Anyone? (3 page)

“This city is headed for a disaster of biblical proportions.”

“What do you mean, ‘biblical’?”

“What he means is Old Testament, Mr. Mayor, real wrath-of-God
type stuff.”

“Exactly.”

“Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers
and seas boiling!”

“Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes....”

“The dead rising from the grave!”

“Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together... mass
hysteria!”

“All right, all right! I get the point!”

I pressed the rewind on the remote; the video skimmed backward
and the scene and words repeated themselves. At the end, I pressed pause and
watched the stilled actors on the television, their mouths contorted, their
eyes half blinking.
Thanks a lot,
Ghostbusters
. Thanks a bunch.

Was that going on above? Fire and brimstone, boiling seas? I’d
been down in this tin box for eight
long
days, crossing each one off on
the calendar with the hope that Dad would finally show up. The stupid movie was
supposed to take my mind off my troubles, but instead it got me wondering and
thinking again—not a good pastime for an idle person. And I thought I was safe
with
Ghostbusters.

Dad supplied the bunker with a shelf of movies, but the
majority of them leaned more toward Toby and his tastes, not mine—
Resident
Evil, The Shining, The Ring, Silence of the Lambs, etc....
There were also
some Disney princess movies to go along with my coloring books—something I may
have enjoyed when I was three—and nestled between
Snow White
and
Ariel,
he had tucked the movie
Black Swan.
He obviously had no idea that movie
had no Disney qualities to it whatsoever. At least he’d installed a TV and
movies. It would be a whole lot worse down here if he hadn’t.

I continued to hold the remote as I rolled over flat on my
back and stared at the ceiling above me.

Callie napped on the back of the couch, curled in a little
ball, content. She didn’t care what movie we watched. She had come to accept
our new surroundings, adjusting to life living in a twenty-by-eight-foot space
a lot easier than I thought she would.

I ran my hand lightly over her fur, not waking her, but needing
to feel her to remind myself I wasn’t truly alone.

I hit the play button and the silence fell away to the
sounds of ghosts and men trying to capture them without getting slimed, but looked
away from the screen. For all I knew there could very well be a real life giant
marshmallow man stomping around above me right now, crushing houses and causing
destruction with his inflated body. Not knowing allowed me to think about all
sorts of strange possibilities, but a giant marshmallow man didn’t sound half
as bad as some of my other thoughts—earthquake, war, aliens from another planet.

Screw this.

I tossed the remote aside, leaving the movie on, and rolled over
with my back facing the television. I didn’t want to watch anymore, but couldn’t
face listening to silence either.

Thirteen days.

I held up my princess coloring page—outlined in darker
colors and shaded for effect. It had taken me three hours to add the details
and the appearance of texture to give the manufactured coloring page a bit of
needed flare. “Whatcha think?”

Callie stopped licking herself, glanced at me for a brief
second then went back to grooming.

“Well, I think it’s pretty darn good.” I ripped off a piece
of duct tape and hung my masterpiece on the only flat surface in the bunker—the
bombproof door. If only I’d taken my time like this on my school art projects,
maybe I would’ve produced something worthy of a grade higher than a C. Oh,
well. But one thing was clear: I had talent, even if Mrs. Dillagre didn’t think
so. No one looking at my shading and texturing of Cinderella could think
otherwise.

I stared at the door with my crooked coloring page dangling
from it. I hadn’t opened the door since the day the men tried to break in. I
hadn’t dared. That also meant I hadn’t taken a full-fledged shower since then
either. The only shower was in the decontamination area, and with the door shut
I had no access to it. Sponge baths helped, but barely hid my stink, not like
it mattered.

Who did I have to impress? Callie? I actually think she
preferred my malodor.

The earth no longer rumbled, and no one had banged on the
square door in an effort to get in—not since that day anyway—but having one
extra door between me and the world gave me comfort.

“Should I open it? Huh?”

Callie arched her back and stretched. She jumped down from
the couch, came to me, and rubbed herself against my ankles. That seemed like a
yes.

“You want more space to explore? Is that it?” The
decontamination area was only four feet long, if that, but cramped in our tiny
space it may as well have been a football field. More room. More possibilities.
And I could really use a shower.

I refused to open it without being prepared. No way. So I
grabbed my gun off the top bunk—close, if I needed it, but not in the way—and
reached out my hand to open one of the latches. If someone had managed to blast
a hole through the square door, then I’d shut the bomb door once more. Simple.
Who needed a shower anyway?

