The Living Dark

The Living Dark, Chapter 4: Locked Up Tight

     The day had progressed into the night. Just as it always had ignorant of the trials of humanity. Cosmically oblivious to anything other than the constant pull of gravity and eternal linear path of time. The James family had hustled about fortifying their house. Ben had just finished new security measures and ushered his family downstairs. Into their newly repurposed storm shelter. The generator sat silent. The smell of freshly cut wood hangs about the basement, like a man's tasteful cologne. Ben James swings his husky body around the rear of his workbench. The basement workshop which had been alive less than an hour earlier. Now stood still bathed in utter darkness. Gingerly, he shuffles deeper behind the bench. To retrieve a plywood front, he had constructed. He dutifully slides the fake panel between the wall and workbench. It fits neatly in place, squeezing his girth sideways. Maneuvering down the passageway's length, Ben feels his way in the dark to the recessed door. His hand finds the metal handle in the ink-black confines. With a tug upwards, the metal door whines open. He makes a mental note to oil the hinges on the door, but he'd have time to do that later. The most important thing at the moment was that his family was safe.

   He ducks his large frame down slowly before entering the cramped shelter. An orange glow illuminates the inside of the structure, like a faux indoor campfire. Sitting in the center of the underground metal box was the rest of the James family. The children were still in party mode, giggling, and eating marshmallows. Sleeping bags covering their bottom halves. Ben struggles to turn in the tiny doorway he manages to come about. Reaching forward, Ben grasps the heavy door yanking hard. The shock of the noise in the shelter silences the kids. With some effort, he pulls the two levers on the back of the vault-like door. They move on rust marked hinges in opposite directions. Pistons drive themselves into the wall on either side of the door and at its top and bottom. The James family is now secure and together. Come what may in a room with six feet of headroom and not much bigger than your average prison cell. Twelve foot wide by twenty feet deep with a small enclosure in the rear on the right that contained a no-frills chemical toilet and sink basin.

  "Hey, Dad," Brandon chirps from the center of the gathering. "Hey, son...." Ben replies, lowering himself down onto the cement floor. He pushes his body into the double sleeping bag with his wife. Anne immediately wraps herself in her husband's heavy, comforting arms. "Dad ..." Chip speaks up. "Why do you think nobody wanted to join up with us?" Ben looks across the orange light in the center of the family circle to his eldest. Benjamin James thinks for a moment before hunching his shoulders. "I don't know Chip, I think..... Maybe." Ben glances around at his family, biting his lower lip.

   The unsung part of being a father. Is knowing how to diplomatically describe dire situations to them without flat out lying to them. "Maybe they think I'm overreacting or that I'm crazy." From his left, an indignant "huff" echoes about the cramped space. As Belinda vaults to her feet. "You're not crazy, daddy!" The little girl places her hands on what will one day become her hips. "My daddy's not crazy anybody says that, and I'm gonna get 'em!" Ben chuckles as his heart swells with pride. As a father, nothing makes your heart soar, quite like your daughter coming to your defense. And the younger they are, the cuter it is. "You tell 'em, B," Anne exclaims, reaching for her daughter. Belinda wiggles into her parent's sleeping bag.

  "Do you think you are overreacting, dad?" Ben Jr. quizzes. "Son, when you don't know, you prepare for the unknown. If we knew what was going on, we could prepare ourselves for it." Ben sees many of his wife's traits in their oldest son. Chip was loyal to a fault as long as they knew the plan. "I believe you, Dad, we gotta protect our family. We should be safe rather than sorry, I say." With that, Chip shoves his remaining marshmallow into his mouth. He reaches out with a fist to his dad, who meets it with his fist. The boy drops down off his elbows, pulling his sleeping bag over his head. Ben turns down the lantern, and soon he is serenaded by the sounds of sleep echoing around him. Ben falls asleep quickly, embracing his daughter and his wife.

  Ben awakes to a buzzing in his pocket. He tries to reach it without moving too much. His daughter is plastered to his chest, sleeping peacefully. His Smartphone's battery was dying. The screen blinks continuously, alerting him that it is 10:18 am. Ben's miffed he never sleeps this late a day's work had never taken this much out of him. According to the phone, it was sunny outside, and he'd missed six calls, all from his neighbor Carl. Perplexed, Ben sits up rousing, Belinda. The domino effect cascades around the small shelter first; Anne, Brandon, and Ben junior all stir from their sleep. The lantern light forces everyone to shield their eyes. Brandon stands over the light and pronounces, "I'm hungry!" Anne sits up, wiping her hair back over her head.

  "Alright, gather round..." she stands, moving to the impressive cache of stored food. "Honey ..." Ben moves in behind her, "I'm going topside to check out the house." He whispers in her ear, "Carl called me a few times this morning." She nods in agreement over her shoulder. The couple parts ways with a tender kiss. "Brandon ......" Ben shouts, "I'm going up top lock the door behind me." The gangly preteen leaps over sleeping bags, "Ok, dad!" Behind him, Ben hears Anne prepping breakfast for the kids. Ben pats his pocket for the pistol. "Hey honey, I'm going to grab the laptop and our phone chargers. I'll plug them up to the generator for a bit today. I think we should keep up with what's going on for ourselves." His son runs into his back in the darkened area, "sorry, dad..." the boy giggles. "Ok, baby, that's fine with Me," she tells her husband.

  "Can you get my GamePlay charger too, daddy?!" his little hummingbird asks. "Oh, mine too, dad ... Please, Please pleeease." Brandon pleads. "Dad, since you're now taking request. Can you get my MP3 player charger too?!" "My boys are far more skillful." Ben thinks to himself. They knew he wouldn't tell Belinda "no." So since their father was big on "fairness." He was honor-bound to consent to all three requests. "Well played," he huffs to himself. "Yes... Yes," Ben mumbles in frustration. Ben goes through the door. "Now, Brandon, let me hear you lock it. I will knock once then pause and knock twice, cool?" He rustles his son's sandy curls with a meaty hand. "Yeah, dad, I got it." the boy closes the door, and in seconds Ben hears the locking mechanisms deploy.

   Ben clutches the gun tightly in both hands. He moves across the dark tomb that is his basement using his ears more than his eyes. There was no noise in the basement area. More importantly, no footsteps from upstairs, clapping the hardwood overhead. The man creeps up the stairs upon reaching the top. He breathlessly turns the lock on the door, which opens smoothly. Ben steps out into the vacated upper part of their home. A small shaft of sunlight filters in between boards on the windows. The house seems foreign to him. For a reason he doesn't yet comprehend momentarily, he stands dumbfounded. Here in the place, he and his wife had lived and raised a family for almost two decades. Yet in less than a day, the domicile has become sterile like a vacant hospital. He glides through the house, finding the things he had to retrieve. All appears quiet, and Ben finds himself relaxing somewhat. Soon walking back from the bedrooms, his arms are full of electronics. The pistol hangs dangling all but forgotten at his side. A thunderous racket arose from the front porch, startling Ben. He drops the heavy gun on the floor with a clatter as he draws himself up against the hallway wall. From where he stands, the revolver is just barely visible out of the corner of his eye. He spies the gun on the floor as footsteps stomp up the porch.