|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Thinking about it only made his head hurt. He eased out of bed and pulled on a soiled turtleneck, a pair of clean cord jeans and his trusty sneakers. After a breathtaking elevator ride down to the lobby, Cyrus strode quickly out into the subarctic darkness. He walked down the sidewalk until he reached the fence around the airport perimeter. Then, seeing no one around, he climbed the fence and began jogging through the field of tall brown grass that surrounded the runways. After about three miles, he came to a low hill overlooking the south end of the north-south runway. Here the grass was shorter but no less dead. He lay down, crushing the grass into the outline of his body, and cupped his hands behind his head. The moon hovered like a cold chrysanthemum atop the air traffic control tower to his left. As he stared up at the softly glowing satellite, he let his organic data banks run free. He was so deep into his thoughts that he didn't realize he was mouthing the words to one of his favorite songs: "I see a bad moon rising. I see trouble on the way." |
|
|
|
|
|