One latch clicked open, then another. I really could have
used both hands free, but I had no plans to set the gun down at all. One
handed, I removed each latch and opened the door, a crack at first, then a
little more.

Callie shot past my feet and ran into the new area.
Damn
it.
I should have realized that would happen.
Now I didn’t have a
choice but to open the door the entire way if I wanted my cat back.

Cautious, I continued to hold the gun and pushed the door
all the way open. My heart pounded, but seeing the square door above me secured
and undamaged from this side brought me a lot of relief. I lowered my gun and
stepped into the dark area.

There wasn’t much to it. The door, which led to the world
above, the ladder to climb up or down, and the shower area. Not much at all. It
was kind of a disappointment, like waiting all of December to open the biggest
present under the tree to only find out it was a stupid desk for studying and
not the stereo system Santa was supposed to have brought.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t seen the area when I’d first
come into the shelter, but after nearly two weeks of not seeing it, I guess I’d
hoped for more. Even Callie seemed a bit put-off by it. She wandered around,
rubbing herself against the walls before returning to her favorite napping spot
on the couch.

In that moment, I kind of wanted to do the same. Sleeping at
least made the time go by quicker.

I made sure the safety was on my gun and tucked it into the
waistband of my pants, then scaled the ladder, a bit afraid, but not nearly as
much as before, to listen for any sound—anyone talking, screams, gunfire,
anything. Nothing but silence greeted me.

It would be so easy to unlatch the door and step out,
breathe in fresh air and take in my surroundings. I could finally figure out
what was happening. Only three latches separated me from leaving the shelter.
Dad had said to wait, and I had for two long weeks. He wasn’t coming back; I knew
that now.

But I climbed down the ladder and stared at the door. My
mind wondered endlessly about what might be happening above, but opening the
door would bring reality crashing down around me. What if I didn’t like what
reality had to offer? What if it was terrifying and awful?

Nope. I would leave another day, when I felt more ready.

I turned the knob on and a fine stream flowed out of the
detachable shower head. Not cold, but not hot either. Lukewarm at best.

Letting it run didn’t help, but I gathered a towel and some
soap. Even though it wasn’t a steamy hot shower as I would have liked, it did
the job and I stood under the stream for a long, long time.

Twenty-six days.

I was getting lazy and fat, which didn’t make a ton of sense,
especially since much of the food down here sucked—processed and canned,
yum
—but
with so little to do, I kept finding myself camped out on the couch, watching
movies over and over while snacking on anything I could get my hands on.
Sometimes salty. Sometimes sweet. Whatever it took to match my mood. I actually
tried sardines once out of salty desperation. Yeah, sardines. I could only
stomach one, but Callie sure seemed to enjoy them, so I gave her the rest. She
could have them all.

Some days I ate mashed potatoes—well, a form of mashed
potatoes—add hot water and mix together. The mac and cheese I’d polished off
the week before—the only thing tasting half decent. Dried fruit. Canned
veggies. Beef jerky. I ate a whole bottle of peanut butter in one sitting once
by dipping my fingers inside the jar like an animal. I didn’t care and at the
time it tasted wonderful, but now, the very idea of anything peanut-related
made my stomach curl in on itself.

The food was gross, but I ate it anyway, and had become a
big underground couch potato blob.

Twelve days ago, I’d told myself I would leave this place
after thirty days. I would pack up, get brave, and head out of here. But four
days didn’t seem like nearly enough time. I shouldn’t have screwed around,
doing nothing, watching movies all day.

I pinched my belly fat, holding my skin between my thumb and
forefinger. I hadn’t gotten obese yet, but I needed to make some serious
changes. Who knew how far I might have to walk once I headed outside or if I
might have to be physical with someone, heaven forbid.

I’d lived twenty-six days down here, on my own, and to poke
my head outside only to have someone knock it off would really blow.

I couldn’t exactly go for a walk anytime I wanted. The
shelter wasn’t equipped for exercise, just surviving, so I had to make do with
whatever came to hand—not much.

I grabbed a mattress off one of the beds and tossed it on
the floor in front of the couch to give me a little cushioning, then put on a little
music—oldies my dad listened to—and slipped my feet under the couch for
leverage. Ten sit-ups sounded like a good place to begin.

But in reality, ten sit-ups felt like hell.

I couldn’t believe how out of shape I’d become. I wasn’t a
super athletic person, but I did P.E. every other day at school, which should
count for something—all those laps and dodging balls. Twenty-six days shouldn’t
have erased all that. Though apparently, it had.

