The coasts have always been peaceful, until the waters revolt against the land.
In 2047, long-term marine pollution alters the genetics of aquatic organisms, turning them into bloodthirsty monsters. The Loch Ness, the Krakens... these mythical being...
"B-but–" I stutter. "I don't know how to use a gun!"
"We don't have a choice. I'll teach you right here." She takes my fingers and wraps them around the black, sleek object. "There are 17 rounds in each magazine. The safety switch is right here. It's disabled now, but in the event you've to use it, shift the lever. The red dot will appear, which means it's ready for fire. Hold it with both your hands like this, otherwise, the recoil will knock you off balance." She pauses briefly as she senses my frenzied emotions. "If you can't remember, just know this—red means 'death'."
The impromptu lesson on firing a gun has me all nervous, and I gulp. "Right, Mom. You make it sound so easy. But you forget one more thing—what if I misfire?"
Honestly, I'm afraid of holding a gun. This isn't like the toy gun that shoots out foam darts, which I played when I was a kid. "Good grief," I breathe out nervously. "I don't want to end up shooting somebody's brains."
Mom gives a snort of somewhere in between humor and derisiveness. "You'll get it after your first shot," she says confidently, her eyes crinkling as she smirks. "The way I remember it, you were a wonderful shooter ever since you were a toddler. You bullied poor Dean and he couldn't stop crying for ages."
Mom is referring to the boy who lives—no, lived—right next door. He's a year older than me and attended the same high school as me. Phasing into our teen years has us drifting apart, but back in those days, we used to be play pals. We would run across our yards and chase each other down, including firing our toy guns at each other. But like Mom said, my terrific aiming had often left Dean with a bruised forehead and arms. Sorry, but not sorry.
At the memory, I release a snort of laughter, but it dies off quickly. I'm wondering if my neighbors are still alive. And if they are, are they hiding somewhere just like us?
But whichever it is, I figure that I'm better off not knowing anything.
Mom sees me frowning at the gun and squeezes my arm. "You'll manage—I'm sure of it. You've always been good at this sort of stuff. A fast learner. Do whatever you need to survive and don't get hurt."
"And," she pauses, swallowing the lump in her throat. Tears glisten in her eyes. "If anything happens to me, I want you to know that you're the best thing that happens to me in my life."
It's because Clara and Mia lost George, so Mom is saying all this stuff to me. My vision blurs as tears form on the edges. "No." I shake my head slowly at her. "No, Mom. Please don't say that. Nothing's going to happen to you. We'll walk out of this hellhole together. No promises, please, because things will work out."
Promises hold no meaning. Mia's father promised his daughter that he would return, but look what happened to him? Dead. Taken away by the monsters.
Mom can't look away from my begging expression. "Okay." She sniffs and pulls herself together before crushing me against her chest. "Together."
I return her hug, lingering there for a minute, before we pull apart so that I can continue my training. Lifting the gun again, I hold it properly, like how Mom has taught me, not forgetting to shove the cartridges into my pockets. It's a shame I can't fire a test round right here, but Mom is right—it's better for me to be equipped with the right weapon. Those creatures outside move at a frightening speed, and not to forget, they come in massive sizes and claws. I'll be dead if I don't kill them first.
Double checking that the safety switch remains on, I tuck my gun into my hoodie pocket. The adults are checking out the supplies that Charles and Max have brought back; pre-packed and canned food, bottled water, basic medication and guns from the antique shop that Charles has mentioned earlier. They can last us for weeks ahead. Our water supply is still fine, as it comes from the tap running in the toilet at the back. Mom, Emily and I have been trying to fill them up in buckets, bottles and whatever that we can find, just in case the worst happens to us.
Time passes as slow as a moving sloth. Clara hasn't stopped shedding tears over her husband's death. Mom stays right by her side, whereas Emily is cleaning up the men's wounds while they run checks over our newly gained guns. This leaves me with my babysitting job.
And that's when I finally notice that something is amiss.
The girl is not in her bed.
"Mia?" My voice grows increasingly frightened. I spin around on my heels and scan the room, but she's nowhere in sight. Not even in the squeaky bed in the corner that Black Rose Bar's staff used to occupy. "Mia? Where are you?"
I search around the wall, passing by Matteo, who's already drinking into his third bottle of wine. His cheeks are red and his words are slurring like an old man, but I don't care. All I see is a mope of mousy brown hair vanishing up the stairs. My legs immediately spring into action and I give chase, despite a part of me dreading what I might find.
Much to my horror, what I feared has turned into reality.
No one is in sight except for the storm gale and rain blustering into our hideout. Watching the exit door to the wine cellar swing open and slam close with an eerie emptiness, my heart plummets to the floor. It feels as if air is sucked out of me with a vacuum and I can't breathe.
No, no. This can't be happening.
Mia, the sweetest kid I've ever known, has run out into the storm in search of her father.
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