Page 48 of Hunted By Fae

I scan the light over the glass smearing the sidewalk before I angle it up at the face of the building.

The doorframes are hollow.

This place has been raided already.

Suspected it might be the case, since it’s a massive wholesale warehouse that has everything. And we need a lot. So we take the risk. This way, it saves us a few trips, and we don’t need to split up for supplies.

Behind me, the faint tap of fingernails on a gun’s edge is the signal—one, two, three.

Go.

Bee pushes me onwards with that signal.

The butt of the shotgun digs into my shoulder. I lift it up, bringing the torch’s white light to the broken doorway.

Shards are still stuck in the frame.

Carefully, I rinse the white dusty light over the jagged edges of sharp glass. The others behind me trace the light, see the danger.

I don’t need to look over my shoulder at them to know that. We have done this so many times now, it has become second nature.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

Bee’s answer. Our code. Two taps, pause, two taps:Yes/Ok.

It’s her acknowledgement, her way of telling me she sees what I’m showing her, the dangers of the glass shards in the way.

I move for the doorframe.

The glass crunches beneath my boots, muted by my slow, careful steps.

There is no other path to get into the Costco. The noise of the glass is a necessary evil, because the other way in is a jammed roller door. We checked, and found it rusted, stuck, and far too noisy to even attempt.

I stop at the edge of the frame.

The torchlight washes over the floor. I search for more glass, for a clear path. Then I raise the shotgun, and the light rises with it.

Slow, I rinse the white beam over the membership scanners, the checkouts, then the empty shelves.

I drop the light again, and rinse it, back and forth, over a scattered mess of cardboard boxes, ripped and fallen, on the concrete floor.

The signal comes from behind me.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

They see it, the obstacles in our path.

I lift my leg, then reach out my boot for the corner of cardboard. It flattens, inaudible, before I lean my weight onto it.

My muscles tense, breath stills—and I wait for the crunch of glass. None comes.

The layers of cardboard muffles me.

But the crunching glass is loud behind me, not terribly, but loud enough that I keep the shotgun lifted, finger lingering over the trigger.

Then—

Tap, tap, tap.