Sirens

Chapter 10

It's been two weeks since I ran away.

I've miraculously traveled hundreds of miles east, to what I assume used to be Massachusetts, and swam in dozens of lakes, rivers, ponds, and creeks without somemhow getting caught. As far as I can say, no one has ever made it as far as I have.

I anxiously glance up at the cloudy sky. There's a full moon tonight and the werewolves' senses will be heightened tenfold. The usual masking of my scent won't work tonight.

I sigh and go back to washing my clothes. The grime is refusing to come out and it's starting to annoy me.

A light sprinkle begins and I look up at the sky again. Luckily for me, it's been raining on and off for the past two weeks and my scent track has been wearing off.

After finally getting most of the grime off, I wring the clothes out and slip them back on.

My hair, now shorter than ever, blows slightly in the stormy wind as I stand back up. I take out the pocket knife I found last week under a tree and cut off a few berries from the bush beside the creek.

I chew them slowly and savor the taste. I've missed blackberries so much.

As the rain starts to pick up slightly, I get up and continue my walk down the creek.

A few hours later, as the sun is starting to set, I stumble across an old Victorian home.

It's a two-story home with peeling green paint, shattered windows, rotting wood, and broken shingles, but it looks perfect to me.

I climb through the window and end up in what I assume is the living room.

I pull my pocket knife out and move deeper into the house. It smells of mold, mildew, and rotting wood. The plaster is falling apart and there's spray paint all over the walls.

A few steps in, I notice a staircase that leads to the basement. Perfect.

But as I'm heading down the stairs, one of the floorboards gives out from underneath me.

My foot plunges down and I feel a piece of wood impale my calf. I swear quietly and try to tug my leg out.

Eventually the worn wood snaps and my leg comes out with a piece of wood stuck in it.

I limp down the rest of the stairs, clinging onto the handlebar desperately, and end up falling onto the cold concrete floor.

A spider passes by me and I try not to scream. This basement seems like something you would see right out of a horror story.

Unlike the rest of the house, the basement reeks of alcohol, weed, and cigarette smoke.

This must've been a popular teen hangout before the war. It probably still is.

A few feet in front of me, I spot a pack of matches and a candle.

I use my forearms to crawl forward and my injured leg drags behind.

When they're at arm's length, I grab a match and strike it. The warm light illuminates my face and I place the end of the stick to the wick.

Once the candle is lit, I blow out the matchstick and throw it to the ground.

Now with light, I can see more around me.

There's beer bottles and cans, blunts, and needles scattered throughout the room. Pushed up against a wall opposite of me is a mattress and a small box, on which I see a faint red cross.