The house at the top of the knoll was a single-level affair. It was in decent shape, and he had the feeling that someone might actually live there. It didn't have the dilapidated, abandoned feel of the first cabin. He climbed the porch and knocked on the door. He waited patiently, shivering in the cold as bits of snow as fine as sand fell from the sky. He knocked again, and then again. Then he called, "I'm coming in! If you don't want me to break down this door, you'd better say something."
Only the sound of infinitesimal snowflakes falling upon the ground greeted him, so he began beating down the door. He hadn't seen the dead for quite some time, so he was quite surprised when he heard the crunch of snow behind him. He turned and found a grey-faced creature, stumbling towards him. He noted the trail behind it; it had been following him for some time it appeared. Had it followed his tracks in the snow? If so, that would be a very bad thing. He also didn't like the idea of the dead thinking… that's the last thing he needed.
He stood on the porch, gripping his hammer tight and then relaxing his grip. He was trying to get the blood flowing in his freezing arm. As the dead thing came near him, it reached out, its fingers clawing at his face. He swung with all of his might, and the hammer caved in the front of the creature's forehead. It fell backward in the snow, and blood, thick like maple syrup, oozed out of the wound.
He stood looking at the corpse, as he always did when afforded the time. The creature had been a woman once, with long red hair. Her eyes were fair, gray or blue; he couldn't tell with the dead as their eyes clouded over. She wore a shirt that was fit for the summer, and blue arms stuck out of the sleeves. Some of the flesh was missing from her arms. She certainly hadn't died in her sleep.
Sure that she was dead, he turned back around and gave the door one final kick. It burst open, slamming against the wall behind it, and he stood at the entrance, shining his flashlight inside and waving his hammer menacingly. Gray light streamed through the windows, but there were still plenty of shadows inside the house. He saw an open living room space. A thin layer of dust covered the hardwood floors.
"Hello?" he called. Nothing.
He stepped inside and moved through the house. He turned the doorknobs and opened the doors quickly, his hammer cocked and ready, his rifle slung over his back. He found no one, and he didn't know whether he was happy or sad. Mort had been alone for months with no one to talk to. He knew he was changing. He felt like the sand in an hourglass, his sense of self slowly dripping through a tiny opening. He knew what would happen when all of the sand reached the bottom. He would kill himself.
Mort went through the motions in the kitchen, tossing the cupboards and drawers and finding nothing but silverware and a guide that filled in guests on what the wi-fi password was and how to operate the hot tub out back. He was desperate, so he looked in the fridge again. A half-full bottle of Sunny Delight glowed a deep orange in the beam of his flashlight. It had vitamins in it. He could use some vitamins. But he didn't want to get sick, so he left the bottle alone. His feet dragged him into the spacious living room, and he collapsed on the couch. He covered his face to hide the tears in his eyes, and he sobbed for a while, the wind whistling through the broken front door and stirring the dust around the empty house.
Sometime later, as the sky darkened, he rose from the couch and returned to his home base to dine on another bowl of oatmeal. He tried the diablo sauce this time. It wasn't as hot as he had expected it to be. He wanted the sauce to burn, to make his body leak snot and sweat, to make him feel alive for a second. When he was done, he laid the bowl on the floor, leaned back on the couch, and went to sleep. As he dozed off, one final thought ran through his head before oblivion took him. What good is being alive if no one knows it? He had an answer for the question, but he didn't say it, not even to himself.
A few days later, as the sky seemed grayer than ever and his own voice stopped being company enough, he hiked farther down the road to a third house. Two stories of unexplored darkness loomed before him. He knocked on the door, knowing there would be no response, at least not from the living. If anyone had been home, he would have seen smoke. It was too cold to not have a fire, even inside a house.
He swallowed the saliva in his mouth as he imagined cans full of preserves, soups, and chili waiting for him inside. His stomach grumbled, and he shook with the hope that he knew he shouldn't allow into his body. But it was there whether he wanted it or not. He kicked the door open. The jamb splintered, and the sound of the door slamming into the wall
