Foreverland Is Dead

says.
    “You’re scum.”
    Miranda goes back inside, closes the door. She’s not shaking. Roc is a thief and now they all know it. And until they do something about it, she’s not giving them her food. And if Cyn doesn’t return, they never will.
    Miranda’s not selfish. She’s smart.
    “You’re dead!” Roc shouts. “When I get to you, you’re dead!”
    Gravel scatters against the house.
    Miranda smiles. She hit her good, where it counts. Right on the pride. Her anger is fully lit. It hurts and this gives her pleasure.
    Miranda looks out the west window. Kat, Jen, and Mad are watching from a distance. Roc might take it out on them.
    What have I done?
    Boom.
    Miranda jumps, a squeal popping out of her. Something thumps the door, rolls on the porch.
    “The party’s over, Shiny!”
    Roc pushes the tall grass around, searching for something larger. The pleasurable confidence leaches away from Miranda, leaving twisted, toxic fear in the pit of her stomach.
    She can’t get in here. She can’t get to me.
    And she has to sleep. The sun has dipped below the mountains. Darkness is near. They’ll fall asleep like they do every night. No one will wake up until morning, no matter what.. She just had to survive this and then Miranda could do something. She can end this.
    Permanently.
    It’s Roc or us. If it wasn’t for Roc, Miranda would be out there with the girls. It’s Roc’s fault. All her fault. If Miranda gets through this, she can sneak out at night, smother her with a pillow. Put a knife in her throat, a stick through her eye— “You’re dead, bitch!”
    Roc heaves a stone, this one purple and angular. The size of a softball. Miranda instinctually leaps away from the window—
    The window spiderwebs into a thousand lines. But it doesn’t break.
    SHHHHHT-THOOM.
    SHHHHHT-THOOM.
    SHHHHHT-THOOM.
    Metal shutters slide in front of the windows. The room dims as light is cut off from the outside one window at a time. Dust trickles from the ceiling as shutters bang closed over the upstairs windows.
    Miranda falls against the door, hides her eyes.
    Roc’s voice is muffled. Distant.
    Another stone bangs harmlessly off the shutter to the right of the door. A distant curse punctuates it. Miranda crawls away from the door and curls up in the middle of the floor, listening to shot after shot land harmlessly against the house.
    Classical music plays softly.
    Something is beeping in the back of the house. An alarm is going off, a steady, even droning. A mechanical warning.
    The metal door is cracked open.
    A red light is flashing.

24

    The brick house is a tomb.
    And each time the back room beeps, a nail driven deeper into its lid, shutting it tighter. Darker.
    Miranda feels the weight of the shutters, sealing in the sound, shutting out the light. She tries to open the front door. She raps on the windows. She’s safely entombed, away from danger. Roc will never hurt her.
    But she’s haunted by thoughts.
    The beeps bounce around the wall, driving deep inside her head. She presses pillows to her ears, buries her head beneath couch cushions and blankets. Still, it’s out there.
    The incessant warning.
    She heaves a candle at the metal door. “Shut up!”
    The door eases back. The crack widens. And the alarm seeps out louder. Fiercer.
    Miranda weeps with her ears covered. Hours go by, trapped with her worst fear. There’s no avoiding it.
    The back room is calling.
    Exhausted, she turns off the music. She stands in the hallway, red light pulsing. Each beep perfectly spaced, exactly pitched.
    “You win,” she whispers.
    Miranda wipes her face. A wave of serenity passes through her. No more avoiding it. Hate it, but embrace it.
    She takes a step. Then another.
    Her fingers against the door, she pushes it open.
    Unbelievable.
    A chuckle rattles her throat. She shakes her head. Ten feet, straight ahead, there is another metal door.
    But in between, there’s a room. The flashing and beeping are coming from her right. Miranda takes a half step forward, peers slowly inside. A countertop runs along the right wall with several monitors mounted above it, computers below. All the screens are blank except for the largest one in the corner. A red square blinks in time with the beeping.
    The smell is not any worse. Whatever is dead, she tells herself, is behind the next door. Relief rises again with a trace of dread.
    Another door.
    There are chairs along the clean countertops. The computers have flashing green lights,