Карл Бистром - 4:17

So here they sat in that dim basement, her dad mindlessly filling a plastic bucket with pebbles, one toss at a time. Maybe they should have kept walking—but boy did she enjoy the feeling of Anya’s hands in her hair.

A clatter of footsteps echoed from the stairwell behind them and all three of them raised their heads at the sound. Phoebe exchanged a look with her dad. He lifted his hand in a ‘just wait’ gesture, then Derek burst around the corner at the base of the stairs, stumbled, and stopped next to them. He bent, hands on his knees, panting.

“God,” Derek said, between heaving breaths. “It’s crazy out there!”

Anya let go of Phoebe’s hair and reached out to Derek, touching his arm. “Where’s Scott?”

Derek shook his head. His face, obscured by the scarf and short-billed knit hat that he always wore, pointed toward the floor. “He didn’t make it.”

“What?” Anya flashed through a half-dozen expressions—confusion, disbelief, fear, sorrow, anger—before settling into a mask of impassiveness.

Tears swelled in Phoebe’s eyes. Even if his hair stank, Scott was the nicest of the men in the group, always kind and helpful but never asking for anything in return. Other than her dad, Scott was the only one that didn’t gaze at her in that way men always did—assessing, appraising, imagining whatever it was that they imagined. She didn’t pretend Scott had some special nobility of character or anything, just assumed that he got what he needed from Anya, but Phoebe appreciated it just the same.

Derek continued between gasps. “There was another group… they came in… we were scavenging… and….”

The way that he trailed off confirmed that Scott wouldn’t be coming back. Phoebe shot a tearful glance at her dad. He frowned.

“Did you see who did it?” Anya asked.

“You kidding?” Derek replied, still staring at the ground. “I wouldn’t look ’em in the face!”

A sudden clatter of metal echoed from the floor above them. The all looked at the ceiling and froze. Someone else was up there.

The six companions stood in a circle at the center of the brightest room in the basement enclave. The sun’s rays poured in from the windows, reflecting off the whitewashed walls and lighting the dust in hazy gray dots. They all shifted their weight from foot to foot, clenched their hands, and stared at the floor as they contemplated the question before them.

“I don’t think we should bring her in,” Anya pulled her furred coat tighter around her shoulders. “She might be the one who killed Scott.”

Peter straightened to his full height. “I’ve talked to her. I don’t think she knows anything about Scott. She saw Derek come into the building, but the rest is just an accident of timing.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Anya’s disdain rang sharp. “She killed him or she was with the people that did.”

“Even if she was,” Derek said, “could you really blame her?”

“Scott’s dead.” Anya replied. “I’m not going to invite his murderer to dinner.”

“Say what you want, but Scott had to look someone in the eye to die,” Derek said. “I can’t blame anyone for simply surviving.”

“I can.” Anya said, almost hissing the words.

“We’ve got to give her the benefit of the doubt,” Chad said. “None of us would be here if we didn’t…”

“Hey, guys,” Peter interrupted. “Let’s tie up. We don’t need anyone else dying today.”

Everyone fell silent. Each retrieved a bandana from a pocket or lifted a scarf from around their neck and tied it tight over their eyes to ensure that no glance could pass between them. As they secured their defense, their shoulders relaxed and their breath deepened. The tension tangibly eased.

Ray brought a pair of novelty glasses out of his pocket and slipped them over his blindfold. “I think we should let her in,” he said. “Now that she knows we’re here—it’s that or kill her. Besides, we need some more female energy around here anyways.” While speaking, he moved his googly-eyed shades forward and backward like an ogling cartoon-character, in spite of the fact that no-one could see his gesture.

“Whatever.” Phoebe doubtless accompanied her exasperation with an eye-roll behind the fabric stretched tight across her nose.

“Look, the fact is we can’t trust anyone,” Peter said. “Not even ourselves. That’s why we’re all wearing blindfolds.”

“Hey,” Derek said, “speak for yourself.”

“Hey!” Peter’s tone sharpened. “If I get miffed, and look at any of you, and even think about you dropping down dead. You will.”

Silence.

“‘Miffed?’ Really?” Ray chuckled. “Who says ‘miffed?’”

Derek snorted.

“Yeah, miffed .” Peter said. “Just a tiny bit irritated. That’s all it takes for that stray thought to cross my mind. That doesn’t make me an evil person. It’s the exact same for her out there.”

“He’s right.” Chad said. “We don’t know what happened. An accident, self-defense. It doesn’t really matter. We’ve got to give her a chance. We don’t know if she has anything to do with Scott.”

“I still don’t trust her.” Anya’s voice tightened with resolve.

“Maybe that says more about you than it does about her,” Derek said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Please,” Phoebe’s arms spread out in emphasis. “Just stop!”

They stood for a full minute with only the sound of their breathing and the soft rustle of clothing as they swayed and shifted posture.

“Okay.” Chad said, breaking the silence. “Vote. All in favor of letting her in?”

The four men all chimed “Aye” in quick succession.

After a pause, Phoebe added her vote: “Aye.”

Anya huffed.

“Okay,” Ray said, ignoring Anya. “We’re all good then. Let’s eat!”

“I’ll bring her in.” Peter said. He pulled the bandana from his eyes as he turned from the group and headed toward the stairs.

Seven figures huddled in a small circle, sitting on overturned boxes and crates in a corner of the basement, hunched forward as if around an imaginary fire. Sara, the newcomer, bundled in her fur-lined winter coat, leaned slightly into Peter, who crouched on the floor, perhaps mindful that his lanky body would otherwise tower over the rest of them. On the other side of Sara, Chad sat with his daughter, Phoebe. Across from them, having reached a detente, Anya and Derek shared a crate. All of their faces had turned toward Ray, whose soft, generous presence seemed to radiate warmth, although their eyes meandered in an effort to avoid each other’s gaze.

“I offer this meal up,” Ray said, handing the open cans of tangerines and green beans to his comrades around the circle and raising his in a toast, “to our fallen brothers and sisters.” Six cans lifted in response. “Rest in peace, Scotty.”

The solemnity of the moment washed quickly away as the group welcomed Sara into the fold, telling stories about each other, attempting to encapsulate one another’s charm or wit or tenderness in a pithy recounting of one misadventure or another. All of them had learned early not to dwell on death, that burden simply could not be borne in this new world. They could only move forward. Sara asked questions, laughed at jokes, and soon everyone, even Anya, smiled and warmed to the novelty of a new presence.

“Noooo!”

Everybody rushed to the source of the bellowing that echoed through the basement and their hackles rose quickly as they took in the scene. Anger and suspicion filled the air. The men tousled, yelling at each other in rage and astonishment.