Foreverland Is Dead

she nears the fence.
    “Go on.” Roc shoves her. “We ain’t got all day.”
    Miranda trips ahead and stops. She’s inside the fence and Roc can’t touch her. Stuck between two rocks—the brick house and the Dagger Queen—she pauses.
    Anger balls up in her belly. If she was big enough, she could drag that bitch through the fence and watch her go unconscious. But Miranda’s a waif. A fairy compared to Roc.
    A skinny little Barbie .
    “Come on, let’s go!” Roc claps. “Everyone’s working and you’re standing.”
    “Take it slow, Miranda,” Cyn says. “One step at a time. Open the door, look inside, and go in, nice and easy. No one’s going to hurt you, we’re right here. Go on.”
    Like they can do anything if something happens.
    She pulls herself up the steps with the help of the railing. The floorboards are painted. There are glass tables and rocking chairs at both ends. One of the tables has a tall glass on it, half-full of diluted tea.
    There are twin doors. Miranda drops her hand on one of the brass knobs. The hinges creak. She decides to push both doors open.
    The smell hit s her.
    It’s dull and rotten, sti cks to the back of her throat, clings to her tongue like gluey vapor. It’s the smell from the woods.
    “What is it?” Cyn asks.
    “It smells. Bad.”
    “Smell ain’t going to hurt you,” Roc says.
    “Co ver your face.” Cyn demonstrates with her shirt. “Breathe through your shirt.”
    Miranda does that. It helps.
    The first step inside makes her dizzy. It’s not so much the odor; more like déjà vu, that strange sense she’s been here, done that. She braces herself against the doorjamb. Roc’s voice is distant. Miranda’s ears are ringing.
    The front room is immaculate, the couches pristine. The coffee tables are arranged with magazines and framed photos of the mountains and trees. Elk grazing in the meadow. There’s a TV set in a cherry hutch and a grandfather clock ticking in the corner.
    No computer, though.
    No phone.
    There’s a hallway down the center of the house with a metal door at the end. Everything is homey and nice: there’s crown molding, the wood floor looks polished, and the lamps have frilly lace on the shades. But the door at the end of the hall looks thick and heavy.
    The staircase i s halfway down on the right. That’s where she came down only a day earlier. Seems like forever. She didn’t pay much attention to the house then. Too consumed with what was going on outside. Now she wishes she had looked around. Then she wouldn’t have to be doing this.
    All the doors along the way are closed. Thank God .
    The odor, though, gets worse. It seems to be clinging to her clothes. She’ll smell worse than body odor. She continues, one step at a time, just like Cyn told her. There are frames on the wall, photos of grandmothers and grandchildren. Sometimes they’re photographed out in the meadow or on the porch of the dinner house. There’s another one in the woods next to a small cabin.
    Miranda swallows a lump.
    She stops for a moment, pulling a deep breath through her shirt, closing her eyes. She feels funny. Maybe she’s hyperventilating.
    She should probably open a few doors, look for a phone. Roc and Cyn are watching, expecting her to do something. She gets halfway down the hall. The stairwell is to the right, but there’s an open door to the left. It’s the kitchen.
    The re’s a sink below a window that overlooks the garden. Jen is on her knees, plucking peppers and storing them in the bottom of her shirt.
    All the cabinets are closed and the island countertop wiped off. The sink is empty. There’s no sign of a phone . There’s a door to the right. Miranda reaches out with her free hand, tears building on the rims of her eyelids. She rests her hand on the knob, suddenly battling thoughts of dead bodies stacked inside and tumbling down when she opens it.
    She stifles a sob and her hand slips from her face. The swampish odor wafts inside her head. She bends over. A tear splashes on to the linoleum.
    She has to take something out there, something that will satisfy them. Miranda closes her eyes, and before her thoughts seize her arm, she yanks the door open— Food .
    Lots of it. Cans of beans, beets, corn, beans—a culinary treasure chest. The shelves are deep and loaded, enough to feed them all winter.
    There’s a hamper on the floor. She holds her breath and lets go of her shirt so she can scoop the contents of one of the bottom shelves