The light is so bright at the top of the stairs that I can’t see anything at first. I press my palms over my watering eyes.
When my eyes adjust, I am shocked to be standing in a large room with an enormous intact window overlooking half-dead pine trees, and far below, the distant city. I am in a structure built on the side of the Rocky Mountains. The floors are rustic wood, the furniture is rustic wood and cracked leather. Dusty elk, moose, and deer heads are mounted on the walls, and the kitchen, to my left, has dusty granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. The refrigerator still has scraps of paper stuck to it with magnets.
I walk to the fridge and pull a scrap of paper out from under a frog magnet. It’s a grocery list scrawled in faded pencil. I put the list back under the magnet and open the fridge. It is empty, as if someone cleaned it out before the food could rot in it. Same with the cupboards.
Leaving the kitchen, I find a flight of stairs that leads up. Framed photographs cover the stairwell walls, and I glance at them as I slowly ascend. They’re school photos of a boy and a girl, from kindergarten on up until maybe middle school. And the boy has hair a few shades darker than copper, and eyes the color of the morning sky.
Upstairs, I find three bedrooms and two bathrooms. I pass the master suite and go into a small bedroom. It’s a girl’s room, with a pale pink quilt on a perfectly made bed, as if the girl who sleeps here is going to come home from school this afternoon, remove the three white throw pillows, and sleep in it. I step up to the bed and run my hand over the quilt, and my fingers leave stripes in the years’ worth of dust that has settled on it.
The next room has a bed, a dresser, a closet, and a telescope pointing out a window that faces the city. A lacrosse stick hangs on the wall behind the bed’s headboard, surrounded by first-place ribbons, medals, and plaques. I walk up to the wall and study a plaque—the name Kevin Winston Emerson is etched into the tarnished brass.
“Aha! So here’s the real you,” I whisper, and read every single ribbon, medal, and plaque. They all have his name on them. Apparently he took first place a lot in lacrosse, and for some reason that tiny fact makes me feel like I know him a hundred times better. Like, just maybe, I can trust him. I run my fingers over his bed and pause. It isn’t like the girl’s bed. There is no dust on the faded red quilt.
I go to the closet and open the door. It’s a deep walk-in closet with shelves on the left and bars with hangers on the right. The hangers hold filthy clothes that desperately need a washing. I run my fingers over a threadbare trench coat that has so much dried mud on it that it is stiff to the touch. Little granules of dirt fall off and sprinkle over the dusty wood floor. On a shelf above the clothes are other things—scarves, hats, and beanies, and grass and twigs from mouse nests.
I leave the closet and go to the chest of drawers and start going through them, through boys’ socks, through boxer shorts that look way too small for Kevin but have his name written on the waistband in permanent marker. The next drawer holds lacrosse stuff, like cleats, a mouth guard, a jock strap, and grass-stained padding. They still smell faintly of grass and sweat. The bottom drawer isn’t filled with clothes but with newspaper clippings, yellow and faded. I kneel on the hardwood floor and take one out. The headline says:
I get two more clipped articles:
And:
The article has a picture with the text. The boy has auburn hair, bright eyes, and a wide smile. Kevin. The girl has the same hair and eyes but looks several years younger.
I put the clipped articles back into the drawer and go to the telescope. It isn’t pointed at the sky, the obvious place, but slightly north of the city. I put my eye to the lens, careful not to change its position, and take a look.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I force myself not to flinch. What I am looking at is miles away, but it still makes me want to run home and hide under my bed. I am staring at raiders. Lots and lots of raiders. They’re gathered in a Walmart parking lot, wearing guns and camouflage, standing around five four-wheelers. Several are holding chains attached to big dogs, as if they’re about to go hunting. But hunting for what?
I take an unsteady step away from the telescope. I know exactly what they’re going to hunt. Me. And Fo, Bowen, Jonah, Kevin, and the beast-child. We need to get away before they find us, which means right now.
“Where are you, Fo?” I whisper, glancing at my watch. It is half past three. Kevin has been gone for nearly eight hours. I press my eye back against the telescope and slowly start moving it toward the foothills, toward what I think is the direction of the underground shelter. Slowly, methodically, I move it back and forth, scanning the area. A flash of movement catches my eye and I jump back from the shock of it. Pressing my eye once more to the scope, I brace myself and take a look.
My muscles relax as Kevin’s camouflage ball cap and face bob into view, followed by Fo and the others. They’re close, and they’re fine. I sigh with relief. And then it hits me. I’m supposed to be imprisoned down in the shelter, not rummaging through Kevin’s underwear drawer and newspaper clippings. I turn from the scope and quietly hustle through the house, down two flights of stairs, and into the wine cellar. I pass from the wine cellar into the dark, musty food storage room, turn on my flashlight, and close and lock the wine room door behind me.
Digging my toes into the cement floor, I start running.