Chapter 11

chapter

eleven

The thing that nobody thinks about in a survival situation is its sheer monotony.

At first, Rhiannon was shocked by the boredom that leached into the fear and uncertainty, but soon, the tedium even dulled her surprise.

Days stretched by with painful slowness.

Five entire days.

After the night she and Pierce kissed, he'd kept this distance. Every evening, he retired to his cot across the shop. But in the middle of the night, more often than not, she woke sandwiched between Pierce and Raszta.

And still, he didn't say anything about the kiss.

And by morning, she always woke to find him gone, retreated to his own space.

She tried not to let it bother her, but the silence between them grew heavier with each passing day. She caught him watching her sometimes, those dark hazel eyes intense and unreadable. When their gazes met, he'd quickly look away, his jaw tightening as if fighting some internal battle. She longed to reach out, to bridge the gap he seemed determined to maintain, but she wasn't sure how.

On the sixth day, Rhiannon woke to the sound of shifting rubble. She blinked away the grit in her eyes, her body aching from another night on the hard floor. The little bit of sunlight that filtered through the rubble cast fingers of pale gold light across the dusty floor. The smell of unwashed bodies—and, she feared, decay—was becoming intense. She thought her nose would become numb to the scent after a while, but the stench only seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. She wrinkled her nose and sat up, stretching her stiff muscles. Her gaze immediately sought out Pierce, but his sleeping mat was empty. Again.

She found him in the back corner by the hallway, his lean form silhouetted against the dusty air as he worked to clear debris. His movements were precise, deliberate. Even after nearly a week trapped here, he maintained a soldier's discipline.

She made her way over to Pierce, careful not to disturb Dottie, who was still asleep in her makeshift bed of blankets and souvenir t-shirts.

"What are you doing?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

Pierce's hands stilled on the chunk of concrete he was lifting. He set it down carefully before turning to face her, his expression guarded.

"Trying to clear a path," he signed, his movements quick and terse. "If we can get through this hallway, we might find another way out. Dottie mentioned there's a loading dock back here, which means there could be other exits that aren't blocked."

Rhiannon frowned and stepped closer to peer down the rubble-filled hallway. She remembered their trek through to find Gareth. It had been difficult, and they hadn't gone that far in. "Is that safe? What if it causes a collapse?"

Pierce's jaw tightened. Obviously, he had considered the possibility and still deemed it a necessary risk. "Our supplies are dwindling faster than I expected. There are just too many of us trapped here."

She saw frustration in his eyes and understood his need for action. They were all feeling it— the restlessness and claustrophobia, the gnawing fear that help might never come.

She decided to switch to ASL so nobody would overhear their conversation. "You don't think rescue is coming, do you?"

Pierce's hands hesitated in mid-air for a moment before he replied. "It's been almost a week. If they were coming, they'd be here by now. I don't think they know we're in here."

A chill scraped down her spine. She'd been trying to stay optimistic, to keep everyone's spirits up, but deep down, she'd had the same fear. " So what are you saying? We're on our own?"

His eyes met hers. "We have to be prepared for that possibility. Our supplies won't last forever. We need to find our own way out."

She nodded, swallowing hard against the lump of fear rising in her throat. "Okay. So what's the plan?"

"We work on clearing this hallway. If all goes well, we'll make it to the loading dock and find a way out. If not, we'll at least have access to the other stockroom, so more supplies. Either way, it's worth the risk."

Rhiannon glanced back at the sleeping forms of the others. "Should we tell them?"

Pierce shook his head. "Not yet. At least, not the whole truth. I don't want to cause a panic, so we can just say we're trying to get to the other stockroom."

There was something he wasn't saying; she could feel it. "There's more, isn't there? What aren't you telling me, Pierce?"

His gaze shifted away, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then his hands moved, forming the signs slowly, deliberately. "I'm worried about Dean. His behavior is becoming more erratic. If we don't find a way out soon, he could become a danger to all of us."

Her stomach clenched. She'd noticed Dean's increasing agitation, the wild look in his eyes that seemed to grow more intense with each passing day. "You think he might... hurt someone?"

Pierce nodded grimly. "Withdrawal is making him unstable, and the alcohol is only making it worse. He's paranoid. I overheard him muttering about how we're all conspiring against him. He's going to snap, and when he does, it'll set off a chain reaction. It'll be chaos."

"God," she breathed. Nerves were already frayed to the breaking point. She couldn't imagine what would happen if he snapped. She looked for Dean and found him sleeping in the back corner of the camping section, curled up on his side, clutching a fresh bottle of whiskey to his chest. He'd been going through one a day, but Dottie's one attempt at trying to stop him by locking the cabinet ended in disaster when he took a swing at her. Pierce had intervened, pinning Dean against the wall with a forearm to his throat. Since then, everyone had given him a wide berth.