I lay on the mattress and took a little rest before
attempting another set of sit-ups. By the time I reached twenty my gut burned. No
good.

No way I’d be ready in four days.

Forty-two days.

The only type of candle available was one of those thick
emergency ones, white and ugly, but I decided to make it work for my purposes. It
would have been nice to have seventeen smaller candles, but no such luck. One
big fat candle would have to do.

I shoved it in the middle of the ready-to-eat vanilla pound
cake—something I’d been saving, but never thought I would actually need. The
fat candle destroyed half the cake, turning it into crumbs, but it didn’t
matter. Every birthday cake needed a candle.

I lit it and watched the flame fan to its full potential,
then turned off the lights to enjoy the shadows that danced across the curved
walls, so beautiful. Wax dripped and melted, making a mess, but the tiny light
intrigued me. It provided something different in my stagnant little world of
repeat DVDs and playing
Call of Duty
on the X-Box. Who knew a candle
could be so entertaining?

It burned to the halfway mark, dripping and smoking, before
I leaned over the table and began to sing
Happy Birthday
to myself. I started
softly, but by the last chorus I sang at the top of my lungs, my own words bouncing
back at me as they echoed off the walls. In my lunacy, it almost sounded as
though a group of people were singing to me and I wasn’t celebrating my
birthday on my own.

Callie scrammed to the opposite side of the bunker, her
nails scraping on the floor as she crawled between crates and boxes to hide
from the racket.

I sang to myself once more from the top, determined to get the
most out of a crappy situation, and ignored Callie’s irritated meows in the
process.

Finished, I drew in a large breath and held it as I made my
wish.
Please
l
et Dad and Toby be alive.
Then I blew out the
candle.

I pretty much wasted my wish, but I didn’t want anything
else in the world but that. If dad or Toby were alive, they would’ve come for
me by now. No other explanation made sense. I didn’t want to believe they might
be dead, but with each ticking day, it became more and more clear they could be.
Dad would have never left me here like this. Not for this long. But it was my birthday
and I could wish for whatever I wanted.

Complete darkness encompassed me now that the little flame
had died, but I wasn’t afraid. Nothing could get me, not even in the dark.
Without my sight, the only sound was my breathing. Callie had gone quiet once I’d
stopped singing. She obviously hadn’t been a fan of my vocal abilities, but
captive audiences don’t get to have opinions.

I held my hands in front of me and couldn’t see my own
fingers. I wiggled them. Still nothing. The darkness was powerful and amazing.
Not even a hint of light showed anywhere.

Carefully, I made my way down the center of the bunker, my
hands out as a guide. Ten steps to my destination and I recognized the open
door to the decontamination area. I ran my fingers over the wall to the right,
searching the metal for the switches to turn everything back on.

I flipped the two main switches upward, but the bunker
remained in darkness. I tried again. Nothing. The blackness around me no longer
felt powerful and amazing, but stifling and heavy. Panicked, I flipped the
switches up and down several more times.
Come on, come on!

They controlled the generator, which controlled the lights,
the heater, and the intake of air.
Please, please!

Nothing happened.

My chest tightened and my hands shook.
What do I do?
I
had no idea.
Is there a backup? A control panel somewhere? Another switch or
button to push? What?

I turned in a circle, wracking my petrified brain for the full
layout of the bunker in the pitch dark. Every nook and cranny had been
explored, but nothing stood out as the answer.

Shelves of food. Beds. Toilet. Water storage. Disposal. If I
had ever found a hidden box with wires to twist to bring everything back to
life, I would have run right to it, because bored people explore and touch
everything, and I
had
done both those things!

Yes, there was a crank for the air unit. I could manually
bring in fresh air from the outside by continually turning the lever, but for
how long? That wouldn’t bring back the lights, the electricity, everything else
I
needed
to survive.

I managed to get myself turned around in my tiny hole in the
earth, and as my hands brushed over the walls in a frenzy to grab onto
something, my chest squeezed tighter and breathing became more difficult.

I tried to reorient myself and couldn’t. Was I facing the
front or the back? The bunker was only so big, but it seemed to have increased and
decrease in size at the same time. One second, it was huge. The next it felt
like a coffin.

How much air did I have? Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

Questions swirled inside my head, blurring my thoughts, but
one thing was for certain: I had to get out of there.

Frantic, I grabbed the wall to use as my guide, refusing to
let go for even a second. When I came to the open door, I nearly tumbled
through it, but caught myself in time, finally realizing where I was. With my
arms stretched out in front of me, I managed to find my way along the bunk
beds, past the couch, and to the kitchen area.

