Crap Novel One - In Progress

I know, I changed it. So, instead of posts, I'll just update this one to keep it linear. I figure it will be easier on those who are new to my blog to read straight through instead of trying to read up from the bottom. Anyway, here's the sucky novel number one!


The working title is (get ready to laugh...) Out For Blood

1

      The piercing, cold rain beat against my canary-yellow raincoat. I kept my head low to avoid the stinging rain from pelting me in the face, and looked down the front to watch the icy beads slither down the slick surface between splatters of mud to the hem just above my knees. My fingers and toes suffered from the cold, whipping winds circling around me. Somewhere high above, a crash of deep rumbles filled my ears and a violet strike of electricity lit across the black starless sky. I struggled to keep my heavy brown hair, half-drenched, half-frozen out of my eyes. As I gripped my too-light-for-this-shit raincoat around my aching body, I thought about Michael, my best friend since elementary school. It was enough motivation for me that, with a good effort, I was able to force my legs to move toward the large oak tree we agreed to meet at, bare of its multicolored leaves, standing just mere feet from the rusted chain-link fence separating me from the schoolyard. A large hole that had been cut last summer by a few delinquent teenagers with nothing better to do spread wider still with the left side barely clinging to the bent rod that held it in the muddy ground. I made it to the tree and spun around it, leaning back against its solid trunk, wincing from my burning muscles.

      I sunk to the soggy ground, immediately regretting it as my dark blue jeans distorted to almost black with the water and mud. I laid my head back allowing the icy rain to pour over my horribly hot face, quenching the burn of my fever. My chest heaved with moisture and a sharp tingling pain sent yet another coughing fit up and out of my mouth. Medicine was a commodity unaffordable for anyone still alive.

      “My God, Angie, you sound awful,” Michael yelled over the howling wind. He finally made it out of the city, and most importantly, he was alive and well. He knelt beside me, his knee carving a divot into the moist earth and placed a hand over my forehead. “You're still sick,” he said, his face twisted in disappointment.

      I brushed his hand away and said, “You’re not looking so great yourself.” His cheeks were shadowed by large, dark purple bags that hung just below his puppy brown eyes, weighed down by heavily clumped, dark brown lashes. His handsome face was pale and his lips were deep blue. I knew he had a hell of a time getting out.

      “Are you ready to go?” His hand found my cold pruning hands and helped me to an upright position as he stood. I felt the blood rush away from my face and the world around me teetered one way in a hypnotizing dance of sorts. A fuzzy blackness overcame my sight, tunneling inward until I could no longer see. I inhaled deeply, the scent of wet dirt, and dying flora filled my nose. I shook my head, clearing my vision and tested my weight on my own two feet. Though I felt uneasy, I was unsure if it was due to the spongy earth, or the flu.

      “Where are we going?” I looped my fingers in with Michael’s as we moved away from the old tree. His strides were larger than mine, and I had to all but run to keep up.

      “That old shack I told you about, remember?” A brilliant smile curled his lips into his cheeks and pressed into his dimples. Deep in the pit of my gut, a flurry of flames licked at my heart and I wondered if he could feel the heat in my palm.

      His hand gripped mine tighter, preventing me from blowing away in the storm. We had to slam our boots into the dirt for leverage over the old hill behind the old man’s house. I was anxious to pass it all by, the tiny barren farm no longer occupied with horses or cattle, and the rickety old house that slanted ever-so-slightly to the right. In my memory, I could see the old man sitting uncomfortably, nearly naked except for a raggedy pair of trousers, on his simple wooden porch which was now overgrown with weeds and ivy. I remembered how he held his hunting rifle across his lap, waiting for trespassers. I watched his disfigured fingers slowly, but expertly slide around the deep red butt-stock and snap it to his saggy face with the rusted black barrel staring at me as I carefully navigated the tiny space between his property and the road. I never heard of him shooting anyone, but without even knowing the old man's name, even that might not be true. Now, he was gone, like almost everyone else.

      After almost a difficult hour of what should have been an easy twenty minute walk, Michael and I reached the old shack on the other side of the hill. Michael and I were covered head to toe in mud and soaked to the bone. To keep my thoughts away from my discomfort, I willed my attention on our supposed shelter. It belonged to the old man and I feared there was a wide range of torture devices inside. Rumor had it, he was a sniper in the military and fought in many wars which drove him mad. People believed he killed over a thousand men and wouldn't hesitate to kill more.

      I stared at the jagged edges around the wooden door. The handle had rusted through and dangled from a half-embedded screw, swinging with the wind. A few spider webs that survived the brunt of the storm spread over the small hole at the top between the door and its ill-fitted frame. The wooden panels that made up the walls of the shambled shelter were cracked and splintered with some just beginning to bend from years of weather. Michael brushed the webs from the handle, took two steps back, and heaved his shoulder into the door, busting it wide open.

      His hand snatched my sleeve and dragged me inside where he hugged me tightly to his large muscled chest. At first, I protested. I wriggled my body at odd angles, resulting in his large arms only holding me tighter. Then, after my shivering settled to a mild vibration, I realized Michael was just doing what he always did – taking care of me. “Better?” Michael’s hot breath caressed the skin of my neck and I buried my face in his until I no longer shook. I felt him pull away from me and before I could speak, a vicious wave of hacking and spitting rocked out of my chest.

      In between spats, I caught a glimpse of his face. It twisted with deep lines and furrowed brows, drawing his lovely mouth down in an angry scowl. Once I had control of my lungs, I laughed.

      “What’s so funny?” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

      “You,” I said, “You look like someone just kicked your puppy.”

      His boot dragged across the floor distractedly. “I can’t help it,” he muttered, “worrying about you is just a natural for me – it's almost like breathing.”

      I crossed my arms and looked away. Heat flushed my cheeks and my heart pounded in my ears. I tried to think of something to say to that, and raked my fingers through the tangled mess of hair on my head. “You worry about me?”

      “Of course, I do,” he said as he hugged himself, probably a little embarrassed at having to admit it. “You’re my best friend. You'd be worried too, if I were sick.”

      “Oh,” my eyes dropped to the floor and I said, “I guess.”

      Michael crossed the short distance between us and wrapped his arms around my torso. He gave a hard squeeze, forcing another coughing fit out of me. In one motion he lifted me off my feet and spun me around before setting me down again. “Now that that’s out of the way,” he said, “on to business.”

      “Oh, yeah,” I had almost forgotten we were refugees now. “So, where is it?” I glanced about the tiny room. A wave of relief blanketed me in mild comfort as I found that there were no torture devices, but a few dirty shovels, a couple with broken handles and two rakes. One of the rakes had missing spokes that probably rusted off due to neglect. I walked toward an older-looking contraption that resembled a lawn-mower without an engine. There was handle connected to two metal bars on either side that stretched down to some seriously sharp intertwined blades.

      “That’s for mixing the soil.” Michael said, watching my fascination. He moved a few old tools and threw over his shoulder a brown sack with large lumps poking out every which way. The strap on his shoulder was worn and tattered, and he gripped it with both hands. A scratched gold buckle on the front hung loosely from the beige flap, undone and lay over the opening lazily. It was a large sack, extending from his shoulder down his back to just below his really cute butt.

      “What’s in that?” I said.

      “The stuff we’re going to need,” he said. “A few supplies, a bit of food, and medicine.” He placed the pack on the floor. Only then did I notice the wooden door beneath our feet.

      “You got medicine?” My eyes widened in disbelief, hungry for the relief it could possibly bring.

      “Of course,” he shrugged, “I figured you didn't have any, and were probably still sick. Glad I brought it?”

      “Definitely,” I sighed, anticipating the moment I would be able to swallow some and sleep away the anguish. Michael sat his pack down, and only then did I notice a trap door beneath our feet. “Is that the storm cellar?”

      “Yeah. We’ll be camping here for now, at least until we can find something better and just as safe.” My face twisted in disgust as my thoughts filled with spiders and other creepy-crawlers on our bodies while we slept.

      “I really hate spiders.” I trembled at the thought and stood. “You can sleep there, Michael, but I will just stay right here.”

      “You seriously think I would make you sleep with spiders?” He dropped a knee to the floor and straightened his back to look me in the eyes. “Besides, if you stay up here there’s a chance you won’t get any sleep with all that noise.”

      I listened for the thunder and the rain seemed to have come on even stronger. “I guess you’re right.”

      “I’m always right,” he smiled, “you’ll be comfortable down there, I promise.” He said as he lifted the heavy wooden door. It slammed against the cement and lifted dust from some nearby shelves. I peered over the edge of the small square hole to see some steps and darkness.

      “Got a light?” I said.

      “Oh, yeah,” Michael reached into the brown sack and pulled out a vintage silver flashlight. He tossed it to me and I felt the urge to cradle it, as if it would disintegrate at my touch.

      “Nice flashlight,” I said as I carefully switched it on. I willed the light into the hole and saw how deep the stairs descended. There were about twelve or so steps before I found the ground. A wonderful image of dirt walls caving in on us in the middle of the night perked up in my mind. Goosebumps littered my arms and reminded me of the still damp clothes on my body. “Is it safe?”

      “Sure is,” Michael stood and proceeded to jump up and down as hard as he could. His head nearly made contact with the short ceiling. The rapid impact of his body and the floor shook the shack, causing the jars to rattle on their shelves, and a few loose tools to slide off the wall to the floor.

      “Don’t do that!” The sudden outburst caused my lungs to quickly contract, forcing the air out in horrible spasms. Phlegm and grayish wet stuff flew from my mouth before I could cover it and landed in Michael’s face.

      Instead of freaking out, he just laughed. “You should see your face, Angie!” He clutched his abdomen and hunched over as each rolling bellow took over his body. Tears stung the back of my eyes and I had to clench my jaw shut against my quivering chin. The tiny shack grew eight sizes, and I just wanted to find a rock to lie under. He looked up at me, and he must have realized. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have laughed. Don’t worry, though; I get pretty mucus-y, too when I'm sick.”

      His honesty was never something I would question, and it made me feel all the worse. His eyes shined from the beam of the flashlight as he smiled awkwardly. He reached a hand into the brown sack at his feet and fished out a ratty cloth. “Here,” he said with a kind smile. “Don’t sniff that stuff back in, it’ll make you worse.”

      “Thanks,” I took the cloth and rubbed my nose. I was surprised to find that it was clean and smelled so much like Michael. “Hey, Michael, where’d you get this?”

      “I cut up an old shirt. I thought since you have the flu, we should have something for your boogers.”

