make it to the back steps of the apartment building undetected.
I shrugged off the messenger bag and left it where Fostino had told me to place it. Then I exhaled, and headed to the factory.
*
After work, I came back to the alley and knocked on the door at the back of the apartment building. No one answered. My messenger bag was gone.
What about the bag? Where did it go? Did Fostino pick it up as he promised, or did someone else, someone from The Party find it?
Panic flooded my body. I pressed myself against the brick of the building, buried my hands in my face. I tried not to cry or panic, and sat there I heard the distinct sound of the crunch of boots on gravel.
“Charlotte,” said an out of breath Fostino. “I’m sorry I’m late.” He gave me a reassured grin.
“They had the roundups last night,” I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my thin sweater. “They came and took the Mon Swaynes like they were criminals.”
Fostino gave me a curt, no-nonsense nod. “I know.” Changing the subject, he said, “I put your bag in the apartment.” He held out a hand to help me up. “Want to see it?”
“Sure,” I whispered.
He led me down a long hallway with four doors on either side. A musty smell filled the hallway. To the right of the back door, a few steps led up to the second floor. We didn’t go up. Down the hall, two of the doors hung off their hinges. At the sixth door, he stopped.
“So, this is it,” he announced as he pushed open the wooden door.
Inside the door, I saw a ten-foot-by-ten-foot square room that seemed surprisingly cozy. A folded up Murphy bed sat in the corner. A bathroom broke off from the north side, across the room from a small couch and a flat 4-D TV programmed to play state propaganda nailed into the wall. Ages ago, someone had covered all the walls in sea foam green paint and I saw a place where it peeled away from the wall. A bare coffee table completed the room. My messenger bag lay beside the bed along with a stack of folded white sheets and a blanket.
“Thank you, Fostino,” I said, taking in the room.
“Come here. I need to show you this.” Fostino shut the door and walked towards the area where the bed was. He motioned and then knelt down. He ran his hand along some of the floorboards until he caught what he wanted. As I watched, he lifted up the boards with some force and grimaced.
“Holy crap!” I jumped back a little, startled by the transformation of the floor.
“It’s an old bomb shelter.” He beckoned me to look. I saw a five-by-ten foot room dug into the earth and lined in concrete. The room had enough space for people to stand up straight and not hit their heads. Someone had placed a small cot, lantern, table, and chair inside the secret room.
“Why is it so big?”
“The building has four of these. I guess they were supposed to protect people who lived here if a nuclear bomb ever hit. You know, from way back in the 1950s or whatever. I guess that’s when someone built this building. I never really bothered to find out. A couple years ago, my dad converted the rooms into tornado shelters instead of filling them in with concrete. I’d forgotten these were here until I found this one last week. Maybe it’s a good thing.”
“Yeah…” I whispered, overwhelmed.
“You should be able to stay here for as long as you want,” he continued. We still crouched on the floor. He sat less than two inches away from me. Slowly, he reached over and brushed some hair out of my face. “God, I am drawn to you like some kind of…” Even as he trailed off, his words covered us like a warm, thick blanket.
“Did you tell your parents about me?”
“No.” He didn’t take his eyes off mine. “And my parents don’t ask a lot of questions.”
My mouth turned dry, so I just changed the subject. “Patrolling tonight?” I asked, and thought of the time.
“I patrol most nights, Char.” Fostino raised his eyebrow.
“Of course,” I replied and
I shrugged off the messenger bag and left it where Fostino had told me to place it. Then I exhaled, and headed to the factory.
*
After work, I came back to the alley and knocked on the door at the back of the apartment building. No one answered. My messenger bag was gone.
What about the bag? Where did it go? Did Fostino pick it up as he promised, or did someone else, someone from The Party find it?
Panic flooded my body. I pressed myself against the brick of the building, buried my hands in my face. I tried not to cry or panic, and sat there I heard the distinct sound of the crunch of boots on gravel.
“Charlotte,” said an out of breath Fostino. “I’m sorry I’m late.” He gave me a reassured grin.
“They had the roundups last night,” I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my thin sweater. “They came and took the Mon Swaynes like they were criminals.”
Fostino gave me a curt, no-nonsense nod. “I know.” Changing the subject, he said, “I put your bag in the apartment.” He held out a hand to help me up. “Want to see it?”
“Sure,” I whispered.
He led me down a long hallway with four doors on either side. A musty smell filled the hallway. To the right of the back door, a few steps led up to the second floor. We didn’t go up. Down the hall, two of the doors hung off their hinges. At the sixth door, he stopped.
“So, this is it,” he announced as he pushed open the wooden door.
Inside the door, I saw a ten-foot-by-ten-foot square room that seemed surprisingly cozy. A folded up Murphy bed sat in the corner. A bathroom broke off from the north side, across the room from a small couch and a flat 4-D TV programmed to play state propaganda nailed into the wall. Ages ago, someone had covered all the walls in sea foam green paint and I saw a place where it peeled away from the wall. A bare coffee table completed the room. My messenger bag lay beside the bed along with a stack of folded white sheets and a blanket.
“Thank you, Fostino,” I said, taking in the room.
“Come here. I need to show you this.” Fostino shut the door and walked towards the area where the bed was. He motioned and then knelt down. He ran his hand along some of the floorboards until he caught what he wanted. As I watched, he lifted up the boards with some force and grimaced.
“Holy crap!” I jumped back a little, startled by the transformation of the floor.
“It’s an old bomb shelter.” He beckoned me to look. I saw a five-by-ten foot room dug into the earth and lined in concrete. The room had enough space for people to stand up straight and not hit their heads. Someone had placed a small cot, lantern, table, and chair inside the secret room.
“Why is it so big?”
“The building has four of these. I guess they were supposed to protect people who lived here if a nuclear bomb ever hit. You know, from way back in the 1950s or whatever. I guess that’s when someone built this building. I never really bothered to find out. A couple years ago, my dad converted the rooms into tornado shelters instead of filling them in with concrete. I’d forgotten these were here until I found this one last week. Maybe it’s a good thing.”
“Yeah…” I whispered, overwhelmed.
“You should be able to stay here for as long as you want,” he continued. We still crouched on the floor. He sat less than two inches away from me. Slowly, he reached over and brushed some hair out of my face. “God, I am drawn to you like some kind of…” Even as he trailed off, his words covered us like a warm, thick blanket.
“Did you tell your parents about me?”
“No.” He didn’t take his eyes off mine. “And my parents don’t ask a lot of questions.”
My mouth turned dry, so I just changed the subject. “Patrolling tonight?” I asked, and thought of the time.
“I patrol most nights, Char.” Fostino raised his eyebrow.
“Of course,” I replied and
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