Seriously, Bren, close it.”
Brendan had another idea: he stuck his second and third finger between his lips and whistled. It was one of those skills he was proud of that his sisters hated.
“Bren!”
“I just want to see if he’ll come closer!”
The sound aggravated the bat in the rafters. It dived for the window. Cordelia shrieked as it flew past her and darted outside. The Walker kids watched it zigzag through the mist, threading between the trees – and then the dragonfly whipped out a long tongue and nabbed it.
Eleanor screamed as the dragonfly drew the bat into its mouth and started grinding it into digestible mush. The giant insect buzzed towards the house as it ate, its purple eyes focused on the Walkers like they were next.
Brendan slammed the window shut and they all ran from the attic, not stopping until they got to the kitchen with its comforting (if damaged) stainless-steel appliances. Cordelia promptly opened all the shutters, locked all the windows, and turned to Brendan.
“Not exactly herbivorous,” said Cordelia.
“Where are we?” Eleanor asked. “Bugs aren’t supposed to eat bats! It’s the other way round!”
“Obviously it was different in dinosaur times,” said Brendan. “I think we were sent back to the prehistoric era.” He was reminded of those books Cordelia used to read to him when he was five – the ones with the tree house that travelled through time.
“I don’t know if dragonflies ever got that big,” Cordelia said. “I’m not sure where we are…”
She stopped, noticing a black plastic corner peeking from under the fridge. Her mobile. She pulled it out; it was scuffed but intact. It sprang to electronic life.
“Does it work?” Brendan asked.
Cordelia closed her eyes and made a wish, but when she opened them, she saw what she expected. “No bars.”
“Let me see!” Eleanor grabbed the phone and tried Mum, but got CALL FAILED.
Brendan sighed. “That’s what you get for not having four-G.”
“Maybe the landline works,” Cordelia suggested. Brendan took the cordless white receiver off the wall. He looked at his sisters. They looked like they were about to crack, like they needed some good news. Brendan briefly considered faking a call to 911, so he could give them some hope, but before he could decide if that was a good idea, all the lights in the house went out.
“What did you do?” Eleanor demanded. It wasn’t just the overhead lights; the LEDs on the microwave and stove were out too.
“Nothing!” Brendan said, putting the phone back in its cradle. Sunlight slanted through the curtains.
“I was worried this might happen,” said Cordelia. “We must’ve been running on a backup generator since the attack.”
“We have a backup generator?”
“We must have something – it’s probably in the basement. I don’t think there’s a ‘grid’ out here.”
“So let’s start it back up.”
“With what, Bren? Generators need fuel.”
“Maybe there are fuel cans down there! Come on! We need to do something. Without power we’ll starve—”
“But what if there’s something else in the basement?” asked Eleanor.
“Like Mum and Dad,” said Cordelia. The Walkers looked at each other with a mixture of hope and fear, imagining the ways they could find their parents: safe and well… or laid out on the floor, cold.
“We need to be strong, not psych ourselves out,” said Brendan, trying to sound brave and unexpectedly pulling it off. “There’s gotta be a flashlight somewhere.” He rifled through kitchen drawers until he found a Maglite as thick as Eleanor’s arm. He tested it – it worked – and shone it on an unadorned door at the back of the room.
“Who’s going first?”
“You’ve got the flashlight,” said Eleanor.
Brendan reluctantly opened the door. Rickety wooden steps led down to a cool, cavernous basement that smelled of cedar and dust.
“Was this the part of the house that hung over the cliff?” Cordelia asked.
“I think so. I wonder if the barrels are still there.”
Brendan panned left and right so nothing could jump out at them. Cordelia jammed a shoe in the doorway so they couldn’t get locked in.
They went down the steps. Stacks of cans, a wheelbarrow, and a sledgehammer lay in one corner of the basement; a tent and power tools lay in another. Between them was a black box on six wheels, the size of a mini fridge, pressed against the wall and plugged in.
“Is that it?” Brendan asked.
“I think so…” said Cordelia. She hopped on one leg, not wanting to let her single shoeless foot touch the floor, but when it did, she found it wasn’t so bad; the floor was worn-down wood, almost soft. Brendan read the yellow sign printed on the box: “‘BlackoutReady IPS Twelve Thousand.’ That sounds good.”
He illuminated the box’s control panel; it was completely dead. “Where does the fuel go? Maybe there’s a manual.”
Brendan whipped around the flashlight, saw something on the floor – and screamed.
He was staring at a human hand.
Brendan jumped, knocking over Cordelia and Eleanor. The flashlight hit the floor and rolled, coming to rest beside a rusted old sewing machine. The beam of light pointed to a mannequin on the floor in a half-finished Victorian dress. The mannequin was missing a hand.
“Nice one, Bren,” Cordelia said. She picked up the fake hand; it was made of wax.
“Yeah,” said Eleanor. “You’re freaking out over a dummy. At least Cordelia got scared of a real bat.”
“Whatever.” Brendan took the flashlight and refocused on the BlackoutReady, finding the instructions on top. He read aloud, “‘The generator will automatically begin recharging through the input plug when power returns.’” He groaned. “If power returns.”
“What are we gonna do?” Eleanor asked.
“Sit here and wait to get killed by witches or giant dragonflies. Whatever comes first.”
“Don’t
