Cold and Warm Air

Cold and Warm Air

by Dan Babitsenko

If you are reading this then I am most probably dead.

I never thought there would come a day when the thing I wished for the most would be a tornado. A devastating twister, dancing its way through the house, chewing on its weak wooden walls, poking its fingers through shattered windows, playing with roof tiles like dominoes and then spitting it all out in a triumphant rage.

Growing up in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, meant twisters were a part of daily lives. Our sleepy town, on the north bank of muddy Arkansas River, got its fair share of tornadoes and power outages. Unreliable power grid kept failing given the opportunity, leaving tens of thousands of people with no electricity for several days.

When it was time to hide, my parents always tried their best to make those moments into a fun game for their son and daughter. Luke and I would become explorers of ancient tombs or sometimes speleologists, equipped with flashlights in our basement, searching for that forsaken treasure while the wind was smashing everything in its way outside.

We would find a stash of Twinkies or Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups or Sour Patch Kids and eat the whole lot in one sitting. Restrictions were lifted in these “exceptional times”, as our mum used to call them. She’d put on a brave face and talk about how humans needed to be humble, because all they have could be taken away in an instant by a force of nature that has no fear, no ill-will and no shame. My dad would usually frown hearing this; we could count tornadoes passing through Sand Springs by the lines on his forehead.

These hours spent in the basement of our pale blue two-story house on North Grant Avenue always felt special. We were all scared, sure, but we were closer than ever down there. Dad would stand beside the tiny window, keeping a watchful eye on what was happening outside. Luke, mum and I would sit down in the corner, on the old grey couch that used to be in front of the TV in the living room till we got a maroon faux leather one from Mr. Peterson at his yard sale.

The wind howling like a wounded animal would drown out the wailing of the sirens. Gut-wrenching sounds of shattering glass and bending metal structures were accompanied by the crunching of the timber planks, as if a monster from outer space was enjoying a particularly tasty pack of Doritos Nacho Cheese chips. This was an orchestra and the rain was its drummer.

The symphony of chaos would usually last for half an hour or so. Then it was time to go outside and face a totally different landscape, with huge trees on the ground, defeated by the twister, and debris everywhere. The town looked like an epicentre of a fierce and unfair battle. There would be no electricity for the night – so everyone had candles and flashlights stashed for these occasions. The next day power would be restored, debris cleaned and everyone would go back to their normal lives. Till next time.

There were regular drills at school that involved leaving all our stuff in the classroom and very quickly packing ourselves into the cavernous squalid basement. I remember one autumn day during last year of high school Mr Hyde, our geography teacher, was explaining why Oklahoma is a perfect breeding ground for tornadoes. Something to do with the clash between warm air from the Gulf of Mexico and cold air from Canada. Classmates had questions, but then the siren split the air and we were once again in the basement. I was actually pretty glad it happened that day, because I wasn’t ready for the upcoming math test and was relieved to get a few extra days to brush up my trigonometry.

There were drills when I moved to Norman to study creative writing at the University of Oklahoma (go Sooners!). But there were no tornadoes, not a single one in 4 years it took me to get a degree, fall in love, get my heart broken, learn to party like a real grown up and fail at growing up for real. I missed my family and those basement treasure hunts. Luke would visit from time to time. We’d usually go to a local dive bar to play pool and drink beer. Luke was underage, so we had to be sneaky about it. He had his heart broken for the first time as well – and he was still in high school back then. At the end of the night, when we had too many drinks, there was a long and wobbly walk to the dorm, that involved bouts of soul-baring honesty and gut-wrenching puking in those welcoming alleyways of Norman.

March 21st 2015 was supposed to be a regular Saturday, with a slight chance of boredom. I was back home in Sand Springs after my rent in Norman became too much of a burden for a burgeoning fiction writer without any prospects of a decent job. Lying on my childhood bed upstairs I could hear dad cursing the lawnmower, mum cursing dad and lawnmower cursing its futile existence.

