Lost Dog 5
Harold found his clothes where the voice on the phone said they would be, washed and folded with the family's washing machine.
He'd found a few pictures on the walls and saw that he was in a Porcine home. This must be the Wilder's home, he decided. He saw a few pictures of what might be Naomi and her little girl, but he only knew her in passing. He could snoop, but there was no reason to be sure. He just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
Today would have been hard enough on the family, and even if it wasn't the Wilder home, he had no urge to be in this house when anyone came home. He found his wallet and cell phone next to the folded clothes and his shoes. The wallet was full but the cell phone was fried.
He dressed quickly, intent on finding a phone and calling Zhu-Zhu immediately. She must be going crazy. There'd been gunfire, if that voice was to be believed. That would not have been pleasant for his pretty little feline. Not with him missing. Not with people dying where she worked.
He walked to the front door, finding a pile of letters and bills on the floor. He looked quick at the address, confirming that he was in the West Coast Valley. Civilization would not be far away.
He stepped out the front door, relocking the door behind him. It was dark now, although the street lamps weren't on yet. There were a lot of vans and trucks parked on the street where the Wilders lived, but he didn't care. He just needed to figure out where the nearest shopping mall, bar, or bus stop was. There were a surprisingly lot of people on the side walk. He could ask one of them, he thought.
The motion detector on the Wilder porch, flickered on.
The street lamps came on, instantly flooding the street with white-blue light. Heads turned his way and the background chatter died, cutting off words. He stopped dead in his tracks as he realized that half the vans on the little suburban street were newsvans. The few trucks were news trucks.
Furs threw bulky cameras onto their shoulders. Cameras and microphones were pointed his way and he would not have been more frightened if the people on the sidewalk pointed bayonets in his direction and advanced.
The newspeople charged him and, for the first time in his adult life, Harold Romano froze with his tail between his legs.