There is a rattling at the door. Every lock is closed tight, deadbolts and chains thrown. Curtains closed. Lights out. My eyes and ears track every sound, every movement, every change to the lighting. The flesh on my arms reacts to the noise, lifting the hair on my arms and neck, at once tickling and cooling, obeying signals from the adrenaline surge as the animal, instinctual part of my brain takes over. Muscles tighten; I lean forward slightly in my chair, legs prepared for burst of movement, arms for aiming the pistol in my right hand.
I am in a catch-22, and it’s possible somebody will die because of it. I don’t dare speak. I don’t dare warn the person on the other side of that door that mine is not an apartment for looting. Safety and shelter and food are not to be found here. Occupied. Go elsewhere.
I will not warn the person turning my knob that, if my door opens, I will fire three shots, as I have been trained to do. I cannot tell them to leave or else take two rounds in the chest and one to the head from a Desert Eagle Mark XIX .44 Magnum. They don’t know that prying my door will cause instant death, and I won’t risk the noise to tell them. I don’t dare.
Because, on the other side of that door, may not be a person at all.
Meanwhile, the staff at Zombie Radio have some decisions of their own to make. Do they stay or do they go? After all, Disc Jockeys have families, too.