The Typhon Project

Chapter 14: All the Pop Tarts

I held my breath as I pushed the door open—the door that could have been to my home. I smiled, but tears welled in my eyes. I stepped inside onto an area rug. The air smelled dusty and stale, but a background hint of cooking onions still spiked memories.

It was all how I remembered it—the entryway closet and the spot where I slipped off my shoes after school. I pushed my off my runners and placed them to the right of the door, where Mom always got after me to put them. I walked farther into the house. "Mom, I'm home," I called out. I bit down on my lip and closed my eyes again and conjured memories. The smell of fresh apple crisp. "Did you have a good day?" I whispered for Mom. "Yes, but I missed you," I said aloud.

I shuffled into the living room. The sofa and love seat were in an 'L' shape in front of a TV. That was all wrong. I put my weight into the loveseat and pushed it around until it faced the sofa. Mom said they should be across from each other so people could visit with one another. I sat on the sofa and closed my eyes again. "Dad, you're home."

"Hi, baby girl," I said for him. "We got a new National Geographic today. The cover story is about the magnetic field."

I had read that issue with Dad, about how the magnetic field weakens and then flips once every hundred thousand years or so. Not this time, though. It just weakened to nothing and abandoned us.

Savoring each tread, I climbed the stairs and peeked into the bedrooms—the room that was mine and then the room that was Lindsay's. In this house, Lindsay's room was nursery with a monkey decal on the wall and white crib beneath it. A small pile of blankets rested at the center of the crib.

I gasped and backed out of the room. I didn't want to know whether or not it was just a pile of blankets. Sometimes parents had died before their babies.

I hurried back downstairs and into the kitchen. Silver moonlight spilled onto the counter from the large window over the sink. The smell of soured milk, rotten eggs, and mold hung in the air. The stainless steel refrigerator probably housed of a science project worth of decay. I opened the door to the pantry. Inside, boxes of cereal and crackers, cans of soup, and packages of dried noodles littered the shelves. Bugs crept in and out of a container of oatmeal.

"Lindsay," I shouted. "Did you eat all the pop tarts?" Pop tarts were our pet argument. They were always an issue—who ate how many, accusations that the other had more than their fair share. My favorite was s'more flavor. She loved strawberry. Mom only bought them as a special treat; she didn't like us eating too much sugar. "I'd give you all the pop tarts if you would come back, Lindsay."

"Don't move," a man's voice ordered behind me.

Adrenaline surged through my system, and I whipped my head to see over my shoulder. A tall, thin shadow in the doorway. Black metal glistened in the dim light. Someone still lived here! I was an intruder. I stiffened.

"Look straight ahead and put your hands up. Slowly."

The cereal boxes in front of me, I raised my arms. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone lived here. I'll leave."

"Quiet!" Then, he mumbled, "No one lives here."

Feet scuffed the floor, inching toward me. I turned my head a smidge.

"I said don't move!"

I pinned my gaze forward. Footsteps drew closer until they stopped directly behind me. Something jabbed into my ribs. The gun.

"If you move, I will shoot you."

I froze while my heart hammered my ribs. Hands patted me down one side of me and then the other. Then, the feet scuffed away from me.

"Where are the others?" His voice boomed.

"There's no one. Just me." My voice trembled.

"Turn around slowly."

I swallowed hard and pivoted around. I stifled the gasp. A young man, maybe a little older than me with peachy, smooth skin. He was human! I'd thought, those who weren't dead were about to be. But even in the moonlight I could see he was strong and healthy. No lesions. No missing pieces.

As his gaze moved over me, his eyes widened. His mouth popped open and he slowly lowered his gun.

Of course, he was shocked. He was a beautiful, perfect human. I had to be frightening, especially at night. His gaze locked on mine for a moment and then he shook off his stare and raised the gun again, aiming it at my chest.

He lifted his chin. "Who were you talking to?"

The back of my neck warmed. He caught me in my fantasy. I glanced sideways. "I'm the only one here."

His eyebrows bunched and he shook his head. "Don't lie to me. I heard you talking to someone. Who were you talking to?"

I pressed my lips together.

"Tell me!"

"Lindsay. I was talking to my sister, Lindsay."

He glanced one way and then the other. "Where is she?"

I blinked back tears and sighed. "She's dead." The words dropped like a deflated basketball.

"You used to be human." A statement. Not a question. The words cut me like a jagged scrap of metal—slicing through skin and flesh, past bones and organs, right into my soul. I wanted to tell him—no shout at him--that I'm still human. I looked over at my hands, at the Typhon skin. No matter how much I wanted it to be true, it was still a lie. I was a Typhon. The man in front of me and I were two different species.

My insides jittered. How long would he stand there and stare at me? I peered down the barrel of his gun and my pulse calmed. I didn't care if he shot me. In fact, maybe that was why I was drawn here—to be put out of my misery. My fingers tingled so I lowered my arms.

"Keep your hands up!"

"No," I said, my voice dead.

His jaw muscles tightened. "I will shoot you."

I squared my shoulders to give him a broader target. "Go ahead."