Amazingly, even a small fire brought warmth back before too much time had passed. Still, Terah’s stomach reminded him he needed to find Mich’s stash. But long years in society urged him to lock the door first. Besides, he needed to try to memorize the path. He picked up Mich’s flashlight and tried to walk as silently as he could. He hoped there were batteries in the kid’s stash. Still relying on the red blazes he found the stairs and paused, as Mich did, at the top. The smell of his own urine was strong. He hadn’t asked Mich what he did about such things, but now that this was his house, Terah’d make up his own rules. All was silent. He followed the blazes to the central pyramid. The clerestory window from this angle was closed. Counting carefully, he found the main corridor and followed it passed the two ninety-degree turns to the front door. Open, as he’d left it.
Shoving it shut, he rejected Mich’s logic. He wanted to barricade himself in. Anyone coming to it would suppose stuff had simply collapsed, blocking egress. They’d have no reason to suppose Dr. Terah Economy was trying to hide out here. Why had Mich not wanted to get caught? Had the young man committed some hometown crime? Trying to avoid juvie?
The heavy door could close all the way. Enough detritus was scattered around to make an effective blockade. If he found stuff moved later, he’d know he wasn’t alone. His stomach rumbled loudly. A slave to biology, he decided he’d better find the kid’s stash. How hard could it be? It was in the basement, that much he knew. Working his way back to the central stair, he saw the clerestory window was closed. The wind. It had to’ve been the wind. To think any differently was to invite trouble in this gloomy, dark, and empty place.
As he made his way back to the trail of blazes, carefully counting around the octagon, Terah thought how in real life he’d always wanted a larger house than he had. Growing up he’d lived in apartments until mom married a guy with a house. If you could call it that. Not well built, the structure at least kept the rain off and provided warmth in the winter. Originally just four rooms with an attic, a bathroom had been added as an afterthought, and there were places where you could see the sky without looking out a window. The stairs to the attic folded up which meant that if stepdad were drunk you could get trapped up there. Sure, you could push the trapdoor open, but the hinges wouldn’t hold your weight to try to unfold the stair-ladder. That ladder, through the miracle of the hypotenuse, had structural rigidity, but without it being on the floor, the trapdoor lived up to its name.
In those days Terah dreamed of bigger houses. A place where he could go and be far away from stepdad Fred. A place where he could read without hearing the ubiquitous television noise. A place where he would never have to hear “My house, my rules” again. Still, the asylum was a little too big. He’d never really be certain if he was alone here. Sound echoed off the concrete walls. Back down the stairs, ducking to avoid the pipes, Terah turned left at each juncture. The little fire was still going and he renewed his warmth before seeking Mich’s horde. The kid had quickly disappeared in the dark when going for the granola bars. With the flashlight Terah could see a set of eight boilers crowded together. They were surrounded by eight furnaces, long extinct. He tried to determine the fuel source. Stepdad Fred’s house had been gas, but it had no basement. The only source of heat in the entire place had been a large, metal gas-burner right there in the living room. It had an outside vent, and had the house been any more tightly sealed it would’ve been a death trap of carbon monoxide. Terah shuddered thinking about it.
After leaving home he’d only ever lived in dorms and apartments. You didn’t know the fuel source and you didn’t care. Somebody else’s responsibility. Examining the rusty, antique furnaces he couldn’t guess how they worked. They could make hiding places, though. So could the dry boilers. Beyond the furnaces a labyrinth of corridors. Mich had likely marked these too, but no red blazes appeared. How would Terah find his way back here with no map and no clues?
The room in the church back in Stanton Station had been just the right size. No mazes. No puzzles.
Logic dictated that if Mich had hung out in this utility room—which was likely at least in winter—he’d want things conveniently located, but not easily found if someone else wandered down here. But there were simply too many places to hide things. A lithe, young guy like Mich could’ve scrambled up and utilized the tops of unused pipes. He could’ve laid out an elaborate set of signs through the labyrinth of corridors. Damn! This was going to take forever. Terah’s stomach was insisting that it didn’t. There was nothing for it but to begin systematically searching. He’d have to figure a way to mark his progress as he went, so as not to repeat his efforts. Why had this place been built with such confusing symmetry?
The sound wasn’t loud. Concrete formed an echo chamber and even here he could hear something upstairs. Knowing from past experience that when you ignored hunger the pains would eventually go away to await the next mealtime, Terah decided that he had to investigate. Assert his rights of prior occupation, if need be. Mich had claimed he was here alone, and although the kid struck him as guileless, how could he be sure? The couple having sex had looked real enough.
Hoping the flashlight batteries were fresh, he began his series of right turns. The sounds were different this time. Not someone shuffling through detritus. Not moans of passion. Halfway up the stairs he heard it distinctly. A scream.
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