21
Jessa
Ten minutes buried
I ’ d heard the expression “ So dark you can ’ t see your hand in front of your face.”
I thought I knew what that might be like. Thought I could imagine a blackness so complete it swallowed you whole.
I was wrong.
For a few minutes after the last shreds of light disappeared overhead, the shipping container—at least that ’ s what I assumed this thing was—erupted into chaos. Crying kids, sharp inhales and exhales, shuffling and running into each other, begging the man with the pantyhose over his head to open the hole back up.
Beneath it all was the squealing chorus of squeaky springs from the old mattresses lining the bottom of the bunker. They shuddered and shifted as ten pairs of feet moved back and forth, finding the walls.
In a daze, I shuffled backward until my back hit the wall of the container. It was bowing inward, like it could barely contain the weight of the earth pressing in against it.
Little gray dots danced in the darkness as I blinked my eyes faster, imagining all those thousands of pounds of dirt suddenly breaking through the straining walls of the bunker, covering our heads and eyes and noses.
How much air was down here? Even more importantly, how quickly would our own carbon dioxide start to poison us? I forced my lungs to fill, then release the breath, but all I could think about was suffocating down here in the dark.
“ I think I found a jug of water,” one of the boys cried after a few seconds.
The exclamation was followed by a brief silence, where I could hear the faint sound of footsteps crunching above our heads.
The other kids heard it too.
“ Help, help, help!” one little girl screamed, the sound filling up the impossibly dark room.
That snapped me out of my stupor. I stumbled toward her voice, my shoulders bumping against other small bodies as I moved.
It was all I could do not to shake the little girl—Evelyn I realized. “ Shh, Evelyn,” I hissed, making my voice loud enough that the other kids could hear me. We couldn ’ t panic. We couldn ’ t lose our heads. That only ever ended badly. “ That’s the bad men up there,” I told her, grabbing her arm in a way I hoped wasn ’ t hurting. “ We just need to be quiet and we ’ ll stay safe, okay?” I bit back the most terrifying thoughts spinning through my head. What if they decided we were too loud—and blocked off the air hose?
No. The kidnapper had said there was an air tube that was bringing in at least some fresh oxygen. That was more evidence they actually wanted to keep us alive—not hurt us. We just had to stay calm and hunker down until the men got what they wanted.
I forced my breathing to turn steady and pushed the disturbing thoughts far away. “ Who found water?” I asked. We were all thirsty. We needed to ration it, make sure it doesn ’ t get spilled in the dark.
“ I did.” This time, I recognized Ked ’ s voice. “ And there ’ s some cups. And I can smell food, too.”
Excited murmurs rose from the other kids in response.
“ That’s great, Ked,” I said, moving toward the sound of his voice, thankful for the distraction. I drew another steadying breath. The kidnapper had been telling the truth about leaving us some food and water. Maybe that meant he was telling the truth about letting us go once they got the ransom. But it also meant they were likely planning on leaving us down here for a while.
“Jessa Landon deserves to rot in hell.” My ex-brother-in-law’s words singsonged in my head for the umpteenth time.
This isn ’ t hell, I told myself firmly. Hell didn ’ t have food and water. “ Let ’ s all sit on a mattress and have a drink, okay?” I called into the darkness.
I could do that. I could take charge in this small thing. The thought of making some kind of order out of this chaos was comforting.
“ I think there’s a toilet over here,” another voice piped up from behind me. Sage ’ s voice. “ I saw it before the light went away. It ’ s just a bucket with a piece of wood over the top, but …”
“ That’s great, Sage—”
“ Ms. Jessa, you could probably lift me. If you stand on it and help me up, I bet I could reach the ceiling,” Sage burst out in a rushed whisper, before I could finish. “ I could try to—”
More excited murmurs from the other kids.
I whirled toward the sound of her voice, panic turning my already dry mouth to cotton. “ No,” I barked, louder than I ’ d intended.
“ But—”
“ No,” I said again, quieter, peering around the darkness for a faint green or red light that might indicate we were being watched down here. I didn ’ t see one. “ We are going to do exactly what the men said, and then we are going to get out of here. Do you understand, Sage?”
She didn ’ t respond this time.
“ Come toward the sound of my voice. I ’ ll pour everyone a little water,” I rasped. I shoved the guilty feeling down and felt for the plastic cups stacked beside a row of water gallons . I hated to squash that precocious hope. Hated to imagine the crestfallen look on her face. The same one I ’ d glimpsed in the dim light of the gray van, when I ’ d demanded she sit down after she ’ d scratched that little hole in the van ’ s window paint.
But encouraging her now would be worse.
Encouraging her might get us all killed.
The kids stumbled around each other to form a haphazard line along the mattresses nearest the water jug. As I felt my way down the line, pushing cups into little hands, I made each of the kids tell me their names and their favorite animal. I didn ’ t know how long we were going to be down here, but from the number of water gallons—ten I’d counted—it might be days.
That thought filled me with dread. And maybe I imagined it, but each breath felt a little harder to pull in than the last.
I shoved the terror away. It wouldn ’ t help.
We needed to settle in.
“ Ben, Australian Shepherd. ”
“ Mindy, unicorn. ”
“ Ava, I like all animals.”
“ Bonnie, kitties.”
I oohed and ahhed over each animal. Yes, I love kitties, too. Australian Shepherds are so smart! I wish I could pet a unicorn.
I reached for the next pair of hands but found hunched shoulders and tangled curls instead. “ Sage, what ’ s your favorite animal,” I asked.
She didn ’ t answer for a few seconds. Her shoulders shuddered like she was trying and failing to hold in a silent sob.
“ Sage? ” Before I could tell myself it was a terrible idea, I knelt in the dirt at the edge of the mattress and grabbed her hand.
I expected her to yank her hand away. Instead, she squeezed back for just a moment, then pulled her hand back gently, drawing in a big breath like it would keep her from deflating again.
My daughter Sophie had done the same thing when she fell, while she was learning to walk.
The small gesture made my heart ache so badly I could barely swallow.
I ’ ll keep you safe, I promised Sage silently, the way I ’ d promised Soph so many years ago.
No matter how angry you are, I will keep you safe.
I was about to move on to the next kid, come back to Sage in a minute, but then she cleared her throat. “ Sage, badger.”
That made me smile. “ Badgers are fierce,” I said. “ They were my college mascot, too.”
“ They ’ re the best diggers,” she said quietly. “ A badger wouldn ’ t be afraid down here. She ’ d just dig us out.”
She ’ d be afraid when she found those men with guns waiting for her at the top, I thought to myself, but I bit the words back.