      “That was pretty cool.” I pressed my nose deeper into the scrap cloth and breathed in. The red plaid design filled my mind with images of a clean autumn evening just before sunset. It made me long for the past; now everything was in ruin and covered in mud. Before my sniffing got creepy, I folded the cloth neatly and slid it into my jeans pocket. “What about dry clothes?”

      He puffed out his chest a little, “Got that covered, too. We can change down there, but first we need to get settled.”

      I held the flashlight over my shoulder and walked behind Michael. I stopped at the base of the steps and watched him climb down slowly, ducking his head a little as he went. I shined the light on the steps just before him until he reached the bottom. As my right boot made contact with the first step, I heard a faint click below. Before I could panic, a warm yellow light illuminated the shanty room and I turned off the antique flashlight. I sighed, and laughed silently to myself for my foolish paranoia.

      The room was unbelievably comforting, for being about ten feet underground. The fact that I was claustrophobic dissipated as I admired the humble furnishings. A sand-colored rug covered most of the hard earth extending from the base of the stairs to the farthest wall. Two slightly worn spring mattresses lying against opposite walls each had a decent pillow with clean cases. On one bed, a green and white striped quilt laid neatly across with a smaller solid-green blanket folded at the foot. The other bed had a crumpled blue quilt, and looked already slept in. There was no second blanket but there was a book missing a dust-cover and a makeshift bookmark peeking out of the top. I walked toward the first bed, hoping for the chance to sit and relax for a moment when my head almost made contact with a simple light bulb attached to some taped over wires that hung from the low ceiling.

      I gazed about the room, impressed with the effort he made to make it suitable for living. Cut into the rocky walls were shelves that held basic necessities: toilet paper, a couple of toothbrushes and some canned food; Michael even remembered Beef Ravioli by Chef Boyardee, my favorite! A small, square silver mirror stood propped up on the shelf closest to the steps and next to it sat my purple flat hair brush and some really cheap shampoo. “I usually use Dove, but that will do,” I joked to Michael.

      His sheepish grin warmed my chilly bones. “I'll try to remember that the next time I go shopping!”

      I turned to further inspect our temporary living quarters and saw a large square of plywood leaned haphazardly over what looked to be a giant hole in the wall. I gulped, hoping it was some kind of storage or at least free of spiders.

      “That’s the bathroom.” Michael said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Go ahead, take a look.” He smiled down at me and I felt the urge to lean up and kiss his adorable chin. We’re just friends, I said to myself.

      I walked over to the plywood and pushed it to the side, relieved at how easy it was to move. The flashlight still in my hands was only necessary until I found the light, similar to the first. To the left sat an old porcelain tub with a copper faucet and some rust rings inside. “Indoor plumbing?” I called over my shoulder.

      “Yeah, the old man must have had it installed years ago.”

      “Neat.” Beyond the tub toward the back of the small room was a plain silver sink cut into a simply crafted wooden stand. I ran my fingers over the side of the sink until I reached the faucet and turned the knob. Pleasantly surprised, out came mostly clean water. It wasn’t awfully hot, but it was certainly better than nothing at all. The sink proved even better as I discovered a little door with more supplies inside. Bars of soap and clean, fluffy white, dry towels were stacked tightly on two small shelves. I pulled a bar out to smell it; a deep, rich lavender pleasantly mixed with vanilla. I turned away from the sink and found a toilet to the right of the wall with the hole. There was a space cut out for it, creating a small cave, and an old plastic shower curtain, stained with mildew, hung on fishing hooks and wire just to the side for privacy. I a big stupid grin on my face spread effortlessly as I realized the care and creativity it took for Michael to make this the perfect hide-out for the two of us. I knew the old man couldn’t furnish something so accommodating. Not for more than one person, anyway.

      I walked out of the bathroom and back into the room we were to share. My best friend greeted me with a bottle of NyQuil and two fresh scrap cloths piled on soft shorts and a flannel shirt. “Go ahead and take a bath, get some clean clothes on and get some rest. We have a pretty gruesome day tomorrow.”

      “Do you think we’ll find them?” I poured a healthy dose of the thick green syrup and pinched my nose between my fingers before gulping it down. Ick, it still tasted like shit.

      “I have to believe we will.” His face twisted in slight pain at the reminder. Most of the city’s population had vanished, including both of our families. We were unsure of who else remained, but Michael was more than determined to find out. All we were certain of was that there were unworldly things out there, and they were out for human blood.

2

      I woke up in a panic. I felt warm and cocooned laying in a tight blackness that made me wonder if I had actually opened my eyes. The thick cloths around my body held me captive and before I could think clearly, my mouth was wide open with a shrill of fearful noises following suit. A strong hand clamped over mine with a hush. “Angie!” I heard Michael say, “it's okay. You're safe here.” He kept saying I was safe, but without being able to see for myself, I still felt anxious. I coughed against his hand and he pulled it away with a muted disgusted sound.

      I managed to ask for the light. When my eyes adjusted, I saw the small underground room and Michael, standing a couple of feet away. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I forgot where I was.”

      “Forget about it,” he yawned loudly and looked at a silver watch on his wrist. “It's about time to get up anyway. It's almost sunrise.”

      I nodded and shifted my legs out from under the blanket. The cold air raised bumps on my skin and I felt like bringing the quilt with me. I was dressed in a large pair of boxer shorts I had no recollection of putting on. The flannel shirt hung off my shoulders so loosely, I had to adjust to keep from exposing myself. “I didn't dress myself, did I?” I kept my eyes low as I let my hands play with the buttons on the shirt.

      “Nope.” said Michael. “You passed out in the tub and I had to get you out.” He shrugged when I peeked up at him. “Hey, I needed a bath, too.”

      He saw me naked. Not only that, but he had to towel off my wet, naked body and dress it. Oh, my freakin’ God! He saw me naked! If there existed word for tremendously embarrassed, that would describe only half of how I felt. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to fly right out and smack him in the face. No one had ever seen me naked, besides my mother. I swallowed hard and forced myself to act natural. After sucking down two deep breaths, I managed a shaky smile but avoided his eyes. “Thanks,” I said, “I suppose I would have drowned if you didn't help.”

      “No problem.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a slight smirk on his face. His eyes slowly traced the intimate contours of my body. Then, slowly, he turned toward the bathroom, whistling pleasantly on his way. He left the plywood piece to the side, allowing full view of his business. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide down his lean, muscled arms to the floor, exposing a rippled array of hard muscles down his chiseled back. When his hands slipped into the waistband of his pants, I spun around to distract myself with a proper change of clothes for the day. He laughed lightly, but I pretended not to hear a thing. My face burned red hot, and I could only imagine what he was thinking. How odd, to be adult enough to survive such intimacy. I tried to remember when our childhood ended, but got lost in the memories of an innocent young boy and girl.

      When we were dressed and packed for the day's travel, we climbed the steps out of the hide-out. I hadn’t muttered a single word to him after my realization, primarily because of the utter shock I felt. I can’t believe he knows what I look like naked, I thought. Sure, I imagined some pretty advanced adult stuff, eventually, but not like this! Maybe he didn’t think anything of it…

      Michael was out first and held his hand for me to stand by him in the tiny shack. When I coughed, I saw my breath floating in the space between us. “Wow,” I said, “it's pretty cold.”

      “Yeah, that's why I brought these,” Michael’s hands shook as he wrestled out two large, heavy wool coats from his brown pack, each with a black fur lining and a floppy hood. He tossed the smaller one to me, which I quickly donned and reveled in the warmth it produced. The fur glided over my skin and felt silky smooth. I found a small worn pair of wool gloves with a similar lining in one of the deep pockets; ever-more thankful for Michael's planning skills. I flipped the hood over my head and tucked my hair back underneath.

      I watched him dress in his winter attire and walk over to the flimsy door and pull it open, only to be surprised with a large wall of white. “Snow?” I said. “It’s not even November yet.”

      “Yup, lot's of it, too.” Michael walked around me to a beat up shovel and proceeded to pick at the mound blocking our way. “We better get moving, or we'll never make it today.”

      I selected a gardening hoe and to chipped away at the hard packed snow. The snow crumbled in on itself and fell into our little shelter. I feared it would all collapse and trap us there, forever. Just as my arms were sufficiently fatigued, we had created a slope large enough for us to climb over and we brought our tools with us. Once I established some footing on the ground, the scene before us was not at all what I expected. The snow covered everything. The old man's house lay half beneath it with the rooftop nearly touching the top of the snow. Heavy fog spread over the world, making me wonder if it were later in the day than Michael said. I heard nothing all around. There was no wind, and no more thunder.

      “Creepy,” I said. “It's like the earth just died.”

      “It kinda did.” His face was soft, somber, and almost boyish. A little stubble on his chin darkened his features and saddened my heart.

      “What now?”

      “I have a map, here.” Michael dropped his pack and sifted through the contents until he found what he was after. He pulled out a large brown piece of paper, partially charred in the top right corner. “It's a map of the city. This way we can navigate through the safer parts.”

      “There are safe parts?”

      “Safer,” he said. “Less chance of dying today if we stick to these parts.” He traced a blue line intricately woven throughout the map.

      “Where are we?”

      “Here,” he pointed to the almost blank section in the bottom left corner. “We’ll take the back streets starting here. The main roads are too dangerous. If there are going to be other survivors, they will be off the main roads, anyway.” He rolled up the map and tucked it into his coat pocket. I admired his ability to foresee dangers, which was the main reason why I was still alive. Because of Michael, I escaped the city through the subway tunnels, unseen.

      We moved quickly through the snow, shoveling away our tracks and zig-zagging over flat terrain. We took cover whenever we heard a noise and waited just in case. Sometimes it was just a stray bird flying overhead, or a slight wind kicked up some frozen debris in the trees. When we made it to the street, Michael kept me behind him. Abandoned cars lined the roads, mostly buried in snow. We moved slowly from there, inspecting each house still standing for any signs of human life. Some were easy to check. Doors were missing, windows were broken, and some were even missing entire walls. Michael used his shovel to move large pieces of debris and snow, and I played lookout which prevented me from seeing most of the carnage. I assumed there might have been some human remains, but he would never tell me. I only had to guess I was right because his face would turn to stone and he would be unable to look me in the eye. After each house, I asked. And after each house, he said nothing.

      Michael and I covered about four streets before I begged him to stop. “Alright,” he said. “We can stop.”

      I found a broken tree to rest on. Michael pulled his pack on his lap and sighed heavily.

      “You’re not going to give up, are you?” I searched his cold eyes for some motivation.

      “I can’t. No matter how hard this gets, quitting is not an option.”

      I swallowed. “Good,” I turned my whole body toward him, summoning the last flake of courage in my soul. “We lose if we quit. You’ve never lost, and you can’t start here.”

