Buck crept through the dim bedrooms of his now sagging and decaying home. He placed each foot carefully, testing each step and spreading his weight heel to toe. He gripped the pump of his shotgun and dabbed the sweat from his nose before taking another step. He rested for a moment and listened to the bugs skittering beneath the floor.

A snail passed him on the ceiling.

Buck raised himself from his knees, took another step and fell through the damp rotten wood up to his crotch. He waited for a few tense breaths. The house was still quiet. He couldn’t even hear the bugs anymore. Buck braced his hands on the floor around the new hole and began to extract his leg.

He had it half way when he felt a hard pinch and blood beginning to fill his boot.

Buck wrenched his leg the rest of the way out and fired a couple shots into the floor yelling, “Lincoln, you bastard, I’ll get you for this!”

A ceramic dinner plate flew up through the hole and smashed against the wall.

Buck ducked beneath the shards, “With interest!”

He ran over to the wall and tipped a large oak armoire onto its side. It crashed to the floor over the splintered wood. Buck pulled a hammer out of the loop in his jeans and began to nail it to the floor. It rocked beneath him until he had driven the last spike in its back. He limped away to lick his wounds.

—–

Buck spent the next day on his stomach. He crawled around the floor peering through small holes in the floorboards and drilling new ones with a small hand drill. He was cautious and only allowed himself a half turn of the drill’s crank before resting with his ear pressed against the moldering floor.

Once Buck had penetrated the downstairs ceiling he would plug the hole with anything on hand and move onto the next one.

He at last came to the hole above his living room. He pulled out the eraser that blocked it and looked down. His eye hovered over the tiny window and began to burn from the dust collecting on its sticky surface. Buck ignored it.

Below him was the tattered corpse of a rotting sofa and a rug, formerly white, now black with grime. In the center of the rug lay a rat trap. The metal arm had been pinned back to the wooden base and a small morsel rested on the lever. The trigger was shaped like a piece of cartoon cheese.

A rat emerged from the remains of the sofa and approached the trap. It raised its head and sniffed the air before coming closer. It circled the trap and sat in front of it, considering the bait. It took it.

The killing arm swung shut with a loud crack. The rat’s head was pinned to the cheap piece of wood. It was dead. Its skull was oddly deformed and its eyes had popped out. It was still twitching when Buck plugged the peep hole and crawled away.

—–

Moonlight cut through the dust hanging in the stagnant air. It shone through holes in the collapsing roof and narrow slits where the plywood didn’t totally seal off the windows. Through one of these, a short stem of ivy had snaked its way and now hung in the dim light. Buck broke the stem and held the verdant plant to his eyes.

He bent back one of the leaves and watched it spring back and leave silently swirling motes in its wake. He felt its soft leaves, explored the veins that spread from the stem with his finger tips and felt the coolness of its flesh against his. He fell asleep with it still clutched in his hand on the swatch of cardboard he had called his bed that night.

—–

Bullets ripped through the bathroom floor, sending shards of stained tile and grout flying and Buck diving into the refuge of the claw-footed bathtub. Another round hit the sink, splitting it in half. A large piece crashed to the floor and another round smashed the overhead lamp. Buck was showered in plaster.

A voice shouted from downstairs, “Buck! How you feeling up there Buck?”

Buck spat out a mouthful of dust and yelled back, “You hit me!”

The other man sounded hopeful, “Really?”

“No! You messed up my bathroom though!” He began to laugh, a mad high pitched giggle.

“Screw you! You shut off my water.”

“Yeah, and you’re holding back food.”

“What are you talking about?”

Buck ventured a look over the tub’s brim, “Don’t play dumb. I know you have food.”

A couple more shots punched through the floor, “And why should I have to give you any?”

“No reason, but I did shut off your water. How long do you think you’ll last?”

The other man did not answer.

Buck got out of the tub and moved quietly into the hall, “Put some food at the bottom of the stairs, then I’ll take the clamp off of your catch tube.”

Buck waited for several minutes without a response before the man shouted, “All right, it’s there. Come down and get it.”

Buck tiptoed into one of the bedrooms and replied, “No thanks. I’ll get it when I’m good and ready.”

—–

The moon rose and set. Dawn crept up and glowed through gaps worn thin in the roof. Buck was back on his belly. He crawled around to his holes once more and found his friend still sleeping in the kitchen. The doors had been barricaded with the majority of the ground floor’s furniture and a large revolver lay on the ground by his head. Buck stuck the cork back in its place and retrieved his shotgun.

