Wyatt grunted while he slowly rousted himself off the couch for the bedroom.

He had barely sunk into sleep when he was startled awake. The November wind was flapping the metal oven vents on the roof and vibrating the windowpanes, threatening to shatter them.   He was used to being alone in the spacious house, jerking awake when the phone rang at all hours.  The neighbors often let their dogs out during the night, but tonight their usual howling ended abruptly with some sharp whimpers.  His neighbor was not the kind of guy to beat his dogs, in fact, they controlled him.  Curiosity compelled Wyatt toward the bank of windows facing the neighbor’s house across the street. Swirling snow was covering the almost bare trees, but no dogs in Brad’s yard.  Partially hidden by the trees at the lot’s boundary was a beat-up pick-up parked at an odd angle.  Maybe Brad’s son was home early from college for Thanksgiving.  He was a snarly kid who could easily beat the dogs.

Surprised that the hospital hadn’t called, he checked his cell and beeper, both working fine. Reassured that it was an unusually quiet night on call, he drifted back off to sleep.

An hour later he was alert once more. The lashing of the wind had intensified, yet again.

He reminded himself that his Remington short barrel “home protector” lay beneath the bed, within his reach and loaded.  Ron, the presently enthusiastic gun salesman, a former army sergeant, had instructed him to snatch the gun, chamber a round and release the safety.  “Ready for anything man.”

“After I put on my glasses,” he’d quipped without mentioning his civilian relationship to special forces teams.

Ron also assured him that the sound of the classic pump action would be enough to scare most bad guys away. Wyatt had chatted about a burglary down the block during his cash exchange.

“No one was at home fortunately.  With my kids gone five years already, I’m finally comfortable having a shotgun in the house now.”

Ron gave him his change and some advice:  “You need to have a plan, specific for your home or the bad guys f…ing win. What’s your plan, Dr. Rambo?”

Wyatt’s mind let go of the memories and he fell into a sleep trance, light as the snowfall outside.

The violent shatter of glass onto the foyer’s marble floor hurled him off the bed. His bad knee slammed onto the frigid stone floor and his yell reverberated through the house like a loud siren in a deep cavern.

Wyatt cursed at himself for the screw up.  If there was an intruder, he’d given away his precise location.   He knew he was in danger of becoming a victim.   He felt around the bedside table for his glasses and searched desperately below the bed unsuccessfully.  The unmistakable squeaks of rubber soles on polished floors reminded him of the noises made by players on basketball courts, and they accelerated towards the bedroom. His carotid arteries pounded from the adrenaline surge.  He fumbled under the bed again for his shotgun and furiously chambered a shell.

A sledgehammer kick blew open the bedroom door.  Wyatt whirled around in the darkness…

SRC

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