Chapter 20 - Cara
TWENTY
CARA
People always ask me how they can become successful social media influencers, too. For me, the answer was to find a niche and then commit.
—Cara Campbell, interviewed for
Not counting the souls of the others Fisk had coaxed down here before her, Cara was utterly alone in the loamy darkness.
Cara’s feet touched ground, and she took three steps forward.
As she turned and reached at shoulder height as instructed, she prayed she wouldn’t grasp the tail of something scurrying past. Things were bad as they could be.
Worse—and much like becoming an influencer in the first place, a decision that led her to where she was now—she’d put herself directly into harm’s way.
#Consequences.
Her knuckle hit something metal. She fumbled around a shelf until she touched the familiar plastic cylinder of a flashlight. Locating the switch on its side, she pushed it upward with her thumb.
Thank God, the beam of light illuminated no bodies and no row of shallow graves. Instead, it showed a kitchenette, complete with a mini-fridge, a two-burner hot plate, and a sink with a water spigot on the far wall.
Shining the light around, Cara saw she was standing in the middle of a low-ceilinged, concrete-walled, fully stocked survival bunker.
Next to the kitchen area was a fully made cot with an extra blanket folded neatly at its foot.
Behind the ladder was a toilet with an unopened roll of toilet paper.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered all usable wall space, and every shelf held clearly marked and itemized plastic crates: FIRST AID, TOOLS, CLOTHING, DISINFECTANTS, and more.
Fisk had warned her not to turn on the generator, but there was no need to conserve the flashlight battery, not given the crate filled with batteries in seemingly every size. There was also a container labeled LIGHT SOURCES with a list of its contents:
Flashlights (8)
Candles (124)
Gas lanterns (4)
On the opposite wall was food. So much food: gallon buckets of rice, beans, sugar, and even powdered cheese.
There were plastic-wrapped cases of cans, bottles, and other packages of consumables: freeze-dried meals, tins of Spam, canned veggies, spices, and even cooking oil and margarine.
Cara had been hidden away in a doomsday prepper’s pantry, which, while comforting—nutritionally speaking, anyway—was equally terrifying.
There was enough food down here to feed her for the rest of her natural life.
Was she doomed to serve her life sentence here?
She saw a locked metal door set into the far wall. Was another victim locked up deeper in the hillside? Did that door have a door that led into yet another cell? Who knew how many women Fisk had lured down here.
From a bin marked TOOLS, Cara removed the hammer, wrench, saw, and pliers. She placed them strategically: the hammer under the cot, the wrench beneath the small pillow, the saw between two bins, and the pliers on top of a bucket. Knowing she had weapons eased her panic, if only temporarily.
Scanning the shelves, she helped herself to a box of crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and a can of chicken-noodle soup with a metal pull tab.
She needed energy for whatever came next.
God help her. With no time to lose, she began to suck the cold, congealed salty broth into her mouth, chewing and swallowing carrot bits, chicken cubes, and soft noodles, trying not to gag.
She prayed, too.
But mostly ate until her belly was full.