      He slowly turned his head toward me, “what are you talking about?”

      “In high school, the basketball team never lost a game that you played.” I smiled at the memory, watching him run up and down the court, sneakers squeaking, and sweat pouring over his body. “You always played your heart out.”

      “Not always,” he grinned at me, “sometimes the other teams just made it too easy!”

      We both laughed and I scooted closer to him. “Remember Coach Riley?”

      “How can I forget? The man threatened my life before every game!” Michael closed his eyes and smiled brightly. “He used to say ‘Michael, if we lose this, I’m gonna eat your soul for breakfast tomorrow morning!”

      “No he didn’t!” I thought about the round man, shorter than any student at Greenport High. His bald head and face were always red, making his mustache appear almost pink.

      “I swear it! He refused to accept defeat from anyone. The man was my hero.”

      Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “you’re my hero.”

      A brief pause passed between Michael and I, and he leaned closer to me. “Really?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Since when?”

      “Since always,” I said. “Even from day one, back in second grade. Some girl was picking on my braided pony tails, and you really let her have it!” I let my head fall onto his shoulder and ignored the stinging cold in my legs. A fresh snowfall blanketed our bodies and quieted every inch of the earth. Michael’s breath had formed misty clouds beneath his nose and his lashes caught a few snow flakes before they melted and dripped down his face. He reminded me so much of my father, I wanted to cry. The last thing I ever said to him hung heavily in my chest, and I vowed to make it right…

      “Angie,” Michael said.

      “Yeah?”

      “Thank you.”

      “For what?”

      “For being my friend. I know it wasn’t always easy, and I appreciate it.” He sat up and dusted the snow from his body.

      “Don’t do that,” I said.

      “Don’t do what?”

      “Talk like this is the end.” Anger filled my lungs and replaced the stinging violent coughs ready to burst out. “This is just the beginning, a suckish one, but a beginning nonetheless! Goodbyes are meant for the end!” I stared at him intensely, trying to eradicate his doubts.

      “Okay,” he said, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry.”

      “That's better.”

      We stood and shook the cold out of our bodies. Michael suggested a few aerobic exercises to circulate the blood. I felt winded after just five jumping-jacks, and I ended with a small coughing fit. Still, I felt warmer for it. “I’m so out of shape!” I joked.

      “You can’t really tell, from the way your body looks,” Michael smiled slyly and the blood rushed in my veins straight to my face.

      “Let’s just get moving again,” I said, muttering the words under my breath.

      “Fine, fine. We have a few more houses here and we’ll need to move between the houses instead of the roads.”

      I followed him down the remaining segment of the road, checking houses, and I tried to ignore the decimation before us. Each house stood as a shadow of its former self. Foundations cracked, windows shattered, walls crumbled, and charred personal belongings laid in the white snow, forgotten. I choked on the air, the sound echoing the bleakness before my eyes. At the end of the road, Michael sighed and rolled out his map. A large artery in the city lay before us, and we moved in between the houses set back from the street. I tried to remember the sound of cars honking, tires rolling through slush, or even the hum of a warm engine with no success. The day remained piercingly quiet and I took up humming a funny little tune my dad used to sing to me. It was a happy few notes, repeating in varying octaves and I recalled each word he sung.

Sweet little butterfly,

Fly, fly, butterfly

Sweet little butterfly,

I’ll love you ‘til I die

      I barely noticed when we stopped. Michael stared at me for a moment, and he appeared confused. “What’s up?” I said.

      “It sounds familiar, your song.”

      “My dad sung it a lot when I was younger.”

      He nodded, “yeah, I remember.”

      “Why’d we stop?”

      “We’re at the last house. I need to check for something.”

      I looked up at the building, which was oddly familiar. It appeared to be white, and the front door was missing. The little black mailbox lay on the ground, broken into several fragments. Some pieces of mail lay scattered over some rubble and a window by the door had been shattered with some glass shards sticking out in the window frame. There were no lights, and no sounds. “Hey, who's house is this?”

      He said nothing as he marched forward, up the snow covered steps, breaking the second in half. I followed behind him and kicked some debris out of the way. “You should stay out here, in case…”

      “Okay.” I waited for him to disappear inside before I sat on the bottom step. I tried to remember the street we were on, but I couldn't make out the words on the sign at the end of the alley. I heard a loud thud from inside the house and called after him to make sure he was all right. When he didn’t answer, I charged inside.

      “Michael!” I pushed fallen drywall and miscellaneous objects away with the gardening hoe clutched in my hands. “Michael, where are you?” Dust picked up and clogged my throat. I couldn’t breathe, and knew I wouldn’t be able to if I didn’t find him.

3

      I scoured the entire first floor, frantic in my search. I called out to Michael as often as my lungs permitted, which wasn’t often enough. I flipped a sofa, searched for holes in the floor, and checked every room before I felt desperate enough to climb the stairs. The banister had fallen off the side and there was shattered glass on almost every step. Although I didn’t mind the broken glass, I feared the potential lack of stability in the steps, and also what might have been waiting for me at the top.

      Another heavy thud determined my next action. I bolted up the stairs taking two at a time, and turned to the immediate left. In all my frenzy, I kicked open the first door I saw. The room brightened the small hallway and cast a narrow shadow to the wall behind me. After a moment, I realized what created that shadow.

      “Rachel!” I froze to the floor. Her golden hair clumped at her frail shoulders and the shredded remains of her clothes hung desperately off her sickly thin body. At the sound of my voice, she flinched and cowered in the furthest corner. “Rachel,” I dropped my voice to a hoarse whisper. “It’s Angie, remember me?”

      Her brilliant blue eyes slowly worked up enough courage to look up. At her realization, they filled with water and poured down her gray face, leaving a streaky trail to her pointed chin. Rachel lifted a shaky hand up to her thin, chapped lips and tried to suppress a sob. A large wooden chest of drawers fell on its side beside her dirty feet with a small red stain under it. That was when I realized her other hand clutched her ankle which had turned an ugly shade of purple. I took a cautious step toward her, keeping my eyes locked on hers. When she didn’t object, I cleared the space between us and knelt down to inspect her injury.

      “What happened?” I pulled her hand from her ankle and the hot red liquid oozed from a half-inch gash just above the bone.

      “It fell on my ankle,” she said quietly. Her eyes darted throughout the room and sweat broke out along her forehead. Her tiny body shook with what appeared to be a fearful anticipation. Something scared her.

      “It needs to be cleaned.” I pulled off one of my wool gloves and pressed it against the cut. Rachel sucked in a breath and held it. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

      After a few minutes, I checked her wound and the bleeding eased a bit. I held an intense focus on her ankle and nearly forgot about Michael. I knew I had to find him, and it worried me that the house remained silent. “I’m going to tie this to your ankle so we can get out of here. Do you have any string or anything?”

      Rachel shook her head. I didn’t expect her to be great help, but she was more like an injured puppy – completely dependent on and at the mercy of anyone that happened to be around. I grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand to the glove. Once she understood, I tore apart the shambled room until I came across and old pair of sneakers. It took a little bit of work, and a few precious seconds, but I worked the string out the shoe, rushed back to her and tied it around her ankle. Just as I tightened the knot, Rachel let out a blood-curdling scream.

      My whole body tensed and reacted before I could think. I turned toward the exit while pinning Rachel’s useless self against the wall, slamming her shoulder into the window pane. I barely heard her painful grunts after my eyes met the red beady orbs staring back at me. The tall, emaciated creature hunched forward on its long spidery legs, nearly hairless in all of its gore-stained glory. The little bit of black hair it had was matted to its body, coated in dark red blood. The creature swayed before us, its monstrous jaw unhinged and filled with sharp, yellowed fangs. My own limbs trembled with terror as its dark blue snake-like tongue slithered out of its mouth, pecking at the air. My breath caught in my throat and I closed my eyes, waiting for the end. A low, hideous growl emanated from the black creature followed shortly by an ear-splitting explosion that silenced the world around me. I braced myself for the pain, but it never came.

      I opened my eyes after a solid thud kicked up some loose papers across the room. The heavy mass of the creature lay limp on the floor, and Michael stood in the broken doorway holding a shiny black revolver at his side. I exhaled, allowed my wobbling knees to buckle, and landed on Rachel’s injured ankle. She winced and yanked her foot out from underneath my body.

      It took a moment before I could speak. I cried silently until I found my voice and wiped my face on the back of my hand. “Thanks,” I said, gazing at the gun.

      “No problem,” said Michael. He placed his gun in a holster I didn't recall seeing before, and stared at Rachel in her emaciated condition.

      “Her ankle is hurt,” I moved to the side and allowed Michael to see. “I had to wrap it, and we need to clean it before infection sets in.” The first thing I learned from my mother was first aid. I suffered several years of tormenting images of gangrene, pus, and sweltering bruises to know that even the simplest cut can turn ugly. As it were, there was no hospital she could go to, and it was up to us to figure it out. Judging by the look on Michael’s face, I understood his sentiments.

      “Let’s go,” he said, and he stepped over the creature’s large body to carefully lift Rachel off the floor. We passed through the door to the hallway, but not before I saw, the gunshot wound in the back of the thing’s head. Vomit hit the back of my throat and spilled onto the floor. The hole in its head went in deep, with thick black liquid pooling under its body. The rank smell assaulted my senses, churning my stomach over and over and I hurled once more.

      “Are you okay?” said Michael.

      “Sure,” I said, wiping my mouth on my one clean glove. I pulled it off and shoved it in my pocket. “I'll live.”

      In the hallway, Michael made a pretty good stink about us remaining silent in our movements. We all feared the possibility of more creatures in the house, but I felt oddly at ease with the gun strapped to his thigh. The black barrel gleamed in the random streaks of sunlight as we moved through the house and I tried to imagine what it would feel like to hold it in my hands, the cool metal in my palms with my finger on the hard, curved trigger. I wondered if it would be louder in my ears when I pulled it back to release the bullet. Would I have the same courage to aim it at one of those things as Michael had?

      There was no time to wonder anything more when we reached the front door. The house was clean of any creatures, but there was good reason to assume more awaited us outside. My heart thudded in anticipation and time crawled away from us. Rachel glued herself to Michael’s hip and limped helplessly on her good foot. I didn’t doubt she hurt, but I had a difficult time imagining the full degree of pain she appeared to suffer. Her bottom lip quivered with a forced pout when he passed her on to me; as if she was afraid that I was going to step on her. Michael inched his way to the front porch, the revolver snug in his hands. The barrel extended from his arms, expertly guiding his eyes around each corner until he was finally satisfied and called to us that the coast was clear.

