil for," I thought.
His clothes were drenched in blood. It looked like the dog got him pretty good in the abdomen.
"Man what happened to him," Sammitron said, "did he shoot up in the bathroom down at Roosevelt's Groceries?"
"The dog got a good chunk of his gut," look here I said.
Now it was dark. A knock at the front door could be heard.
Sammitron with his then silver jacket, the top portion of his suit, agreed to go see who was at the door. I walked behind him enforcing a defense strategy. It was a old black guy with a black patch over his eye. He had a small dog with him, it with a pug nose. The white dog was not as white as the house, but a more egg washed white hue.
"Can I assist you," Sammitron exclaimed, "can we help you with something?" The man was one of those carrying the air conditioner. I noticed this earlier. The man did not speak a word, but instead snarled and blood was seen in his mouth starting to drip out.
"Sammitron, close the door," I said. "Now!"
Ms Mic shouted, "What are you jokers up to?"
Eventually, the visitor went away.
Throughout the night we heard strange noises in the yard. However, it was a mistake leaving the boy unguarded in the sewing room. All the that remained of his case was a pool of blood left on the hard wood floors. A mattress had been used to cover up the window in the room, but by morning we discovered the window broken out from the inside.
That morning in our small town we turned on the news and learned many farm workers were being attacked by the walking dead. In one instance a man had fallen off a thirty foot ladder when, apparently a large black St Bernard, the one we had seen, rushed at another man trying to stabilize it. The ladder slid over, taking the man plunging down to earth with it.
