Page 43 of The Midnight Hour
I leave the steamy heat of the kitchen for the cool air of outside; it’s only as I stand by the door to the mess hall that I realize I have no idea what to do with myself. The idea is novel, both liberating and scary. I could try to find Daniel or Sam or Mattie, check in on Phoebe in childcare or Ruby in school, but I don’t know where anything is. All around me bland, anonymous-looking buildings stretch and loom, each one as innocuous and unremarkable as the other. There are no signs to anything, anywhere, and there is, quite literally, nothing to do.
A few moments ago, I was content simply to exist, but already I feel restless, unsure. I decide to explore my surroundings, limited as they are, for, as comforting as all that barbed wire is, it’s still fencing us in. As I head down Duxford Road, Ialso realize that while the base is fairly sprawling it’s unremarkable too—flat and mostly treeless, like a giant corporate park. I wander past houses like ours, warehouses that are shuttered, a massive hangar being used as a garage, with men unloading large plastic crates from trucks. I start to relax, a flicker of interest, of curiosity, awakening within me. It is, I realize, a nice feeling, to be both curious and safe. I watch the men for a moment, working in tandem as they unload crate after crate, passing each one along a line to a warehouse. What are they unloading and where did they get all that stuff?
Then a man with a stern expression and a military bearing heads toward me with purpose. “Ma’am?” he barks. “Can I help you?”
“No.” I’m startled, apologetic. “I was just walking around.”
“It’s best you move on,” he tells me in a tone that brooks no opposition. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
I hurry away because I wouldn’t want to get hurt either, but somehow I doubt that’s why he didn’t want me around. Was there something they didn’t want me to see—or am I being paranoid?
This isnotsome disaster movie or spy drama, I think, irritated with myself and my stupid paranoia. There doesn’t have to be something top secret and nefarious going on, and there probably isn’t. I’m probably being ridiculous.
“Alex?”
I stop at the sound of my voice, and then do a double-take when I see who is coming toward me, carrying a stack of neatly folded sheets. Nicole Stratton.
“You made it,” I exclaim, and she lets out a huff of laughter that sounds like disagreement.
“And so did you.”
“I saw your husband at dinner last night, but I didn’t see you or Ben,” I tell her. “I was worried something might have happened.”
She arches one elegant eyebrow, clearly skeptical of my concern.
“We weren’t hungry,” she says flatly, which I find hard to believe, although admittedly she is stick-thin.
“How are you?” I ask. “And Ben? Was your trip here okay?”
For a second, her face softens. “Ben’s okay. He’s made some friends, which is good.” She pauses, her expression distant. “You just want them to be happy, don’t you? Even when the world is like this.”
“Yes.” I think of Mattie, Ruby, Sam, and Kyle and Phoebe too. “Yes, you want them to be happy. And safe.”
“Well, this place feels pretty safe.” Her tone is so darkly wry that it makes me wonder.
“So how does this compare to the bunker?” I ask, and she lets out a hard laugh.
“It’s paradise,” she replies, and I can’t actually tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. She flashes a hand at me. Her once-perfect nails are chipped and broken, the polish flaking off. Considering everything else, this is far from a tragedy, and yet it seems indicative of so much.
I nod toward her armful of sheets. “What’s your job?”
“Housekeeping. That’s what ten years of experience in interior design gets you in this place. What about you?”
“Kitchen. I think they saw stay-at-home mom and decided that’s where I belonged.”
“Some things never change.”
We both laugh then, giving each other knowing, complicit looks.
“So what does William think about this place?” I ask Nicole. “He got in with our supreme leader pretty quickly.”
Nicole’s lips twitch at my lame joke. “He always does,” she replies, and the edge in her voice makes me wonder—about both their marriage and the man himself. What’s going on there that I haven’tfigured out yet?
“I know it’s too early to say,” I tell her, “but do you think…do you think being here is a long-term thing? I mean, when is the rebuilding going to start?”
“Who knows?” She sounds as if what she really means is who cares, and really, why should I? If my kids are happy, if I am safe and fed…is there anything more to want? To hope for? I’m not sure there is, and yet somehow it doesn’t quite feel like enough, or, at least, like itshouldn’tbe enough. I should want more…but maybe I don’t.
Nicole nods toward the sheets. “I need to go make up some beds for the latest arrivals. Do you know, in my former life, I had a housekeeperanda cook?” She tosses her sleek ponytail over her shoulder. “But you’d probably already guessed that.”