      I held Rachel to my side and draped her arm around my shoulders. The pitiful look she gave me made me want to drop her there and leave with Michael, but I just didn’t have it in me to leave her at the mercy of those things. She was far from my most favorite person ever, but I could honestly say that I did not hate her, anymore. Had it been under any other circumstance though, I think I might have let her stay.

      “So, what exactly was that thing you shot in there?” I said, as I let Rachel drop to the partially destroyed porch steps. Her tiny tush bounced a little, and I couldn’t suppress my smile.

      “I don’t think they have a name,” he said. “I would call them Wendigos.”

      “What?” Rachel said. “What’s a Wendigo?”

      Michael sat beside her on the stairs. “In some legends, they’re man-eating beasts. These things seem to have an appetite for human flesh, so I figured it was a decent name for them.”

      I sat upon the top step just behind them and rested my head in my hands, my elbows digging into my sore thighs. “By any chance, do those legends have ways of getting rid of them? Like, do we need to get some kind of Raid designed for large pests?”

      Michael turned to me with a smirk on his face, and said, “Unfortunately, no. According to legend, there was only one man who faced these things, and lived to tell about it.”

      “Who?” said Rachel.

      “He was a Cree Native, and went by the name of John Fiddler. The stories were in some old books my father kept in his office. I used to read them when I was younger, and I always thought they were dark fairy tales. I wish I could remember how they went.”

      If the legends were in old books, I doubted that man would still be alive. Michael’s dad had a strange collection of stories, most of them dating back a few centuries. What I wanted to know was how that Cree Indian dealt with these things. “How far away is your house from here, Michael?”

      “Across town, why?”

      “I want to take a look at those books. There might be some useful information in them.” I stood and pushed in between them to stand on the patchy, snow covered lawn.

      Rachel looked warily at Michael, and he glanced back at her. It looked as though she wasn’t quite ready for a road trip. Then again, if my foot had been nearly severed from my leg, I wouldn’t want to be walking anywhere either.

      “Okay, I'll bite. But, how do you propose we get there?” he said. “We’ll need concealment.”

      I paced around the small square of snow, looking about for any kind of answer before my eyes fell upon a slightly banged up minivan down on the small road. The vehicle sat under a heavy snowfall, and the tires had frozen to the cement. We would probably expend more energy than what would be worth it, but I knew Michael could hot-wire anything. I explained my thoughts to my two companions in hopes that they would oversee my insanity and just go with it. Luckily, Rachel had a tiny sliver of brilliance in her pretty little bleach-blonde head and suggested we use the large bag of rock salt in her half destroyed garage. All we needed to do was move the collapsed side and hope we didn’t get crushed in the process. Oh, and of course, someone needed to be on the lookout for the deranged creatures seeking to eat our flesh. How hard could that be?

      We spent about five minutes concocting a plan. Michael would leave his revolver with me, probably because Rachel had a better chance of shooting herself than I, and he would use her basic knowledge of her garage to seek out the salt. Michael, being the strongest of us three, would be the muscle in moving the crap out of the way to retrieve the salt. I asked Michael for instruction on how to aim the gun properly, and just how I should hold it in my hands. His warm fingers molded mine to the pistol grip, and with his body pressed against my backside, he assisted my arms in lifting the small firearm up until I could see the front sight tip. I tried to ignore it, but a tingling bolt of electricity zapped through every nerve of my being at his touch. I thought about the night he saw my nude body, and suddenly felt a little too warm to be wearing a heavy winter coat, no matter how frosty it was outside.

      Rachel cleared her throat, and due to her injury, she sat on the uncrushed side of her garage, waiting to direct Michael to our goal. He released my arms and gave me a reassuring smile before he tore into the mess.

      I was probably the worst watch guard ever. Most of the time, I let my hand holding the pistol drop to my side while I watched Michael as he moved large pieces of wall out of the way. He moved as if they were just made of cardboard and flung them effortlessly to the back of the garage. Every now and again, I would catch myself and redirect my attention to the street, listening for any sound out of the ordinary. My finger twitched on the trigger when a bird shrieked overhead, and I nearly put a bullet into a nearby tree. The thought of having to shoot a creature left my hands trembling, my palms sweating, and I had to strengthen my grip on the gun. My arms were sore from holding it up, relaxing only when I became distracted with Michael. His body moved with the grace of some well-oiled machine and I watched his fluid motions, completely entranced. Luckily, for us, the one creature Michael had already shot was alone. I didn’t have to shoot anything, and Rachel proved a little more useful than I previously thought. Michael recovered the large bag of rock salt, and I gladly turned over the weapon in my sweaty hands.

      “How long will this take?” I said.

      Michael turned the bag over and skimmed some information, his big brown eyes darting from the left to the right. “I guess it depends, how thick is the ice?”

      “I don’t know, but I can tell it’s frozen from here. Maybe we should pour all of it and just wait a while inside.”

      “That’s a dangerous idea,” he said.

      “Got a better one?”

      “Not really, no.”

      “Alright, then. Pour the salt.” I moved to the side, gesturing for him to proceed. The scrunched look on his face told me he didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, but I was getting tired, hungry, and little miffed about Rachel's occasional demand for attention.

      Michael dragged the large bag down the walkway, into the street, and dropped it just in front of the van. I chuckled to myself in amusement as he struggled to rip the bag open. Out of visible frustration, he shot at the middle of bag and proceeded to tear it open, making a huge mess of it all. Rachel laughed along with me when he realized his mistake and used his boot to shuffle the salt to each tire, pouring the remains in the bag as evenly as he could manage.

      Once the bag was empty and Michael was satisfied with his humble efforts, we all went back inside. Rachel informed us, finally, that there was some food in the pantry, and reminded me that I needed to clean her wound. I half-carried her to one of the sofas, ignoring her protest to being alone. “I can’t carry you while making food and getting stuff to clean your ankle. Sit quietly, we’ll be right back.” It felt as though I were explaining myself to a small child.

      “What if they come back?” she said. Her big blue eyes welled with tears, and I felt the worry, too. If one made it in here, others could follow.

      “Michael has a gun.”

      “He’ll be with you, it might be too late when he realizes –”

      “Trust me, Michael wouldn’t let a fly land on you if it meant you harm.” I felt the scowl grow deep in my face as I turned toward the small kitchen. It wasn’t my intention to cause trouble, but I was more than certain Michael would jump at the slightest threat to his ex-girlfriend.

      The kitchen was mostly untouched. Cupboards hung open with some scary claw marks ingrained in the wood. Michael found the pantry, less than well stocked. There looked to be enough food for the three of us, but we would have to ration it. I resigned to the fact that we were sitting ducks, for the time being, until the salt could melt away the ice blocks on the minivan tires. Even then, no one could be sure the vehicle would even run.

      “Are you okay, Angie?” said Michael.

      “Sure.”

      “Look at me,” he turned me by my shoulders and I averted my gaze to the small shattered window across the room above the dank, dusty sink.

      I gritted my teeth, “I’m fine.”

      “Bull shit.”

      “Why don’t you go make sure she’s safe?” I jutted a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll bring out some food.”

      He dropped his arms and sighed, heavily. I looked into his eyes, a coldness falling over them. “Fine. I thought you might have trusted me enough to tell me anything, but I guess I was wrong.”

      When I said nothing, pain flashed in his eyes and he hurried out of the kitchen. I held my breath until he disappeared, for fear that the tears behind my eyes would betray me and spill over, destroying my reserve. Guilt blanketed my heart, though, and I spent far more time at the pantry than necessary, staring at the various bags of flavored chips, pretzels and canned fruit. I trusted Michael with my life, but now there seemed to be a wedge forming between us. That wedge was sitting in a crumbling parlor, milking her injury for what it was worth. My blood boiled, and I grabbed a few snacks, some peanut butter and bread, and slammed the pantry door.

      “Here,” I tossed a bag of chips at Rachel and kept the bread and peanut butter while I flopped down on a dusty chair across from Michael. He still looked a bit hurt, but redirected his energy to Rachel, massaging the sore muscles in her injured leg.

      “Thanks,” she said. Her face looked flush, even a little green. I thought of her ankle, and knew infection wasn’t far off from setting in.

      I munched on a piece of bread dipped in the peanut butter. “Rachel, where’s your nearest bathroom?”

      “Down this hall here, and to the left.” She pointed behind her, to a dark, narrow path. “There’s no electricity here, but the water is still on.”

      “Do you have any clean cloths I can use to dress your wound?”

      Her face twisted with a mix of shock and caution. “There may be some in the linen closet, if it wasn’t destroyed.”

      I nodded once, and forced myself into the hallway. I figured the less time spent with those two so cozy on the couch, the better my chances of not hitting someone in the face were. I was thankful that the hallway was short. The bathroom held up decently to the attack on the house, and the linens were mostly clean. I snatched a few towels and soaked half of them, grabbing a bar of soap on my way out. Before I exited the hallway, I heard a muffled giggle from Rachel and hushed whispers from Michael.

      “Got it,” I announced all too loudly. Michael jumped back slightly and Rachel’s giggling silenced. “Let me at it.”

      “Maybe you can let him do it?” Rachel said.

      “Nah, my mom was a school nurse; I learned a lot from her.”

      Michael nodded at Rachel when she looked to him for help. He gently eased out from under her legs and allowed me room to squeeze in. My touch was less than gentle as I untied the partially blood soaked shoe string and peeled off the glove. Rachel hissed when it pulled off the gash, which made it bleed again. Small fibers clung to the clots around the open wound, and though I didn’t care much about Rachel’s pain, any cut like that would make even some of the most demented sadists cringe slightly with empathetic agony. After I rubbed some of the soap into a wet cloth, I carefully stroked the cut clean. Silent tears streamed down her face, and I found myself whispering “I’m sorry,” more than once, a lot like my mother did for her students. I finally had it cleaned, rinsed, and redressed just in time for tears of my own to form in my eyes. “Would there be any ice in the freezer?”

      Rachel shook her head, “There is plenty of it outside,” she chuckled and tried to smile through her pain. I had observed her cut, noticing exposed muscle and I knew she had some nerve damage. I wished I had my mother’s first aid kit; it always contained a tiny vial of morphine, just for emergencies. However, it was gone, and so was she.

      “That’s fine, I’ll just pack one of these cloths with some snow, and I’ll be right back.”

      I walked toward the door, and Michael, who had been standing off to the side, grabbed my wrist, “want some help?”

“I’ll manage,” I tugged my wrist away, and he let his hand drop to his side. “Thanks, anyway.”