It was Luke’s turn to waste his youth at university, so the house felt particularly empty without the regular punk rock streaming from the next room. I was angry at Luke at that time. He abandoned me and mum and dad to go to LA and study acting. He went to Tinseltown! What an awful idea! He wants to be rich and famous, live in Beverly Hills, marry a gorgeous model and drive her around like a doll in his stupid glitzy Ferrari…

Rain kept the beat going on the sheet metal window sill and the sky looked like it gave up on trying to come up with patterns and colours and chose one oppressive grey design as its final work. I finished Kerouac’s “On the Road” and felt particularly melancholic, eager for an exhilarating adventure. So I put my best pair of jeans on, got out my black Joy Division t-shirt from the wash, applied my favourite dark red lipstick, got 25 dollars in coins from my trusted piggy bank and went to Torchy’s.

Torchy’s was a decent bar for Sand Springs (I was now used to comparing everything to alluring lights of Oklahoma City and Norman) and only half an hour walk from the house. Famous for its epic beer pong tournaments, it was also conveniently located just across the parking lot from Riverview Wine & Spirits, where you would get cheap off-brand bourbon after the bar was closed so your escapades could continue long into the night.

Walking to Torchy’s for what was probably the fifth time that year I was still amazed by the variety of establishments on the way. Only in Oklahoma you can walk past 15 fast food restaurants in 30 minutes. KFC, McDonalds, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, Arby’s, Pizza Hut were all here, lined up and ready to serve your next delicious yet not-so-healthy meal. There were also half a dozen churches of different shape and form, a postal office, a vet clinic, hairdressers and undertakers. So you can eat, pray, send a letter, get your cat neutered, get a haircut and then die peacefully. Oh yes, there was also a pawn shop, with the amount of old dusty guitars more or less equal to the amount of new shiny guns. God bless America!

I was distracted by a Facebook message from a college friend on my phone when walking into the bar. Front door with a fresh coat of silver paint and a sticker saying “push” didn’t miss the chance to teach me a lesson and slapped me right across the face with full vigour of the spring-loaded mechanism. It was painful, embarrassing and also a bit funny at the time. Over the next week I replayed this scene in my head over and over again, concluding that this was most definitely a sign. A bad omen. I should have just turned back.

Rain has stopped and the sun was setting, low on the horizon, playing a game of hide and seek in the puddles and clouds. Dim fluorescent lights made everything inside look like the colours have faded. I’ve never seen this place in the daylight so I am not sure if the green faux leather upholstery and the dark red wooden bar were any brighter then. This was somewhat compensated by the blue and yellow neon signs (“Drink Bud Light” and “Corona Extra”) that flooded the front room with flickering colours. It took some time to adjust to the change in lighting conditions; bright spots kept dancing on my retinas for a while longer.

My favourite corner booth was occupied by a thin and pale lady, that reminded me of Cruella from “101 Dalmatians”, and a big muscular biker-type dude. They were both busy with their hamburgers and fries, leaning into their meals. Even for a Saturday night the place was bursting at the seams, there was even a small queue to the jukebox, with Bon Jovi “Living on a Prayer” blasting at full volume. Mark, the bartender, was holding down the fort while Clarissa was serving the tables. We went to high school together; she was always the brightest girl in science classes. During our final year she got knocked up by Jeremy, the local drug dealer and all-around suspicious type. I am not sure what happened next; this was the first time I saw Clarissa since we left school 4 years ago.

My nose was attacked by delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Chicken wings and fries, mixed with a sweet smell of spilt beer. I had a tuna sandwich before I left home, but my stomach started gurgling the moment I walked into Torchy’s.

I had to sit down at the bar as all tables were occupied and more thirsty people were coming in, ready for another glorious Saturday night. There was a loud party back at the pool tables, with some scary-looking men in leather jackets going at it for real. You could hear the cues smack the balls over the music. Obnoxiously jubilant noise levels at the bar were overwhelming. I’ve asked Mark for a Bud Light and some fries. Then I saw Mr Hyde, my high school geography teacher, waving at me from the booth in the back.

“Hey there, Gale! It has been a while! Wanna sit down?”

