Copyright 2011 Lee Dodson
Lee W. Dodson
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Old Dogs, Bad Boys, and Whatever is Handy
They came in sometime after two. Moonless night. He was not as prepared as he should have been. He was prepared all right, just not as prepared as he should have been. One never is.
Rand had generally ignored the signs, the precursors. Old habits had died the death of atrophy, or at least he told himself they did, but they came back, re-emerged on the first, unmistakable sound of a silenced gunshot, then another at the far end of the long, sprawling ranch house.
The first shot had roused him from his usual late night snooze on the leather couch in front of the big screen in the den. He saw the low flash of the second shot in the hallway that ran the length of the west side of the house. Any light in the darkened house would naturally play the full eighty feet along the corridor. Rand rolled off the couch as the next two pops sounded, and crawled toward the gun cabinet. His hand brushed ever so slightly against the slippered foot of the old woman who still snored softly in the recliner, or she was praying, one never knew which.