Chapter 2

The sunlight didn’t so much enter the basement as it leaked, filtering through the grime-caked windows in sickly, jaundiced streaks that illuminated the dancing dust motes. I didn’t wait for the same terror to paralyze me; the soldier in me had finally woken up and taken the wheel from the shivering girl. I spent the first hour of dawn mapping the silence, listening for the rhythmic thrum of the Monster’s breath or the click of a boot on the stairs. When the silence held, I slid out of my closet, my bare feet barely making a sound on the cold concrete, feeling the phantom weight of a rifle that should be in my hands but wasn’t.

I began to scavenge, moving with a predatory efficiency that would have baffled the original Katina. In the shadows behind the crates of aviation parts, I found a coil of frayed electrical wire, its rubber casing cracked and peeling like old skin. Beside it lay a clock radio, a gutted, ancient Soviet TV missing its dials. I poked at its innards, saw the copper wiring was still intact. I felt a surge of adrenaline; this wasn’t just junk, it was the beginning of a toolkit.

My fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. A canteen. It was a dented, olive-drab thing, half-full of metallic-tasting vodka that I sipped with a desperation that bordered on feral. I didn’t want to get drunk, but needed calories. I was careful to only swallow a single mouthful, then another an hour later. I explored and searched through more trash and debris: a rusted pair of shears, a handful of heavy-duty zip ties, and a shard of mirror that I used to inspect the bruising on my neck. My eyes, now sharp and calculating, didn’t linger on the purple marks. They were looking for the exit, the blind spots, and the most efficient way to turn the basement into a kill zone.

Then, tucked behind a stack of rotted plywood, another major find! An old Soviet army ration pack. I tore it open with my teeth, discovering a slab of “tushonka”, canned stewed pork, that had likely been sitting there since the Vietnam War. A number on the side proved me wrong, 03-03-1981. It was grey, waxy, and tasted like old pennies and wet dog, but as I forced it down my throat, I felt the fuel hitting my bloodstream. Most people would think it inedible, but I was starving.

I spent the next morning treating the basement like a tactical objective. I cataloged the “junk” as assets. The electrical wire could be a garrote or a tripwire; the shears were a makeshift blade; the shards of mirror were for checking corners. I found a discarded leather belt with a heavy brass buckle, perfect for binding an enemy’s wrists or simply to keep my skirt from riding up while I moved.