The Tempest by A.J. Scudiere (best books to read in your 20s .txt) 📕

Jerry started the survey. It was harder for him to maneuver than it was for her, and even she was cramping up. But they had to find the best place, or they’d cost themselves extra work and maybe a failed attempt.

This search took just as long as the first one she'd done. She checked the phone, and sure enough, it was the middle of the night already. Luckily, the Larkins still hadn't come home and the battery on the phone still hadn't died.

“I think this is the best spot,” she offered. She’d knocked upward on the floor a few times, noted the construction, and tried to figure out where the overhead walls would be. It would have been much easier if she’d ever been inside the house.

In the spot that she'd chosen, the flooring was already starting to rot out a little bit, which would make their job much, much easier. She had no idea what she'd hit once they passed the sub floor, though—tile? Carpet? Hard wood?

“Wait,” She turned and asked Jerry. “What kind of floors are these?”

“Wood floors,” he told her with confidence. Then with less, he added, “I think they got rugs in some of the places. Nice ones with lots of color.”

Okay, she thought, but those were details she didn't need. “Wall-to-wall carpeting, or throw rugs?”

“Not to all the corners. You know, just in the middle of the room.”

That’s better, she thought, but didn't say. Then she made her way back to the tool pile and grabbed what she could, taking the square headed hammer for herself and another ball peen hammer and a wood wedge for Jerry. It was a bitch crawling these things back and forth. But Toto rolled over in her pocket and the warm feel of him, probably asleep, was comforting. She needed that.

Together, she and Jerry started chipping away at the subflooring. It flaked and cracked relatively easily until they’d carved the layer away. Reaching up, Joule pushed against the next layer above it. Wood flooring, she thought, just as Jerry had said. But it gave relatively easily against the pressure she applied. Cheap wood flooring.

That made her happy and gave her swings of the hammer renewed energy as they cracked at it. They had to make a hole big enough for Jerry because, while she was the least devoted member of his fan club, she wasn't going to leave him here for the Larkins to discover.

When fragments of the ripped-up flooring littered the dirt around them, she tackled the carpet. It should be the last, easiest layer. Joule wondered if she could just push it out of the way.

She tried and though she could push it up into a tent, it was clearly anchored by furniture on several sides. They’d need to cut their way through.

Lord, she was destroying the home of drug runners. Not her finest hour.

“The hacksaw?” she said to Jerry before heading back to the tool pile. Grabbing two of the little saws—one of them with a perfect pointy end—she positioned herself on her butt, directly under the hole. She could only hope this gave her the most forceful position as she pushed the hacksaw up into the carpeting. It gave, rather than cut.

“Let me,” Jerry told her, and she felt a moment of gratefulness that he was here as her partner. She watched as he neatly forced the end of the saw through the carpeting above.

If someone was up there, they were watching the craziest cat burglars ever break up into their home. But so far, no one had complained.

Jerry cut a slice into the carpet but it only let in a little more light than what the phone offered up. The dead of night part was woefully accurate right now.

“We need to cut a T,” she told him. “It'll make the hole bigger faster.”

She grabbed at the carpet, anchoring one side while he again pushed against it with the saw. This time, at least, the cut went quickly. The relief that bloomed through her chest was short lived as the light suddenly changed.

Joule froze.

Through the small front vent she could see headlights coming up the driveway.

51

Cage woke to the smell of eggs and toast.

“Whahhh?” The sound was Deveron coming awake—an odd noise that Cage had become familiar with over the past weeks. Cage opened one eye to see his friend roll over cautiously in the bed of pillows and blankets.

They’d slept on the floor in front of the fireplace with Sarah taking care of them. She’d gotten up every few hours to stir the ashes and throw another log onto the fire. Though it wasn't horrifyingly cold in the fall in Alabama, at night it was colder than they wanted to sleep in. Having a chunk of the wall missing didn’t help.

Anyone getting sick right now ran a much greater risk, with the hospitals already overloaded and the power out. They probably also ran greater risk of illness or infection, Cage thought, simply because of what they'd been doing: overexerting themselves, handling all kinds of strange materials, and being exposed to every person in the community.

But he was excited about real food and wanted to ask where it came from. He sat up to watch the food reach its spot at the coffee table and the entire center of him sank as he counted plates. Sarah only carried three.

For a moment, everything had been okay. He was on the floor. He was warm. There was the smell of food. He saw his friend. He knew now that the activity he’d heard from the kitchen was Sarah cooking breakfast.

But where was his sister?

The morning soured in his mouth, but he threw off the covers anyway. If he wanted to fix the problem, he had to move. The slightly-too-cool air hit his legs as his heels slapped the floor, and he did his best to push to standing without swaying.

“How did you cook that, Sarah? Do we have power?” But he looked up and the