"What should we do?"

Pierce's eyes hardened. "We get out of here before that happens. And if we can't..." He trailed off, but the implication was clear. They might have to take drastic measures to protect the group. "For now, we keep a close eye on him."

A low groan from across the room caught their attention. Dean was stirring, his face contorted in pain as he clutched his stomach. He rolled onto his side, retching violently.

Rhiannon instinctively moved towards him, but Pierce caught her arm, his grip firm but gentle. He shook his head, a warning in his eyes. "Don't. It's not safe."

She hesitated, torn between her instinct to help and the very real danger Dean presented.

Dean's retching turned into a series of painful dry heaves. His bloodshot eyes snapped open, darting wildly around the room before settling on Rhiannon and Pierce. His lip curled into a sneer.

"What are you two"—he made a bunch of meaningless hand movements in front of his face—"about? You're planning something. You're gonna get yourselves out of here and leave the rest of us to die, aren't you?"

"What?" someone demanded and moved into the light. It was Alan, the father of the young twin boys. He'd mostly kept to himself, staying with his wife and sons, but now panic flashed across his face as he looked between Dean and Pierce. "Is that true? Are you planning to leave us behind?"

Pierce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he shook his head emphatically. He raised his hands to sign, but Dean cut him off with a harsh laugh.

"Oh, sure, deny it all you want, Mr. Strong and Silent," Dean spat, struggling to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, one hand still clutching the whiskey bottle. "But you've been over here all morning digging out that hallway."

"I'm trying to get to the supplies in the other stockroom."

"Oh, sure, keep pretending you can't talk," Dean spat before Rhiannon could translate. "Just like he pretended he couldn't hear when we were first trapped."

"That's true," Alan said to the growing crowd. "He made us all think he was deaf."

Pierce's jaw clenched so hard a muscle in his cheek jumped. His hands moved swiftly to sign a denial, but Dean cut him off with a harsh laugh.

"Yeah, real convenient, isn't it? Nobody can understand your little hand signals except her." He jerked his chin towards Rhiannon. "For all we know, you've got some secret way out, and you're just waiting for the right moment to make your escape!"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and poisonous, and tension crackled like electricity. Rhiannon saw fear and suspicion blooming in the eyes of the other survivors as they looked between her, Pierce, and Dean.

"That's ridiculous," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Pierce has done nothing but help us. Yes, he's been working on clearing the hallway, but he's just trying to get to the supplies in the back storage room."

"There's more water back there," Dottie confirmed when several people looked in her direction. "And food."

Murmurs of uncertainty rippled through the group as they glanced between Pierce, Rhiannon, and Dean. The seeds of doubt had already taken root.

Dean's face twisted into a triumphant sneer. "See? They've been hiding supplies from us! Planning to take it all for themselves and leave us to starve."

"No one is hiding anything," Rhiannon said, but even as she spoke, she could see the tide turning against them. Fear and desperation were potent catalysts for paranoia, and Dean's words had struck a chord. People were starting to look at Pierce with open suspicion, edging away from him as if he might suddenly turn on them.

Pierce remained stoic and silent, his hands still at his sides. But she knew him now, and she saw the tension coiled in his shoulders, the frustration in his eyes as he glanced at her.

They were losing control of the situation and fast.

"He's not being secretive," she said, her voice rising to be heard over the growing murmurs of unease. "We just didn't want to get anyone's hopes up until we knew for sure there was a way through."

"Bullshit!" Dean snarled. He took another unsteady step forward, the whiskey bottle sloshing in his grip. "I bet you two have had this planned from the start. Probably been sneaking off together this whole time, haven't you? Playing house while the rest of us rot?"

Pierce moved then, placing himself between Dean and Rhiannon. His eyes were hard, his stance braced, arms crossed in a clear warning.

"Ooh, tough guy. What are you gonna do, huh? Take a swing at me?" Dean spread his arms wide, the bottle dangling precariously from his fingers. "Go ahead. Show everyone what you're really made of."

"Stop it!" Dottie snapped.

Dean ignored her and took a stumbling step forward, jabbing a finger at Pierce. "I say we tie him up. Make sure he can't sneak off?—"

Pierce's hands flew into motion, signing rapidly. "I'm trying to help, to find a way out for all of us."

Rhiannon translated aloud, her voice shaking slightly. "He says he's not trying to sneak off or hide anything. He just wants to get us out of here safely."

