Foreverland Is Dead

through the door. Roc follows, weapon in hand.
    Mad eventually comes out.

59

    They march into the meadow, a desolate stretch of snowy dunes. The figures fade into the blizzard, icy wind swirling, scraping the land, enveloping the small band of girls in its cold grip. Disappear.
    Miranda pushes buttons, zooms the camera’s view to maximum, focusing on the two figures that straggle behind them. The old man leans heavily on the boy, pushing through the snowy mounds.
    The men fade in the swirling snow, too.
    And she’s alone.
    This time, she’s really alone. They’re not coming back. They’re escaping. Or dying.
    Her hand shaking, she clicks through multiple screens. The door clicks. Miranda yanks it open, rushing into the hallway and through the house, pulling on the front door. The storm throws it open, the hinges groaning.
    Barefoot, Miranda runs down the steps, snow pushing up her pant legs, reaching her knees. The world of white blurs, her eyes filling with water.
    The wintry blast snatching the air from her lungs.
    The cruel world grinds her pursuit to a halt. Even if she got dressed, if she traipsed over the frozen meadow, she wouldn’t find them. The wind has already scoured their tracks from existence.
    If they don’t escape, they’ll die. Either way, they’re not coming back.
    Really alone.
    She begins shivering, her chin rattling uncontrollably. She runs inside and closes the door, sliding to the floor. Melting snow puddles between her numb toes.
    The smell of death fills the house.
    Cyn abandoned her. Miranda was the one that saved them. She was the one that disabled the zapper. If it wasn’t for her, Mr. Williams would have knocked them out; he’d be doing things to them right now, like the things he did to Jen. And they couldn’t stop them.
    Miranda saved them.
    And they left her.
    Miranda is dead.
    She said it, she knows something. Miranda isn’t dead; she’s sitting on the floor, holding the panic at bay. Staring down the hall, the metal door swung open.
    The back door in view.
    Cyn said it like she knew Miranda would hear it. She wanted her to hear it, wanted her to know something. Miranda looks at her hands, turns them over, runs her fingers over the bracelet and the name engraved on the gold plate like they’re proof she’s alive.
    I’m alive.
    But even she knows something isn’t right. She’s always known. Miranda pushes herself up, wiggling her fingers and toes to bring back sensation, wishing the cold could snuff out the fear squirming in her stomach. Wishing she didn’t have to do this.
    Wishing she wasn’t alone.
    She pauses in the back room. There’s nothing holding her back now. No reason to wait. A few clicks with the mouse, and the lock on the back door whirs.
    Snick.
    The door moves but doesn’t open. Waiting for someone to pull, to make the decision to go back there, to look, to see what’s been hiding in the back all this time. For someone to summon the courage to see the truth.
    Her hand quivers on the knob, but not because it’s cold.
    This time, she grabs it.
    This time, she pulls it.
    The moist odor of death hits her, filling her sinuses, sticking to the back of her throat. She gags before covering her face, her eyes tearing up. She uses both hands to filter the foul air.
    It’s dark.
    A small green light glows on a monitor somewhere in the back. She doesn’t search for a light switch, lets her eyes adjust, lets the smell seep out like a tomb that’s been steeped in death for far too long.
    Two examination tables are in the center, side by side.
    A large metal lamp hangs from the ceiling directly over them. One table is empty. There’s a bag on the other, brown vinyl. A zipper bisects the center. The corners bulge with liquid.
    There are no clear windows to see inside.
    She wouldn’t look anyway.
    She knows what’s in there.
    A white tag is attached to the zipper dangling at the top. She pushes through the dense air, adjusting one hand over her face, pinching her nose. She flips the tag over, bends over to read it.
    Miranda Myers. Dispose.
    The room tilts. Begins to turn.
    She uses both hands to cover her face again.
    Because it can’t be. Because Miranda is alive, she’s standing next to the table.
    Not in that bag .
    Something touches her hair.
    She jerks back. A coil of wire dangles on a hook suspended from the ceiling, a needle attached to the end, pointing at the table.
    Pointing at the bag.
    She shakes her head, backing away. The room is dusty.