Endangered Domain
A Short Story
Written by Dan Waltz
Cover Illustration by Dan Waltz
Hello, I would introduce myself, but my name really doesn’t add any value to this story, and besides, if you’re like most, it would be forgotten shortly after I told you anyway, so why bother. I will tell you, though, that I live here, in this abandoned building. I know, the windows are covered with plastic, most of which ripped to shreds from the prevailing winds. The brickwork could use some tender loving care as well, but this is my home. I know it’s nothing special. There is no furniture inside, no luxuries, mostly rubble as looters have taken most everything that had any value to it at all, including most of the light fixtures, which really doesn’t matter much, since the power company turned the electricity off years ago; probably for the best. In my opinion, this place is nothing but a huge fire hazard and I would really be nervous if there was still power here.
There are many rooms here, far too many for me to count, but I would guess that this old high-rise once housed several hundred travelers at one time. I’ll even bet it was quite nice to stay here, back in the day. At night it gets pretty scary, though, and I try to hide as high as I can get while still having shelter over my head, as bad people come and deal their drugs and pimp their women in the disgusting rooms below. At times, gangs would show and start campfires on the ground level, and they would throw loud parties. I can smell the smoke from the campfires all the way to the rooftop, and I try hard not to get asphyxiated, while I worry about my home going up in flames. I don’t mind that they come here, though, as they always leave me a little something behind, something for me to clean up after – a few breadcrumbs here, an open bag of potato chips there. Food is food after all, and when you’re in my position, it’s hard to be picky. By morning, the drug dealers, gang members, and the partiers have all gone except for the ones left in their drunken stupors, wandering aimlessly, running into walls and tripping over debris. Eventually, things become peaceful; except for the noise of the construction workers busy renovating the building for future dorm rooms for a nearby college. They have a lot of work to do, and by the looks of things, they are going to be here a very, very long time.
The workers don’t scare me much. I can pretty much always stay hidden from them. After all, they’re here to do their jobs, and with the exception of a couple of mean ones yelling at me to get out of here when I’m seen, or maybe a rock or two thrown in my direction, I’m OK with them being here as well. But then I have to be; after all, this is my home. There are plenty of rooms to hide in, and I can always go to the roof when things get hectic, and I have, more times than I can remember. It’s safer up there anyway, and on sunny days it’s quite nice. After all, it has a perfect view of the cityscape and the river below, where I bathe and drink. There is never a problem finding a crevice to hide in when it rains as long as others aren’t doing the same. At times, it can get a bit crowded up there, as everyone tends to flock to the rooftop on hot, sunny days.
I’m worried nowadays. Not because of the economy, like most. It doesn’t really have much affect on me, although I have to admit that the economy is bad here and many people have left the city, in search of jobs. I’m worried about the ones who don’t have permanent housing like me, the ones who come and go here as they please. The “drifters” and the “homeless” is what some call us. Yes, we do get our regulars here, ones who do call this old abandoned palace their home, even if they only stay a night or two and then move on to who knows where, only to return at a later date. Even though we hardly talk to one another, we do pass each other in the hallways, in the rooms, and quite often on the rooftop. At times we spook each other, not knowing the other is there. Then we flee in separate directions in a flurry of dust, only to realize that it was just another one of our own, someone else trying to keep warm at night with whatever shelter is available at the time. What I’m really worried about is that our numbers seem to be dwindling here as well, and believe me, it’s not because we are out looking for work. We choose to live as we do. I’m worried because I’m seeing less and less of us each day, and I hate to say it but rumors have it that a killer may have moved into our wonderful domain. Some have said they’ve seen something, but they say that it happened so quickly that it’s like a blur. One minute you’re there, and the next second you’re gone, without a trace, except for a little stirred up dust and maybe a loose garment that fell behind. Most of us just keep silent, hoping not to be the next victim, and hopeful to get passed by as if it were the black plague. It seems more of us disappear every day. Now we live in fear.
One day I saw him for myself, the assumed killer that is, and when I did it stopped me dead in my tracks. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes and rubbed them several times in disbelief, but it was true. A killer had indeed taken up residency here in my building, in our building, for those of us who were still left. One day I was up on the rooftop when I overheard some chatter off in the distance. I moved closer for a better look. I neared the edge of the building, being careful that the gusting wind didn’t push me over the edge. The wind was very strong and it was a long way down to the street below. As I got closer to the edge, the noise I heard got louder and louder. My curiosity got the best of me and I dearly hoped that it would not be the end of me. I peeked down from the rooftop to a ledge, no more than four feet below. There he sat. I froze in place and hoped to Heaven that he couldn’t hear my knees knocking together as I stood there in fear, shaking like a leaf. The killer was huge, bigger than most who pass by here. He was a monster in my eyes and probably in the eyes of many. He looked strong enough to rip you apart with no effort at all. I knew I had to get out of there and head for shelter, but shelter was a ways away and I couldn’t get my legs to cooperate. I knew if the killer’s eyes locked on mine I was a goner for sure. There would be no escape for me. His size and his speed would simply overtake me in no time at all. My only comfort was that I knew if he did catch me, he would hit me with such force that I would die a literally painless death. I tried very hard to take comfort in this thought, but it wasn’t working. I truly was petrified of this natural-born killing machine.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. A large shadow appeared on the rooftop, accelerating toward me at a high rate of speed. I knew what it was in an instant, as a lump formed deep in my throat. There wasn’t just one killer on the loose, there were two. By instinct, I did my best to flee the scene. I darted one way, then another, trying to avoid the inevitable attack, but I knew deep inside that a mere Pigeon was no match for the masterful hunting skills of a Peregrine Falcon. Once again, I tried to take comfort in knowing that at least it will be a painless death.
The end.
Author’s note:
April 2009, a pair of Peregrine Falcons nested on the top ledge of the old Durant Hotel in Flint, Michigan. I had the pleasure and the privilege to witness and document this event from Memorial weekend to the July Fourth. I took a lot of photos, and I witnessed many things, including the rearing of their young. The feeding and, of course, their skillful hunting abilities. It was during this time, this story was written.
This story is a work of fictional literature,
any resemblance or similarities to places,
or real persons, living or dead, purely coincidental.
© 2010 Copyright. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, in whole or in part,
in any manner without written consent from the publisher.
D.W. Publishing
226 McFarland Street Grand Blanc, MI 48439
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