Story code: ST-001349
Part 2: The Community Warden
Clara threw her entire body backward. Her shoulder blades slammed into the heavy oak door with a violent crack that echoed across the manicured lawns. The brass latch engaged with a sharp snap, instantly cutting off the narrow slice of darkness from the hallway. Pain flared down Clara’s spine, but she kept her boots planted on the porch planks, her mud-caked denim overalls pressing hard against the wood.
Vance froze, his hand hovering inches from the screen door handle. His eyes narrowed, darting from Clara’s flushed face to the solid oak behind her.
“The wind,” Clara said. Her voice came out thin and breathy. She swallowed hard, forcing air into her lungs. “The cross-breeze from the back patio. It catches the hinges.”
“A cross-breeze,” Vance repeated. His voice was entirely devoid of inflection. He did not lower his hand. “A cross-breeze unlatched a deadbolt and turned a brass handle from the inside.”
“The strike plate is misaligned,” Clara lied, her mind racing. She gripped the wrought-iron railing with her left hand, leaving her right hand flat against the door. The wood vibrated faintly against her palm. Someone was leaning against the other side. “I submitted a maintenance request to the architectural committee three weeks ago. You haven’t approved the contractor yet.”
Vance slowly lowered his hand to his tactical belt. He unclipped the heavy walkie-talkie. The device let out a burst of static that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet afternoon. “The architectural committee has more pressing matters than your strike plates. We are currently conducting a sector-wide sweep for unregistered occupants. Specifically, individuals who skipped the mandatory health and residency audit this morning.”
Clara’s stomach dropped. The residency audit. They had been knocking on doors since dawn. That was why she had been out in the dirt for six hours, pretending the garden required her undivided, obsessive attention. She had hoped her visible presence in the yard would serve as a deterrent, a sign of total, compliant normalcy.
“I live alone,” Clara said again, repeating the phrase like a mantra. “My audit was cleared last year.”
“Audits are annual, Clara. And neighbors talk,” Vance said. He took a deliberate step up onto the porch. His steel-toed boot landed heavily on the wooden plank, inches from her muddy shoes. He towered over her now, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun. “Mrs. Gable at number seventy-four reported seeing a vehicle idle in your driveway at two in the morning on Sunday. She said someone was helped out of the passenger seat. Someone who couldn’t walk on their own.”
“Mrs. Gable needs her cataracts checked,” Clara said, digging her fingernails into the rough grain of the oak door. “I had bags of mulch delivered. I moved them myself.”
“Fifty-pound bags of mulch,” Vance noted, his gaze dropping to Clara’s slender arms. “In the middle of the night.”
“It’s cooler at night. Better for planting.”
Inside the house, the guest bathroom plumbing shuddered again. The pipes let out a high-pitched squeal as the water shut off abruptly. A second later, a dull thud echoed through the wall, followed by the undeniable sound of glass shattering on the tile floor.
Clara flinched. The vibration of the impact traveled through the floorboards and straight into her boots.
Vance pressed the button on the side of his radio. “Base, this is Vance. I need a secondary unit at seventy-two Elm. Possible code violation. Potential harbor of a non-compliant.”
“Copy that, Vance,” a woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Unit two is en route. Three minutes.”
Three minutes. Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn’t let them in. If they saw the guest-if they saw the fever, the distinctive rash spreading across the collarbone, the exact symptoms the HOA board had declared an immediate eviction and quarantine offense-she would lose the house. Worse, the guest would be taken to the county holding facility, a place from which people rarely returned.
“Major Vance,” Clara said, her voice rising in pitch. She stepped forward, deliberately moving into his personal space, forcing him to look at her and not the door. “You cannot enter this property without twenty-four hours written notice. Section four, paragraph two of the homeowner’s agreement. Unless there is visible fire or flood, you are trespassing.”
Vance looked down at her. A slow, humorless smile crept across his face. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. “I am not entering as the HOA president, Clara. I am entering as the designated community health warden. Emergency bylaw enacted at yesterday’s closed-door board meeting.”
He unfolded the paper and held it up. It was a printed warrant, stamped with the red seal of the Pine Ridge Community Association.
“We know about the outbreak in the city,” Vance said softly, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “We know people are fleeing to the suburbs to hide their infected relatives. We will not let this neighborhood fall to the rot.”
Clara’s breath hitched. She stared at the red stamp. The ink was fresh. They had planned this. The weed measuring, the property line pacing-it was all just a pretext to keep her distracted outside while they positioned themselves.
“There is no one here,” Clara insisted, though her voice shook.
“Then you won’t mind if I verify the structural integrity of your floorboards,” Vance said, his eyes dropping to the porch.
He sidestepped her, moving with surprising speed for a man his size. He grabbed the lid of the blue recycling bin resting against the siding and flipped it open. Clara lunged to stop him, but she was too late. Vance plunged his hand into the bin, pushing past the empty cardboard seed boxes and sparkling water cans.
He pulled out a crumpled, blood-stained surgical mask and a plastic IV tubing wrapper.
Vance held the medical waste up to the sunlight, the blood stark and damning against the pale blue fabric. He looked from the mask to Clara, his jaw setting into a hard, unforgiving line.
“Mulch,” Vance said quietly.
From the other side of the solid oak door, a heavy, desperate weight slumped against the wood. The brass handle turned slowly, clicking as the latch retracted.
Vance dropped the bloody mask and drew a heavy steel flashlight from his belt, gripping it like a weapon.
“Step aside, Clara,” Vance ordered, raising the steel cylinder. “Or I will move you myself.”