Beneath the Shadowlanders

Chapter Eight: Genevieve

We're working a little farther from home today, in a neighborhood a few blocks north of where we were last night, populated by little pastel-colored two-story townhouses that I'm sure were adorable three years ago. If I stretch, I can see the spire of the library peeking over a few of the houses we're ransacking.

My pack hangs loosely over my shoulder, slowly filling up with useful goods – cans of food, dishes and silverware, one more pillow to add to the pile, a few unused lightbulbs. So far, I haven't been lucky enough to find any leftover literature, but I'm keeping a pocket empty just in case.

Gabe's pack is filling up just as quickly. He's taken the houses on one side of the street, while I cover the other. We meet in the middle after each one, to go over our finds. He got lucky and uncovered a copper tea kettle and a few bags of earl grey. He carries the kettle in his hand, rather than his pack, stuffing it with small items along the way.

I pick my way into the next house on the block, a stereotypical American-dream-style white picket fence house with a large front yard. When I step inside, my eyes have to adjust to the darkness. It's the most dangerous split second in any scavenging mission. I grip my small blade in my hand, and although I know it won't likely do much, it provides me some small comfort until the blackness makes way for dim shapes. When the darkness finally gives way to sight, I see a nearly empty living room, except for a bare sofa, covered in dust, and a television, unwatched in years. Not that there's anything to watch anymore. I stand there, in the entryway, for a moment, absorbing the emptiness. The silence is deafening, punctuated by the occasional creak or groan of a settling house, making for a very unsettling atmosphere. When I'm sure the place is empty, I make my way to where I think the kitchen is probably located. That's where most of the useful stuff will be.

Sure enough, here it is. The counters are covered in dust, the faintest smell of gas lingering from a stove probably left on and abandoned when the people evacuated. I make a mental note not to light a match. The cabinets are left open, mostly bare. I find a box of fossilized cereal and a bag of rice in the first cabinet. I take the rice, tucking it carefully into the top of my pack. The next cabinet, I'm a little luckier. I find a bag of stale coffee, a half-eaten bag of rock hard marshmallows, and – score! – four dusty and dented cans of ravioli. I throw all six items in my pack and move to the next cabinet.

The rest of the kitchen turns out to be pretty much empty. I manage to score two cans of corn and a box of crackers before exhausting its resources. I move back into the front living room and peek out the window. Still no sign of Gabe. I decide I have enough time to search the bedrooms. Maybe I'll find a pillow. Or a book, I secretly hope.

I scramble up the stairs, taking them two at a time despite the weight of my pack over my shoulder. The first bedroom is empty, except for a broken crib and a few graying stuffed animals. I say a silent prayer for the baby this room must have housed. Will she ever know surface life? I try not to dwell on it, moving instead to the next room. This one seems to have belonged to a boy, probably 7 or 8. It's painted bright red, and is covered in posters for ninja movies. A few articles of clothing still line the drawers and fill the closet, but I don't see anything else of use. Just before I leave the room, I catch a glint out of the corner of my eye. It came from behind the dresser. I go to investigate.

There, tucked behind a drawer, is a beautifully carved samurai sword, partially unsheathed. It must have fallen off the back of the dresser. Gingerly, I scoop it back into its scabbard, taking a moment to appreciate its beauty before tucking it into my pack with the rest of the loot. I decide to ignore the irresponsibility of a parent who would give their eight year old a samurai sword.

The next bedroom is the master. A king size canopy bed sits in the center of the far wall, with once-ornate oak nightstands on either side. A dresser/vanity stands to one side of the room, next to a door that I assume leads to the bathroom. On the other side – jackpot! – a bookshelf. I run forward, dropping my pack in the doorway. The shelf is covered mostly in dust and photos. I pick up one of a couple with two children in their laps. So, this is you, huh? I briefly wonder what they might look like now. Is the little boy enrolled in school in the Underland? Does the baby girl remember anything of the surface she was forced to abandon before she was even old enough to walk? Did they even survive? So many people died in the evacuation, from attacks, shootings, being trampled. I push the thoughts from my head, focusing on the remaining books on the shelf. I spot two or three that I already have, deciding to leave them for the next person, but on the bottom shelf, I see three volumes not in my collection: a book on plant identification, a young adult romance novel, and a tragically battered copy of J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan. I snatch all three, stuffing them into the side pocket of my pack – carefully sewn on for this purpose. They barely fit. I'm about to look under the bed for dropped items – pillows, pajamas, valuables knocked off the nightstands – when I hear a scream.

No. I scramble to the window just in time to see Gabriel stumble out the front door of the house across the street. And he's not alone.