Tom enters first. Malorie follows him down wooden stairs. The floor of the cellar is made of dirt. In the darkness, she can smell and feel the earth beneath her bare feet.
The room is suddenly lit as Tom pulls the string on a lightbulb. Malorie is frightened by what she sees. It feels more like a warehouse than a cellar. Seemingly infinite wooden shelves are stocked with canned goods. From ceiling to dirt floor, the place resembles a bunker.
“George built all this,” Tom says, fanning a hand toward the woodwork. “He really was ahead of things.”
To the left, only partially lit by the light, Malorie sees a hanging, transparent tapestry. Behind it rest a washer and a dryer.
“It looks like a lot of food,” Tom says, gesturing toward the cans. “But it’s not. And nobody worries more about how much we have left than Don.”
“How often do you take stock?” Malorie asks.
“Once a week. But sometimes, when I get restless, I’ll come down and check things again the day after I already did it.”
“It’s cool down here.”
“Yeah. A classic cold-storage basement. It’s ideal.”
“What happens if we run out?”
Tom faces her. His features are soft in the light.
“Then we go get more. We raid grocery stores. Other homes. Whatever we can.”
“Right,” Malorie says, nodding.
While Tom marks the paper, Malorie studies the cellar.
“I guess this would be the safest room in the house then,” she says.
Tom pauses. He thinks about it.
“I don’t think so. I think the attic is safer.”
“Why?”
“Did you notice the lock on the walk in here? The door is really old. It locks, but it’s delicate. It’s almost as if this cellar was built first, years ago, before they decided to add a house to it. But the attic door . . . that bolt is incredible. If we needed to secure ourselves, if one of those things were to get into the house, I’d say the attic is where we’d want to go.”
Malorie instinctively looks up. She rubs her shoulders.
If we needed to secure ourselves.
“Judging by how much stock we have left,” Tom says, “we could live another three to four months off it. That sounds like a lot of time, but it passes quickly in here. The days begin to mush together. That’s why we started keeping the calendar on the wall in the living room. You know, in a way, time doesn’t mean a thing anymore. But it’s one of the only things we have that resembles the lives we used to live.”
“The passing of time?”
“Yeah. And what we do with it.”
Malorie steps to a short wooden stool and sits. Tom is still making notes.
“I’ll show you all the chores when we get back upstairs,” Tom says. Then, pointing to a space between the shelves and the hanging tapestry, he says, “Do you see that there?”
Malorie looks but can’t tell what he means.
“Come here.”
Tom walks her to the wall, where some of the brick is broken. Earth shows behind it.
“I can’t tell if this scares me or if I like it,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the ground is exposed. Does that mean we could start digging? Build a tunnel? A second cellar? More room? Or is it just another way to get inside?”
Tom’s eyes are bright and sharp in the cellar light.
“The thing is,” he says, “if the creatures really wanted to get into our house . . . they’d have no problem doing it. And I guess they would have already.”
Malorie stares at the open patch of dirt on the wall. She imagines crawling through tunnels, pregnant. She imagines worms.
After a brief silence, she asks, “What did you do before this happened?”
“My job? I was a teacher. Eighth grade.”
Malorie nods.”I actually thought you looked like one.”
“You know what? I’ve heard that before. Many times! I kind of like that.” He feigns fixing the collar of his shirt. “Class,” he says, “today we’re going to learn all about canned goods. So, everybody, shut the fuck up.”
Malorie laughs.
“What did you do?” Tom asks.
“I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” Malorie says.
“You lost your sister, huh?” Tom says gently.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” Then he says, “I lost a daughter.”
“Oh God, Tom.”
Tom pauses, as if considering whether or not to tell Malorie more. Then he does.