Page 114 of Hunted By Fae

It is cold in me, a blizzard in my chest that pushes me along the road, a race against awhat if, and I chase any semblance of safety I can find.

My boots don’t slip as easily on the snowy grass, so I keep to it for as long as I can—until I reach the brewery.

Or what was once a brewery.

Arm raised out in front of me, I aim my nightlights at the face of the shack standing before me.

That’s what it is.

A shack.

The wooden boards that should slat across the face of the brewery are disjointed and, some, torn off the nails. The door sits crooked and cracked at the side.

It’s been ransacked.

More than once.

And it has faced a battle. Not recently, since below the broken windows, glass should be littered along the porch, but the porch is buried in snow, and the windows are poorly boarded up.

Must have been when the blackout hit, and panic turned on people.

I’ll be better off if I keep on the road all the way up to the town and find someplace there to take shelter. I need a spot to hide out before the girls close the distance between us. But I’ve been moving since I got caught in the dark unit’s bounds, and I haven’t stopped to let myself rest. I feel the exertion in my legs, muscles stretched and tugged and taut.

It’s the snow.

Steps aren’t easy through the snow.

I need the rest now, so I start up the creaky steps for the porch.

My face twists with a cringe—too much noise, always too much noise. But there’s no avoiding it. The porch groans just as loud, and the door creaks at the slightest push.

I slip through the gap, then gently close the door behind me. The latch takes a moment to wrench into place and lock. Once it’s secure, I turn my back on the door and reach out the bracelet of nightlights.

Pushing the dusty light onwards, I move through the brewery.

My teeth bare in a grimace.

A minefield of old corpses and toppled chairs and fallen tables, empty shells and bullet casings

I sneak around the minefield to the doors on the opposite wall. A storage closet, the doors hanging off the hinges, and part of the wood blasted away.

The closer I get, the stronger the stench of chemicals. I take a quick peek at the shelves, and though I expected it, the sight of the shotgun-blasted bleach bottles sags me.

Bleach is the best way to mute a scent.

But I’m out of luck—and it’s feeling a lot like I’m cursed these past six hours or so, like the gods are working against me.

Still, hope flickers in me like a candle flame, and I check the next door.

It opens to the kitchen.

Rat droppings are scattered all over the counter tops.

I kick through the cupboard doors here and there, but all I find is a bottle of water.

No bleach, no tinned food, just a bottle of water.

I take it back into the open area, then climb my way over the fallen fridge to hide behind the bar.