There seemed nothing else to do now but go ahead into Garland, a distance of only half a mile. There we might find food and water; and, thus refreshed, we could start back north to cover the fifteen miles to Frannie. Garland, a few days before, was a town of about five hundred inhabitants; but I do not suppose that, at the time of its destruction, there were more than a score or two of people remaining in it. We started off again, and within twenty minutes were among the smoldering houses of the town. It consisted practically of only one street--the road we were on--with the houses strung along it. The houses had been, most of them, small frame structures. They were nothing now but smoldering heaps of ashes with the chimneys left standing, like gaunt, silent sentinels. As we passed on down the road we saw several twisted forms that we took for the remains of human beings. It is unnecessary for me to describe them. We hurried on, shuddering. Our objective was the lower end of the town, for there, perhaps a quarter of a mile off to one side with a branch road leading to it, we saw a single house and out-buildings left standing. We turned down this road and approached the house. It was a rather good-looking building of the bungalow type with a wide-spreading porch. Beside it stood a long, low, rectangular building we took to be a garage. There was an automobile standing in the doorway, and behind it we caught the white gleam of an airplane wing. "We're all right now," cried Mercer. "There's a car, and there's a plane inside. One of them ought to run." At this unexpected good fortune we were jubilant. We could get back to Billings now in short order. We climbed up the porch steps and entered the house. We did not call out, for it seemed obvious that no one would be there after what had occurred in Garland so near by. "There must be something to eat here," I said. "Let's find out--and then get back to Billings." The big living room was empty, but there was no sign of disorder. A closed door stood near at hand. "That might be the way to the kitchen," I suggested. "Come on." I pushed open the door and entered, with Mercer close behind me. It was a bedroom. The bed stood over by a window. I stopped in horror, for on the bed, hunched forward in a sitting position, was the body of a man! With the first sudden shock of surprise over, we stopped to note details. The man's hand, lying on the blanket, clutched a revolver. A mirror directly across from him was shattered as though by a bullet. A small bedroom chair was overturned near the center of the room. "He--he isn't burned." Mercer spoke the words hardly above a whisper. "Something else killed him--there's been a fight. They--" He stopped. A sudden panic seized me. I wanted to run--to do something--anything--that would get me away from the nameless, silent terror that seemed all about. "Come on," I whispered back. "God! Let's get out of here."