“Hi Mr Hyde! Yes, it has! Nearly 5 years now”

“Please, call me Jack. We are not in school anymore”

His brown tweed jacket with elbow patches brought back a lot of memories. He wore a similar type on his very first day, when half of the girls in school were making him blush every 10 minutes, openly flirting with him. Sure, he was by far the most handsome teacher that has ever walked the winding corridors of Aim High and I wasn’t immune to those elbow patches, soothing baritone and thick moustache.

“Your glass is empty - would you like a drink?” – Jack smiled and stood up. Suddenly, I felt ashamed of my thoughts.

“Errm, yes, please. Bud Light”

“Beer? How about a nice cocktail instead? That Bud tastes like water gone bad” “Umm… Sure. Whatever you are having, I don’t mind”

“That’s the spirit! I am the grown-up here; I definitely know better. Be right back!” - Jack chuckled and disappeared into the crowd.

It was odd seeing Mr Hyde in Torchy’s. I always thought he preferred much classier places, like Chino’s or The Temple Bar downtown. He looked genuinely happy to see me and I didn’t mind some company. In fact, I kept coming back to Torchy’s secretly hoping to stumble upon someone from school and casually brag about my brand-new degree.

Mr Hyde’s lessons were never boring. Unlike the vast majority of our teachers, who lived from bell to bell, he seemed to take pride in what he did. He loved to tell stories about different parts of the world and was usually very persuasive in his descriptions and narratives. He regularly showed us documentaries about Chinese Democracy, British colonial past, the Great Barrier Reef, Yellowstone National Park, native tribes of Papua New Guinea and many many other things. He always looked so dreamy and hopeful when talking about all these beautiful faraway lands. As far as we knew, he never visited any of those places and barely left the state of Oklahoma, but he always encouraged us to go around the world exploring. Geography was one of my favourite subjects during the last year of school.

Then we all heard the rumours. Sara Livingstone said that Mr Hyde invited her to his place for some “after school learning”; her friend Allison repeated the same story. These quickly reached the principal and the school committee and then one day Mr Hyde was gone, replaced by grumpy old Mrs Brimer. I hated Sara and Allison and their whole cheerleading team for spreading lies just because Mr Hyde wasn’t flirting back. He seemed like a good guy and a passionate teacher and didn’t deserve to be sacked just because some girl didn’t get what she thought she deserved. “Sorry it took so long, this place is packed to the roof, poor barkeep is really struggling out there. Have you seen Clarissa? I think she used to go to Aim High as well”

“Yeah, we did science classes together last two years” - I couldn’t keep from smiling.

Mr Hyde brought back two highballs of what appeared to be Long Island Iced Tea, a cocktail that usually contains all hard liquor available in the bar washed down with Coke. It tastes like liquid candy and makes you want to dance on tables all night long.

He asked about my life a lot – and I liked it. It has been a while since anyone has taken interest in what I was doing, thinking or feeling. Mr Hyde was a good listener. An hour flew by and I was still talking about myself and my struggles as a young, stubborn, semi-independent and totally broke girl of 22. I meant to ask him about the rumours, but felt embarrassed to bring this up so I never did. Honestly, I didn’t care what happened between him and Sara, I knew she never deserved his attention, with her stupid crop tops, short skirts, fake lashes and push-up bras.

Torchy’s was getting rowdier by the hour. Pool game that started when I came in ended in a brutal fist-fight, with beer bottles flying around for good measure. Poor security guard had to use his scariest face and loudest voice to disperse the gang. Mark called in reinforcements to tame the queues at the bar and Clarissa was running around the tables like her life depended on it (it probably did depend on tips).

For the first time in a very long while I felt heard. Second Ice Tea helped me open up about missing Luke and hating how parents always had fights about unimportant details of their crushingly uninteresting lives. Third Ice Tea got me reminiscing about life choices, missed opportunities and the purpose of it all. Jack was talking about his days at a small IT firm, where he was doing qualitative research, something to do with customer satisfaction, until he got sacked for no apparent reason. That job sounded awful, but he never took himself too seriously and seemed genuinely optimistic about the world around. I really enjoyed his company and was glad that I decided to get out of the house after yet another week of feeling sorry for myself.

