Chapter 3 - The Storm Cellar
My mind raced. How could whoever was in that car know Jake had a gun? The storm cellar was at the back of the basement—a old wooden bulkhead door that led directly out to the backyard garden. It was locked from the inside with a heavy iron latch that hadn't been turned in years.
"Ethan," I whispered, barely moving my lips against his ear. "The storm cellar. Slowly."
Jake was walking away from our hiding spot, his shoes clicking against the cold concrete as he searched behind the old laundry machines. "You know," he called out, his voice unnervingly pleasant, "the poison is already in your systems. You might feel fine right now because of the adrenaline, but in less than an hour, your organs will start shutting down. You need medical attention, Sarah. Why don't you come out so we can talk?"
It was a lie—a desperate attempt to get us to reveal ourselves. But the poison was real. My stomach churned with a deep, sickening ache, and my vision blurred slightly around the edges whenever I moved my head too fast. Time was running out for both of us.
Keeping our movements as silent as ghosts, Ethan and I crawled out from behind the furnace, using the shadows of the massive water heater to cover our retreat toward the back wall.
The rusted iron latch of the storm cellar door loomed in the dark.
I reached out and touched the cold metal. It was covered in a thick layer of grime and rust. If I forced it, it would make a loud, screeching sound that would give away our position instantly.
"Sarah?" Jake’s voice was closer now. He was turning back toward the furnace. "I'm losing my patience."
I looked at Ethan. He understood. He stepped up beside me, placing his hands on the heavy latch alongside mine.
"On three," I breathed. "One... two... three."
Together, we shoved the latch upward with all our strength.
CREEEAK!
The sound echoed through the subterranean space like a metallic scream.
"Found you!" Jake shouted.
"GO!" I screamed, throwing the heavy wooden doors open. Cold night air rushed into the basement as Ethan and I scrambled up the concrete steps into the dark backyard.
Behind us, Jake surged forward, his hand reaching into his dark wool coat. The glint of polished metal caught the faint moonlight—a compact black handgun.
"Stop right there!" he yelled, charging up the cellar steps behind us.
Ethan and I bolted across the damp grass toward the side gate. The toxic meal was taking a heavy toll on my body; my knees felt like lead, and my lungs burned as if filled with fire. Ethan stumbled beside me, but I caught him by the elbow, hauling him forward with pure motherly instinct.
We threw open the wooden side gate and burst onto the front lawn.
Across the street, the dark blue sedan was already idling. As we tumbled onto the sidewalk, the driver’s side door swung open.
"Get in!" a woman's voice barked from the shadows of the car. "GET IN NOW!"
Behind us, Jake burst through the side gate, raising the handgun.
"Sarah!" he roared.
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Without hesitation, I shoved Ethan into the backseat of the blue sedan and threw myself in after him, slamming the door shut just as a sharp BANG echoed through the quiet neighborhood. The rear windshield shattered into a web of spiderwebbed glass.
The driver slammed her foot on the accelerator. The tires squealed violently, leaving burning rubber on the asphalt as the sedan launched forward into the night, leaving my murderous husband standing alone beneath the streetlights.
