Makkedah Diggs

Finding

There are no sounds. No birds chirping, no bees buzzing, no breeze blowing. That’s how I know that their mutagens are nearby, tracking. I jostle the knob to the steel door on the little house. It doesn’t budge. A low growl escapes my lips in frustration and I thump my forehead against the door. This is the third one I’ve tried, but something is telling me that I’m supposed to be here. I pull my hand into my sleeve and shiver, due more to the eerie silence than the late October evening. I used to love quiet nights when it was still Before when She would tuck me in the back seat of the beat-up SUV that smelled of oil and grass shavings, the one with the makeshift sunroof where we could look up at the stars. I’d thought I heard her singing last night like she used to before putting me to bed. It scared me awake before I realized it was only me serenading myself in the space between alertness and slumber. Her face is blurry now, but I remember her voice, lilting and bell-like, trailing off with the sweet hush of the night air. My throat tightens and I taste salt on the back of my tongue as I choke back the memory. I miss her. Too many deadly things are silent now and you can never be certain what kind of mutagen might meet you in the twilight. I swipe at the window to the left, brushing away caked-on grime. I can just make out some broken-down furniture and a few pillows scattered across a dirty floor. Other squatters. It must’ve been weeks, though. Even squinting from here, I can see that dust has settled over those pillows and any footprints are long gone. But the door is locked, so there must be another way in. I tighten the belted backpack around my waist and try lifting the shatterproof windows, tripping along the bramble skirting the foundation.