“You were my favourite student at Aim High, you know that, right?”

“Really? Well, that is very flattering, thank you Mr Hyde! Sssorrrry, thank you, Jack”

I was beginning to slur my speech, but I felt good. Jack just kept smiling. He smiled with his eyes, so there were a lot of little wrinkles around them. At some point he looked right at me and asked if I would like to continue this lovely get-together someplace else. Jukebox erupted with the intro riff for “Smells like Teen Spirit” and at that moment Torchy’s was at the peak of its awesomeness. Everything felt right, the cocktail was delicious and Jack was charming.

And then it all went black, like at the very end of a movie.

Next thing I remember is the damp coldness of the floor tile against my cheek, musty smell and the cramp in my right leg. Everything was blurry. My hands felt strange. I couldn’t open my mouth.

Two minutes it took my brain to get up to normal speed were followed by many minutes of terrifying realizations. There was gaffer tape on my mouth and around my wrists and ankles, pulling out little hairs out of my skin when I tried to move. I wanted to scream but no sound came out. My thoughts were all jumbled in my head, but the hangover was evaporating very quickly, replaced by pure adrenalin and panic.

I could hear chimes playing a melody in the wind outside and distant sounds of water. I could also hear steps above me; creaking floorboards of a cheap old house, just like ours. I didn’t want to learn whom those steps belonged to, but I had a pretty good idea.

I wiped my tears with my shoulder and slowly but steadily my vision came back to me. The room had a very similar layout to the basement in our house. I rolled around onto my right side and there it was - a similar small window that my dad used to look out of when keeping an eye on the tornadoes.

There and then all I wanted was to look out of that window, as if the view could have all the answers. It proved to be more difficult than I anticipated, especially with hands behind my back. For a moment it felt like I was about to do it, but it took a lot more effort before I could finally stand up. I pushed my back against the cold basement wall, got my legs as close to my hips as I could and slid upwards. My head was instantly spinning and I wanted to puke. With the gaffer tape over my mouth that could have been the end of me.

The view from the window was underwhelming, to say the least. I saw a corner of a green garden shed that looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint and one side of the porch. Dirt road leading from the gate went uphill and got lost in the dense pine forest. The sky was grey and it was starting to rain. Floorboards changed their tonality and I could hear the stairs creak behind the solid wooden door. In a moment of panic I tried to jump to the furthest corner of the basement but lost my balance and smashed viciously against the floor. The lock turned with a high-pitched squeak. I was lying on the floor facing away from the door. I didn’t want to turn around.

“You are awake… Good… I brought you a sandwich. Ham and cheese, with a pickle. Wanna eat?” - said Jack.

I was lost for words. I thought this could only happen in the movies. I heard him coming closer and leaning towards me. I wanted to attack him, but I couldn't even turn around and my shoulder was hurting so bad. And then he pulled the gaffer off my mouth with one swift motion. For a moment my lips were on fire.

Everything blurred out of focus from this sudden pain, but I managed to hold my tears in this time. I couldn’t say a single word, my mouth was so dry. Jack had a plastic bottle with a straw in his hand. Water tasted amazing; I couldn't get enough of it.

It took an immense effort to finally ask the question.

“Why are you doing this?” - my voice sounded alien and weak.

“What do you mean? You need to keep hydrated and well fed. Sorry about the sandwich, I will muster something decent later today, I didn’t have time to figure out what we’ll have for dinner yet” - said Jack in a very matter-of-fact tone. He walked around me and put his hand on my shoulder, massaging it a bit. He then tried to touch my cheek, but I rolled onto the other side, exploding with fear and anger inside. I could smell whisky on his breath.

Jack was smiling, but it was a very different kind of smile. His hands were shaking and he kept licking his lips. He looked like someone who knows that he is in control. For a moment he was someplace else, his eyes glassy, but then he snapped out of it, stood up and started walking towards the door.

