Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
TARYN
The house was too quiet when I got home.
That was how Ben liked it. Silence meant you were more aware of what was going on. Noise meant distractions.
I locked the door behind me and slid the deadbolt home, testing it twice. Habit. The motion had been drilled into me since I was twelve—lock, check, recheck.
The air smelled faintly of gun oil and the lemon cleaner I’d used last night. The windows were uncovered, but the blinds sat angled just right—enough to let light in, not enough to give anyone outside a clean view.
I made my way to the basement door, which was never left unlocked.
I spun the mechanical dial without looking—three turns left, two right, one back.
The numbers clicked softly under my fingers, so familiar I could have done it in the dark.
Ben had made sure of that. Locks were useless if you needed light to open them.
The deadbolt slid free with a muted thunk.
I paused, listening.
Nothing.
Good. I made my way down the stairs.
Inside, everything sat exactly where it should—shelves bolted into studs, crates stacked low so they wouldn’t tip during tremors, and inventory sheets clipped and dated. Ben trusted his systems more than people.
He changed the combination every three months.
More often, if the mood struck him.
I stepped inside and scanned automatically. Shelves ran floor to ceiling, with a metal bracket bolted into the studs. Everything here was built for function.
Water came first. Nothing could live for long without it.
Six-gallon jugs lined the bottom shelf, dated in black marker.
Ben rotated them every three months, regardless of whether they were opened.
Untreated water went bad faster than people thought.
Algae, bacteria, and micro-fractures in cheap plastic were the cause.
And that was only what we kept inside. Out back, we had a hand-pump water well, so our water supply would never run out.
On the shelf above that: filtration.
Sawyer filters that were still sealed. Ceramic backups. Iodine tablets, vacuum-packed with silica packets.
Food occupied the longest wall.
Canned proteins. Rice in mylar bags with oxygen absorbers. Beans labeled by calorie count. Enough for both of us to survive for months, if not years.
Medical supplies took the far corner.
Trauma kits, which included tourniquets, were positioned at three different heights for easy access from the floor. Chest seals and suture kits were also available; I used the latter so proficiently that it was one of the few times I received praise from Ben.
Ammo crates were stacked beneath the workbench, each labeled by caliber and grain weight. Inventory sheets clipped to the wall showed counts updated weekly.
Not monthly.
Weekly.
Ben planned on being prepared for any eventuality.
I checked the whiteboard to make sure that everything was up to date.
Water-Rotate 3 Days
Ammo-Inventory
Med-Check seals
Fuel-Stabilizer
Meteor shower expected 10/10
Fuel was new.
He must have been thinking about power grids again. EMPs, sabotage, and infrastructure collapse. He’d shown me maps once—substations circled in red.
I wasn’t surprised he’d noted the meteor shower. He kept track of those things all the time.
Everything looked good. Nothing needed doing.
I went back up the stairs and closed the door behind me, turning the dial again until the numbers scrambled. The habit was ingrained deep enough that my hands did it even when my mind wandered.
Forty minutes.
That’s how long I had before he came home and expected updates—on school, on practice, and on anything else he thought was relevant.
I showered fast. No music. Still in complete silence. When I dressed, I chose jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.
Looking in the mirror above the sink, I stared into my gray eyes, so very similar to his. Dark brown hair framed a heart-shaped face. Full lips that rarely smiled, if ever, and a slightly upturned nose completed the picture.
I sighed at my reflection as I braided my hair. I was tired. So, freaking tired. Sometimes this life felt pointless. Always planning moves to stay off Ben’s radar and preparing for situations that were likely to never happen.
There had to be more.
Enough self-pity. The clock was ticking.
I laced up my shoes and heard gravel crunch in the driveway.
Ben was home.
I rushed into the kitchen and began chopping vegetables the way he liked. The knife moved steadily in my hand.
Ben set his keys down in the tray by the door.
“School,” he took off his hat and placed it on the wall hook.
“Fine,” I replied.
He crossed the kitchen without looking at me, then washed and dried his hands. Only then did he turn.
“Scenario,” he said.
My shoulders stayed loose. My pulse didn’t even change.
“You’re driving home,” he continued, voice flat. “Two-lane road. No cell service. You see headlights coming fast behind you. Too fast.”
“Accelerate to create distance,” I said immediately. “If they match speed, take the next unmarked turn. Don’t go home.”
Ben nodded once. “You’re at school. The fire alarm goes off during fourth period. Chaos ensues.”
“Leave the building,” I kept chopping. “But not with the crowd. Crowds bottleneck exits.”
“Good. Then what?”
“Move perpendicular to the flow. Assess. Listen. The smell of smoke will let me know whether it’s a drill.”
He stepped closer, eyes sharp. “You hear shouting.”
“Identify exits with hard cover,” I cleared my throat. “Concrete. Brick. Avoid glass.”
