The Mural

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Michael Mallory. The Mural

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SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

The town had sprung up out of the ground like a bush.

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After making as thorough an inspection as was possible under the circumstances, Jack switched his recording back on and said: “Interior of city hall in an extreme state of distress, but cannot see anything that indicates structural instability. With enough people dedicated to the effort, and enough cleanser, this building probably could be rehabilitated for use again.” But Jesus, he thought, I’d hate to be responsible for cleaning this place up.

Clicking off the recorder, Jack set the flashlight down on a heap of plaster chips and pulled out his camera, checking it against the light bema to make certain it was set for flash. Pointing it at one side wall, he clicked the button and waited until the flash went off, then checked the screen to see if anything had been captured. It had: the picture showed the stained, moldy paneling quite clearly. He took a few more shots from different angles and then turned to the other wall the floor and the ceiling. Last to be shot was the back wall, which oddly appeared to be made of poured concrete. Training the camera on it he clicked the button and peered through the viewfinder as the flash went off.

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