Free A Little More Dead by Sean Thomas Fisher

We’ll figure it
out.”
    “Without Google or Wikipedia we’ll have
to start going to libraries again.”
    “Is that a bad thing?”
    She shrugged. “I like the smell of old
books,” she replied, exhaling a forlorn breath. “At least we still have the
stars.”
    Paul pulled her against him. “At least I
still have you.”
    She stood on her tippy-toes and gave him
a warm peck on the lips. “You will always have me.”
    “They had this thing strapped in there
so tight,” Dan said, returning with the bolt cutters, “I thought I was going to
need bolt cutters to free the bolt cutters.”
    Paul’s eyebrows drew together. “Why are
you yelling?”
    Dan frowned. “I’m not.”
    “Okay then, let’s do this.”
    Paul stuffed one glove in a coat pocket
to free up his trigger finger. The gun felt like it was made of ice and he
could already feel his fingers getting stiff. Dan cut the chain and set the
bolt cutters aside before pulling the cellar doors back with a rusty squeak.
Sophia’s flashlight lit up a wooden staircase leading down into a pool of
darkness, a musty waft of stale air releasing into their faces.
    “Oh great, another haunted house,” she
grumbled.
    “You mean haunted strip bar.” Dan spread
a toothy grin into his red cheeks and held up a crumpled flyer with a grainy picture
of a tall blond named Busty Dusty. “I hope we didn’t miss her show.”
    “Alright, we stay together and we check every door this time,” Paul said, tossing an empty beer bottle down the steps.
    It shattered at the bottom and they
exchanged anxious glances in the quiet settling around their feet. When no one
came moaning into the light, Paul took the lead and went down first. Sophia and
Dan went next, leaving the doors open in case they needed to make a hasty retreat.
Paul grimaced as each step creaked like an old ship. Shadows jumped in Sophia’s
jerky light and at the bottom of the staircase, they fanned out and followed
her flashlight with their shotguns. The unfinished basement reeked of mothballs
and dirt, the cobweb-draped rafters pressing against them. They scanned the
dusty stacks of chairs and dented kegs, old glassware and a rusty bicycle with
a broken basket leaning in one corner. On the other side of the room, a narrow
stairway led up to another door. They swapped knowing glances and cautiously
crossed the room. Sophia jerked the light to a woman standing next to a poker table
free of dust. Paul aimed for her face and blew out a long breath before
lowering his gun.
    “Damn, that’s creepy,” Dan whispered,
lowering his Browning.
    Paul stared at the mannequin’s long
black wig and green painted nipples peeking out from a sheer negligee. “We
should haul her outside and use her for target practice before we leave in the
morning.”
    “Forget that, I’m hauling her into bed
tonight.”
    “You would,” Sophia muttered, moving
again. “And we don’t have enough ammo to waste on target practice.”
    That single thought scared the hell out
of Paul. They would need to find a gun store or sporting goods store and on the
now plan. Ammo had to come before food and water. At the bottom of the other
staircase, Paul’s breath rushed through the beam of light. He looked back to
Sophia and Dan before going up. Each groan of the wooden steps turned him to
stone, making the staircase stretch forever. Dan went up backwards, guarding
their backs with his shotgun pointed into the darkness swallowing them from
behind.
    At the top of the stairs, Paul held up a
hand. They stopped, their heavy breathing the only sound in the tight space. He
put an ear to the wooden door and listened, pulse thudding in the hollow of his
throat. Looking back, he shook his head and quietly took turned the icy doorknob.
His left eye went first, bravely peeking through the crack in the door while
his other eye hid in the dark. “Pitch black,” he whispered.
    “Keep going,” Dan replied.
    A long screech sang out when he pushed
the door open