As he pulled the coat a little tighter, he thought back on the recent events. There was no turning back and he knew it. He cursed the crusty snow for the deafening noise it made as he tried to escape silently. The rumbling in the distance caused his heart to pound and his palms to sweat in the leather gloves. He stopped and listened carefully.

My input to the story:

In bleak wonderment, he questioned, “Am I actually hearing this, or is it a figment of my imagination?”

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Of course it’s real,” he mused. “The ground is shaking.” The noise increased and the tremors grew stronger. He clutched his collar tightly and ducked behind a building on his left. He gasped aloud at what he saw coming around the street corner. “It shouldn’t exist!” he thought, temples clammy with perspiration.

With a shriek he awoke, startling his dog Monty, who was licking from his forehead pebbles of salt. Margarita glasses lay strewn around the room.

He wept.

He knew the snow plow had filled his freshly shoveled driveway.

He sat on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas, petting his dog, Monty. Monty, the St. Bernard, looked up at him with long, sorrowful eyes. Why did he drink so many Margaritas?

And then he remembered.

Absently petting Monty as his head throbbed, Dwayne noticed to his surprise the icy crystals in Monty’s coat. A small, empty wooden barrel hung from Monty’s collar, corkless, dripping booze forlornly on the green shag carpet.

And then he heard it – a series of low, almost imperceptible groans which seemed to be emanating from the kitchen. Was he imagining things, or was there someone in else in the house?

Suddenly, a different noise wafted through through the stagnant air, one that no one wishes to hear. Chains being drug across the linoleum floor, slowly, interspersed with a steady thump . . . thump. . . thump. Chills ran played tag up and down his spine, as the stench of past regrets flowed in the room. Was he still in his alcohol-induced dreamland, or was this real? What day was it?

The Clues led him to believe that it was most likely Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with a knife. Dwayne grew weary of the games and of the cold. In the midst of such an unpleasant reality, Dwayne started daydreaming. Suddenly it was 87° on a December afternoon with crystal clear, sunny skies. As he basked in the warmth of a Southern California heatwave, he noticed his St. Bernard had shed its winter coat. Dwayne’s jaw dropped but then…

Suddenly he was jolted into reality, or was it, by the spotlight of an eerily silent police helicopter targeting him in a cone of blinding light. “Stop where you are”, a disembodied voice loudly ordered him. How the light targeted him in his kitchen troubled him for a moment. Then he remembered the overdue library book…

… he always was a rather unimaginative fellow, so his daydream quickly gave way to reality once more. Dwayne gave his stuffed St. Bernard a pat on the head, attributing his bizarre dreams to a bad batch of tequila. His old man always told him not to drink the worm. Dwayne decided he had best stop delaying the obvious. He showered, shaved and put on a pressed shirt, dress slacks, coat, and a Beretta 92FS in a shoulder holster. He had just enough time to make it to the opening ceremonies of the Winter Games before the fun began.

Opening his front door, he stopped in shock. The grass was green. The air was warm. Birds sang in the leafy ash tree in his front yard.

How did it get to be spring? Yesterday it was winter. Had he hibernated? Had he suffered a mental fugue, blocking out the last few months? That would account for his strange dreams. But if that was the case, what had happened with his assignment? Had he succeeded or failed? And what was he supposed to do today? He needed to call headquarters.

Then his attention was drawn to movement at his elbow. Someone had tacked a note to the door frame, just below the house number. He prised the tack out with his fingernails and opened the note. The words he read made him suddenly cold again.

Grabbing his old faithful travel mug he poured the hot, bitter coffee into the mug that had not been washed since he started using it over three years ago. Before braving the cold, breath-taking chill of a mid-December winter morning he also torn the last cherry Pop Tart(r) out of the box while making a mental note to himself to try the strawberry ones. although he knew he never would.

Bending over the steaming mug, he wondered at the strangeness of his morning. It was like a chapter in a bad novel – one part spy story, one part epic apocalypse, and one part gritty character sketch of man and his sorry love affair with a bottle of tequila. What would the rest of the morning hold? Given the way this day had unfolded so far, perhaps it was best not to speculate.

And then he saw her. She whispered his name slowly, wondering if he would notice, if he would see. He’s never really seen her. He’s never really seen anything clearly.

“Eustace, Eustace!” she whispered. “Read the note! It concerns your future and speaks of those you love! For pity’s sake, open the note!”

He looked at it and then he threw up.

He carefully unfolded the note. “Bread, milk, eggs, dog biscuits,” and one more item smudged nearly to incomprehension. He squinted and tried to decipher the rest of the shopping list.

Trembling, he unfolded the note. Clearing his throat, he read aloud:

“…It was a cold morning. The kind of cold that soaks deeply into your bones, no matter how thick your coat is. He headed off into the darkness, the wind howling, the snow blowing, not sure what he would find that day….”

Then the writing stopped abruptly.

Then some more writing appeared further down the paper. It was an address with some instructions.

It said:

1256 East Main St., Anytown.

Look for key under mat at front door.
Unlock door and enter in to go upstairs.
Find box with instructions in first right bedroom.
Follow instructions on the box.

Some more writing below it appeared to be erased.

The man stood there, undecided. What to do?

He then tapped his head a couple of times, as though to clear the cobwebs. He really should talk to his priest, or a shrink, or someone about these [deleted] voices in his head. But he couldn’t think about that now. He had a football team to coach, and he was going to be late for practice. And Eustace “Stacy” Loggins had never once been late for practice his whole life.

And so, with a cheery wave to his faithful dog, he dashed off to the jet-black Alfa Romeo parked in his driveway. Just as he was about to spring jauntily into the driver’s seat, he caught a momentary view of himself in the highly-polished fender of the car. He paused for a moment, curiously pondering the fact that he appeared to be dressed more for a game of baccarat than for the grid-iron. But, once again, his faithful canine companion came to the rescue. . .