[A revised version of a super short story that I'd written previously. Consider this a 'second draft' more or less.]
The security door was wrought iron. Not that cheap stuff you can get at the local national chain home supply store. Specially ordered stuff. Thick. Strong. Ornate. The door behind it, steel core. Double dead bolts. Chain. All the windows had bars on them too, matching ornate wrought iron bars. There were thorn bushes in front and cacti on the sides and in the back, all sitting under the windows. As if the bars on the windows weren’t enough.
You couldn’t just drive into Tanoan East. You had to pass a checkpoint, have your car’s RFID tag checked, match collected biometrics data in the system (fingerprint if you preferred, or retinal scan, or finger prick blood DNA test). Your ID was scanned. You signed in on memory paper that immediately matched your signature to previous ones you’d given.
You couldn’t just drive into Tanoan East. You had to pass a checkpoint, have your car’s RFID tag checked, match collected biometrics data in the system (fingerprint if you preferred, or retinal scan, or finger prick blood DNA test). Your ID was scanned. You signed in on memory paper that immediately matched your signature to previous ones you’d given.
No one just drove in.
The house at 3709 Langley Dr. NE was a one story affair with red Spanish tiles and tan stucco coating. The tiles were the latest design from Solarius Inc., a leading solar power company. While they looked ceramic, they were actually a composite of ceramic and synthetic solar panelling, each tile absorbing solar energy and feeding it into the home’s power system.
Security cameras blinked and recorded and watched and saw and saved 24/7/365. They were in front, on the sides of the home, in the back. mounted from trees in the corners of the backyard, set to face the home, mounted on all sides of the stand-alone storage shed. Hard drives in what would normally have been a bedroom stored all the data locally while not one, not two, but three redundant cloud accounts uploaded the information regularly for off-site storage and access. Nothing happening around the outside of the home escaped their notice. They were eternally vigilant. As were the mourning doves.
There were four of them, two in the front yard, two in the back, each designed to look like a mating pair. They were high-end models, from Franken Robotics, part of their Moreau line. Their specially designed batteries allowed them to operate more or less continuously for up to seven years, or your money back. Designed to mimic natural mourning doves, they went through periods of activity and periods of battery saving rest. Their wireless connection to the home’s SMART computer system was doubly encrypted. Everything they saw and heard was saved alongside the data from the standard security cameras.
The home had an old-fashioned alarm. Which, considering everything else it had, one could have probably guessed at. The alarm had pressure settings tied to each of the homes’ windows. Lasers protected the doors, and, once activated, waited for something, anything, to try and cross the thresholds. Motion sensors were located in every room could be remotely activated by something as simple as a cell phone text. The home had no pets, so, once activated, it was unlikely the motion sensors could be accidentally triggered.
The home had an old-fashioned alarm. Which, considering everything else it had, one could have probably guessed at. The alarm had pressure settings tied to each of the homes’ windows. Lasers protected the doors, and, once activated, waited for something, anything, to try and cross the thresholds. Motion sensors were located in every room could be remotely activated by something as simple as a cell phone text. The home had no pets, so, once activated, it was unlikely the motion sensors could be accidentally triggered.
The window sills were lined with salt. Each doorway had a slightly cut recess just beyond the threshold, low enough for the door to pass over without catching but not wide enough to trip anyone up. Each recess was lined with salt as well. Above each door, just inside the home, a sprig of mistletoe was hung. On the outside of each wrought iron security door, a wreath, containing equal parts garlic, mistletoe, rosemary and hawthorn was placed. New wreaths came weekly, to replace the old ones. Every room in the house had a gris-gris bag, for large rooms there may be two or more.
The windows weren't bullet proof. There is no such thing really. But they were 'bullet resistant'. Provided a bullet could weave it's way in between the ornate wrought iron bars protecting the windows that is. If. In that instance, the aforementioned bullet, having fortunately made it past this obstacle would be 'resisted' by the window's layered glass.
The windows weren't bullet proof. There is no such thing really. But they were 'bullet resistant'. Provided a bullet could weave it's way in between the ornate wrought iron bars protecting the windows that is. If. In that instance, the aforementioned bullet, having fortunately made it past this obstacle would be 'resisted' by the window's layered glass.
Not only were the windows bulletproof, they were specially modified SMART windows, adjusting to whatever settings their owner gave them. Darkening, just so, when told to. Becoming more clear, just so, when told to do that instead. They were coated on the outside with a special substance which
Guns were in every room, strategically placed but not obvious to the eye. All were easy to get to and all were loaded, ready for use at a moment’s notice.
His name, was a matter of some debate. Harold to some, Charles to others. He had a passport that listed his name as Albert Rothstein. No synagogue in the area had ever heard of him. A driver's license under the name of Alphonse Monroe indicated that he was not an organ donor.
