goes out, don’t panic. Scrolling on the screen right now are the radio channels broadcasting emergency information in your area. So, if you have a battery powered radio in your survival kit get it out and test the batteries.”
Something that sounded like a firecracker popped outside the front door. Then twice more.
Gunfire? I couldn’t be around gunfire. It reminded me of Mason and my mom and the horrible, awful thing that happened two years ago.
I ran to the window, but the street was deserted.
My cell screen was blank. No new messages, no new texts, no missed calls.
“Dad,” I whispered at my phone. “Where are you?”
The power blinked off, draping the house in quiet, purplish dusk.
“Lights went out,” I texted Dad. “What do I do?”
Somebody outside screamed. The living room window shattered. Someone or something in the yard growled like a pissed off panther.
I snatched my guitar, my song diary, and my iPad.
The front door crashed open, and I ran for it, slamming the bunker’s door closed with a resounding clank .
Chapter Two
Two weeks later
My last and final water bottle sat on the floor completely unrepentant about what it was forcing me to do. Because it was the last amount of drinking water inside the panic room I was leaving the confines of my metal safety pen and venturing out into the world to find more.
In the weeks since I’d locked myself inside, the power had stayed off and no one had texted or called or come to find me.
I carefully packed a bag with what I considered the necessities. Fig cookies. My iPad, which I would never leave behind. It had too many precious images and files on it. My song diary and a pen. Unfortunately, I had to leave my guitar behind. I didn’t know how far I’d have to walk to find water and it would slow me down.
I steadied myself and turned the crank in extreme slow motion, my ears pricked for the faintest sound.
Silence.
Through a narrow crack I surveyed the kitchen. All I sensed was a sour stench. Hopefully from the trash.
No movement. No sound beyond my own breathing.
It had been just as quiet for the last fourteen days as I’d checked off nights in the back of my song diary. Fourteen days of silence, the only light coming from a battery-powered lantern. Fourteen days of nothing but sad songs on my guitar, jumping jacks to stave off atrophy, and canned food full of preservatives.
I swung the bunker’s door wider and wider until I was certain no red-eyed infected person was going to leap at me. Though the front door stood open and a light breeze ruffled the living room curtains, the house was empty.
Wincing, I stepped around the kitchen trashcan crawling with maggots and peered into the front yard.
Two cars sat abandoned in the middle of our cul-de-sac and random pieces of trash littered the ground and built up along fences, but otherwise it was a ghost town on my street.
More importantly, my Honda was the only vehicle parked in our driveway. My dad hadn’t answered my texts and he hadn’t driven home.
My insides felt as wiggly and unsettled as the contents of the kitchen trashcan.
Where was he?
Before I left the house, though, I had to find a weapon. The problem was, neither my dad nor I were violent types. There were no guns in the house. Not even a baseball bat or a golf club.
Then I remembered. It wasn’t exactly a medieval mace, but my dad was a die-hard Lord of the Rings nerd. Hanging in his home office among hundreds of pieces of merchandise and memorabilia was a fully functional replica of the sword Sting . Itwas the closest thing to an actual weapon we possessed, not counting steak knives and blunt objects. I took it down off the wall and tucked it into a belt loop.
There. Ready.
I poked my head out the front door. No sign of either infecteds or survivors, so I eased across the front lawn and headed down Cherry Blossom Court and out of our cul-de-sac.
Were there people locked inside these homes? Some had their doors
Something that sounded like a firecracker popped outside the front door. Then twice more.
Gunfire? I couldn’t be around gunfire. It reminded me of Mason and my mom and the horrible, awful thing that happened two years ago.
I ran to the window, but the street was deserted.
My cell screen was blank. No new messages, no new texts, no missed calls.
“Dad,” I whispered at my phone. “Where are you?”
The power blinked off, draping the house in quiet, purplish dusk.
“Lights went out,” I texted Dad. “What do I do?”
Somebody outside screamed. The living room window shattered. Someone or something in the yard growled like a pissed off panther.
I snatched my guitar, my song diary, and my iPad.
The front door crashed open, and I ran for it, slamming the bunker’s door closed with a resounding clank .
Chapter Two
Two weeks later
My last and final water bottle sat on the floor completely unrepentant about what it was forcing me to do. Because it was the last amount of drinking water inside the panic room I was leaving the confines of my metal safety pen and venturing out into the world to find more.
In the weeks since I’d locked myself inside, the power had stayed off and no one had texted or called or come to find me.
I carefully packed a bag with what I considered the necessities. Fig cookies. My iPad, which I would never leave behind. It had too many precious images and files on it. My song diary and a pen. Unfortunately, I had to leave my guitar behind. I didn’t know how far I’d have to walk to find water and it would slow me down.
I steadied myself and turned the crank in extreme slow motion, my ears pricked for the faintest sound.
Silence.
Through a narrow crack I surveyed the kitchen. All I sensed was a sour stench. Hopefully from the trash.
No movement. No sound beyond my own breathing.
It had been just as quiet for the last fourteen days as I’d checked off nights in the back of my song diary. Fourteen days of silence, the only light coming from a battery-powered lantern. Fourteen days of nothing but sad songs on my guitar, jumping jacks to stave off atrophy, and canned food full of preservatives.
I swung the bunker’s door wider and wider until I was certain no red-eyed infected person was going to leap at me. Though the front door stood open and a light breeze ruffled the living room curtains, the house was empty.
Wincing, I stepped around the kitchen trashcan crawling with maggots and peered into the front yard.
Two cars sat abandoned in the middle of our cul-de-sac and random pieces of trash littered the ground and built up along fences, but otherwise it was a ghost town on my street.
More importantly, my Honda was the only vehicle parked in our driveway. My dad hadn’t answered my texts and he hadn’t driven home.
My insides felt as wiggly and unsettled as the contents of the kitchen trashcan.
Where was he?
Before I left the house, though, I had to find a weapon. The problem was, neither my dad nor I were violent types. There were no guns in the house. Not even a baseball bat or a golf club.
Then I remembered. It wasn’t exactly a medieval mace, but my dad was a die-hard Lord of the Rings nerd. Hanging in his home office among hundreds of pieces of merchandise and memorabilia was a fully functional replica of the sword Sting . Itwas the closest thing to an actual weapon we possessed, not counting steak knives and blunt objects. I took it down off the wall and tucked it into a belt loop.
There. Ready.
I poked my head out the front door. No sign of either infecteds or survivors, so I eased across the front lawn and headed down Cherry Blossom Court and out of our cul-de-sac.
Were there people locked inside these homes? Some had their doors
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