Stock-Still Terror
Three months later, Sloane whispered, “Don’t…make…a…sound.”
Sloane’s girls couldn’t see their mother in the darkened bedroom, but they knew to heed her every whispered word metered out with care.
A funny smell hung in the air, one that caused them to breathe in momentarily, halting their breath in an effort to refuse something. That was what first stirred Sloane from a light, guarded sleep. Then, the sounds of footsteps on the creaky staircase wrought by a saltwater invasion and slowly dried over the months, loosening the screws so that anyone with a feathers weight sounded an orchestrated alarm. This noise brought her around completely, knowing it was more than the wind. When she sat up, through bleary eyes, she saw their bedroom door was locked as always and yet, a lightbeam shone like a laser through the cracks from the other side. There shouldn’t be anyone there, yet there was, and that was an ominous sign since her canine friends had not barked even once or growled an alert.
With only the light of the moon shining through the window, Sloane reached over Nicole’s stiff form, who was frozen stock-still in terror, and grabbed her Glock off the nightstand. The child’s eyes were widened with fear and her breathing sped with a rapid pace. Sloane knew she had to do something in the next half second or they might all die.
Barefooted, she moved quickly to the bathroom door and motioned with her arm for the girls to follow and move as silently as possible. They’d planned this before, though this was the first time they had to actually carry out an escape from their house on Horseshoe Lane.
Her oldest daughter, Wren, ushered the two younger girls into the bathroom and Sloane barred the door behind them.
They knew not to utter a word or make the slightest sound, though Nicole held her nose to bar the odd smell that seemed stronger by the minute. She’d trained them and they’d practiced night and day for any contingency thought up. She’d made it a game amongst them to stave off boredom and to teach them survival. Sloane prayed her girls would make the short distance to safety. Their lives depended on them performing exactly as she’d taught them.
By the time the bedroom door burst open with force and yelling commenced, Sloane’s bare feet were lifted high up into the false air vent which she’d previously set into place. Remembering Trent Carson’s recommendation that there should always be at least two ways to escape from each room, she silently thanked him that she’d heeded this advice. Sloane had recovered the air vent before the intruders burst through the blocked doorway to the bathroom in their search for the inhabitants.
With scurrying noises only noticeable ahead of her, Sloane prayed, Please let them make it.
She followed them partway and when the cold, moist air hit her face, she took a deep breath to release the odd gas odor as she made her way through the escape route in the crawlspace of the attic and soon she too was at the opening. The girls were gone though. She didn’t hear a word, not one sound from them. No one screamed. The only noise she detected was within her own home as she assumed the man, or more likely men, scavenged through her supplies. Where the heck are my dogs?
As the freezing air stung her, Sloane peered across the side lawn fifteen feet away to the Lincolns’ abandoned home which now housed their secret basement hideout. As she checked both ways through the moonlit dark for intruders, Mae’s bright face reflected the moonlight in the darkness as she peeked out of the hidden entrance and Sloane was both relieved and angry as hell at the same time. They knew better than to show themselves. That was against the rules and could get them all killed.
Even though they were scared, she had to make them follow the plan. It meant life or death for them all. Sloane knew she needed to take care of this menace now before it was too late. Though she prepared for every single scenario she could think of, in real time, this was different. In the attic escape route, she’d hidden a bag filled with flares, matches, ammo and a pair of night vision goggles, thanks to her neighbors, the Carsons, Bakers and the Millers, who turned out to have left a plethora of survival equipment at her disposal. The only things she wished she had at the moment were shoes and perhaps a bulletproof vest and most immediately, a gas mask would be nice.
Sloane swallowed what fear began to rise from her gut and put on the night vision goggles. She heard pounding behind her and feared they were searching for their escape route. It wouldn’t be long before they found her, and she was going to be ready for them when they did.
She quickly sealed up the exit the girls had taken and with her equipment, she scurried back down the path she’d come and passed the entrance to her bathroom, listening intently as she went. There were at least two of them by the sounds of it.
“The bed’s still warm. They’re here somewhere,” she heard a muffled voice yell.
“Where the hell did they go then?”
“Hell if I know.”
Sloane made out two separate male voices, muffled by masks, she guessed. They sounded like young men, not over thirty. Then one made a radio call to someone else, possibly on lookout outside and Sloane nearly panicked.
“Hey Mick, you see anything out there? They’re not in here, over.”
“What do you mean they’re not there? We saw them in the north bedroom a few hours ago. You check the basement?”
“We cleared the whole house, man. I’m tellin’ you they’re gone. Did you see anything out there?”
“No, I’m watchin’ the whole front of the house. Franz, any sign back there?”
So there’s four of them.
“Nothing out here,” Franz replied.
The next conversation really scared the hell out of her.
“All right man, it’s your rear that’s going to get canned when we go back to base empty-handed and report that we lost a mother and her three daughters.”
“We’re not empty-handed. Look, we found their rations. We’ll take ‘em. They can’t hold out forever. They’ll come walking into the FEMA camp on their own before long. It’s getting colder every night. Come on. Let’s go.”
Then suddenly, Sloan knew what caused this.
That fat jerk! I should have killed him when I had the chance!