If We Survive The Night

Run

Jaden

"There you go," says Hazel, clicking the Tupperware box shut.

The moment she does that, a short burst of automatic gunfire comes from somewhere in the house. Startled, she looks up.

"It's the TV," I say, trying not to smile. "It's nothing."

"Shhh," she says.

Muffled TV sounds are coming from somewhere upstairs, sounding more like a cooking show rather than an action movie. They have big TV screens in pretty much every room of the mansion. I take the Tupperware and slide it into my backpack while Hazel stands there, listening, frowning. She generally frowns a lot, but she's okay. It's funny how I found her intimidating when Mom first brought me here. In my defense, I was just a kid then. Kids don't like stern-looking adults.

"Go home," she tells me, and then waddles, slowly and heavily, towards the kitchen door.

I hesitate. I'm not even supposed to be here today. I only come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—and today is Sunday, so I just dropped by for some leftovers. They have insane amounts of food on weekends, and it's a shame to throw it away. Hazel thinks so, too. So, I should be leaving, but instead I watch her open the door and glance outside.

A woman's scream comes from upstairs—must be Jen, or maybe her mother—and then another burst of gunfire, deafeningly loud with the door open. My blood runs cold. That's no TV. It's real.

Hazel stumbles back, letting the door fall shut again. Turning around, she starts removing her apron, her face set in a stern grimace. Then, she turns abruptly and presses a button on the wall by the door. There's a keypad there with a few buttons that I've never paid attention to before.

"What is this?" I say.

Her eyes fall on me.

"You still here?" she snaps. "Didn't I tell you to leave?" She jerks her head in the direction of the back door. "I pressed the panic alarm button, now go!"

"Alarm? But there's no alarm." The house is quiet now—eerily so.

"It goes straight to the monitoring center."

"But what's happening?" Suddenly, I'm a little boy again, in need of instructions.

"How would I know?" She places the apron on the chair, reaches for her bag on the counter. "This got nothing to do with you or me, that's for sure. Go!"

"But you must come with me!"

"I ain't much of a runner, as you can see." She gestures at herself. "I'll hide in the cellar and call the police, to make sure they're coming." She gestures at the cellar door to her left. "Go!"

I look up, my heart pounding. The white ceiling above me discloses nothing. Is this a robbery or something? Is someone actually shooting at people right above our heads?

"Run!" Hazel stomps her big foot at me, and I obey—a habit of years.

I burst outside, into the darkness and the chill night air. It's not completely dark—in addition to the light coming from the windows of the mansion, there's a car parked in front of the main entrance, to my right, its headlights blaring bright. It doesn't belong here, so I instantly turn the other way, keeping to the shadows by the wall. I reach the corner of the house and, after a moment's hesitation, push off the wall and cross the lawn, running from one pruned dogwood tree to another. Finally, I reach the garden, with its bigger trees and deeper shadows. Electric lights gleam in the trees, decorations that Hewston recently installed, but they don't give much illumination. Darkness feels safer, so I allow myself to pause, catching my breath.

I put my hand on a tree, its bark rough under my fingers, and look back at the house. This is insane. I mean, there were shootouts in my neighborhood—some I heard about, a couple I even witnessed—but you don't expect something like that to happen in a place like this. Rich people keep safe. They have iron fences and alarm systems and what not.

I take a deep breath. As Hazel said, this has nothing to do with us. Mr. Clark must have made some enemies. Now he's apparently dealing with the consequences, and so does his family. His wife, his daughter, and...

Casey.

I look up, at the familiar window on the second floor, just in time to see a silhouette appear in it. His movements are fast and jerky as he throws the drapes aside, grabs the latch, pulls and pushes. That window doesn't open easily, I heard him complain to Hewston once, who said he'd look into it. He hadn't done so, apparently. My fists clench, but what can I do? And why should I bother? This ain't my battle. He ain't my friend. He's been pretty nasty to me, in fact, and I have no reason to care. He might die today—so what?

People die all the time.