The War of the Roses

Ann shook her head. Then, suddenly, she saw them. Oliver and Barbara, encased in a shroud of white dust, their faces paralyzed in a mask of death. Under the rubble, they appeared to be embracing, their lifeless eyes locked together in an eternal stare. She gasped and turned away. It was a long moment before she became conscious again of the children moving behind her.

They were poking around in the rubble, Josh on his knees, Eve moving the debris with the toe of her shoe. Clutched in her left hand was an object, a familiar statue, its black head remarkably shiny and clean. The buffed figure of Molineaux was, miraculously, intact, poised as always in its eternal pugilistic pose.

Josh stood up, looking oddly victorious. He rubbed the companion figure against his shirt and blew the dust away. Ann's eyes focused on the perfectly intact figure. She saw Eve's hand reach out, her fingers wrapping themselves around Cribb's torso.

For a frozen moment the children held the figure with equal strength, then Josh grasped the Molineaux at its base.

'It's mine,' Josh cried. 'Mine,' Eve screamed.

With a snapping sound, like the crack of a pistol shot the two figures seemed to explode. Ann watched as the children, with a glazed, stunned look, studied the shattered bits of plaster in their palms.

Ann turned away, heading toward the entrance. The speed of her steps agitated the dust around her ankles.