Amy looked at the warehouse. It was two stories tall, sixty feet long at the outside. Very small for a warehouse. It looked almost like a construction trailer amidst the rubble of the empty block. One other feature set it apart: instead of a loading dock, the entrance to the warehouse was an ordinary-looking wooden door with a shiny, cheerful knob. While it was unsettling, something about it pulled Amy in.
She reached into her pocket for her cell phone. Still no reception. She glanced to both sides again. Empty lots and shuttered buildings everywhere. No movement but the cab she had taken slowly pulling away into nowhere. The thirst was overwhelming, it had taken over her body, everything. She had to get to help, and to do that she needed phone.
Amy’s feet took over, and she found her Chuck Taylors scraping over the gravel one after the other as she limped towards that door. She was close enough now that the black of the warehouse blotted out the sky, and the darkness brought some relief to the pounding in her head.
The door had no knocker, so she banged against it with her fist with all the strength of her pain. There were no sounds from inside. She leaned her head against the door, waited for a moment, banged again, the sound this time amplified to an excruciating loudness by her skull. Still no response.
Her hand found the knob without her having to look. She twisted but the knob wasn’t budged. The door was locked. She let out a moan. It hurt her throat. She stood back and kicked at the door in frustration, but all she got for her troubles was a sharp jolt of pain from her ankle to her stomach. She turned around again to look at the nothing, and a wave of strong thirst hit her and inside of her she knew if she didn’t get inside, she would die.
She pulled out her key ring, tried a key at random. It didn’t fit. She tried another and it got into the lock but wouldn’t turn, no matter how hard she jiggled it.
The third key fit like a hand in a steel glove, and Amy knew the door would open.She knew just which way to turn, with just how much pressure. The knob twisted open with a familiar tension, and she pushed the door inwards, already half expecting what she would see.
It was her living room. There were the leather couch, the plush red carpet, the piano. She pulled out the key, slipped it into her pocket, and closed the door.
“Hello?” she said. No answer. Nobody home. She walked into the kitchen. Same kitchen. She glanced at the sink but the thought of a glass of water made her want to throw up. But she smelled something in the air. Something good, something that made her forget the pain.
She opened the door to the fridge, and her eyes took in row after row of neatly stacked tupperware containers, filled with the only thing that could help her. Blood. So much blood.