Cruel World(110)

“Down here,” he said, dropping to one knee. His fingers pried up a steel ring set in the floor and he pulled.

A trap door opened unto pure darkness, a single tread visible in the dim light.

Alice found his eyes, and Quinn hesitated, glancing at the man holding the door. He nodded. Alice held Ty’s hand, guiding him down the steps as she disappeared into the void sideways. Denver dove after them, and Quinn heard the big dog grunt as it hit whatever floor waited. Quinn went next, hearing hurried footfalls punching the furrowed earth outside the shack.

His feet found four stairs, widely separated, then solid ground. Wooden beams ran only inches over his head, cobwebs brushing his face and shoulders. The man slipped into the cellar behind him, lowering the trap door without a sound. He shone his flashlight on a heavy, steel bolt that he threw into its housing with a clack, locking the door tight.

Wood cracked and groaned above them. The man doused his light, plunging everything into an abyss of darkness. Guttural rumbling filled the shack, vibrating the air around them. Dust rained down as heavy footsteps crossed the little house’s width. Something crashed to the floor, more dust fell, and Quinn felt a sneeze beginning to build. He bit down on the inside of his cheeks and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sneeze burned in his sinuses for a harrowing moment and then receded. Someone was beside him, soft skin and hair. He ran a hand down Alice’s arm, and she laced her fingers in his.

Quinn swung his free hand out, and it met rough concrete block no more than a foot away. Denver’s collar jingled once and then no more. They waited, the stilts trampling the floor above them, tearing the man’s home apart.

After what seemed like days, there was a loud croak from somewhere to the south, and the shambling feet receded from the planks, several more things falling in their wake.

Quiet except for their breathing.

The man flicked his flashlight on, cupping the beam in the palm of his hand. Barely any light found its way past his fingers, but it was enough to see the small room they were in.

The walls were uneven concrete block, unsealed and water-stained from many years of flooding. The floor was earth, lumped and heaved in the center of the space. There was a pile of rusted hand tools in one corner, indiscernible in their function. Other than the short angle of stairs, the room was bare.

The man went to the wall near the tools and worked on something for a moment, a soft grating coming from one of the blocks. Steel clinked. Then he returned, the shotgun cradled under one arm. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at the trap door before turning to them.

He was in his mid-to-late sixties, a curled, white beard, stained yellow around the mouth, covering his face. Wrinkles ran away from the corners of his eyes like erosion on the bank of a river, and he was mostly bald, several large age spots growing in dark patches on his naked scalp.

He illuminated each of them in turn, shuffling his boots along the dirt floor. When he came to Quinn, he froze, bringing the light closer.

“The hell happened to you?”

“I was born this way. Genetic disorder,” Quinn whispered. His hand lingered on the revolver at his hip. The man grunted and stood back, lips pursing behind the dirty beard. “Thank you,” Quinn said, glancing at the boards overhead. “Thanks for taking us in.”

“Wouldn’t have if it coulda’ been helped. Wasn’t much getting away from the bastards as it was.” The man eyed them all again. He spit on the floor.

“We appreciate it,” Quinn said. “We’ll move on at first light.”

There was a muted scratching sound, and the man turned his light on the corner of the cellar. Denver was pawing at a place in the corner, his nails raking the dirt up in furrows.

“Keep that dog from diggin’,” the man said, taking a quick step forward. Denver looked up, glancing at all of them as Ty found his collar with one outstretched hand.

“Sorry,” Ty said.

“Place is wrecked enough as it is. Don’t need more damage down here.” With that, he clicked the light off and moved across the room where they heard him settle to the ground. Alice squeezed Quinn’s hand, bringing her mouth to his ear.

“What the hell?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll just get through the night. Find another vehicle in the morning. Maybe we can make Iowa by tomorrow.”

She released his hand, and they huddled together on the floor in the complete dark. Outside the stilts growled and chuffed, their bullfrog voices intermingling as they called to one another.