Re: The Stowaway/The Terror
The boots made a whiff with every step, a squeal of rubber and sweaty feet. The coveralls were heavy, but necessary. Didn't people understand? It started with people disappearing, started with Mrs. Jones down the street not coming back from her grocery stopping, then it was Mr. Smith next door who vanished between home and work, and little Mikey who never made it off the bus. Some people wanted to blame it on the Communists, but he got it. No one was coming to save them.
At home he'd built his shelter for what was coming. The helmet, as hard as it made it to see, the glass portion stained and shaded in the event that he saw the mushroom cloud, made it hard for anyone to see in. He reached down for the counter banging against his thigh . Nothing. Not a chirp from the counter. Movement in the edge of his vision -- he turned, respirations loud even within his suit and studied the man lying there, face hidden beneath newspaper.
As if that was enough to keep something from being distasteful. George could have laughed, instead he stomped forward and smacked the guy in one his laced up ankles. "Anyone else come in here? You see 'em, kid?"