Bits & Pieces (Benny Imura 5)

So, he knew, was he.

If Mason started crying, or worse, screaming, Dan knew that he would too.

So he said the kind of thing you’d say if the world wasn’t broken.

“Shh,” he said softly. “Don’t let Santa know you can see him. He has to do everything in secret. That’s how it’s done. It has to be in secret or the magic won’t work.”

That kind of thing made sense to a six-year-old.

It damn near sounded reasonable to Dan.

Things had to be done in secret, or the magic wouldn’t work.

Survival was a kind of magic. At least it was these days.

He backed up very slowly. Without haste. Haste meant panic. He didn’t want that to be the message of his body language. He backed into Mason and gently pushed his brother out of the kitchen. Dan took the lantern with him.

Then he stopped, thinking it another step past the moment.

“Stay here,” he said. He reentered the kitchen. The back door was closed. It had a bar across it. There were shutters mounted inside the windows. Dan closed the shutters very slowly. They were heavy. Solid panels of wood that had been reinforced with strips of metal. The work was good. Someone knew what they were doing. The shutters completely blocked the windows. There was another shutter for the kitchen door. He shut that, too. Thick cotter pins hung on lengths of airline cable. Dan slotted them into place and felt his heart begin to beat normally.

He went out to the dining room. Mason was scooping handfuls of corn and peas into his mouth.

“Eat slow or you’ll get sick,” said Dan.

The boy nodded. He didn’t have the strength to eat fast.

Dan’s stomach churned. He wanted to eat. Needed to. Had to.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead he went through the house and made sure all the shutters were pinned in place. He pulled the drapes over them to block out any stray splinters of light. The front door had brackets for heavy cross-grain timbers, and he hefted them into place. Oak. Heavy. Safe.

Then he took the lantern and went upstairs.

More candles. Sleeping bags. Stacks of boxed goods. Food. Medical supplies.

Guns.

Guns.

Jesus Christ.

Guns and ammunition.

Hundreds of gallons of water in one, two-and-a-half, and five-gallon bottles. Cases of soda. Cartons of powdered milk.

Dan was crying by the time he finished checking the rooms.

There were beds for nine people. All the beds had been slept in.

But there was nobody home.

Nobody.

It made no sense.

Why would they leave this place?