The Island(51)

Nothing stirred.

She put her hands gingerly through the broken glass and turned the handle.

The door opened and she went inside what was clearly a bedroom. There was a bed and a closet and a dresser. Everything covered with dust.

She hesitated for a moment and wondered if she could perhaps lie down on the bed.

She shook her head. Maybe up here there might be a…

She walked into the hall and—yes! There at the end of the landing was a bathroom. She ran to the sink and turned on the tap. Without any fuss at all, water came pouring out of the faucet. She looked at it in amazement.

All that water just pouring down the drain.

She touched it with her finger and then she cupped her hands, filled them with water, brought it to her lips, and drank.

It was like drinking the waters of heaven.

She cupped her hands and drank again and again.

Heather held her mouth under the faucet and let the water gush down her throat.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh, dear God.”

She splashed the water on her face and let it drip down. She put in the drain plug, filled the sink, and shoved her head under the fresh water. She blinked her eyes a couple of times to clear them of dust and dirt. After thirty seconds, Heather pulled her head out and sat on the toilet.

She unplugged the drain and let the water run out, fascinated by it, as if it were some exotic substance she had never seen before.

Heather didn’t want to stop drinking. She turned the faucet back on again and let it run directly into her mouth.

As her brain started to revive, from somewhere in its deep recesses, she remembered that drinking too much water too quickly could kill you, so, reluctantly, she removed her face from the sink and took a couple of final big sips.

Oh God, that was good.

She edged out of the bathroom and found a rickety wooden staircase that led down into a kind of parlor. A table, a sofa, an ancient-looking television set, a mantelpiece covered with framed photographs. She picked one of them up. It appeared to be a police officer—or, more likely, given the surroundings, a corrections officer.

She put the photograph back and went through a door into a hall that had been converted into a kind of reception area and ticket booth. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. Pamphlets about the old prison were piled up on a table next to an old-fashioned till. She put a couple of them in her back pocket to maybe use for kindling. In a fridge that wasn’t plugged in, there were a dozen small bottles of water.

Holy shit.

She found a cloth carrier bag and began loading the bottles in. She took all of them. This would help. This would help a lot. This would save them. And when they’d drunk their fill of water, they could come back here and refill the bottles from the sink upstairs. Perhaps they could even hide out here until the police came?

Perhaps.

Would Matt and the others notice the broken window upstairs?

Worry about that later.

She wondered if there was any food around.

There was a sign that said TEA/COFFEE 2 DOLLARS, which meant there had to be a kitchen somewhere down here, and if there was a kitchen there might be a cupboard full of food. She walked back into the parlor and looked for a door leading to a dining room or kitchen.

Something didn’t feel right.

Had she missed something?

Maybe there was food in the other room in a drawer or something.

No, that wasn’t it.

The floorboards.

A pressure change.

She held her breath.

The sound of breathing.

There was someone in the house.

How could there be? The place was deserted. There was dust over everything.

It was her imagination.

Or a possum, perhaps.

The hairs on her neck were standing up. Her body knew, even if she didn’t. The ancient alarm bells were ringing in her limbic system.

Then the light came on.





22



She froze.

“Drop the bag and put your hands up or I’ll blow your bloody head off,” a voice said.

She dropped the bag of water bottles and put her hands in the air.

“Have a seat on the sofa over there. Nice and slow-like.”

Heather’s eyes adjusted to the light. The man was skinny, rangy, medium height, about sixty-five. She recognized him. He was the man who had warned them to leave yesterday morning. He was wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt with flip-flops. The shirt was encrusted with stains and hadn’t been washed for a long time. He had a stringy white-and-gray beard that dangled down to a point about eighteen inches beneath his chin. The shotgun was an old-fashioned, long double-barreled thing. It was impossible to tell if it was loaded or not. If someone was pointing a gun at you, you had to assume it was loaded.

She wasn’t sure if she could remember everyone who had been at the farm that day, but she didn’t think she would have forgotten that beard. Was it possible that he didn’t know what was going on?

“Sorry, I didn’t know this place was occupied. I was looking for some water,” Heather said.

“I’ll bet you were looking for water. This island is dry as a bloody bone.”

“Yes, it is. You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. We broke down and—”

“Save it. I know who you are. Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Heather said, deflated.