The Cellar: A Post-Apocalyptic Novella by Richard Dela Cruz

this room.”
    Daren gave her a look.
    “Fine.” Lara placed her hands on her hips. “I slumped you over the wheeled platform and tied you to it. Then I rode it all the way to the entrance.”
    “Ooookay.” Daren drew back from her. “And how did you get me down the stairs?”
    Lara looked down, apparently guilty of some atrocity.
    “Lara?”
    “I strapped you to a sheet of plywood,” she said, “then I…uhm…slid you down the stairs.”
    “Are. You. Kidding me?” Daren shouted. “I could’ve been killed!”
    “But you weren’t,” Lara said. “So drop it already.”
    “Drop it? Drop it? You shoved my unconscious body down a flight of stairs! You can’t just expect me to pretend like—”
    Lara grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards her. She kissed him squarely on the lips. Utter shock and joy turned his tendons into mush. Daren felt suspended in midair. After she finally let go, he was left stunned and slack-jawed.
    “Feel better now?” She twirled her hair with her finger.
    Daren closed his eyes, smiled, and exhaled slowly.
    “You have no idea.”

    ⊕   ⊕   ⊕

    S HERIFF G ARRISON TURNED ON THE wiper to sweep the bug splatter off his windshield. He cursed under his breath as he saw what was ahead. Several news vans were parked near the closed gate while reporters and camera crew milled about. The perky brunette from Channel 8 News saw his cruiser approach and headed straight towards him. Before he could press the button to raise the window, she had the microphone shoved in his face.
    “Sheriff, could you care to comment on the bloodbath?”
    “I can’t say anything at this time.” He raised his palm to her. “My office will release a statement later today.”
    “Do you know how many were killed or how the confrontation began?” She moved the mike closer to his mouth.
    “No comment!”
    He pushed microphone away and closed the window. Pounding the horn with the heel of his palm, he drove right up to the beige-colored gate. The gate slid over to one side, revealing a paved driveway winding through a densely forested area. Several deputies manning the gate blocked the news crews from entering. As soon as Garrison drove in, the gate slid back into place. He reached for his radio to call his senior deputy, but it fizzled out and died. He swore and slammed it down. The county budget cuts were getting ridiculous.
    He rolled down the window and called one of the deputies to come over. A pale, pimply-faced rookie right out of high school trotted over to him.
    “Henson, right?” Garrison rested his arm on the window and poked his head out.
    “Yes, sir!” Henson brought his hand up in a salute.
    “This ain’t the goddamn Marines, son,” Garrison said, “so quit the Gomer Pyle routine.”
    “Sir.” The rookie put down his arm. “Yes, sir!”
    Garrison closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
    “Who’s Gomer Pyle, sir?” Henson asked.
    “Just tell me where the hell Jones is.” Garrison brought down his hand and glared at him.
    Henson’s acne stood out more as he turned even paler. He pointed up the road. “He’s waiting for you at the crime scene, sir.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re not mad at me, are you sir?”
    Garrison muttered under his breath as he floored the accelerator. In the rearview mirror, he saw Henson blankly staring at the back of his vehicle. There was something to be said about more stringent IQ tests.
    The sheriff sped through two miles of winding tree-lined road before he finally reached the compound. The whole morning wasted just trying to get there. Why couldn’t criminals commit offenses in more convenient locations?
    The cruiser slowed to a stop as it approached another gate. This one was open but had razor wire on top. There were two empty sniper towers on either side of the gate. One of the towers had a flag with the words “Don’t Tread On Me” sewn on the fabric. He drove on until he saw several other patrol cars with red and blue flashing