But Dean wasn't listening. His eyes had taken on a wild, fevered sheen, the paranoia, and desperation twisting his features into something ugly. "Liar! You're all liars!"

He lunged forward, swinging the whiskey bottle at Pierce's head. Pierce dodged to the side, the bottle whooshing past his ear and shattering against the wall in an explosion of glass and amber liquid.

Screams erupted from the onlookers. Alan's wife gathered her boys close, shielding their eyes. Dottie shouted for Dean to stop, but he was beyond reason.

He threw himself at Pierce with a guttural roar. The two men grappled—Pierce trying to subdue Dean without hurting him and Dean fighting with the frenzied strength of a rabid animal. They crashed into a display of novelty shot glasses, sending shards of glass flying. The crashing sound made Rhiannon's hearing aids screech painfully. She winced, her hands instinctively flying up to cover her ears as the two men continued to struggle, toppling shelves and scattering debris.

"Stop it!" Fear and frustration made her voice higher than usual. "Both of you, stop!"

Dean managed to land a wild punch, snapping Pierce's head back. Blood spurted from his nose, but he didn't make a sound. His face hardened with grim determination as he slammed Dean against the wall and pinned him there with a forearm across his throat.

Dean's feet scrabbled against the floor as he clawed at Pierce's arm, his face turning a mottled red. Just when he looked like he was going to pass out, Pierce released him and paced away, shaking out his bruised hands.

Dean slid down the wall, gasping and coughing, his hands massaging his throat. The wild, crazed look hadn't left his eyes. He glared up at Pierce with pure, vicious hatred.

"You see?" he rasped. "He's a killer. A trained killer. Only a matter of time before he turns on the rest of us, too."

Pierce met his gaze evenly, his bloody nose dripping onto his torn shirt. But he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he turned to face the rest of the group, his hands moving in slow, deliberate signs as Rhiannon translated.

"I know you're scared. We all are. But turning on each other is not the answer." He motioned toward the hallway. "There are supplies back there we need, and maybe, if we're lucky, there's another way out through the loading dock. But we won't know until we dig out a path and look."

"It's a good plan," Gareth said. He'd hung at the back of the crowd during the fight but now stepped forward. Everyone parted for him, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.

Gareth's wounds had healed at an astonishing rate, leaving only faint pink scars where deep gashes had been just days before. It was unnatural and had not gone unnoticed by the others. Whispers and sidelong glances followed him as he moved to stand beside Pierce.

"Clearing the hallway is our best shot at finding more resources and another exit. We should focus our energy there, not on fighting each other."

The situation was already a powder keg ready to explode at the slightest spark, and Rhiannon wasn't sure if his endorsement would help or hurt Pierce's cause. She held her breath, waiting to see how the others would react.

Finally, Alan stepped forward. "I don't know what to believe anymore, but I do know we can't stay here indefinitely. If there's even a chance of finding more supplies or another exit..." He trailed off, glancing back at his wife and sons. "I say we give it a shot."

"Are you insane?" Dean, still slumped against the wall, let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "You're all gonna follow the freak and the killer? Why don't you just tell us what you really are, freak?"

Gareth ignored the taunt and turned his piercing gaze on the others. "Pierce and I will lead the effort to clear the hallway. Anyone who wants to help is welcome. The rest of you should focus on conserving resources and maintaining order here." His tone left no room for argument.

Rhiannon let out her breath in a rush as a few people, including Alan, stepped forward to volunteer. The rest of the group dispersed, murmuring among themselves but no longer openly hostile.

Dean glowered from his spot on the floor but made no move to interfere again. For now, at least, the immediate crisis seemed to have passed. But it was only a matter of time before tensions boiled over again.

Pierce caught her eye and tilted his head towards the back of the store, a silent invitation, but before she could follow, a deafening crack split the air. Everyone froze as a violent shudder rocked the entire shop.

"Aftershock!" Gareth shouted.

Rhiannon stumbled, nearly losing her footing as the floor heaved beneath her. Screams erupted from the others as they scrambled for cover, certain the ceiling was about to come down on their heads.

But it wasn't the ceiling.

It was the floor.

With a thunderous groan, a jagged fissure split the concrete, zig-zagging from the front doors all the way to the hallway at the back. The ground buckled and warped, sending displays crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattering glass and twisting metal. A hand clamped around her arm, yanking her backward, and she collided with a solid chest. Pierce. He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her steady as the building shook itself apart.

Dean wasn't so lucky. Still unsteady on his feet, he stumbled right into the path of the widening fissure. The concrete crumbled beneath his feet. A scream ripped from his throat, raw and terrified.

"Help! Oh God, somebody help me!"