Chapter 4: The Basement

"The basement," Ambrose's head said from my hands.

His body was already moving for the attic stairs.

I held his head out and he took it without breaking stride.

"Sorry! Sorry. I flinched."

"Later," he said. "Run."

"I thought we weren't supposed to run."

"Not from me. Toward me is fine."

We pounded down three flights with Penny's clogs clattering behind us.

The scream came again, closer, cut off in the middle.

The kitchen was huge and copper and full of steam.

Kyle and four of his team were sitting on the counters eating peanut butter out of the jar.

Two big duffel bags sat at their feet, stuffed with cans.

Kyle's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth when he saw Ambrose.

"Where is he?" I said.

"Who?"

"The boy who's screaming."

Kyle shrugged. "Kid went to get supplies. He volunteered."

A low door beside the pantry stood open.

Stone steps went down into the dark. The air coming up was cold as a fridge.

There was a white card nailed to the frame.

"Guests who go below after breakfast belong to the cook."

"Did he read that?" Penny said.

Nobody on the counters answered.

Ambrose went down first. I went right behind him.

The basement was long and low with hooks hanging from the beams.

At the far end, a boy in an Indiana hoodie was pressed into the corner between two shelves.

He was maybe nineteen. His sleeve was torn and red.

The cook stood over him.

She was bigger than I remembered, and gray all over, and her flowered apron was spotless.

She had a cleaver raised over her head.

"Stop," Ambrose said.

She didn't stop. She didn't even turn.

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