When would it call him down?
The house windows seemed to stare them down. The doorways gaped like toothless maws.
MILFORD MILLS BY HJ DUTTON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 141 PREVIEW
They found the town by accident. They made a loop of Marsh Creek in their scuba gear with mesh bags collecting fishing line, shoes, paddles, plastics, all that trash.
Virgil drifted through the murk like a trashbag with legs, barely kicking.Then he saw a building.
Yes, it was real. No larger than a shed, it had windows and a door. No roof, the beams jutted where it used to be, like ribs. Past the shed more buildings. Many more, barns and farmhouses, and a grid of scars in the lake’s floor, roads flayed of asphalt.
The house windows seemed to stare them down. The doorways gaped like toothless maws.
Joel backed away. What was any of this doing down here? For a moment he hovered in the murk, watching after Vitgil as he peered into windows and doors.
Joel rapped on Virgil’s tank and jabbed a thumb upward. Virgil nodded then turned back to the town.
Joel swam up to the surface. No use trying to drag the old boy out. He’d come up on his own time.