Worse was his disappearance two years prior. Cops had found his wallet on the table, his car in the garage, a pot of beans bubbling on the stove. But Glenn was gone—no footprints, no calls, no trace.
“Everyone said he hid,” Mia whispered, her voice shaking. “That he built a… shelter. For the apocalypse.”
Shelter. The word struck Rose like lightning. The cold spots by the vents. The trampled daisies. The door left ajar. The missing milk. All the threads wove together, forming a single, terrifying truth—she wasn’t alone in the house.
She thanked Mia and Jake, walking home in a daze. The moment she stepped into the backyard, she zeroed in on the daisy bed. Behind it, the hedge that had always looked “too perfect”—too neat, too still—beckoned. She reached out, her fingers brushing plastic.
She tugged, and the entire hedge came away—a mesh of fake leaves, a mask hiding emptiness. Beneath it, the soil was packed hard, dark with use. In the center, half-buried in vines and leaves, lay a rusted metal hatch. Its edges were polished smooth, worn by countless hands. Below it, a rickety iron ladder descended into blackness, a tunnel to hell.
Rose couldn’t breathe. Her heart roared in her ears, a drum out of control. Sunlight hit her face, but she felt cold, so cold. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slipping on the screen. Finally, she dialed 911, her voice breaking as she gave the address. “My backyard… there’s a bunker… someone’s inside.”