4

      The sun had just begun to set when I stepped out on the porch. The cold evening air eased my tense muscles into cooperation. My legs wobbled under my weight with each step and I fell to my knees in the snow. The cold wetness seeped into my jeans, but it felt nice and I needed nice. I waited a moment before filling the towel with snow. A star poked out in the cotton-candy colored sky, reminding me of the dumb wishes I used to make as a child. Perhaps they were not so dumb, because I couldn’t help myself from wishing on that star just then.

      Once I was sufficiently soaked from my knees down, I checked the tires for ice. Some of it had melted, leaving a decent bare spot just beneath the tire. Pulling my last clean glove out of my pocket, I dusted off the windshield and as much of the top as I could reach. Small bits of ice stuck to the door handles, gluing the doors shut. In mild frustration, I kicked the front left tire, causing the melting ice to crack and fall off, deflating the tire with it. “That’s just freakin’ perfect!”

      “What’s up?” Michael’s voice came from such close proximity; I nearly jumped out of my own skin. He chuckled, and said with both hands raised in surrender “it’s just me. What’s wrong?”

      “That,” I pointed at the stupid tire. “I just popped it. Now, we’re stuck.”

      “I doubt your dainty little foot could pop a car tire. Besides, I saw a spare in the garage back there.”

      “Wonderful, Rachel comes to the rescue once more.” I rolled my eyes and moved to the other side of the van, pretending to inspect the other tires.

      Michael followed me around, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Nothing, forget it.”

      “Are you serious, right now?” He folded his arms across his chest, his brows furrowed.

      “Serious about what? The fact that just her mere presence has done more for you in this Hell than I ever could? Or that she’s so stupid, she’s brilliant? So far, we survived the day because of her, and I have nothing to offer you –” careful, I thought, “or her, for everything that you’ve both done.”

      “What about you?” his voice raised over mine, “you probably just saved her leg from a severe infection. By tomorrow, she’ll be walking just fine, which means we won’t have to slow down, even if these damned tires are flat!” Michael kicked the right rear tire for effect, and sure enough, the damned thing popped. He slammed a fist against the door, his face purple with anger. “You don’t see your worth, Angie, but I do. And damnit, so does Rachel!”

      “The only thing she cares about is you. I see the way she looks at you. It’s the same way…” I stopped myself, knowing that I was treading in some very dangerous waters.

      “What?” his voice fell almost silent, a certain kindness glistening in his eyes. “Same way as what?”

      I inhaled deeply, my mind racing for something less damaging. “The same way she has always looked at you, since day one.”

      “Oh,” his eyes left mine and he circled back around the van, slow in his footsteps as they left his mark in the snow. “We should head back in. It’s pretty dark out here.” He disappeared into the wreckage before I even drew a second breath. I glanced down at the towel, and refilled it. In all that, I wrung out every drop of snow and never felt the icy purpling in my fingers. Michael’s words resonated in my head, and I realized our survival depended heavily on everyone’s cooperation. I just had to swallow my pride and suck it up.

      I trudged back into the house, with the towel and a less-than-sincere smile on my face. “Hey,” I said. “I got some snow.”

      “Thanks,” said Rachel, her face questioning my extended absence.

      “No problem,” I placed the wad on her ankle, and sat in the chair. My legs throbbed with soreness as it moved up to my thighs and back. A moan escaped my lips, and I regretted it the moment Michael’s head shot up. “I’m fine,” I said before he could utter a sound.

      “No, you’re not.” He knelt beside me and removed one of my boots. Before I could protest, his wonderfully strong hands worked their magic on my blistering feet.

      “Ooh,” I let my feet relax, and tried as hard as I could to remain silent, for Rachel’s sake, as Michael’s hands moved up my calves and around my knees. His fingers nimbly kneaded my muscles into submission and warmed the numb nerves back to life. After several minutes, I willed my eyes to open only to find Rachel peacefully asleep on the sofa. The snow on her ankle almost completely melted, drenching the cushion beneath her feet. “You know, she looks almost angelic when she’s asleep.”

      “Yeah,” Michael said, “you tend to look like a dead monkey when you sleep.” He laughed, and moved behind the chair to work out my shoulders and neck.

      “At least I don’t sound like a foghorn when I sleep. You could wake the dead!” As if on cue, Rachel snorted lightly and continued to snore softly. Michael and I laughed lightly, and after he finished massaging me, he sat criss-crossed on the floor at my feet.

      “I want to tell you that I’m sorry, for getting angry with you earlier.” he said, his head dropping but never breaking eye contact.

      “You don’t have to. I deserved it.” I slid out of the chair onto the floor beside him. He took my hand in his and traced the fine lines on my palm, slightly tickling the sensitive skin. “Instead of being jealous, I should have been more gracious of you two. I may not be here right now if I didn’t have you.”

      “Don’t say that,” his hand gripped mine, hard. “You’re a survivor, like us. You made it the same as me, so don’t sell yourself short.”

      “Well, I suppose it was my idea to run away from the city,” I nudged his leg with my foot.

      He smiled, “Brilliant plan, by the way. Look where we ended up!”

      “Right back in it,” I said, “Only now there are three.” After a moment of silence, I said, “Maybe we’ll find more. If Rachel could survive the destruction of her home and her family disappearing, others would be able to, as well, right?”

      “It’s definitely possible.”

      “You’re not losing hope are you?”

      “No, of course not,” his face warped with a degree of seriousness I did not expect. “I’ll never give up hope. It’s all we have left.”

      The next morning, I awoke frightened. Rachel wasn’t on the couch, and Michael disappeared from the room. I panicked at some clashes and bangs from the kitchen, and bolted up off the floor. The blanket keeping in my warmth fell to my feet and I nearly tripped over a small yellow pillow. I reached the wall just before the kitchen and pressed my back to it. The clatter was random, yet melodic, and that was when I smelled it. Food! Real food cooking on a stove! The scent of bacon, eggs, and sausages wafted into the parlor, inviting me into the kitchen. I could hardly resist, but at the sound of Rachel’s voice, I wasted just one more second before entering.

      “Where’d this all come from?” At the sound of my voice, both Rachel and Michael jumped a little.

      “The fridge,” she said.

      “Ew,” I wrinkled my nose. “You said there wasn’t any electricity. Wouldn’t that be bad by now?”

      Rachel giggled at my apparent lack of understanding. “You feel how cold it is in here? With half the house in ruin, and most of the upstairs buried in snow, it’s just enough to have preserved the food inside. They are about to expire, which is why we’re cooking it.” She shrugged while stirring the eggs, “waste not, want not.”

      “Oh, right.” I said, staring in the pan sizzling with various breakfast meats and eggs. Well, at least we would have a decent meal before moving on. I turned to Michael. “What’s the plan, today?”

      “Well, we’re not sure.” He frowned, and seemed to focus on a thought.

      “Why not? I thought we were taking the van?”

      “I checked on the van earlier, when you were still asleep. All the tires popped. Well, all minus the one spare in the garage. We’re going to need another way out of here.”

      “Not only that,” said Rachel as she placed the fried goods on the counter-top, still sizzling in their pans. I noticed charred bits of kindling on the range-top. “but, the gasoline is nearly depleted. We wouldn’t make it across town, not without a refill.”

      “How did you make that fire?” I raised a suspicious brow at her. “You didn’t siphon gas from the van, did you?”

      “Actually, I just disconnected one the pipes back here and we used some of the residual gas still in the line.” Michael picked a piece of bacon off the pan and bit a large chunk off one end. “All we needed was a spark.” Rachel smiled warmly up at Michael, and I had to remind myself to think of the bigger picture. Watching them grow so much closer with every passing hour felt like torture. I had felt like the metaphorical third wheel…

      “Cool,” I said. “Now, we need to come up with a plan. How are we getting to the other side of town?”

      “Hey, Rachel, why don’t you tell Angie what you suggested this morning?” said Michael as he finished another piece of bacon. I snatched up some of the sausage and egg, oh-so-eager to hear more.  

      “Do you really think it’ll work?” she folded her arms, self-conscious over her idea.

      “It’s better than any other idea I thought of. Besides, I think she’ll like it. Go on, tell her.”

      Rachel chewed her lip for a moment before deciding. “Okay, but don’t laugh.”

      No promises, I thought. “It’s okay; I’m not really in a laughing sort of mood, anyway.”

      “Well, I thought since the Wendigos are above ground, we should go underground.”

      “That’s your brilliant idea? How is that going to get us to the other side of town?” I shook my head and suppressed a chuckle, feeling foolish for believing Michael. He was only making her feel good about her ridiculous idea, and as sweet as that was, he should have been thinking realistically, about all of us.

      “There’s more,” he said. “She suggested we use the tunnels beneath the city to navigate the streets. We’ll be unseen, completely. I think it’s even better than using a car!”

      “Oh,” I said. “You didn’t think my idea was so stupid yesterday.”

      Michael stopped chewing for a moment, clearly embarrassed about his mouth running off without his thoughts again. Rachel rolled her eyes at his sheepishness.

      “I don’t think she was insulted.” She said, “We all have ideas, and they’re only really good for as long as they work. We’re not even sure the Wendigos aren’t in the tunnels.”

      Michael thought for a moment. “Alright. It’s a good idea, for now. Let’s pack some supplies and get moving, then. We’ve already lost some valuable time.”

      It was difficult for me to maneuver through the wreckage in the house. Michael needed me to climb up and over large pieces of debris in order to find suitable things we could use. Of course, most of the required items were in parts of the house not readily accessible. And, to make things more fun, Rachel's ankle prevented her from being of much use. I did have to admit, she was rather well-trained in the art of supervision. Each time I made an error, she wasted not a single moment in redirecting me, scolding me when I broke something apparently of value, and just generally treating me like a household pet, playing fetch. It totally sucked.

      I glanced at the crumpled piece of paper Michael had used to scribble the list. I was able to retrieve the rope, scissors, a few small clean towels, some lighters from Rachel's father's office, a couple of candles that broke in half on my way out, and had finally managed to squeeze myself into a tiny storage room to find duct tape when Rachel yelled for me to get out, immediately. “It's going to take me a minute, what's the rush?” I tried to yell as loud as I could. Parts of a large wall lay in odd angles over the doorway.

      “Angie, you need to move, fast!” Michael's voice boomed through the walls. “It's not safe, hurry!”

      My heart thudded into my throat, blocking the airflow and choking my next words. I tried to ask why, but all that came out was a loud coughing that made Michael destroy the remnants of the walls. He grabbed my arm and threw me out into the small hallway. “What the hell?” I said, rubbing my arm. “I think you just bruised my arm.”

      “Angie, Michael went back into that room upstairs, to get something for me, and –” Rachel's lip quivered and she closed her eyes, bowing her head in silence. She wrapped her arms around her middle, shivering with fear.

