"Jesus. Just-Jesus," said Amelia, staring at the decomposing body. "How long do you think it's been here?"
I examined it where it was sprawled on the back porch, facing the ocean, its skin blackened and clinging to the bones-like it had been vacuum sealed-its wispy hair fluttering. "Hard to say. Few weeks. Maybe a month." I batted away the flies. "Long enough for the organs to liquify."
"How-how do you know?"
I studied the holes in its head, a smaller one which was about the size of a dime and a larger, more cavernous one-the exit wound. "Because, otherwise, there'd be brains all over." I stepped over it and picked up the gun, checked its chamber. "There's still bullets in it."
She stared at me tentatively as I closed the chamber and gripped the weapon in both hands-neither of us saying anything. At last I nodded to the back door-the screen of which banged back and forth in the wind-and tried to brace myself. "You ready?"
She shook her head.
"Let's go," I said.
And then she was holding the screen as I inched forward and gripped the knob-turning it slowly, carefully, easing the door open. Stepping into a room which was dark as pitch; which reeked of cat piss and despair.
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