Chapter 8: Dry Ice

Neil held his open house on Monday evening in the lower showroom of Cresset Safe Rooms, out on Route 9.

By then half of Birch Street had heard the word gas, and Neil had heard it from the half that had heard it from Lucy.

His answer was a banner at the top of the stairs: SEAL IN. STAY SAFE. TEN DAYS GUARANTEED.

Fourteen of us went down for the tour.

The showroom was a long basement with a drop ceiling and a green carpet.

At the far end stood a steel door, painted cream, with a big wheel lock in the middle.

Behind it was the model room.

"The Cresset Family Suite," said Neil, and swung the door open.

Inside were bunk beds, a chemical toilet, six shelves of freeze-dried lasagna, and a family of mannequins in folding chairs.

There was a mannequin dad, a mannequin mom and two small mannequin girls, in pastel sweaters.

"Airtight to the gasket," said Neil. "Positive pressure. Filtered intake at the floor, where the cool air collects."

I knew what was wrong with it before he finished the sentence.

"Where's the intake?" I asked.

"Floor level," said Neil. "It draws up from beneath, pulls through a filter, and cleans it. Very efficient."

"Neil, the gas is heavier than air," I said.

"Which is why we filter."

"It pools on the floor."

"Floyd, I've sold forty-one of these," said Neil.

Lucy touched my sleeve.

"Dad," she said. "Show him. Upstairs."

That was the arrangement we had made in the van.

I had brought a cooler of dry ice from the grocery store, labeled DRY ICE, DO NOT TOUCH.

Dry ice gives off carbon dioxide, which is heavier than air and will put a person to sleep in a closed room.

So nobody was going to stand in it.

Everyone climbed back to the street-level door, which Garth had propped open, with two box fans blowing out onto Route 9.

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