He glanced at the toilet and checked the tank. Dry. Glancing around, he relieved himself, preferring the toilet to a bucket. The small amount of urine he produced was bright yellow. Feeling foolish because he couldn’t flush, he closed the lid. He gritted his teeth and proceeded across the hall to the second bedroom and its adjoining bathroom. No better luck. It seemed each bedroom was a suite. Who’d lived in this remote location with such luxurious guest accommodations?
The second bathroom had a frosted window over the shower. No light seeped through, so it might be nighttime. He sighed. Maybe he should search for a basement. He might discover stale bottled water or soda, or the elusive hot water tank. Plastic containers would be well past the expiry date but would be better than dying of thirst.
He tried every doorknob in his search for a water source, coming up empty. He found a walk-in closet, and a depleted linen closet with some mismatched sheets covered in mildew spots. Still no water.
Unable to resist, he took a tiny sip of his precious supply—doing little to assuage his raging thirst. He was almost out of options. If he’d been fit, he might have collected a supply of firewood and gathered snow to melt. Maybe he could burn furniture. He should search for a fireplace, rather than start a fire in the middle of the living room. Either way, at least he’d bewarm. He shook his head. His brain was already slow and fuzzy if he was considering an indoor blaze. He wasn’t quite desperate enough for that. Not yet.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a moving shadow. He was certain he wasn’t hallucinating. Yet. He blinked, then squinted at the hallway. A cat?
“Here, kitty, kitty.” His scratchy voice seemed loud in the house, the gale outside a dull background roar.
The black cat paused and stared, as if deciding whether to be friendly. Cam sat on the side of the dusty bed, elevating his injured foot onto the mattress. He sighed, relieved by the diminishing pain. “You’re a nice, healthy-looking kitty. Lots of mice and rats here?”
Come to think of it, there should have been rodents everywhere because of the nasty weather, but this house didn’t seem overrun, unlike dozens of places he’d come across over the last several years. Not even many droppings. His pulse picked up.
If the cat lived here, where was it getting water?
The cat stared at him, its amber gaze unblinking. The woman and her similar gaze flashed through his mind. Cam stood, and the cat disappeared, trotting down the hall. He followed, hobbling faster than before despite his discomfort. He passed the fork in the hall leading back to his bunk space. The cat had continued past the opening into the dim hall ahead. Maybe this direction would prove more fruitful.
He reached the end of the hall to find it blocked with a piece of unpainted plywood draped with a blue fuzzy blanket. The cat disappeared through a low rectangular opening—a homemade cat door, covered by a different blanket on the far side. At some point since the world had gone to hell, someone had lived here. The hole was much too narrow for a person, so he couldn’t follow. What was on the other side?
His heart rate spiked again. Perhaps someone still lived here. Maybe his mystery woman. It was a long shot, but he’d been on his own for days. Being stuck here made him lonely for someone to share his time. He took a breath and, without thinking for too long, he knocked on the wall, the sound echoing in the immense house.
Nothing. The silence seemed deeper than ever. He tried again, pounding hard enough that his knuckles ached. Still nothing. Leaning down, holding the wall for balance, he poked the covering of the cat door and tried to peer through. Someone on the other side might know where there was water. Unable to help himself, he swallowed. His parched throat ached.
In the poor light, he couldn’t see anything on the other side. Disappointed and feeling more alone than ever, Cam headed back to his room.
With the storm still raging, he couldn’t collect firewood. With the amount of ash and volcanic debris still in the atmosphere, he also needed a top-notch filter for melted snow. The filter on his water pump was nearly done. With a sinking heart, he slipped back into his room. He set his lantern down with a thump, grateful for its heat and light, but frustrated about his fruitless quest for water.
Cam rubbed his stiff hands near the meager flame. He should have worn gloves for his exploration. The rest of the house had been frigid. He leaned his crutch against the wall and sat on the loveseat, swinging his sore leg up once more to elevate his throbbing ankle. With nothing better to do, he relaxed, his arm slumped across the upholstered back along the wall. He would regroup and try again when the stabbing pain in his head lessened. His eyes fluttered closed, though the pressing need for water meant he couldn’t rest for long.
