They Live

The space was small and dark, dingy and tainted with just a hint of mothballs and dust. Half-filled with artificial light and half-filled with shadows of terrifying depths, the blast shelter seemed to contract and expand in time with my heart, breathing like a living organism. Shelves of dehydrated food lined one wall while gallons of water lined the other; on the back wall, three beds protruded from the concrete, mattresses thin as paper and blankets scratchy and the color of puke.

At the very least, it was safe, and for that I couldn't thank my father enough for being such a paranoid survival nut. Thinking of him sparked in me a need to grab his hand. At first he looked shocked -- neither of us were normally emotional, sentimental people -- but then he relaxed and gently squeezed my hand.

Haley noticed the gesture and a broad smile filled her face as she got up off the floor and crossed the room to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "Dad," she whispered, "I love you."

He returned the expression, but laughing lightly, he disentangled himself, citing Nature's call as the reason, and headed out of the shelter. It was nighttime so the sky ate him up immediately. The doors closed behind him with a metallic clang.

That had been nearly five days ago, and Dad still hasn't returned. Haley's been growing increasingly nervous; I can only do so much to keep her imagination from running away with her. I don't want to tell her the truth, that Dad might be dead, that two days ago something landed on the doors, a tree or something, that we're currently sitting ducks waiting for our supplies to run down. She's too damn smart for her own good though, and she probably already figured it out once I stopped emptying out our bucket-toilet.

Now the shelter reeks of urine and faeces, but I can't do a thing about it. I try time and time again to open the doors whenever Haley naps on one of the uncomfortable cots; no matter how many times I try, whatever is up there doesn't budge.

There is a pistol in here somewhere, unless Dad took it with him (though why he would need a gun while he's out doing his business eludes me). It's screwed up that the idea of murder-suicide seems preferable to a slow starvation, but oh my gosh I absolutely cannot stand the thought of Haley dying slowly and in pain.

"Haley?" I call out tentatively. I don't know if she was actually asleep or what, but she rolls over to stare at me. There's an unfathomable emotion in her eyes, I'm scared and I understand and I love you all at once, and she wordlessly crosses the cement floor and allows herself to melt into my arms.

She's so much older now than she was when she last let me hold her like this and it's quite frankly a little awkward to fit her gangly frame against mine, but we make it work. This is it, I realise belatedly. This is what the death of innocence looks like. My heart gives a pathetic twinge at the revelation, my mouth going dry.

I want to apologise but what use is there to that?

Instead, I run my fingers through her dyed-blue hair, chuckling mirthlessly at how I had first ranted and raved about her new hairdo. How frivolous and meaningless were all our arguments. She glances up at me curiously but the odd, bittersweet smile on my face answers her question for her.

For a long time, we sit intertwined and holding each other together because all we have left is each other; the physical contact is enough to ground us firmly and keep us from spiralling into a manic or depressive state.

"Claire," Haley breaks the silence. "I--" She bites her lip and stops speaking suddenly, as if she isn't sure she is allowed to say whatever it is she wants to say. "About Mom..."

My eyes widen without my consent. Clearing my throat at the decidedly uncomfortable but unfortunately not unexpected topic, I nod. "Right. Mom." Uncertainly, I say, "You -- you probably don't remember much about her."

To my utter surprise she laughs. It's weak and uncertain, but it's laughter all the same. "Yeah, especially considering she only stayed long enough to shit me out before running off with her whorish man-candy." Despite the absolutely scathing words her tone is almost jocular, jovial even, and the levity infects us both.

Soon we're giggling like we used to, as if we're sitting together on my bed discussing boys instead of trapped together in an underground bomb shelter that smells like crap discussing our no-good mother.

"I mean--" Haley's laughing too hard to speak clearly; her words bounce around and get lost in her diaphragm. "I mean, jeez couldn't she, like, at least, oh man, stay a couple of days?"

My sides hurt, the muscles aching with uncontrollable giggles, and I manage, "She did! Only because the custody papers took too long!"

It feels good just to let go. It also feels like we're spitting on the graves of everyone who died, but the world is larger than the city. Millions and millions of people still breathe, walk, talk, laugh and live. So can we.

Haley seems to come to that same conclusion, as that guilt-induced hesitancy disappears completely and she leaps to her feet and strikes a dramatic pose.

She cuts a rather striking figure, all hard angles and lines, with her oddly coloured hair (neon blue, of course) and rocker-chick style. Leaning back, I can do nothing but admire the woman my sister has become.

"We will survive, no matter what," she decrees. "We'll get out of here and we'll tell everyone our touching and inspirational story about how we survived the worst terrorist attack ever!"

With that, she starts pushing against the doors. Once she realises her strength alone isn't enough, she huffs her breath and stares expectantly at me. I can't help but roll my eyes at her theatrics as I move to help her, yet strangely I feel invigorated, as if together we can conquer any mountain, or in this case, escape any bunker.

The doors of the bulkhead normally open outwards, into the great unknown where there is likely a pile of debris blocking out exit, but right now said pile keeps us from fresh air and freedom.

Haley presses her back to the doors and pushes as hard as she can, using her knees to force her body up, but there isn't any discernible progress made. She's just about to take a running leap at the door when something stops her.

Some part of me hopes to God it's a sliver of common sense but knowing her, she's heard something and is now unhealthily curious about it.