      “What? What happened? Did that thing come back to life or something?”

      “Well, we don't know,” said Michael. His eyes held mine. “The body is gone.”

      They remained silent for several moments, and my mind swirled with possibilities. If the body is gone, that meant either it left, or something came for it. But why would we still be alive? Certainly, the creature would seek its revenge and eat the flesh off our bones! “No,” I shook my head, a nervous laugh escaping my mouth. “No way, Michael. This is even too much for you.”

      His face held bewilderment as he looked me over. “You think I'm joking?”

      “If that thing got up and walked away, don't you think it would have stopped by for a snack on its way?” I glanced up at the top level. “I bet it's still there.”

      Before they realized, I bolted up the staircase and hurried down to the room. The door still hung sideways, clinging to its one good hinge. Sunlight streamed through the window on the opposite wall, illuminating the black-stained carpet, still reeking of cold misery and death. My eyes darted about the room, searching for the body. With my hammering heart, I mustered enough courage to investigate further, overturning the fallen chest of drawers, checking under the bed, and even in the closet. My breathing quickened as I tried to imagine how it got out without us seeing it, or worse, without it seeing us. I walked over to the window, placing my arms on the window pane, and leaned over to see the outside. The cold wintry air fanned my face, and a few snowflakes melted on my cheeks. “The window is open,” I said. “Was it open before?”

      Michael had just made it up the stairs with Rachel when I exited the room. He looked pretty pissed off. His cheeks were bright red, and his eyes were wide and wild. “Don't ever do that, again!” he said. “You could have been killed!”

      “How?” I shrugged my shoulders, “the body isn't here. By the way, Rachel, did you open that window in there?”

      She thought for a moment and shook her head, “it was too cold to open it.”

      “Well, it's open now. My guess is that he got up and jumped out the window. He's probably afraid of guns now.” I smiled at Michael, but it did nothing to simmer his tantrum.

      “We need to leave, now.” he said, coldly, leaving Rachel with me to deal with on our descent back down the stairs.

      “Granted, but if that thing is out there now, we're gonna need a way to conceal ourselves. At least until we make it to the tunnels.”

      Michael sighed, but conceded. Rachel informed us of some large quilts down in the linen closet near the bathroom. Her idea was that we cover ourselves with blankets and hope they don't see it as something out of the ordinary. At first, I thought it was just about the dumbest idea. Walking around the street like small children cowering under blankets in fear of the bogeyman or something seemed too ridiculous to work. However, when I saw what color the quilts were, I decided not to share my distaste for her ideas. “White will make us blend in with the snow,” I said. “It's not just concealment, it's camouflage!”

      “Yeah,” said Rachel, “as a kid, I used to pretend it was snow, and I would blanket myself with them like I was an ice queen, or something.” Her face reddened when she realized how silly she sounded, and quickly rushed to change the topic. Honestly, it wasn't all that dumb. As a child, I used to pretend I was a world-famous brain surgeon and I performed a series of totally unorthodox (and probably prison-worthy) surgeries on all my stuffed animals.

      We each grabbed a quit, and wrapped us as much as possible without tripping. Michael reminded us to move slowly, and together. At first, I envisioned us three, tied in white blankets, slithering down the street like slugs. In reality, we just sprinted down to the first man-hole we could find and Michael wrenched it open with a tire iron he took from the minivan.

      “You know,” I said to Michael once we were safely underground, “this place doesn't smell nearly as bad as I anticipated.”

5

      The cold stone walls dripped eerily as we walked through the dark tunnel. Thick green moss slithered between the cracks and lined the drainage pipes. I coughed heavily from the noxious fumes emanating from the slippery grime that oozed down the middle of the tunnel. I didn't look to often, fearing that constant attention to the sewage would force my first hot breakfast in a week up an out of my mouth. Rachel's face shriveled with disgust and she leaned her face away from the muck. We all carried on silently, with only our footsteps echoing in the passageway. Michael's hand rested against his holster, fingers itching to rip it out and shoot at whatever came our way. Large rats glared at us with their beady black eyes, and their naked pink tails twitching as we moved. We invaded their home, and with one nip of their hideous yellow teeth, we would pay for it. I watched their eyes follow us, and it made my skin feel clammy and hot, while sweat chillingly dripped down my back. I kept my eyes forward, reminding myself not to look around, and just to listen for sounds out of the ordinary. But what exactly would be out of the ordinary? I guess if we heard it, we would know.

      Then, a strange thought occurred to me. “Do either of you know what those things sound like?”

      Rachel shivered violently, “unfortunately, yes. I do.” Her voice was bitter, and I regretted opening her mind to whatever memory that was.

      “If you don't mind, can you describe it?”

      “Why?” she said. “It's not like we can understand it.”

      “No, but if we happen to hear something strange, we can determine whether or not it's one of those things.”

      Rachel sighed and shook her head, her blonde locks falling over her shoulders. Her face fell behind the wall of hair and a small, gleaming tear rolled down her cheek. “It's terrifying,” she said, “when they came down our street, we heard the high-pitched screeches from two blocks away. At first, I thought it was just a car accident and someone screaming, but the haunting wails were deep and painful. Buildings crumbled as they barreled down the road, knocking houses down with their hands.”

      “I'm sorry,” I said, “did you say their hands?”

      “Yeah,” she folded her hands in front of her body, and slumped her shoulders. “You would have thought they used bombs, but I wouldn't be alive if they did.”

      “My God,” Michael whispered. “Did you see it?”

      “Yeah, I did. My dad was supposed to be on his way home, and I was waiting in the parlor. My first time seeing one of them was when it pushed its blood-stained claws into my front door, ripping it off the hinges. Of course, that's when I made out like a bat out of hell, and I hid in the basement. Dad never made it home that night...”

      “That explains a lot,” I said. Both Michael and Rachel looked at me sideways, and I explained further. “Nothing is burned, and each house is different. They were tore apart, not demolished.”

      “We really need to get to my house,” said Michael. “That book is our only hope.”

      “Glad that's decided. Which way?” I said.

      Michael pointed down the tunnel straight in front of us. He knew the city layout better than I did, and Rachel was obviously suffering some form of post-traumatic stress. My skin crawled thinking about the things Rachel said, and knowing that she survived a direct attack gave me more than a good reason to believe she belonged with us, no matter how painful some of it might have been.

     

      After some time, between when my legs went numb and our gurgling stomachs created a wave of echoes throughout the tunnels, Michael suggested we rest for a minute or two. “We need to eat something. Besides, we're about to head down some tunnels without power from the generator and I need to make a light source.”

      “Mr. Hand-Dandy,” I said when I got comfortable enough on the cold stone floor, “can you pass the bag over?”

      He smiled and tossed it to me after removing the rope, a lighter, and two candles.”Don't eat it all,” he said, “save some for us, too.”

      “Sure thing,” and I passed the bag on to Rachel, who waved it off. “You have to eat,” I said, after taking a bite of a buttery Ritz cracker. “You will need the energy.”

      “Fine,” she said. Her slender hand dipped into a box of individually packaged Toll-house cookies. She placed the rather large pack next to Michael and nibbled on her cookie, pretending to be interested.

      I didn't buy it for a second. “Why don't we make camp here?”

      “We don't have time,” said Michael. “We need to get to my house. It's our only hope for any kind of survival. I know those books have something we need.”

      “It'll be kind of hard to get there if we can't walk.”

      “Hm?” he raised his head from his little project and realized just how exhausted we were. Rachel leaned back against a dirty wall, her feet splayed out in front of her. I massaged my aching muscles back to life, but not without silent complaint. “We can rest for a little while.”

      “Good,” I said. “We'll keep going after.”

      I watched Michael work. It was always fascinating for me to see his large hands work diligently and expertly with whatever things he could find. When we were in grade school, he used to pull up long blades of sweet grass, weaving them with wild flowers into a fragrantly sweet and handsomely crafted halo in which he placed gingerly on my head. The best thing he had ever made, though, was a respectable coffin that he fashioned out of his dad's discarded bookshelf for my old cat, Whiskers, who had passed away when I was just fourteen. With the left over wood, he made a sharp tombstone that had my cat's name engraved, albeit slightly illegibly, with the date he died. The memory warmed me from the inside, and I found myself smiling rather stupidly.

      There in the tunnels, his talented fingers navigated the rope around the tip of the tire iron, holding a half of a candlestick to the tip and wrapping around them like some medieval torch. The other half of the candlestick sat near his right knee, waiting to be useful in his project. With each twist of the rope, he braided an intricate pattern over the candle and metal, reminding me of a beehive. When he finally tucked the end of the rope into the bottom of his torch, he held it upright in between his knees that he pulled up to his chest. Michael took the other half of the candlestick and the lighter, and proceeded to melt the wax evenly over the rope. He intentionally avoided the tip where the wick of the candle stuck out. It was beautifully crafted, and had only taken him the better part of half an hour to create. When it was finished, he tested his masterpiece and the flame flickered at the tip and held steady just before he blew it out. Rachel admired the work and applauded his efforts, as did I.

      “Thanks,” he said, “It's nothing really, just some rope and a metal stick.”

      “You don't see how gifted you are, do you?” I thought I said that to myself. Judging by the strange look I got from Rachel, and Michael's laughing eyes, I knew I had just made a fool of myself, yet again. “I mean – uh – you did well!”

      “Thanks,” he said. Rachel frowned and spread her white quilt over her body. Within minutes, she was fast asleep, and twitched lightly beneath the cloud covering her.

      “Not a bad idea,” said Michael. He put his toys away, stretched out on the cold floor, and wrapped himself in his quilt. “Get comfortable, we’ll be here for a long minute.”

      “I don't really feel sleep, just sore.” I said.

      “Me, too.” After a short pause, he said, “You really don't like being part of a group, do you?”

      “What do you mean?” I yawned and stretched my body out on the floor. “I think I work pretty well in groups.”

      “It's just that you seem a little edgy,” he said.

      “It's been a pretty hard week, Michael. I'm not going to jump up and down just because we're able to wake up to another day.”

      “I don't expect you to,” he said quickly, “I mean, since we found Rachel, you've been –”

      “What?”

      “Different,” I heard him shuffle around, and I imagined him rolling to his stomach, which is how he usually slept.

      “I can't pretend to like her, not with our history.”

      “What?”

      “Four years ago, when we were all sophomores in high school.”

      “Oh,” he hummed a thought before continuing. “I still don't see where she hurt you.”

      “When she hurt you, it hurt me. I can't like a person that treats others like a carpet. She cheated on you, for months, and made you give up most of your life!”

      “She's different now, Angie. The least you can do is give her a chance.”