He crawled past the war-torn bathroom to the top of the house’s staircase. The door at the bottom was nailed shut and the stairs themselves were blocked up to the second floor with splintered beds and chests of drawers. Buck raised himself onto his haunches and uncovered a hole in the drywall near the floor. He stuck his head in before lowering his whole body down.

Inside the wall separating the living room from the dining room Buck cut another hole in the wall with a razor blade and crawled through it. There as promised, at the base of the stairs, was three cans of various meats and a small bag of rice. Buck bent down to collect them and felt cold metal against the back of his neck.

He froze.

“Turn around.”

Lincoln’s skin hung from his bones in great sheets. His clothes were ripped and patched and ripped again. They were greasy and draped loosely over his shoulders and about his waist. His eyes had sunk back into their sockets and looked dim and small because of the depth. He had obviously been a much larger man.

He scratched at the thick beard that obscured his face and motioned for Buck to drop his gun. Buck nodded and lowered the shotgun to the floor. He kicked it over. From back in the kitchen a mousetrap snapped shut. Lincoln looked over his shoulder at the sudden sound.

Buck took the opening and dove at him. Lincoln was caught at the waist and the pair fell and crashed through the wall. They struggled and kicked and bit and scratched. Lincoln punched Buck in the mouth, dazed him and rolled on top of him pinning the other man’s arms with his knees.

Lincoln stared down at Buck and pulled back the hammer of the revolver.

Locked together and staring at each other, they waited. Both men’s eyes hardened at the same moment and then there came a scratching at the door, just a little scrape here, a tiny bump there, then from the windows as well. Then louder and faster. It grew and spread and soon was a hammering from all around and howling from dozens of dry mouths.

The two men broke apart and got to their feet. Buck grabbed his gun and kept his eye on the door, but Lincoln’s eyes darted all around them. He shivered and lowered his gun.

“Do you hear it?” he asked.

Buck whispered back, “Hear what?”

Lincoln was now pressing his ear against the shaking door, “The singing! Can’t you hear it?”

Buck pumped a fresh cartridge into the shotgun and yelled over the drumming, “What!? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The song.”

“Listen to me, man. Get away from that door. Just back up.”

Lincoln dropped the revolver and drew back the bolts and undid the locks.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said and threw open the door.

The sun poured into the grey house and filled the doorway with a blinding wall of light. Lincoln stepped through it and disappeared. Buck screamed and ran forward slamming the door on several pale and putrid hands. Their fingers were severed and fell lifelessly to the floor. Buck forced it shut and threw the bolts back in place. The thick oak door still shook in its hinges.

The senseless yammering pressed upon his ears. Buck left the broken bloodless fingers where they lay and climbed back up through the walls.

—–

Buck woke up covered in snow and ice. His lips were blue and he shook violently. No light filtered in through his ceiling. The clouds overhead were lit up from a fire in the distance and were the color of dried blood. Something shifted in the hall and fell to the ground.

Buck sat up and threw off his thin blanket. He grabbed the shotgun and crept to the door of the bedroom. He peeked around the corner but couldn’t make out anything. The darkness was too thick, too concentrated. It was repulsive and threatened to take him.

“Lincoln is that you?”

There was no answer.

“You know you’re not supposed to be up here!”

Something rustled and Buck raised the gun and shot into the dark.

He dropped it and yelled, “Oh my god. Lincoln! Lincoln! Oh, god. Lincoln did I hurt you!?”

Buck walked into the hall. He sparked an old Bic lighter to keep the dark at bay. In the pool of insubstantial light it made he found a dead crow. It was still warm.

Buck ate it raw and spit the pellets on the floor.

—–

Something was under his skin. He could feel it. It was clawing at his muscles. It was pulling at his tendons. It was burrowing. It was going deeper and deeper. He had to catch it now or else who knew where it would go or where it might lay its eggs.

Buck grabbed his knife and rolled up his sleeve. He sliced into his arm at the back of the wrist. At first the cuts he made were shallow, but the bug ran from him and went deeper. He followed it and carved up his arm in a serpentine path, trying to chase it, trying to dig it out.

At last he had it cornered. He twisted the knife and pried it out. He reached out to grab it before it could run away, but when he opened his hand nothing was there. He fell back against the wall with his arm bleeding onto the floor and seeping between the boards.

It must have crawled inside his other hand when he grabbed it, Buck decided.

—–

Buck’s arm was red and swollen. Purple veins bulged and wound up it and onto his chest. His breathing was heavy and labored. He didn’t move much anymore.

Then it started, with a scratch at the door.

Then the pounding began, slowly at first then louder, and faster, and stronger. A deep bass rhythm.

Then he heard it, the singing.

The song: “Oh, what a beautiful day. Won’t you please come out and play.”