"What is--"

"Shhh!" She tilts her head and cups her ear to the doors. A look of utter confusion crosses her features. Suddenly she bangs against the metal and shouts, "Hey! I can hear you!"

"Haley," I hiss. "Who knows who's out there?"

She grins cheekily. "I don't."

Whoever is up there knocks on the doorframe. Our 'guest' calls out, "You okay?" His voice is rough and muffled but distinct enough to hear the obvious concern lacing it.

Swallowing the worst of my fear, I return, "We're fine. Can you see what's blocking our exit?"

Haley won't stop grinning smugly. I shoot her a dark glare.

"Tree. Bricks."

His words, however poorly structured, hit me like ice water.

"Can you, um, do anything about that?"

He taps out yes in Morse code. Haley's brow furrows in confusion so I translate for her. Bewilderment gives way to exuberance.

"That'd be flipping amazing!" she cries. "Dude, you're awesome!"

Despite my misgivings, apparently this man wants to help us. Shame curls up and settles in my chest. Though, I do wonder about his voice.

The clay bricks scrape together harshly and fall to the ground with a heavy thud as he works but he doesn't say another word. Haley's smile just keeps getting bigger with every thumping noise until she's jumping up and down in excitement.

"I told you," she sings tauntingly. "I told you, I told you!"

Smiling slightly, I say, "You know what? I don't mind being wrong."

And that just makes her jump up and down more.

I feel bad that he's doing all the work but he hasn't complained yet. Granted, he also hasn't said another word. That's only mildly disturbing. I wonder why?

Suddenly a resounding crash fills the air and plunges the world into silence. I find myself holding my breath, straining to hear anything, and beside me I know Haley is doing the same thing.

There's no sound of bricks moving, of clay scraping across metal, or anything.

Oh my gosh is he still out there? What if something fell on him and he's dead?

Haley grunts and rushes up the stairs to the doors, but when she throws herself against them, she goes flying forward, sailing into the air. It's almost comical but it's really not.

Tanned arms wrap around her middle and stop her trajectory, and even if in doing so the owner of said arms force her to the ground, I find myself inexplicably relieved and jog up the stairs to join them.

"Hey," Haley says breathlessly, staring up at the red head on top of her. Then her eyes dart past his shoulder to take in the grey sky. "Damn it, the sky is too ugly."

The boy rolls off her and brushes himself off before helping her to her feet. Big-sister instincts surge to the forefront of my mind immediately upon noticing that slight, mischievous grin on Haley's face.

I step in between the two; Haley just pops up around my shoulder and gives him a big hug. "Thank you," she practically squeals. "What's your name?"

Comically, the boy's eyes widen and he stiffens at the obviously unexpected contact. Barely holding back an amused snort, I await his answer, which is prefaced by a slight wince on his part. "Silas."

"Well, Silas," she draws out his name. "Lucky for us you found came along!"

"Very lucky," I comment dryly. "What were you doing out here? How'd you survive?"

Another wince crosses his features as he prepares to answer, and I connect the dots.

"-- Okay, no. You can answer that later. Haley, go get him a water bottle."

A look of absolute gratitude crosses his face.

"But you are going to answer my questions. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate your help -- we'd be dead without you -- but surely you understand my concerns?"

He nods gravely.

It's then, when he wobbles slightly and leans against the side of the house, that I notice he's rather disheveled in appearance and -- oh my gosh he's bleeding.

"Haley, get the first aid kit too!" To Silas, I say, "I am so sorry."

She grumbles something unintelligible and likely profane as she reemerges, medical supplies in her arms and water bottle in the crook of her elbow.

"Take off your shirt," I order. He looks flustered for a moment but relents when I repeat my command in what Haley calls my do-it-or-so-help-me-god voice. "Man, what, did you lose a fight with a cheese grater?"

He says nothing, instead turning his attention to his water, but a slight blush glows on his neck and shoulders to show for his obvious discomfort.

"And to think you moved all that rubble in this state." I pull out the antiseptic and cotton balls and dab gingerly at the jagged wounds on his arms and torso. In all honesty, they aren't too deep, but the lacerations are worrying in that without proper medical care, infections and tetanus are legitimate concerns. "You're crazy."

"Thanks," he says, grinning cheekily. "I had, like, a twelve centimetre gap and there were sharp metal bits."

The smile sloughs off my face as he speaks. Horrified, I repeat, "You're crazy!"

"Crazy awesome," Haley corrects.

I roll my eyes. Of course Haley would find this cool. "You wouldn't happen to have run into anyone else, would you have?" Maybe he's seen Dad out and about.

He grimaces and shakes his head apologetically, as if he understands that I'm not just making conversation. My stomach drops. "You, uh, looking for, um, anyone in particular?" he asks.

"Our dad," Haley answers quickly. "He was wearing a red polo and jeans. Kinda shortish? Going bald? Oh, he has these real ugly, thick framed glasses."

Silas gulps, a tell-take flicker of recognition lighting in his eyes; he averts his gaze briefly but it's enough for me to realise that something bad's happened to Dad. He stammers a little as he says, "You should follow me."

My brain points out that this could be a trick but I need to see Dad again, no matter what. I share a look with Haley; there's a firm resoluteness to her features as she nods. I take her hand in mine (she doesn't even offer a token protest) and we follow Silas wordlessly down the street.