“Don’t leave me here” - now I was wheezing, almost no tone came out.

“I will see you very soon, dear. Don’t you worry!” - Jack smiled and stepped out of the door.

Sandwich was cut into small pieces and left on a paper plate on the floor. My stomach was making strange noises, but I just couldn’t eat it. There was still some water left in the bottle, so I decided I’d save it for later. I crawled to an old grey spring mattress on the opposite side of the basement using all my remaining strength, curled up on it and closed my eyes. I sincerely hoped this was just a bad dream and all I needed to do was to close my eyes and then open them again.

When I woke up it was pitch black. Rain was vigorously bashing on the window sill and I thought I could hear distant thunder. My shoulder still hurt quite a lot, but my hunger has now taken centre stage. Ham and cheese sandwich was gone in a matter of minutes, although chasing faded but still kind of crunchy pickle around the floor took a while longer.

I thought hard about my options. There probably wasn’t much point in screaming, otherwise Jack wouldn’t leave me without the gaffer tape on my mouth. The window was way too small to squeeze through. Freeing my hands became my top priority.

In my head it went like this: when Jack comes down with dinner I will pretend to be asleep and when he approaches I will hit him hard and run to the door. I will lock him in the basement and call the cops. He will rot in jail till the end of days and I will never go to Torchy’s ever again.

Plan sounded solid so I got to work. Examining a fairly large basement in total darkness with your hands behind your back and your legs taped is no joke. I tried to imagine myself as a participant of one of those survival TV shows, engaging my imagination hard to keep my desperation at bay.

Rolling around the floor proved to be one of the most effective techniques, although my shoulder was still hurting like hell. There was not much to see in the basement besides an old radiator with a surprising lack of sharp edges, some cardboard boxes taped shut and a washing machine that looked like it might have been from the 1970s. My best bet was a little hook on the inside of the washing machine door, that makes a “click” sound when you close it. It was far from sharp, but it was something I could work with. I’ve managed to position myself with my back against the open door and tried to cut the tape with the hook.

My wrists were in total agony and already bleeding from constant friction and my legs hurt from the sit-ups needed to get my arms to the right height. After a while I started to get used to the pain. At first it seemed that I am up against the strongest tape ever invented, but then I could move my wrists a bit more. It is hard to describe how elated I felt. Just a bit more - and my hands will be free!

All of a sudden, the light came on, illuminating my squalid cage and temporarily blinding me after hours in total darkness. When I heard the descending steps, my heart sank. I wasn’t even close to being ready to attack.

Jack came in with a tray in his hands and a big smile on his face. I managed to drop back on the floor and rolled away from the washing machine, my heart pounding like an express train going downhill.

“Dinner is served, my dear! Tonight on the menu: curly fries with cheese, fresh tomato and cucumber salad and turkey breast. I’ve cut it all into small bits so it is easier for you to eat. I also brought a fork if you would like me to feed you” - said Jack and came closer. I felt a rush of anger and resentment flooding my system.

“You need to let me go right now. No one has to know about this. I won’t tell anyone” - I’ve tried to be polite, but it was so hard to keep calm.

“I always thought you were one of my brightest students, so I am sure you understand I cannot do that. Unlike most of your vane imbecilic classmates you had potential, full of brilliant ideas, brave and honest. And the way you looked at me, the way you always tried to impress - not with a low-cut top, but with a witty observation, or an eloquently expressed opinion. I knew we would be together one day. And here we are!”

“We are not together - you are keeping me hostage in your basement! That is not the same...” - my voice was shaking.

“Everything takes time, you will learn to love me after you get to know me better. I am a good guy! All this basement business is only temporary, I promise” - said Jack in his most soothing tone. He put the tray on the floor and sat on top of a cardboard box. “My bedroom upstairs is certainly much cosier”

“My parents are looking for me…”

“I don’t think they are. I texted your mum yesterday to say that you will leave for Oklahoma City first thing today to get some job interviews done and that you will stay there for a while. I think we are in the clear. There is absolutely no need to worry your parents, don’t you agree?”

