Bite

The Elevator

Rayford pulled the car into a parking garage. It was eerily dark. I hated how everything, from a whispered sigh to the squeak of the brakes—turned into an echo that reverberated loudly throughout the entire structure. He pulled so close to the elevator doors that he nearly ripped off the side mirror.

"Stay inside," he warned, "I am going to go into the elevator. I'm going to go both up, and down, and check out the rooms I want. I will not be checking the whole building, for it is likely that there are some people left here. I'd rather face them from a room we've fortified for ourselves. If I'm not back in 10 minutes, stay together, and come up. It is likely I've died but you will find the room on the twenty-fourth floor."

In the films, a hero departs to check for safety, and there is usually a grim nod—or a tearful speech—before he leaves. We did neither of these.

Pedro slapped his back. "Good luck, man," then he took his gun off safety and shifted to the front seat. As Rayford shut the door, Pedro hit the automatic lock. Rayford squeezed around the front of the car, squishing his stomach between the wall and the side mirror, till he managed to hit the elevator button. He cocked the gun, the door dinged, and Rayford leapt inside.

Just as the doors slid shut, he gave us a nervous thumbs up.

"I'm bored," Dave said, not three minutes of silence later.

"Me too," Hailey said.

"Next time our lives are ruined, we'll try to make it more like the movies, okay?" I said with deeply sarcastic sympathy. "I'm desperate for nonstop action and no bathroom breaks for the heroes."

"You don't like kids, do you?" Wayne said, giving me a judgmental glare. "You know they obviously can't adapt to this as well as you have."

"I've adapted?" I asked blearily. "I don't see that."

"You shot one—twice," Pedro said helpfully. "You're on your way to becoming a slayer or something. When this is all over, you'll get your life made into a big Hollywood movie. Just wait."

"Great," I said dryly. "And for the record—I don't mind kids. I'm just annoyed."

"Sorry," Dave said sincerely.

I wanted to tell him it was all right, and that I was sorry for lashing out. I couldn't bring myself to say the words. I couldn't bring myself into saying anything—for fear of breaking down. I wanted to cry so, so hard. My eyes were desert dry and wouldn't comply. I licked my chapped lips and hid my face again, trying to focus on my carsickness. As soon as I could get out of this car, it would subside. The car was too hot and cramped for anything to improve yet.

"Don't worry 'bout it, kid," Helen interjected, her raspy voice exuding a cigarette smell that made me want to cough until I died. "Everyone's so upset, it's hard not to take it out on each other. I think it's safe to say that none of us are really mad each other, though."

"Only mad at what has happened," Wayne said tenderly to his brother, putting an arm around him and pulling him close.

Twelve minutes passed—and just when we began to shift around and give up hope for Rayford's return, the elevator doors slid open again. Rayford stood with a big grin on his face—and at his feet—there was a giant pile of canned goods crammed into a wooden crate.