Erik A Lysholt

End of the Pipe Erik A Lysholt

The streets were flooded again. Palm trees, uprooted, floated away. High up, people snapped photos of the destruction, awed by the weather. Someone pointed at a yellow figure trudging through the night. His name was Bill Rift. Bill was walking through the rain, but not for any old reason. He walked faster, his hoodie covering his face so that none of the pictures could be used to identify him. As debris hit him, he walked out of sight, dodging the obstructions floating his way. At that point in time, nobody bothered to consider why Bill would be facing such horrible weather. Bill walked faster, hopping stones and skipping steps, but stopped when he reached the abandoned park. Bills eyes carefully scanned his surroundings making sure no humans would see him. Two hundred feet away and in the top window of a small yellow house, George Moss screamed.