Just the thought of the crunching gravel creates the sound in my mind, this time unmistakably coming from the front of the house. But it’s not real—I’m making it up again. Or it’s an animal, but it’s way too much rustling to be a squirrel or a fox.
Usually all it takes is a quick reminder that, yes, I am alone and there’s no one out here before the sound goes away, but this time it doesn’t. It sounds strange, though. There’s no one-two pattern of footsteps; instead it’s a lopsided crunch of gravel and a short, quiet click.
Then the first step on the front porch creaks.
My heart leaps and sweat gathers at the nape of my neck. I hold my breath and my body burns with fear, but I can’t move. There’s a grunt and a thump from outside. The second step.
It’s definitely a person out there.
Finally, I break free of my paralysis, running for the living room. I have no idea when the last time I even went out the front door was; probably a few weeks back. Before I heard the noises the last time.
Outside, there’s another thump as whoever is there loudly reaches the third step. The rifle leans up against the wall by the front coat closet. I grab it and put my back to the wall across from the front door. The rifle might not even be loaded, but I don’t have the time to check. Itshouldbe. I haven’t used it, after all.
The front door.
Shit.
I have no clue if it’s locked, or if it would matter. Maybe that loud thumping is a battering ram or something.
This isn’t made up. It’s not me jumping at shadows and silence.
The doorknob turns. It’s not locked.
There’s someone out there, and now they’re coming in here.
The door swings open and I take aim.
Andrew
HE HAS THE GUN ON ME BEFOREI even realize he’s there. I’m not unobservant; I’m just distracted by the throbbing pain in my leg. But once I’m looking down the barrel of some kind of rifle, everything goes numb.
“Wait,” I say, throwing up my arms. I put all my weight on my good leg and drop the makeshift crutch.
The boy in front of me must be around my age. Maybe sixteen, seventeen. He has that look, though. I saw it happening to me when people I knew started dying—with every glance in the mirror it got worse. I was young, but I began to look haggard. Tired. Beaten down. He has that same broken stare.
That’s how I know he won’t hesitate to shoot me.
“Wait,” I say again. “I just came here looking for supplies. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“Well, I am,” he says. He isn’t looking me in the eye; instead he’s focused on my chest, aiming the rifle at my heart.
This is becoming a theme for me, and I’m not a fan. I flash backto the last time I had a gun pointed at me, on the side of the road in New Jersey. To the rash, senseless violence that could have been easily avoided. My stomach lurches. I don’t want things to go bad like that again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can leave.”
But I’m not so sure I can. I’ve been hobbling through the woods for the past day and a half looking for some shelter and a way to clean my wounds. Finding some medical supplies, a pantry full of food, and Tom Holland wouldn’t hurt either.
Instead, here we are. And not a Tom Holland in sight.
“Then turn—slowly” is all he says.
I try to bend over, reaching for the crutch, but he lets out a warning that sounds like “eh,” then adds, “Leave it.”
“I need it to walk,” I tell him. “I’m hurt.”
He glances down at my bad leg, looking at the torn denim for some time. His gaze drifts up, finally meeting my eyes.
He has nice eyes. Dark blue. Clear but frightening. Like he’s prepared to pull that trigger if he has to. I know the feeling.
