Standing By

Searching for Adam and Chris

(Rob)

Having only been to Adam's parents' house a few times in my life, I had to pull up both Adam's and Chris' contact address for them. I finally found it not under Adam's name (his emergency information actually was Chris), but Chris'. I really hoped they hadn't moved. For kicks and giggles, I tried to call them, feeling fairly certain it'd be fruitless, based on my conversation with Chance. True enough, Adam's phone seemed to have fallen into such a great abyss, I couldn't even get the call to go out. I tried Chris and got his voicemail after a solid twenty seconds of ringing.

"Hey, Chris, this is Rob, trying to find you guys. Chance said he'd spoken to you for a few seconds before getting disconnected, something about shouting and panic. He is super worried about you. So am I. I'm in Mankato, heading to your parents'. Right now I'm on, um, Eighth Street right now. Please, please, please call any one of us ASAP. Bye."

I pressed the 'end' button and bit my lip, determined not to cry no matter what. I pulled onto Lake Street, looking for house numbers. I found it at the end, close to the cul-de-sac, and parked on the street. Lights were all off, as if no one was home. I stepped out of the car and promptly slipped on ice. Took me two tries to get up, only to fall right back down. Frowning, I pulled back to my feet carefully and took two more steps before falling down belly-first. Good God. On my knees, I surveyed the yard. A near solid sheet of ice. What the hell? The roads had been OK, so why was their yard a solid sheet of ice? It was like someone had decided to turn their yard into a hockey rink. I struggled to stand up again before just electing to channel my inner penguin and slide across on my belly. I gave myself a good push-off with my arms and slid neatly to the front porch.

I reached a hand forward to protect my head from impact on the steps only to feel the familiar cold slipperiness of ice. More ice, thick ice, all over the porch. The steps were coated, the concrete, the front doormat. Why would there be more ice the closer I got to the house? It should be the other way around. It was the Rupp's property that was treacherous.

I grabbed ahold of the handrail and pulled, literally pulled, myself up three steps. I let myself slide to the door and rang the doorbell several times. The house looked abandoned, but still. You don't just barge into people's houses. Not getting an answer as fast as I'd have liked, I started pounding on it.

I gasped in surprise when the door flew open on its own. Holy shit. Doors are not supposed to open on their own. Uncertainly, afraid of what I might find, I stepped inside.

"Hello?" I called out to a seemingly empty house. "My—my name is Rob. Rob Lundquist. I'm looking for Adam and Chris Rupp?" I stuck my head in the dining room on the left, remains of Christmas lunch sitting on the table and the server. They'd left everything out, as though in a tremendous rush. Kitchen was messy—dishes, silverware, pots and pans. Nothing out of the ordinary for a Christmas Day. Den, looked perfectly normal; a few odds and ends. It wasn't until I circled back around to the living room that I saw anything too out of the ordinary. I gasped when I got a glimpse of what had been their living room. Water. Water everywhere. The floor, the walls. The ceiling. The furniture, the tree. Gifts. Everything was a soggy mess. I threw my head up, looking for burst pipes. Living in Minnesota, you always had to watch out for frozen and burst pipes. Nothing obvious, but still. There had to be a source.

I darted out of the foyer and glanced around, making sure I had a good general layout of the downstairs and raced up the stairs. What would be directly above the living room? According to my calculations, a bedroom. No bathrooms nearby. I stood in the hallway, my hands on my head, bewildered. Clearly, they'd gotten flooded out—but where the hell did the water come from?

"Hello? Cindy? Steve?" someone called from downstairs. "Cindyyy! Steeeve!" She sounded panicked herself.

I ran down the stairs, a man echoing the woman's calls for the Rupps.