      “I'm trying. It's hard to forgive that level of bitch, from anyone.”

      “Why did you take it so personal?” His voice was a soft whisper then, only audible to a straining ear.

      I sighed, and debated on telling him the truth. I settled for a half-truth, and said “because it was you. You were my best friend, and she tried to take that away from me. I felt cheated, you know?”

      “Then you should have been mad at me. It was my choice, not hers. I chose to be a dick and blow you off all the time. Don't excuse my behavior because you're blind.”

      My voice caught before I could retort. The whip of his words sliced my heart in two, partially because he blamed himself and also because it sounded as though he knew, all along, how I truly felt about him. I was caught in my half-truth that now sounded more like a half-lie. Lying made me feel like a weasel, and not those cute and fuzzy ones at the pet store...

      I had given Rachel a pretty rough time. Maybe not directly, but the various scenarios that played through my head every now and then seemed to make it difficult to help her feel better. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed mentally torturing the girl, but it passed the time. I wouldn’t have been so bitter to Rachel if she had treated Michael better before.

      “She kept you on a short leash,” I whispered. “It really set her off when we hung out.”

      The faint sound of a chainsaw marked the end of our conversation. His thoughts faded to dream land, where I hoped they would be peaceful and splendid. Rachel's nose rattled off softer sounds throughout the night, and I found it impossible to shut my eyes to reality the entire night. After what felt like an hour, I crawled toward Michael and felt around for his pack. My fingers traced the contours of his body, reaching over his back until I found his pack. I had to drag it all the way around his body and felt my way into it until my fingers curled around the cold metal of the flashlight. I wriggled back to my quilt and flicked the light on. The warm yellow light illuminated the tunnel, glimmering off the wet walls and caused random living creatures to scurry away. I let the light trace the walls down to the stone floor and shine over Rachel and Michael.

      I laid in silence, thinking about my recent conversation with Michael. The reminder ignited a new passionate rage against Rachel. Though it had been over a year, I knew Michael was far from over her. I could tell by the way his lips curled up to his ears when she looked at him in that certain way. Whenever she complained, he adjusted, and when it was not good enough, he kept trying. It was like being back in junior year with those two, and I was ready to graduate, again.

      I entertained myself by turning the light on and off, which created odd shadows on the wall in front of me. I stuck my foot up into the beam and attempted shadow puppets before Rachel’s outburst gave me a mild heart attack. Her rigid body shot up, her blue eyes wide open and pupils dilated as I shone the light in her face. Michael jumped to his feet, snarling with his gun screening the immediate area for any trespassers.

      “What the holy hell, Rachel?” I shouted as I clutched my heaving chest once her screams ended.

      Her body fell back down and her head thumped against the wall. I feared the sound I heard was her skull cracking, and scrambled to my feet. Michael got to her before I did, and his gritted teeth confirmed my worry. With a shaking hand, the flashlight gleamed over the small streak of bright red blood leading down to the soft golden mess of hair atop Rachel’s unconscious head. Her lips faded to blue as the life slowly drained from her face. The pale skin sagged over her sunken cheeks, and I sobbed openly, as I feared the worst.

      “Don’t fall apart now, Angie!” Michael spun me around to face him, shaking me lightly. “She needs you!”

      “She’s – dead – Michael,” I cried heavily, the tears raining down my face.

      “She will be if you don’t get yourself together!” He bowed his head, sucked in a deep breath and muttered with tears in his own eyes “Forgive me,” before his palm made hard contact with the left side of my face.

      I was utterly stunned. Every bodily function within me ceased almost completely. When I did recollect my nerve, my senses came alive. My head jerked to where Rachel’s dying body lay and I knelt down to further inspect the damage. I eased her heavy head to its side and discovered a small pool of fresh blood. Her hair was soaked with it, and I peeled away the matted clumps until I could see the cut. “I need water,” I said to Michael.

      Without a word, he darted to his pack and brought one of the plastic bottles we took from Rachel’s house and set it down beside me. I popped the top off and poured some over the cut to clear away the blood. “Towel,” I ordered. I only had to wait two seconds before the soft cloth was in my hand. I patted the back of Rachel’s head as gently as I could and released a long breath of relief. “I think she’s okay,” I said, a faint smile creeping over my face. “Nothing’s broken, that I can see. She just knocked herself out.”

      “Oh, thank God!” Michael’s hands flew to his head, his fingers raking his curly dark brown hair, overgrown from low maintenance. His eyes squeezed shut and his ragged breathing weakened his reserve. Tears streamed down his dimpled cheeks.

      “Hold it together, Michael.” I kept my attention on Rachel’s head injury and off the fact that Michael was only inches from falling to pieces himself.

      “Right,” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

      We sat together, on either side of Rachel and talked intermittently about off-topic things; high school drama, our families, and sports. Periodically, I checked for her pulse to ease Michael’s tension. “She hasn’t moved, yet,” he said. “Are you sure she’s okay?”

      “Any kind of head injury should be taken seriously,” I said, “but yes, she’ll be just fine.”

      He looked down at his watched, pressed a tiny button on the side that produced a bright green light. “It’s almost midnight.”

      “What day is it?”

      “Thursday, why?”

      “No, no, the number, the date,” I said.

      “Oh,” he lit his watch once more. “The seventeenth. October, in case you needed that, too.”

      “Very funny,” I rolled my eyes at Michael and tried to remember last October. We were close to graduation, excited to start our lives in the world. “I would have been in my first semester of college right now,” I said. “I even picked out my classes three months ago.”

      “So you figured out your major, then?” said Michael.

      “I wanted to be a veterinarian. After Whiskers died, I wanted to help animals everywhere. Of course, I’d like to be a doctor, too, but –”  

      “What?” He leaned in closer as I explained.

      “I just don’t think I have the stomach to watch people die. Animals are different; yeah, it is sad when they die, but it’s not like I’m leaving a family without a dad or a mother, or taking a child away from parents. You can move on from your dog’s death a lot easier than you can from your mother’s.”

      I knew Michael understood before he muttered a single word, which he didn’t. He just nodded, lowered his eyes, and allowed the silence to build between us before he did speak again. “I think I should tell you, I –”

      Rachel’s stirring interrupted his thought. We nearly bumped heads as we leaned over, waiting for her to come around. Her thick eyelashes fluttered before they opened. “Hey, you,” I said. It was awkward, trying to be as calm and friendly as possible when all I wanted to do was rush her to her feet and check for signs of brain trauma. Jesus, I really am my mother’s daughter, I thought.

      Rachel grumbled, her dainty hand shaking as it traveled to the back of her head. I heard her mutter something unintelligible and panicked. When she spoke again, though, it was clearer. “Ouch.”

      Michael laughed nervously, pulling his knees to his chest and he rocked back and forth. I could tell by his childish retreat that it was all he could do to keep from hugging her. I had to smile at him because, oddly enough, I wanted to hug her, too. “How are you feeling,” I said. “Are you dizzy, faint?”

      Rachel’s finely waxed eyebrows scrunched together with focused concentration. “I don’t know.”

      “Let’s not find out, just yet.” I reached over to grab my quilt and rolled it into a log. Michael gingerly placed his fingertips on the sides of her head, lifting it slowly so that I could place the quilt-pillow underneath. Rachel winced when her head made impact.

      “Shouldn’t we keep her awake, in case of a concussion?” said Michael.

      “That’s just a myth. Truth is, if the concussion was going to kill her or even put her in a coma, it would have already.”

      “Oh,” he said, obviously taken aback by the new truth. “That’s refreshing to know.”

      “If you think about it, it is. We already know she’s stable.” I looked down at her face, the color slowly returning to normal. “She is going to have one hell of a headache in the morning.”

6

      I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. I kept puzzling over what frightened Rachel so much that she not only shouted so terrifyingly, but also fainted from it. I wished I could have talked with Michael over the matter; I hoped he might have had a decent theory or two, but he was fast asleep next to Rachel. I sat against the wall the entire time, stretching out my legs when they fell asleep. I kept the flashlight in my hands, and felt safer for it. The light provided a sense of security. I knew that as long as I could see my surroundings, it would be that much harder for something to sneak up on us.

      Michael was the first to wake. His watch beeped the time: six-thirty. We roused Rachel and reminded her to go slow. I helped her swallow some crackers and water, eating some myself. She took her time chewing, swallowing, and biting again. I carefully observed her motions for any indication of injuries more serious than the migraine she clearly had. Michael left me to it while he tore into a large bag of Doritos and gulped half a water bottle in record time. When he finished, he packed all of our things and strapped the old pack to his shoulders. A small piece of Duct-tape tailored the old straps. Hanging from the Duct-tape was a small leather sheath, no bigger than my hand. It was a rustic brown, delicately hand-sewn with a tiny strip that snapped the hilt of a blade inside.

      “Expecting trouble?” I nodded toward the knife.

      “I don’t have many bullets left,” said Michael. “Can’t be too careful, you know.”

      “Good thinking,” I said as I helped Rachel to her feet. Her right hand rested against her temple. “How are you feeling, Miss Night-Terror?”

      “Like shit,” she smiled, and winced when she laughed. “Michael, you don’t happen to have any Advil in that old thing, do you?”

      I could almost see the light-bulb come on over his head. “Yeah!” He let the pack slide from his shoulders to the floor before he flipped its lid and dug around for half a moment. He dispensed two large blue gel capsules into my hand and placed a half-depleted bottle of water in the other.

      Rachel gratefully took the medicine and drained the rest of the bottle. “Thank you,” she said, almost cooing.

      “Okay,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “We have got to get moving.”

      Luckily, Michael kept track of where we were. We had two tunnels to cross into before we would come to a ladder leading to the man-hole closest to his house. He reassured us it wouldn’t take more than an hour, but we would needed to be quick. The part that frightened me most was getting out of the tunnels.

      My fears met with kindred thoughts as Michael pushed the metal cover up and over. Pulling the revolver from his holster, he double checked his bullets and slipped two more in before closing the chamber. The tell-tale double click signified the cocking of the gun and it led him up and out of the ground. Rachel and I waited with desperation. The seconds ticked slowly, mocking us in our anxiety.

      “Oh, come on!” I yelled through the hole. The wait pulled my heart into the pit of my stomach, twisting my insides into tremendous knots. I waited for the sound of a gunshot, or anything really that would let me know he was okay. My skin pricked with fear, raising the hair on the back of my neck. Rachel’s teeth chattered, breaking my concentration. I thought I might have missed something when a loud crack and the sound of glass shattering into a million tiny pieces resonated into the tunnels, shortening the breaths I took.  

