Russell moved his head around and squinted, studying the ether and listening for any subtle hint of movement. His shoulder pressed against the door. He leaned forward, pushing it open but a scant inch or so.
The hinges creaked a warning. He froze and listened for a reaction. None came. Another loud report sounded from the darkness.
The door opened farther. The squeaking hinges whined. The flashlight sliced through the murk of the windowless space, and the Ruger followed the strident beam.
Russell kept his finger pressed against the side of the trigger guard. He remained focused and steadfast, not wanting to jump the gun from being nervous and on edge.
The small storage room had a variety of items piled all around. A cluttered mess that made it hard to see past. An office sat in the far corner–black and empty as far as he could tell. A hallway wound around the jamb of the door, trailing off into more blinding darkness.
The stack of plastic crates piled next to the entrance hinged on tipping over. Russell brushed past the leaning tower. His leg clipped the side. The crates rushed to the ground. He grabbed the square plastic containers and placed his body in front of them.
A sigh of relief escaped his lips. The beads of sweat populating his brow increased.
Russell navigated the mess, trying to avoid any more unwanted sounds from stepping on the loose product and other such items that junked up the storage area. The beam trained at the open door of the office, then to the hallway. He craned his neck and tried to see inside the darkened space, but couldn’t see past the edge of the jamb.
The boxes dumped over before him blocked his path. Their contents spread all over the floor, adding to the mess. He stepped over the junk, boots crushing packages of what felt like soft food under him.
The beam trained at the doorway, playing off the wood grain of the door, then to the white walls of the office. A coat rack hung on the wall with an assortment of jackets dangling from the silver hooks mounted to the plank of molded wood.
A beige filing cabinet sat in the corner with a mound of paperwork stuffed into the sections of the file trays piled on top. The plastic bottoms bent under the weight.
Russell panned the light, revealing a desk and body slumped over the cluttered top on the other side. He paused, then slipped his finger inside the trigger guard. He held a bated breath, studying the scene.
A mural of blood painted the wall behind the bald man. Thin lines of crimson red streaked the surface toward the floor. It looked dried as far as he could tell.
His thick, rounded arms laid sprawled out over the desktop. The side of his face pressed to the surface. His ring finger had been cut off, just below the knuckle. Blood pooled under his fat, hairy hand.
Russell peered around the jamb and looked over the rest of the small, cluttered office. The safe on the floor in the far corner sat open. The contents had been dumped on the floor and rummaged through. Nothing more than papers and booklets.
The crunching of metal rang out from the hallway. Russell froze, turned, then backed up to the jamb. The Ruger and the light trained at the hallway.
Russell toed the corner of the wall, then peered down the corridor. The beam washed over the walls but found no dark clad figures near the exit. He breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head.
The flashlight swept the packaged goods on the floor. Russell bent down and sifted through the mess for the next thirty minutes or so. Most of the food had been opened, crushed, or damaged in some sort of way, making it less appealing.
He found a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and gulped down the refreshing liquid in one fell swoop. The bottle emptied fast. Russell savored the water, then discarded it to the dark recess of the back room.
The swinging door flew open. Clyde stood at the entrance with his piece in hand.
“Cage. Everything all right back here?” he asked. “You’ve been back here for a bit.”
Russell pointed the beam at him. “Yeah, minus the dead guy in the office with his brains painting the wall, it’s all good. I thought I heard someone messing with the door down the hall here, but I guess it was nothing. Not much food in tact that hasn’t been crushed.”
Clyde leaned against the door. He glanced over his shoulder, then nodded at the entrance. “There’s a ton more folks out in the street and on the sidewalks. They’re beating up any cars and catching buildings on fire. We can try to ride it out and see what happens. It sounds pretty bad.”
“What does Cathy want to do?” Russell asked, raising his brow.
“She doesn’t want to sit idle for too long,” Clyde answered, peering over his shoulder to the sales floor. “Since you changed her bandage and she’s had a bit to rest, she’s ready to get back on the move. To be honest, I’m with her on that. The sooner we get out of this crap storm and find her daughter, the better.”
Russell didn’t like the sound of the growing mob outside and understood how they felt. “All right. Go get Cathy and bring her back here. I’m going to check the alley to make sure it’s clear,” Russell said.
The glass door to the entrance of the business rattled. Fists hammered the front.
Max growled and barked.
Clyde turned, then said, “Damn it.”
“You got that?” Russell asked, pointing at the main entrance to the store.
“Yeah. I got