Things were clean, meticulously so, in every room. It was almost as if all the precautions that had been made to keep others out had managed to, at the same time, seal the house against dust and dirt. And yet, if one were to make it into the home, if one were to float through the living room and make towards the hall, say, as a disembodied spirit, avoiding the motion sensors, making sure not to set off any alarms, one might turn down the hall and head towards the master bedroom. The hall had pictures, plenty of pictures, of Harold, of Charles, of Albert of Alphonse. The man in the pictures, regardless of his name, looked similar at times but never twice the same.
Guns were in every room, strategically placed but not obvious to the eye. All were easy to get to and all were loaded, ready for use at a moment’s notice.
His name, was a matter of some debate. Harold to some, Charles to others. He had a passport that listed his name as Albert Rothstein. No synagogue in the area had ever heard of him. A driver's license under the name of Alphonse Monroe indicated that he was not an organ donor.
Things were clean, meticulously so, in every room. It was almost as if all the precautions that had been made to keep others out had managed to, at the same time, seal the house against dust and dirt. And yet, if one were to make it into the home, if one were to float through the living room and make towards the hall, say, as a disembodied spirit, avoiding the motion sensors, making sure not to set off any alarms, one might turn down the hall and head towards the master bedroom. The hall had pictures, plenty of pictures, of Harold, of Charles, of Albert of Alphonse. The man in the pictures, regardless of his name, looked similar at times but never twice the same.
The wood flooring in the hall was designed, purposely, to be creaky. There was no way one could walk across it without causing it to make noise.
The house was quiet, that morning. The server room elicited a constant low level hum due to all of its equipment. The automatic coffee maker had brewed the morning’s coffee. Occasionally there was a hissing sound of steam emanating from the pot. It was a cool fall morning. The house’s SMART system kept track of the temperature settings in each room and turned the furnace off and on accordingly. A slight clicking sound announced the furnace’s coming on in the master bedroom.
It was in the master bedroom that a bag of Rold Gold pretzels lay on the floor, it's contents spilling out of it in a neat, orderly fashion, as if it were a cornucopia. Brown pretzels, twisted into their instantly recognizable shape, sprinkled with white beads of salt that sparkled when the morning sunlight filtered in through the window and lit upon them.
If one were to float above the scene, one might see a pair of shoes attached to a pair of feet attached themselves to a pair of legs covered in a pair of over sized 'comfort jeans', sprawled out on the floor. The way everything was arranged, one had to drift over the bed to see the rest of it, the faded sweatshirt, the arms, the body, lying face down on the wood floor. The rumpled covers of the bed and the presence of pretzel crumbs added to the scene. The TV was still on. A shopping channel showed the latest in Austrian crystal for your dinner set. You too could entertain like a European aristocrat but, at a bargain price. Hurry, call or order online now, while supplies last. A deal this good wouldn’t be available long.
Harold Charles Albert Alphonse wasn't watching anymore. He lie still, perfectly still, eternally still, there on the floor of his bedroom, a bedroom protected by security camera, cacti, wrought iron bars and bullet resistant glass. A bedroom with five hidden, loaded firearms, motion sensors and preset pressure sensors on the window tied to his master alarm. A bedroom who’s windows were lined with salt, who’s door had mistletoe hanging over it, a door, in fact, that mimicked the front door of the house, steel core, multiple deadbolts, chain. What remained of Harold Charles Albert Alphonse hovered above what had once been his mortal coil, taking it all in, trying to wrap what was left of his consciousness around the notion of a lone pretzel, accidentally but very securely, perfectly lodged in his windpipe. The blast of warm air from the vent high up on the wall hit this hovering immaterial energy and with barely a whoosh, it was gone.
If one were to float above the scene, one might see a pair of shoes attached to a pair of feet attached themselves to a pair of legs covered in a pair of over sized 'comfort jeans', sprawled out on the floor. The way everything was arranged, one had to drift over the bed to see the rest of it, the faded sweatshirt, the arms, the body, lying face down on the wood floor. The rumpled covers of the bed and the presence of pretzel crumbs added to the scene. The TV was still on. A shopping channel showed the latest in Austrian crystal for your dinner set. You too could entertain like a European aristocrat but, at a bargain price. Hurry, call or order online now, while supplies last. A deal this good wouldn’t be available long.
Harold Charles Albert Alphonse wasn't watching anymore. He lie still, perfectly still, eternally still, there on the floor of his bedroom, a bedroom protected by security camera, cacti, wrought iron bars and bullet resistant glass. A bedroom with five hidden, loaded firearms, motion sensors and preset pressure sensors on the window tied to his master alarm. A bedroom who’s windows were lined with salt, who’s door had mistletoe hanging over it, a door, in fact, that mimicked the front door of the house, steel core, multiple deadbolts, chain. What remained of Harold Charles Albert Alphonse hovered above what had once been his mortal coil, taking it all in, trying to wrap what was left of his consciousness around the notion of a lone pretzel, accidentally but very securely, perfectly lodged in his windpipe. The blast of warm air from the vent high up on the wall hit this hovering immaterial energy and with barely a whoosh, it was gone.
Copyright 2012, M.R. McCaffery. All rights reserved.
