He’d finally found it. The last clue. All he had to do was walk in. And hopefully the answer would be revealed to him. It’s what he had spent his life doing.

Wait. This was familiar.

What was he doing now? He was going through his knapsack, reorganizing it. He removed two of the small first-aid kits he carried – basically gauze bandages that didn’t do much but stop the bleeding if he was wounded – and he put them in his coat pockets, where they were easy to reach. Why was he doing this? Was he afraid of something behind the door? Why did this seem so familiar?

He reached into the pack again and slipped the sawed-off .410 from its hiding place inside, broke it and absently reached down to the .45 tucked in his belt to flick the safety off with his left hand while he inspected the shells in the cradled shotgun. What was this? He had no idea what was behind the door, but was acting spooked like he was in for one Hell of a fight.

Why did this seem so damn familiar? Like deja vu, only slightly different….