Brock stands on the
landing of this deserted farmhouse, furiously stroking and stabbing
at his block. The nuanced changes in the grain and the subtle
shifting of the knots tell him one thing, but the evidence of the
building itself are another story entirely.
“Relax,” he says to
himself, “You're not going to get anywhere going at things in a
frenzy. What have we got? Empty house? Yes. No traces of any
inhabitation at all. Correct. No dust. Why isn't dust settling.”
He pauses, sniffing the air around him. “Not just a lack of
dust,” he continues, “No living creatures whatsoever. No rodents
under the floors, no birds nesting in the eaves, no insects even.”
He closes his eyes,
allowing his mind to go blank for a moment or two, waiting. The
first thing that surfaces in his mind is the pantry. “Something
not right there?” he asks, before heading back downstairs.
