Something’s off.
I nod and step off the side of the porch where the railing is already missing and walk down the side of the house, my flashlight guiding the way.
Peeking into windows as I pass, I curse silently when most of them are obstructed, almost like each pane has been covered in more than just curtains and move onto the next one.
Two more down and I’m growing increasingly antsy with how shut off this place seems to be from the inside.
There’re only two reasons to block out the rest of the world and neither are good ones.
Sucking in a steadying breath, I move to the final window and nearly jump when the faint sound of a vibration breaks the otherwise oddly silent night.
Not even the crickets are chirping back here.
A quick pat confirms it’s not my phone that’s cutting through the silence, but somewhere inside instead.
I curse and lean close to the smaller pane, desperately hoping it’s not someone inside taking a shit and ready to shoot me for trespassing.
Blocked.
The window is already frosted, further pointing to it being a bathroom, and covered in the same shit the rest of them are.
“Fuck this,” I whisper to the too-quiet night before biting down on my light. With my hands free, I feel around the frame, pressing and hoping that it’s not locked.
It creaks.
A loud sigh of triumph flows through my nose when it cracks open, only to die off with the rest of my breath at the sight it reveals and the scent that follows.
Body.
Vomit.
Bile.
“Going in,” I rush out to the radio as I’m climbing through the window.
I step in a pile of puke that doesn’t stop me from diving towards the guy on the floor. My knee slides in the fluids pooled around him, the shit soaking into my pants, and yet I feel none of it as I shove one hand in my pocket and two fingers from the other against his neck.
“Can you hear me? I’m an EMT and I’m here to help. Let me know if you can hear me.”
I repeat both as I pull the small mirror from my pocket and stick it in front of his face.
No fog.
“Shit.”
A quick visual tells me he’s not got a back or head injury. Assuming either would be a huge risk, but if I take my fingers off his pulse, I might miss it.
Instead, I hope that this isn’t due to a fall and roll him onto his back and shove those two gloved fingers into his mouth to clear his airway.
I glance around the room and curse again when the tipped over orange bottles register.
No response.
Pressing two clean fingers to his neck, I lean down in search of air, only to come up with none.
Chest compressions.
The Bee Gees fill my head as I pump my layered palms into the guy’s chest.
