“Did you check the board?”
“Yes. I need to rotate the water in three days.”
He grunted his approval.
We ate at the table without talking for a few minutes. The scrape of utensils was loud in the quiet house.
“People use all of their supplies without conserving because they expect rescue.” He wiped his mouth. “You won’t.”
“I won’t,” I repeated.
“You will survive no matter what it takes.”
I looked at my plate. “I will.”
He finished his drink, stood, and carried his dish to the sink. “Clean up. Then bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
As I washed dishes, I felt the weight of the evening settling—his questions still echoing, the house tightening around me like it always did.
Ben thought he was teaching me how to survive disasters.
He was really teaching me how to survive him.
Ben didn’t fall asleep before shutting the house down.
At 9:47, the television went dark. At 9:49, he checked the locks—front door, back door, and the supply room.
By 10:00, the house was silent, as Ben preferred. He’d be able to hear a mouse fart from fifty feet. Lucky for me, I was quieter than a mouse. The master had taught me himself. He’d made me memorize where to step to avoid any creeks or groans from the floor of the old house.
He’d said one day my life might depend on it. Seems he’d been right.
I pulled on the hoodie I’d left at the end of my bed and grabbed my shoes from the closet. I headed for my door, then stopped and grabbed the go-bag I had at the ready on my dresser.
Some lessons were so deeply ingrained that ignoring them was impossible. The last time I left my go-bag behind, I had to survive in the woods for two days, relying solely on my wits. During that time, I only caught one squirrel and was starving by the time I was allowed to return home.
I opened my bedroom door a fraction and listened.
Nothing.
The back window lifted without protest. I loosened it earlier while I was getting dressed. Ben hadn’t noticed, thank God.
I eased myself through the opening, lowering my body slowly instead of jumping. Landing softly, I crouched down to put on my shoes. Carefully, I closed the window from outside, pressing lightly to avoid leaving fingerprints.
Following the fence line instead of the driveway, I made my way cautiously through the tall grass. Only when I’d put distance between me and the house did I angle toward the road.
Most of Ashford was asleep, but I knew one place that was rarely quiet, and I was certain Beck would be there.
The warehouse was located three miles out, beyond the closed feed store and the abandoned gas station that hadn’t yet been demolished. Cars and motorcycles were parked all around, in accessible spots. The police didn’t bother to raid this area, likely because the local motorcycle gang had bribed them to stay away.
I entered the warehouse but stayed near the back wall. The interior was cavernous; the walls were made of corrugated metal that had long ago begun to rust. Old loading bay doors lined one side, chained shut, with gaps at the bottom letting in slivers of night air. A single generator throbbed somewhere in the back, its uneven hum vibrating through the concrete floor like a pulse.
Lights were strung overhead on extension cords—bare bulbs swinging slightly, throwing hard shadows over the people below. The smell hit next: sweat, oil, and blood, the coppery tang clinging to the back of my throat.
People packed the space in loose rings, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, heat radiating off them. Mostly men with a few women scattered throughout the crowd, wearing low-cut tops and shorts so tiny that their ass cheeks were exposed. All of them focused, eyes sharp, voices low and eager. Moneychanged hands quickly and without ceremony. More cash than I expected.
Beck must make a killing here.