      After what felt like an eternity later, Michael finally reappeared above us and wore a bright smile. “All clear,” he said. “Come on up!”

      I led Rachel out of the tunnel and joined Michael on his front porch. His house looked nearly untouched. The door rested on the ground, and the windows were busted, but all in all, it stood its ground boldly. On the way inside, however, the real damage presented itself with deep scratches along the white trimmed walls. The intruder destroyed the caramel carpet with what looked to be long blades, soiled with blood and dirt. No pattern readily evident explained the motive for such a seemingly clean search. All the other homes in the city were almost leveled, but not Michael’s.

      He led us to his father’s office. The mahogany door shadowed the hallway where we stood. Michael’s hand reached for the curved brass handle, carefully pulling it downward until the weight of the door pulled itself open. The three of us peered inside the dusty office. Mounds of books piled high on the desk, chair, and floor. An oak bookcase lined the entirety of the back wall, which also contained volumes and volumes of books, ranging from encyclopedias to law books, untitled ones to foreign books. A heavy fabric map of the world hung imperiously over the bookshelf, with a giant glass globe sitting on top. I stepped into the tiny cluttered room and examined the fashionable antiques strewn about in a random fashion. A vintage turntable stood beside the desk, locked up tight. A shelf at the bottom held a few large records with Elvis, Patti Page, Frank Sinatra, and others lined neatly in alphabetical order. Michael perused the bookshelf, scanning each row for the one he needed. Rachel leaned against the door frame, idly scuffing her simple brown boots over the metal transition strip. The rubber traction of her boot squeaked on the brass plate, sparking irritation deep within me.

      “Found it,” Michael said, startling Rachel and myself. He tugged at a heavy, leather-bound book, catching it just before it touched the floor. “It’s the Legends of the World.” I cleared off a space on the desk for him to set it down.

      When he opened the cover, a small piece of paper drifted out and landed on my boot. “It’s blank,” I said as I turned it over in my hand. The paper felt like parchment, heavy and fibrous.

      “I used it for a bookmark,” said Michael. “Dad let me use a piece of his good parchment to shut me up. I felt pretty special, back then. He didn’t just let anyone play with his stuff.”

      I handed the piece of paper back to him. “That’s cool.”

      He flipped through various pages, skimming each part for any mention of the type of monsters we were dealing with. I caught glimpses of richly drawn pictures, each compelling to read about. One looked like an old hag, bald with no nose. Her teeth extended like blades and her tongue thrashed about, weaving this way and that as she hoisted herself up on a rock. Instead of legs, the old woman had a fish tail, but unlike any mermaid I ever saw, spikes protruded from her tail in a deadly manner. Another creature appeared wide and short. Its feet were ugly, each sprouting only three toes. His skin had patches of hair, except for his three-eyed head. The creature’s broad shoulders supported a huge mace and chains wrapping around his torso. Michael sped through the book faster than I could watch, and I missed out on the other legendary beings. As interesting as the book appeared, though, our target resided about three quarters of the way through it. Atop the page in large block letters spelled out “Wendigo”. Just beneath the words, in fantastic print, a fine sketch of a menacing creature stared back at us. My heart rate quickened with terror. Rachel drew in a quick breath and retreated to the hallway. Michael’s finger stroked the page while he read the calligraphic description below the picture.

      “It says here, ‘The Wendigo, or Witiko, creature inhabits much of the northern states of North America. The term “Wendigo” comes from the Native American Algonquian language, meaning ‘evil spirit that devours mankind’. It is believed that upon a sighting, one should expect a great deal of changes to occur.” Michael paused and glanced at Rachel out of the corner of his eye.

      “Changes?” I said. “Like, becoming one of those things?”

      “According to this,” he paused to read more, “eventually, though nothing was ever confirmed; it goes on to talk about disappearances and sightings. Some people believed the Wendigo they saw resembled a relative that had disappeared or died.”

      “Try to find something that might tell us about weaknesses or how to defeat them.” My hands shook from the thought of Rachel becoming one of those spawns ascended from the eighth circle of Hell. Anything to get my mind moving forward would be helpful.

    “How about this?” He pushed the book across the desk to me, and Rachel leaned in with cautious curiosity. A partially shredded page with smaller print than the rest of the book – as if someone added it in later – held a lengthy list of theories, ranging from all kinds of ridiculous methods like staking and silver bullets. Vampires and werewolves were a fictional construct of overactive imaginations in the Dark Ages, but this was reality and nothing out of a fable was going to help us, today.

    Then, I spotted something. “Fire.” It was simple, easy, and primitive. We didn’t need special tools, we didn’t need a lot of time. Perfect.

    “So, we set up a trap and light them on fire?” Rachel still had a glazed look in her eyes, but at least she was mentally here with us.

    “That’s actually not a bad idea,” I said, shocked. Apparently, Miss-Priss was only capable of intelligent thoughts under the influence of a deadly trance. Wonderful... whatever works, I suppose. “Where would we do it?”

    “Out in the open,” said Michael. “It’s the only way we can pull them all in.”

    I sat in a dust-covered chair, and tried to see the plan in action. “What would we lure them in with?”

    Michael’s face hardened, and before he spoke, I feared I already knew his answer. “Live bait.”

7

    It didn’t matter that I begged, pleaded, and damn near clawed Michael’s eyes out as he ordered Rachel to hold me back while he ascended to the city. And for a slightly groggy, skinny girl, Rachel was strong. I beat against her arms and kicked against her shins, causing her to grunt and yelp, but she held on tight. As I watched his foot leave the top of the ladder, leaving us in that sewage drain, the dam holding back every last emotional drop exploded into a hurricane of blind fury and fear. The storm raged from my gut out to every last nerve in my limbs, throwing Rachel against a wall. Taking my chance, I lunged toward the ladder, but I moved one second too slow. Michael replaced the metal cap, and he had taken the crow-bar.

    I slumped to the wet floor, resting my forehead against the cold metal ladder. I heard Rachel shift her feet behind me. “Sorry, if I hurt you.” I muttered. The echo of the sewer carried my pathetic voice beyond her ears.

    “I get it,” she said, flatly. “You’re in love with him.”

    It wasn’t an accusation, but it still felt like a smack in the face to hear it, out loud. I leapt to my feet and spun on my heel to face her. I opened my mouth to protest, but I couldn’t find the words. Like an idiot, I just shut my trap and hung my head.

    “Yeah, it’s that obvious.” She slid her feet slowly across the wet floor and stood next to me, staring off into the dark tunnels. “It’s okay, you know.”

     I rolled my eyes, “well, it’s not like I can help it even if it wasn’t.” There. The acknowledgement; it was not so hard to say.

    Rachel sighed, and then slumped to the ground. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but Michael doesn’t love me.”

    “You’re delirious from the head-bump.”

    “You don’t get it,” she said, “he doesn’t love me because he loves you. Always has.”

    I laughed, out loud, for a length of time before my sides hurt. “I wish my mom was here, she could evaluate you for a concussion!”

    Rachel just sat in silence. “You wouldn’t believe a word I say anyway, would you?”

    “You’re not exactly known for your honesty.” I peered down to her blonde hair, matted to her head with a rather large blood stain at the back. It sent a shiver down my spine. She’s still human, after all. “At least, not in high school.”

    “I know.”

    I slid down to sit with her. “Why?”

    She looked at me, “what?”

    “Why, after all you had, would you do the things you did? I mean, being as nasty as you could to everyone below your standard of popularity is one thing, but seriously, Rachel, why cheat on Michael?”

    “You wouldn’t get it.”

    “Try me.”

    We stared at each other for a moment. A distant echo of drips from the pipes down the tunnel filled the tense silence as I realized I wanted, desperately, to understand.

    “Fine.” She kicked her legs out from under her and turned her body to face me. I felt colder without her warmth by my arm. “Here’s the reality of high school popularity. It’s all borrowed. It wasn’t mine in the first place. Everyone who considers you “popular” gives it to you. That means, even if it’s not something you would do, you do what it takes to climb the social ladder.”

    Anger burned my stomach. “So popularity was more important to you than Michael’s feelings.”

    Rachel hung her head. “In my heart, no.”

    “You’re right. I don’t get it.” I stood from the freezing floor. “I can’t understand why someone who had it as good as you did would throw it away like a candy wrapper. I can’t understand why what people you didn’t like thought mattered more than the guy who loved you. And, I really can’t wrap my head around the idea of not breaking up with someone if you’re into someone else.” I folded my arms across my chest, partly due to the cold seeping into my bones.

    “You’re right,” she looked up at me with tears in her bright blue eyes. “There’s no reason, at least good enough, to make up for the things I did. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

    “Bullshit!” My voice thundered down the tunnels. “You did exactly what you wanted to! You knew damned well you were hurting people.” I shook my head. “You know, Michael may be forgiving of your crap, but I’m not Michael.” With that, I grabbed the pack I was carrying, climbed the tunnel ladder, and used all my angry strength to nudge the metal cap loose. I cut several fingers in the process, but I managed to wriggle it free to where I could push it up from the hole.

    Did I have a plan? Nope. But I could not stand to stay in the same place as the person responsible for everyone’s misery for four years. All I wanted was to find Michael. I glanced around the street I stood in the middle of; the nearest street sign read THIRD ST. At the corner stood an empty, partially destroyed seven-eleven, and a traffic-light with no lights hung over the crosswalk. Silence, a chilly wind, and some light flurries surrounded me. I looked back to the man-hole. Rachel must have decided to stay put.

    That is when I noticed my own tracks in the snow. None others led away from the hole. Michael was not gone that long, and there wasn’t enough snow falling to fill the tracks. Something felt horribly wrong. My head spun, my knees buckled and an acidic fluid filled my throat before I threw up the little bit of breakfast I had. The wind had taken on a new turn, carrying the stench of death and decay. Before I could get to my feet, a gut-wrenching, blood-curdling shrill erupted from the tunnels.

    “Rachel!” On hands and knees, I rushed to the hole and all but jumped down into it. The shrieking continued down the tunnels, but the echoes prevented me from knowing exactly where she had gone. “Rachel!” I shouted, over and over. I should have stayed with her, I should have just swallowed my anger and let it go.  Now, she’s gone and it’s all my fault. Michael’s gone, and I don’t know where. My brain would not shut up. Now I’m alone, and probably going to die. How am I going to find Rachel?

    My feet kept moving, even though I felt like I already gave up moments ago. There were three main tunnels. Chances were I would get lost, but wasn’t I already?

    Several hours later, I really didn’t know where I was. The tunnels looked identical and I lost all sense of direction. I cried several times. Michael was long gone. Rachel was probably dead. With no signs of life, I was certain I would be next.