To his surprise, the wall felt warm compared to the wall in the hall. Warmer than his candle could account for. His heartthumped harder in his chest. He slid his bare hand higher up the wall. Definitely heated. He lurched up, struggling back onto his good foot, and shoved the couch with a scraping sound a few feet to the left. He ran his hand over the wall again, this time lower. Moving further left, still touching the expanse, he found a section hotter than the rest.
Was there a fireplace on the other side of the wall? One with a fire.
No wonder he hadn’t frozen. Cam sat for a few minutes, deciding what to do. Though exhausted, he needed to investigate. He stuffed his sleeping bag into his pack and repacked his belongings. If his plan didn’t work, he could at least come back. But the clock was ticking on his survival. He had to go now before he grew too weak.
He took a breath, bracing himself for the icy roar of the storm, and slipped outside onto the covered front porch. The icy wind sucked his breath away. He adjusted his beanie and scarf. Before he changed his mind, he limped across the front of the house toward the possible source of the warm wall. If someone had a fire, they could have water or the means to melt snow. It was worth the gamble.
While snow had drifted onto the porch floor, he remained close to the wall, where the powder wasn’t too deep. He navigated along the front of the house to the far end and a second set of stairs. This was where it would get tricky.
Even with his candle lantern, visibility was total shit beyond six or eight feet ahead. Everything was white or dark gray. Using the railing and his crutch, he eased down the stairs into the deeper snow and off the porch. The accumulation was higher than the top of his lone boot and created a fiery sensation where the snow melted against his injured foot dragging in the snow. The cold relieved some of the throbbing. He wanted to laugh. Maybe he should have been icing his ankle.
He shuffled forward, bracing against the wind, one hand trailing along the outer wall of the house, the rough stone snagging against his woolen gloves. Icy pellets stung his face despite his covering scarf. He couldn’t stay outside for long—even for pain relief.
He also couldn’t leave the safety of the house. If he lost touch with the building, it would be easy to get turned around or lost. His flame blew out, leaving him in near darkness.
Cam rounded the corner, fumbling along the width of the house, searching for another entrance. Already, he was exhausted from fighting the wind. Before he reached the far corner, he bumped into an outward jog in the wall. He followed it to his right. After only a few yards, he came to another corner where he groped along the wall.
It seemed like another porch, this one enclosed. He stumbled farther, the wind striking even more strongly. Cam pushed ahead until four stairs intersected his path. He almost passed them—piled high with pristine snow—but took a chance.
Even though nobody appeared to have used this entrance, he brushed off a section of snow with his arm and hopped up the stairs. When he twisted the knob, the door swung inward, scraping something forward along the floor. He couldn’t see far, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made out neat stacks of split firewood—wood stacked to the ceiling on both sides of a tall aisle.
Relieved to be out of the wind again, he inhaled. The air had the fragrant, pitchy smell of fresh wood. Someone had recently collected this stock. His heart racing, Cam stumbled farther inside, closing the outer door behind him. He struck a match and once more lit his lantern. The light flickered, casting a steady yellow glow that pushed back the frigid gloom.
Cam hobbled forward, his light swaying. The door into the main house was locked. He exhaled. Shivering, he knocked onthe door and waited, but no one answered and it was too cold to keep waiting. He’d have to break in. Setting his lantern on a waist-high pile of chopped wood, he swung off his pack, located his tools, and set to work. Even with clumsy, stiff hands, it only took a couple of minutes to pop the lock.
Inside, he took in the sight of a completely barren kitchen. Disappointment zinged through him. Had he imagined the heat on the wall? This room was chilly and appeared as uninhabited as the rest of the house. Except…he rotated, eyes narrow as he surveyed the room again. Except for the lack of cobwebs and dust. He moved forward as quietly as possible.
