Dark Eden by Patrick Carman

knew it was me, Marisa couldn’t get across the open space of the room fast enough. She moved like a gazelle, sliding on her stocking feet. She’d changed into a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, but was still wearing the same T-shirt.
    “You scared me half to death,” she said, and I felt her breath on my face, warm and soft. She had heard my voice at the start. I realized I must have startled her. I felt guilty for making her feel that way.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “It’s okay. I scare easily at night. And I have insomnia. Bad combo.”
    She must have been able to tell I was afraid, too. Maybe I was even backing away, making my retreat for the bomb shelter. Her voice was calm, soothing almost, and she was reaching her hand out toward me as if I was a scared dog that she was trying to reason with.
    “Come on, it’s okay, Will. No one else is awake.”
    I stepped through the doorway, the faint light over the table drawing my eyes.
    “Better leave something to block the door,” she whispered. “It doesn’t open from this side. I’ve tried.”
    She looked at me curiously, as if she wanted to ask what was down the long corridor and how I’d come to find the other side of the door, but she didn’t ask. I took off my shoes, setting one on the floor at the doorjamb, and I let the door swing next to it. I was inside Fort Eden, someplace I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be.
    “Over here,” she said, taking my hand and guiding me to the right, away from the round table and the faint light. She wasn’t holding my hand so much as dragging me forward like a little kid through a grocery store, and when we reached a grouping of furniture, she let go. I looked at the ceiling as we went, trying to find a surveillance camera, but there was hardly any light to see by. There was something about this corner that seemed important from the start: it was out of range of the view I’d seen in the bomb shelter. We were hidden from whatever camera fed into the bomb shelter monitor.
    She pointed back in the direction from which we’d come.
    “Everyone is sleeping down there, at the other end. Plus the doors are solid and heavy in this place. I’m not sure they’d hear us if we screamed.”
    “Let’s not find out,” I said, following the direction in which she pointed. I saw three doors along one wall.
    “The one on the left is for the girls, on the right is for the boys,” she said, and I imaged beds and a bathroom on either side, like little dorm rooms.
    “What about the middle door? Where’s that one go?” I asked.
    She sat on a leather couch, ignoring my question, and I noticed the book in her hand but didn’t ask what it was. Everything was bathed in shadows, so I took note of what I saw as best I could. I wanted to know this place, to map it out if I could.
    “It’s big in here,” I said, sitting down at the other end of the couch, not wanting to scare her away.
    “Will,” she said, leaning in a little closer. “How did you end up on the other side of that door?”
    My throat turned dry, so dry, in fact, that I didn’t think I’d have a voice if I tried to speak again. I pulled off my pack and cracked open a bottle of water, holding it out to her.
    “No thanks.”
    Two quick sips, then the cap went back on. Where to begin?
    “There’s another building, I’m in there.”
    “You mean Mrs. Goring’s place?”
    “Yeah, there’s a basement. I’m staying in the basement.”
    “But how—”
    She seemed to add up things in her head, to imagine how I might have arrived there, and her voice died in the shadows.
    “I’m fine,” I said, not knowing how much I should say. “It’s dry. Better than staying in the woods.”
    I had questions, many of them, but one in particular I didn’t know how to ask.
    Is Ben Dugan dead?
    If I asked the question she would know I could see things, and that would lead to more questions I didn’t want to answer. Not yet anyway.
    “What’s he