The candle remained in the cake with the lighter at its
side, and when I relit it and the tiny light began to glow, I took in a great
big lungful of air, just noticing I’d been holding it the entire time.

“Okay, okay, okay.” I scanned the layout of the bunker while
holding the edge of the table to remain upright and steady my wobbling knees. “Think.”

I forced myself to move and grabbed a lantern off the shelf,
which I fumbled with it until it switched on. A huge sigh of relief escaped my
throat as the presence of light eased my panic somewhat.

Whether I was ready to go outside and face the world—or
whatever remained of it—was no longer relevant. The air would eventually run
out and living in the dark didn’t seem all that appealing.

I gave the crank to the air intake several twists, buying
more time, and easing my worry that I just might pass out from lack of air before
I could move.

Callie crept out from her hiding place, looking at me
cautiously, as if I might break out singing again—even though any thoughts of birthday
celebration had long passed.

Thoughts crashed around inside my brain, but I managed to
haul out my duffle bag, organize my supplies, and add more things that would
come in handy—matches, water bottles, air mask, first aid supplies, medicine,
knives, lightweight food, and extra clothing.

The bag would be heavy, but I didn’t want to leave anything
behind in case I might need it later. As long as I kept busy, there wasn’t time
to think about my situation, so I didn’t stop gathering items until Callie
jumped onto the bed and walked along the edge.

“What am I going to do with you, huh?”

The kitten rubbed against the side of the bag then jumped on
top of it as if saying, “Enough.”

At the rate I was going, the entire bunker would be shoved
inside my duffle bag.

I stared at Callie, and she stared at me. Carrying her in my
arms was out of the question—she might bolt once we stepped outside and end up scratching
the crap out of me in the process.

Shove her in my bag? She’d hate that, and I wasn’t sure I
wanted my cat curling up next to my food and clean underwear.

I flipped open my pocket knife and ran my thumb over the
small blade.
Ouch! Jeez!
A small trickle of blood formed on my skin. Though
small, the knife sliced my thumb clean. I grabbed the bag and slid it closer
while keeping an eye on my unreliable cat, but Callie rode the thing like a
queen perched on a float. She looked up at me with her green eyes, unafraid.

I took the knife and leaned closer. “You’re not going to
like this, but it’s for your own good.”

Quickly, I jabbed several holes in the pocket of the duffle
bag—air holes—then scooped her up and shoved her inside before she could
protest.

She meowed and wiggled around, scratching the fabric in an
effort to get out.

“It’s only temporary.” I patted the bulging pocket, trying
to calm her. “I promise.”

I’d have to come up with something better soon, but for now
it would have to do.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked around the tiny space
that had been my home for nearly two months. This was it. Time to go. The number
of jumping jacks, stomach crunches, and push-ups I’d done over the past weeks
would have to do. I could build muscle and I could build stamina, but bravery
was something entirely different—I couldn’t build that. Some things had to be seized.

I shoved the gun in my waistband and tucked the small knife
in my pocket before slipping my arms through the straps of the duffle bag and situating
the heavy sucker on my back—cat side up. Callie meowed near my ear, but I
ignored her, grabbed the lantern, and made my way to the ladder.

Fifteen rungs high, the ladder may as well have been a
thousand.

I climbed, reached the top, and placed my hand on one of the
latches, but hesitated as Dad’s voice played over inside my head, “
Don’t you
come out, Tess. You stay put and we’ll be back. Promise me you won’t open this
door.”

For how long, Dad? Until I die in here, waiting for you?
You should’ve come back for me.

I flipped open one latch and then another, but with the
third, my fingers trembled and I struggled to hold onto the ladder as I removed
the final barrier to the outside.

This wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have been celebrating my
birthday like this. There would have been a big cake—Dad would have bought me
one from Costco—and all my friends would have been at my house, dancing,
playing games, and watching movies. Maybe Landon would have been there too, and
Toby would have stood in the kitchen doorway making kissy faces at me while
making a loser sign with his thumb and forefinger—the dork.

There would have been balloons, streamers, and music. The
table would have been piled with presents too—probably a new iPod or concert
tickets to
One Direction
—but instead I stared at the square door over my
head, terrified of what waited for me outside.

All of those things—the balloons, the presents, the
cake—seemed so dumb now.

I wanted my friends, my dad, and even my stupid brother and
his idiotic ways. “Please let them be okay,” I prayed. “Let this be some
horrible mistake.”

The last latch unlocked, I used all my strength to push the
heavy metal door all the way open.