Page 15 of Outfoxed

While the roof was a mess, the interior had somehow survived the swarm. The previous resident had left minimal furnishings—or the resident before. I wondered how many unfortunate souls had occupied the home before it had fallen into my hands.

It didn’t matter, but I wondered all the same.

According to Carl, the entrance to the cellar was located in the living room beneath an old rug, and a discolored board marked a groove that would allow me to access the door’s pull ring. I found the rug easily enough; it’d been in place so long the damned thing stuck to the hardwood and fell apart when I pulled on it. I ultimately had to kick it out of the way in chunks to reveal dye-stained planks.

Through the rug’s ruins, I spotted the right board, which had started its life white. After brushing away rotted remnants of the rug, I located the groove, which was nothing more than a crack I could squeeze two fingers in deep enough for some leverage.

After five curse-filled minutes, the board popped out, revealing the promised steel ring. Like the rug, it showed signs of age and disuse. Rust flaked away at the lightest touch, although it remained intact enough to use. It took some work, but I lifted up a panel barely large enough for a man to fit through.

I gave it four or five uses before the hinges fell apart.

Had the previous tenant not bothered with the cellar? Had Carl not bothered to tell his previous tenants the cellar existed? When had someone last occupied the home? My questions would bother me, but I wouldn’t run the risk of losing the place by being too curious.

If Carl wanted me to know more, he’d tell me when I stopped over for coffee and to pay the rent.

To my relief, concrete steps descended into the cellar, and they were in far better shape than the upper level. A flight of steps ended at a locked storm door, and I tested the keys and found one that worked. Holding my breath in anticipation of old, stale air, I opened the door. A cool breeze washed over my face. A short hallway fashioned of concrete led to yet another storm door, the kind not even a twister could destroy. A different key opened it, revealing a staircase that turned back on itself and descended deeper into the ground.

At the bottom, another door blocked my way, but the last key opened it, and I held my breath in case the ventilation system had failed. Once again, fresh air caressed my face.

Either Carl had done some serious maintenance work on the cellar or he had installed an indestructible system. Either way, I was tempted to kiss the ground he walked on.

When trapped underground, air was life. That the system continuously pumped in fresh oxygen, he’d worked the equivalent of a miracle with engineering. Where was the air coming from? I couldn’t imagine it came from the surface; unless he’d invested in—and switched out—expensive filters, I would’ve smelled the unique stench of the outskirts, which was a mix of tilled earth, decay, and wood.

I breathed deep, and I marveled at the air’s gentle scent.

In some ways, it reminded me of Asylum, but I couldn’t imagine how a cellar so far from Inner Tulsa might share the same air circulation system as the underground city. Narrowing my eyes, I returned upstairs, listened for the telltale sounds of an encroaching storm, and made plans.

First, I would scatter debris all over the floors to cast the illusion the place was unoccupied. I’d also obscure the entry to the cellar and keep the doors locked. The setup would probably survive anything other than the most violent of storms. Even then, I wasn’t sure if a mere twister could rip out a cellar buried at least thirty feet below the ground and encased in concrete. I went to work hauling debris into the house and scattering it, taking the time to rig a broken plywood cover to mask the cellar’s location.

Once the next storm passed, I’d see about digging a fox hole—or solving the mystery of the ventilation shafts to determine if they could be used to access the cellar some other way than through my new home’s living room.

Thunder rumbled, too close for my comfort, and I abandoned my work half-finished and darted for the safety of the cellar. I eased the trap door closed, made sure the plywood covered the missing plank and the pull ring, and locked the interior doors behind me as I went.

If Mother Nature wanted a piece of me, she’d have to pull out all the stops and dig deep. I wished her luck. The bitch would need it this time.

According to my watch, a water-resistant sports model I’d gotten as a lucky scavenge a year ago, the storm had come calling promptly at five.

The way I figured it, everyone would get on just fine if Mother Nature stopped screwing around with humanity and humanity stopped trying to predict what Mother Nature would do next. Mother Nature wouldn’t stop screwing around with people, that much I was certain of. Humanity lacked the common sense to respect the weather appropriately. The instant people became confident of their storm predictions, they tested their luck, and then they died. I believed Mother Nature enjoyed teaching people a lesson when they screwed up and put too much faith in themselves.

The only things anyone in Tulsa needed to remember were that a storm was always brewing on the horizon and that the first day of May was only the beginning of the nightmare.

Saturday, May 2, 2043.

Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

For the first time in a long time, I slept without the fear of storms looming over me. I supposed the tight confines of the crate-strewn cellar had something to do with that. So deep underground, I couldn’t hear much of the twisters wreaking havoc above. Every now and then, the dull roar of one passing somewhere close woke me, but I fell back to sleep without issue.

The cellar had none of the rattling, shaking, or vibrations that set me on edge and drove me to the brink of insanity in other places I’d sheltered during a bad blow. Even in the calmer spring months, I’d always slept light, waiting for Mother Nature to strike without warning.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d rested so well despite not having a real bed, blankets, or any of the creature comforts I’d grown up with when living in the East. According to my watch, I’d slept until eight in the morning, a miracle in my opinion. With two hours until I was scheduled to show up at work, I would have time to hit a gym and shower. The time at the gym would let me vent, get in some exercise, and practice my kicks and punches against a bag.

The boss of my second job would both approve and disapprove of my initiative to practice and learn from him despite not being one of his students. I’d watched so many of his martial arts lessons I could recite his speeches without thinking about them. I cared little about the names of the moves he taught and valued how practicing them left my body lean and limber.

Unlike most days, I looked forward to working at Rising Sun Martial Arts Center. With bounty hunters to dodge and taunt, I’d need everything I could glean from Batbayar. I’d also have to practice getting around Tulsa without anyone following me.

All the while, I would have to hope that the bounty hunters would follow the laws and keep their work out of professional establishments. I was fair game on the streets, but at the restaurant and martial arts center, I’d be safe enough—if they played by the rules.