The Typhon Project

Chapter Five: Pill Bottles and Fingernails

Solar flare sirens wailed. 

I bolted from my room and stumbled down the hall to Lindsay's. I flung open her door. The muted TV flashed. "Lindsay, wake up! We have to get to the shelter." I hurried to her bed where she lay on her bed, facing away from me. She didn't stir. I shook her. "Lindsay!" Her body limply shifted with each shake. I didn't have the strength to carry her down three flights of stairs. "Lindsay!"

I flung off her blanket and rolled her onto her back. Her head lolled toward me. Her vacant eyes stared past me. I gasped. "Lindsay?" A stream of vomit dribbled from the corner of her pale lips. I shook her again. "Wake up!" As I shook her, something fell to the floor. I scooped it up. An empty prescription bottle. My breath caught. The bottle had been full of oxy-contin yesterday.

"No." I shook my head. "No! You can't do the to me." My voice cracked. I dropped the bottle and pressed against her neck, desperate to feel a pulse. "Lindsay, please. Wake-up."

"Leah, hurry!" Mom called from downstairs.

I silently prayed and waited for her jugular to pulsate. Waited. And waited. Nothing. Only her cool skin beneath my fingertips. I stepped back, and my hand fell to my side. Tears blurred my vision as I stared at my sister's lifeless body.

"Leah! You have to come now!" Mom's weak shout.

I combed my fingers through my hair and grasped handfuls. Lindsay. She was gone. Who cared about the solar flares? Let them burn me alive.

"Leah!"

I backed away from Lindsay. Mom called out for me again. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed.

"Leah, please." Mom's voice was thick with emotion this time. Mom. Maybe she wasn't ready to burn. I smudged away my tears and dashed down the stairs. Mom, leaning against the banister, watched me descend the staircase. "Where's Lindsay?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I forced every thought from my mind but one—get Mom to the shelter. I could at least save one person today.

I slung her arm over my shoulder and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her hip bone jabbed into me. She felt lighter than the last time the sirens went off, only a week ago.

I dragged Mom toward the doorway leading to the basement. Her body trembled against me. "Where's Lindsay?"

I ground my teeth. "She's not coming."

Mom sucked in a ragged breath.

I half carried, half dragged her down the basement steps.

At the north end of the basement, I flipped the switch to open the hatch. The lead-lined door popped open to reveal a steep, narrow flight of stairs plunging deeper under ground.

I stepped into the stairwell and hit the button to close the door. My foot on the second step, I tripped but caught myself. Mom whimpered and clung tighter. "I'm sorry, honey. I can't . . . ."

"Mom, stop. You're not a burden." I took my time getting down the rest of the steps.

Inside the concrete walled shelter, I helped Mom down onto the cot on the right, covered in a yellow sheet, then hit another switch, and the overhead door folded closed with a loud metal-on-metal clang. The siren's blare quieted to a background hum. A single fluorescent bulb lit the room in dim, greenish light. I shook out the blanket from the end of the cot, stirring the damp, musty air. I spread it over Mom.

I sat beside her, on the edge of the cot. "Are you okay?"

She panted. "Yes, I'm fine."

Lindsay was alone upstairs. Our home could become her funeral pyre. How could I tell my mother that her daughter killed herself? No. She didn't need to know that. She only needed to know that Lindsay was gone.