“Do you really think they’ll believe this, with all my stuff still at home?”

“Well, your mum sent a reply. She wrote “Good luck with that!” and she even added a winking face emoji”

“Were you planning to put Sara in your basement as well?” - I let the anger out. “Huh? Sara? She was no match for you, I promise. Don’t be jealous” - Jack was beaming.

“You sick fuck”

“Watch your language, young lady. No need for swearing in this house” - said Jack and stood up. “I will leave you to your meal and we will talk in the morning”

“I need to go to the bathroom” - I was hatching another escape plan.

“Well, you are in luck, there is a toilet right there” - said Jack pointing to the far end of the basement. There was a door I didn’t notice before. “Do you need help with that?”

“Fuck you”

“Okay, okay. I will see you tomorrow, dear Gale!”

And just like that he was gone. The lock turned twice, with a sigh of despair.

That night was the longest night of my life. The rain was crying with me. The wind kept getting stronger and at some point I couldn’t hear the chimes anymore - they were probably ripped off and on the ground. Wailing of the wind amplified through the cracks and crevices of the house sounded eerie.

I was busy with the washing machine hook, my only hope. Gaffer tape started to give way and little by little I was able to cut through most of it and finally get my hands free. Both wrists were badly injured by this time, everything was sore. I didn’t care. I felt victorious untapping my ankles and finally standing up properly. Turkey was bland and the fries were soggy and tasted like cardboard, but I devoured my celebratory meal in an instant.

Next task was to find some sort of weapon. The pipe in the toilet looked promising, but I wasn’t able to rip it off with my bare hands. That monster made sure there was absolutely nothing weapon-like left in the basement. He had all this planned, he was just waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

I hated him so much at that moment. I’ve also somehow felt sorry for him. He was clearly delusional and needed help.

Acquaintances of serial killers and maniacs are often perplexed by the truth. “He was such a good gentleman/neighbour/part of the community; I just cannot believe he did all those horrible things” - they usually say. I would never have thought that Jack Hyde, the passionate geography teacher with a charming smile and humble ambitions could actually be a kidnapper, who sincerely hopes his victim will eventually fall in love with him, discovering his ham and cheese sandwiches to be divine and his accommodations truly awe-inspiring.

I went through all three cardboard boxes. The smaller one contained a mix of old magazines, mainly National Geographic, Popular Mechanics and Playboy from the late 2000s as well as some old photographs of people I didn’t recognize, an empty notebook and two pencils. Second, a slightly larger box had some old smelly t-shirts, worn jeans and baseball caps. It also had an old plastic flashlight that refused to work.

My treasure was hidden in box number three, the biggest of the bunch. There, underneath an old green table cloth and a mouldy blanket, besides three cans of baked beans and two cans of tomato soup I found three dinner plates. All three seemed to be from the same collection and looked more decorative than functional. They all had scenes of a XIX century hunt, with fancy-dressed horseback riders and their trusty beagles on a hill overlooking a forest.

One of the plates also featured a scared to death fox, seeking cover in the thick undergrowth. I felt sorry for the fox, so I’ve decided to save her and asked for her help in saving me.

I’ve waited for a particularly loud gust of wind and carefully hit the plate against the corner of the washing machine. The plate broke in half, forever separating the poor fox from those blood-thirsty humans. Now I had a weapon.

There was movement upstairs and I immediately thought that the sound of the broken plate must have alerted Jack. I’ve then heard the squeak of the front door and steps on the porch. My heart was pounding and I could barely breathe. I knew that when he comes back downstairs I will only have one chance.

I looked out of the small window and saw Jack’s brown leather shoes on the porch. He was just standing there, probably looking at the sky that had truly ominous shades of black and grey overlapping right above the house. The rain was lashing against the window harder than before and the wind blew bits of the shed roof tiles to the ground.

This is when everything became clear to me. Just like that, I knew the future. I knew what would happen and what I needed to do. I was never so sure of anything ever before in my life.

