“There is so much wrong with what you just said.”
Ignoring me, she shoots me a look over her shoulder.
“Be careful, though. The beans will give you flatulence.”
“Sawyer, stop fucking talking.”
“It’s helping with my anxiety.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not helping with my headache. Now get behind me. I want to make sure it’s safe first,” I snap, grabbing her arm and physically dragging her back when she nearly steps on a piece of glass.
“Chill,” she huffs, ripping herself out of my grip.
“You were about to step on glass. You almost hurt yourself. Walk where I walk.”
“My hero,” she grumbles, venom in her tone. But I ignore her, approaching a dirty and splintering wooden door. That ominous feeling deepens, and I’m starting to wonder if I should just take my chances with the ocean.
Stopping before the door, I knock on it a few times, waiting for several long moments. Silence.
Slowly, I turn the rusty knob, finding it unlocked. The door creaks open, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the smell of mildew and stale air.
We come directly into a small living area. There’s a blue couch to the right with a little end table next to it, and a lamp on top with junk scattered around it. A crease forms between my brows when I spot bullets and what looks like an antique key. The crease deepens when I note a portable fireplace in front of the couch, sitting next to a tiny box television on a stand. There’s ash piled inside the fireplace. Placing a hand to the black metal, my chest clenches when I feel how warm it is.
My eyes skip around the room, my muscles tensing with wariness. The far left wall is covered in bookcases, filled with cracked spines and what looks like children's books. There is a thin layer of dust on the end table and only a few cobwebs draping along the peeling floral wallpaper. This place should be covered in grime, and though it’s no five-star hotel, it certainly looks lived in.
Straight ahead is a doorway that leads into a large kitchen and dining room area, my stomach twisting as I walk farther in. The white cabinetry is sagging and rotting, and one of the doors is slightly ajar. A big wooden table is off to the left, a ratty, dirty rug beneath it. To the right is a spiral staircase, rust corroding the black metal.
“Is that a dirty dish in the sink?” Sawyer asks in a hushed tone.
Obviously, it’s a dish.
But how could someone possibly survive out here by themselves?
Just as I’m ready to turn toward the staircase, a hand is gripping my arm, fear imprinting into my skin beneath her sharp nails.
There’s an obnoxious noise as someone comes down the steps, but I’m quickly distracted when I realize I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Behind it is a short, old man with a beard down to his waistline and a stormy expression beneath his worn red hat.
“Wanna tell me why you’re in my home?” he asks slowly, his voice creaking worse than the wooden floors.
Slowly, I lift my hands, and Sawyer presses into my side, tucking herself behind me. I’m tempted to push her the fuck away, but her clinging to me is the least of my worries right now.
“We got caught in that storm and shipwrecked. We knocked, but no one answered,” I explain evenly.
“We’re sorry to intrude, sir,” Sawyer rushes out. “We don’t really have anywhere else to go right now.”
The old man looks at Sawyer, and I can visibly see his eyes softening. Gun or not, I’m seconds away from shoving her farther behind me and telling the fucker to find something else to moon over. She may be a siren, but she’s mine to hurt just as much as she’s mine to protect.
After several long seconds, he lowers his gun, casting a suspicious look my way.
“The storm could be seen from a mile away,” he grumbles.
I grind my teeth, the muscle in my jaw pulsing, but I abstain from snapping at him. He’s right, anyway.
“But ah’ight,” he continues. “I’ll let ya stay here. The more, the merrier, I s’pose.”
He waddles over toward the kitchen, and it’s then that I notice that his right leg is a wooden peg. His gait is uneven, the ancient prosthetic too short, even for his stunted stature.
I furrow my brow. How long has this man been here for?
“Name’s Sylvester,” he introduces, shooting a glance over his shoulder.
“Do you have a radio here?” I ask. Don’t care to know who he is, just how the fuck we can get off this forgotten island.
He grunts, opens a cabinet to pull out two mugs, and then slams it shut, seemingly bothered by my manners.