The Twirl: Chapter Four

Chapter four of The Twirl. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and following me on this journey! Enjoy!

It feels like we're the last two people left in the world, and we just might be. We sit there on the front steps for a while in pure silence. Not a sound or a movement—just the vast emptiness in front of us. The house, standing untouched, seems like a strange anomaly now. 

“Axel, go downstairs and see how many gallons of water we have,” Dad says. The unusual politeness of his request has me immediately pushing myself off the steps and walking into the house.

I jog down the basement stairs, the floor creaking beneath my feet as I head straight for the supply shelf. I count the jugs: ten of them, all stacked neatly in rows. Two full boxes of food sit beside them. It’ll be enough. It has to be. I sprint up the stairs and rush over to Dad to report my findings.

“Water’s not working anymore,” he says. “Neither is the electricity.” He pauses for a moment. “We’ve probably got enough to last us about a month. Maybe longer if we ration it correctly.”

His words are heavy. A month. That’s all we have. We can’t afford to waste any of it. The thought of not having something so essential makes my throat dry.

“So what’s next?” I ask. “What should we do now? Continue taking down all the protection on the house?”

He thinks for a second, then says, “I think not. What if another one comes? We need to figure this all out before we do anything. I feel better with it all up.” 

I nod my head in agreement. I never considered that possibility, that something else might still be out there. It disturbs me. 

Dad walks over to me and rests his hand on my shoulder. “We don’t know what’s out there, Axel, and I’d rather be on the safer side until we find out.” There’s a tremor to his words, something I don’t hear often from him. Uncertainty, maybe even fear. “C’mon, let’s head back into the house and try to figure this all out,” he says.

I glance one last time at the bare world. Then turn and walk back into the house. Our haven. The only place that still feels like it might hold some bit of safety in this new twisted reality.

Knock! Knock! Knock! 

No more than thirty seconds after we shut the door loud bangs strike against it. The bangs come so sudden and … loud. They rattle the door and send a shock through my chest. A fist is relentlessly slamming against the first layer of protection we’ve put up. The heavy plywood creaks with each strike.

“Axel! Get behind me!” Dad shouts.

“Who’s out there?” I whisper, my voice trembling. Fear flowing through my body.

“How should I know?” His hand is already on my arm, pulling me behind him, putting himself between me and the door. “But I do know they aren’t getting in,” he adds.

He quickly grabs a bat from its hidden spot under the couch—my old Louisville Slugger TPX, the one I used to swing with in Little League. The one that still smells faintly of old grass and dry chalk.

He clasps both hands on the bat, his knuckles white against the rubber grip. His body is ready to swing, and he looks like he’s gearing up to take a massive hit. We stand there, waiting. I stay behind him, not daring to make a sound, just watching, feeling every beat of my heart pulse.

Then, through the pounding, a voice breaks through. It’s soft and fragile, but full of desperate need. “Is anyone there? Please help me. I need help, please.” 

It’s a woman’s voice, maybe even a young girl. I can’t tell. But she sounds … petrified. And alive. She slaps with open palms, begging for a chance to be heard.

Dad turns to me. “Don’t say a word, Axel.”

“What if she really needs help?” I ask, still trembling.

Dad doesn’t hesitate. His face is intense, focused. “We have no idea who she is.” His voice tightens as the questions start spewing out of him, faster than I can process. “What if she is trying to come in here to take our supplies? What if she is here to hurt us? What if there are more out there that aren’t talking? What if she has a weapon?” He exhales sharply, refilling his lungs with a deep breath in. “We can’t take that chance, Axel.” 

This isn’t my dad—not the one I know. He’s different now. His hands shake and sweat dots his forehead, dripping down like he’s been running for miles. The calm and steady man I grew up with is nonexistent right now.

The girl’s voice comes again, even more desperate this time. “Please, help me. I need help. Is anyone in there? Did anyone survive? Please. I know I saw someone shut the door!” 

The house almost feels like it shakes with the force of her pounding. Over and over she pleas. The unpleasantness of her begs is like nails scratching across a chalkboard.

Guilt and selfishness build inside me. Part of me wants to open the door. But can she be trusted?

I picture Ellie and Laney out there. Alone and scared and pounding on some stranger's door, pleading for help. The thought hits me hard. My throat swells, and I can barely stand the image of it. “Dad, we have to do something. She needs us, and maybe she can even help us too,” I say. “What if this was Laney and Ellie asking for help? You would want someone to help them.”

Dad doesn’t move. His grip on the bat remains the same, and his eyes never leave the door. “Axel, I’m telling you it’s too dangerous. We have no idea who that is and what she is capable of.”

“If we aren’t going to let her in, then the least we can do is speak with her. She is terrified out there. Think of Ellie and Laney, Dad.” I can't bear her pleading anymore, and can't ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me we need to help. “Dad, maybe she has the answers we need.” 

He pauses momentarily. I watch his jaw clench. He rolls his eyes as he realizes I’m right. The only reason we can hear her is because we took off the steel and plywood on one side of the front door, which means she should be able to hear us too.

He exhales sharply, running a hand on his bald head. “Fine. Follow my lead, and don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

I nod quickly. We move closer to the gap where the plywood used to be, the girl still shouting outside, calling for help.

“Hello? Who’s out there? What. Do. You. Want. With. Us?” Dad enunciates the last question through the door, still unwilling to actually open the door.

“Yes! Hello! Someone’s there? Thank God. Please, you need to help me,” she shouts with excitement.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Dad asks again. 

“I’m not here to harm you. I swear, I just need help. I need shelter. I … I don’t know where I am. Everything’s gone, and I … I’ve been looking for someone, anyone,” the woman says, panicked.

I whisper to Dad to open the door so we can see who we are talking to. I mean, we have the bat, we’ll be fine. But he still won’t budge. He’s not even willing to crack it open a bit. It would take time to get the protection off to let her in. But if we start now, it wouldn’t take too long.

“I’m Hazel,” she calls out. “I live in Briaroaks, ten or twelve miles out. I walked for hours to get here. This is the only house left standing. Please, help me.” 

I try to push past Dad, but he immediately blocks me and shoves me back behind him.

“What are you talking about?” Dad shouts. “The twirls just ended. How could you have been walking for hours?” Dad looks over his shoulder to me with a look of “I told you so” on his face. He thinks she’s crazy.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘just ended’?” Her desperation is seeping through even more. “It didn’t just end, or I couldn’t have been walking that long. This twirl hit my house hours ago. Please, just open the door. You’ll see.” She pounds on the door again, followed by soft, broken sobs.

Dad looks confused and I can tell he has mixed emotions. The internal struggle is written all over him. He wants to help, but every instinct in him screams to be cautious.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, softer now, “we’ll figure out a way to get you water by morning. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have it for you. We’re limited, but I’ll do what I can.” 

“Thank you, but I need shelter,” she begs. Hazel doesn’t seem reassured by Dad's promise of water. She needs more than that—something far beyond basic survival.

“That’s all I can do at the moment.”

“You don’t understand what it’s like out here,” she says, her words laced with a mix of fear and frustration. “It’s obvious you haven’t been out here.”

Dad and I exchange a confused glance. What does she mean by "out here?"

Hazel's voice still shakes as she continues, “I have nowhere to go. People will start coming here when they realize you’re the only house standing.”

Dad takes a slow breath. “It’s the best I can for now. Come back tomorrow for the water.”

“Well … thank you for that,” she says, heavy with disappointment and dejection. 

We stand there, waiting for more, but no more words are spoken. No more pounding on the door. Nothing. She must have realized Dad won’t budge. 

I just hope she survives till morning.