I ran to the washing machine and pushed it with all the strength I had. It didn’t want to budge so I had to put my legs against the wall and use my back to get it moving. Rusty steel undercarriage of the machine against the stone floor made sounds that any horror movie foley would be envious of. When I was halfway there I heard another sound that made my heart beat even faster: I heard the siren. Faint and coming from quite far away - but it was real!

Front door closed with a loud bang and there was commotion upstairs. I pushed the machine; I gave it everything. Jack was running down the stairs. With a triumphant clang the washing machine flipped to its side right against the door. No matter how hard Jack tried to open the door, it wouldn’t move an inch.

“Open the door! OPEN IT NOW!” - Jack’s voice was barely heard through the howling of the wind. He was screaming and banging on the door.

“You have to find another basement, you piece of shit” - I screamed. I don’t think Jack heard me. And then my ears popped. Change of pressure. First sign of a touchdown.

Couple of seconds later everything drowned in an ear-splitting cacophony of destruction. The light bulb went out. I could hear glass shattering, wooden walls failing and metal twisting. Big piece of the roof fell right onto the small window, and now I was once again in total darkness. I’ve sat down on the mattress and closed my eyes. I thought about mum and dad. Just two of them in the basement, mum on the couch and dad looking out the window, probably missing their little candy-craving speleologists. I thought about Luke in Los Angeles, practicing for yet another audition, adoring himself in the mirror, puffing his chest and presenting his best smile. There are no tornadoes in LA.

And then it was all over. Silence was deafening. I could hear blood pulsing in my veins. There was no more banging on the door.

It is hard to say now for how long I’ve sat on the mattress that morning. I couldn’t stand up, as if all the remaining life was sucked out of me. It took quite a while before I finally decided to move the washing machine aside. I squeezed my plate weapon in my right hand and opened the door.

There was no staircase behind the door. I don’t think there was much of the house left either, judging from the amount of rubble. Cold hard truth came to me fairly quickly this time.

I’ve spent the whole day trying my best to clear at least some of the debris blocking the exit from the basement. The stairwell was so densely packed with bits of wood, furniture and roof tiles that no sunlight could reach inside. After hours in total darkness I became very disoriented and completely lost track of time. All the remaining strength has left me and despair finally took hold.

I have no idea how long I’ve slept yesterday or if it is today already. I am on my second can of Heinz baked beans now. I cannot hear any sounds from outside, nothing at all, as if the whole world has gone mute. I’ve managed to get the flashlight working by shaking it so hard that I was close to dislocating my shoulder. It gives a very dim flickering yellow light, but that is still better than total darkness. Everyone should have a decent flashlight in their basement.

I am glad I’ve found this notebook. Pencil isn’t sharp enough and it is quite tricky to write with, so please excuse my awful handwriting. It is nice to put my experience on paper, get it out of my head. After three years at university and all those time travel and space adventure stories a piece of non-fiction will most probably be my best piece of writing.

I hope mum and dad are okay...

I thought I heard some voices outside today, so I screamed until I completely lost my voice. No one replied and there were no other sounds, so I guess it wasn’t real.

Tomato soup tastes awful, I miss the beans now… And I would kill for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup!

I’ve counted all the stone tiles: there are 349 of these on the floor and 874 on the walls. I’ve called my fox Robin after my gran. I’ve made sure to destroy the hunters and their shotguns, smashed them to smithereens so they will never be able to hurt Robin.

Today I’ve dreamt about high school. It was a good dream. Somehow, we all got along, even me and Sara. Sun was shining through the big classroom windows. Mrs Brimer didn’t seem so grumpy anymore as she explained the reasons tornadoes love Oklahoma so much. Something to do with the clash of warm and cold air. The bell rang and everyone ran outside, leaving their books and backpacks behind. I was the only one left in the classroom, still staring at a blank page on my desk. Mrs Brimer came closer to me, took off her old-fashioned glasses, and gently touched my shoulder.

“What do I write, Mrs Brimer? I am lost for words”

“You are a grown up now, Gale. You can figure this out”

...