“What if a teacher tells you to stay put?” Ben tilted his head.
“I stay true to my course,” my tone stayed level. “Authority doesn’t mean knowledge.”
“Methods?”
“I try reason first,” I said. “Then physical if needed.”
Ben studied my face as if he were looking for cracks.
“Food shortage,” he said abruptly. “One week in. Stores are empty. You have supplies. Our neighbors ask for help.”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Assess value,” I intoned. “Skills, tools, numbers. Charity creates dependency.”
“And if they have kids?”
“Kids don’t change the math,” I answered immediately. But if I was honest, at least with myself, that was the one scenario I knew I’d fail.
Silence filled the kitchen.
Then Ben nodded.
“Good,” he ate a slice of bell pepper I’d cut up.
I grabbed a skillet from the cabinet.
Supper was simple.
Stir fry with fresh vegetables from our garden. Ben checked the stove while I chopped, his eyes flicking to the prep room door as if he could see through it.
“Did you check the board?”
“Yes. I need to rotate the water in three days.”
He grunted his approval.
We ate at the table without talking for a few minutes. The scrape of utensils was loud in the quiet house.
“People use all of their supplies without conserving because they expect rescue.” He wiped his mouth. “You won’t.”
“I won’t,” I repeated.
“You will survive no matter what it takes.”
I looked at my plate. “I will.”
He finished his drink, stood, and carried his dish to the sink. “Clean up. Then bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
As I washed dishes, I felt the weight of the evening settling—his questions still echoing, the house tightening around me like it always did.
Ben thought he was teaching me how to survive disasters.
He was really teaching me how to survive him.
Ben didn’t fall asleep before shutting the house down.
At 9:47, the television went dark. At 9:49, he checked the locks—front door, back door, and the supply room.
By 10:00, the house was silent, as Ben preferred. He’d be able to hear a mouse fart from fifty feet. Lucky for me, I was quieter than a mouse. The master had taught me himself. He’d made me memorize where to step to avoid any creeks or groans from the floor of the old house.
He’d said one day my life might depend on it. Seems he’d been right.
I pulled on the hoodie I’d left at the end of my bed and grabbed my shoes from the closet. I headed for my door, then stopped and grabbed the go-bag I had at the ready on my dresser.
Some lessons were so deeply ingrained that ignoring them was impossible. The last time I left my go-bag behind, I had to survive in the woods for two days, relying solely on my wits. During that time, I only caught one squirrel and was starving by the time I was allowed to return home.
I opened my bedroom door a fraction and listened.
Nothing.
The back window lifted without protest. I loosened it earlier while I was getting dressed. Ben hadn’t noticed, thank God.
I eased myself through the opening, lowering my body slowly instead of jumping. Landing softly, I crouched down to put on my shoes. Carefully, I closed the window from outside, pressing lightly to avoid leaving fingerprints.
Following the fence line instead of the driveway, I made my way cautiously through the tall grass. Only when I’d put distance between me and the house did I angle toward the road.
Most of Ashford was asleep, but I knew one place that was rarely quiet, and I was certain Beck would be there.
The warehouse was located three miles out, beyond the closed feed store and the abandoned gas station that hadn’t yet been demolished.
Cars and motorcycles were parked all around, in accessible spots.
The police didn’t bother to raid this area, likely because the local motorcycle gang had bribed them to stay away.
I entered the warehouse but stayed near the back wall.
The interior was cavernous; the walls were made of corrugated metal that had long ago begun to rust. Old loading bay doors lined one side, chained shut, with gaps at the bottom letting in slivers of night air.
A single generator throbbed somewhere in the back, its uneven hum vibrating through the concrete floor like a pulse.
Lights were strung overhead on extension cords—bare bulbs swinging slightly, throwing hard shadows over the people below. The smell hit next: sweat, oil, and blood, the coppery tang clinging to the back of my throat.
People packed the space in loose rings, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, heat radiating off them.
Mostly men with a few women scattered throughout the crowd, wearing low-cut tops and shorts so tiny that their ass cheeks were exposed.
All of them focused, eyes sharp, voices low and eager.
Money changed hands quickly and without ceremony. More cash than I expected.
Beck must make a killing here.
The ring itself was unimpressive: ropes scavenged from somewhere in the warehouse, a mat that once might have been blue but was now faded and stained, barely a memory of its original color. Old blood layered over new, absorbed so deeply it had become permanent.
I stayed back and leaned against a support beam, hidden in the shadows. Ben’s lessons echoed in my mind: Don’t call attention to yourself. Watch the exits and figure out a route to them. Aim to blend in as much as possible.
That last one wasn’t necessary as hard rock blared from the speakers, and I realized no one was paying the slightest attention to me. Everyone was focused on the man who had just entered the room and was making his way toward the ring.