We got to the outskirts of the town, where a few small houses, flat ranch-styled things with their weathered wood sides blending to near invisibility in the darkness, and got off the roads.
“If we cut through some of these yards, we should be able to come up the hill to the apartments across from the bar. They have roof access, so we can pick some of the weres off,” Sylvie said.
Most of the houses either had their lights on in the front of the house, there they might have their televisions on, or were dark, either abandoned, or maybe just sleeping peacefully, with the latest monthly bloodbath over. We crept through, our feet light on the chilled grass, with our bows drawn and arrows notched.
The yards came in varied stages of decay. Some were kept nice, with a view fire pits, lawn furniture, kitschy decorations hanging from trees and walls. It looked like dogs dug small pits into the lawns which the owners tried to fill with rocks and dirt to discourage return diggers. Those houses often were the ones to have their televisions turned to a movie or bright, vibrant show that made reality that much more…dreary. I watched The Wizard of Oz when I was very small once; I remembered Dorothy starting in black and white or sepia like old photographs, and then suddenly everything was so colorful it almost looked fake. The tv screens were Oz, but Sylvie and I were in a much colder Kansas.