well. If there were spiders, he’d meet them first.
Except, this place was cobweb free. In fact, for a dank hole in the ground, it was very clean. The concrete had been recently painted. No dust, no dirt. And it was much warmer than she’d expected. Even if these stairs led nowhere, they could sleep on this landing and not freeze to death.
As Tasha followed Thomas down the rather steep stairs, more lights powered on. Now she could see another smaller landing about twenty more steps down, with a door that was far more bomb-shelter appropriate than the little metal thing that let them in from the outside. This door was heavy and thick, with a lock that looked suitable for a bank vault.
It was shut, but not locked, thank goodness. It creaked loudly as Thomas pushed it open.
“That’s a sound that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally become a character in a horror movie,” she whispered.
Thomas might’ve laughed—it was hard to tell, because he’d jacked up the already high volume of his inner Navy SEAL. As she watched, he went through the open door in full kick-ass mode: weapon up, his body tight and ready for whatever was lurking there in the darkness.
It was hot as hell, even with him dressed in... what had he called it? His clown clothes.
But his movement triggered more of those sensors, and lights flickered on, revealing...
Graceland...?
The avocado green shag carpeting was missing, and there were other obvious updates, but the modest-sized room definitely had an Elvis’s-finished-basement-rec-room feel. It held a huge leather sectional sofa that must’ve been built down there, and a 90s-era projector TV with an entire wall dedicated to the screen. Another wall had a built-in bookshelf filled with VCR tapes, DVDs, and paperback novels.
The floor was gleaming hardwood with a few area rugs here and there, and all of the lighting was romantically dim. Tasha found the switch and turned it up, brightening the room as Thomas methodically went through each of the four doorways that lined the two farthest walls.
“Kitchen and supply pantry,” he announced, before moving on to, “Bedroom—whoa,” and “Bathroom,” and “Utility room with more storage—all clear.”
Tash beelined for the kitchen, which despite being small was fully appointed and very high-end 90s, with white cabinets and appliances, dark gray granite countertops, and a stainless steel sink. There was a built-in wine fridge that was fully stocked and running, and when she turned on the kitchen tap, water came rushing out.
“There’s running water!” she announced loudly as she moved to open the larger fridge—how on earth had they gotten that down there? During the renovations in the 90s, they must’ve opened and then rebuilt the concrete bulkhead.
The light came on as the refrigerator door opened. It was sparkling clean and mostly empty, except for an unopened, recently-dated bottle of orange juice and a box of Ted’s favorite brand of almond milk. Ugh. She opened the freezer—nothing but ice.
“Don’t drink from the tap until I check the water supply,” Thomas shouted back. “I saw some cases of bottled water in the pantry.”
Tash turned off the faucet, where—holy crap!—the water was actually starting to come out warm, and went into the separate pantry, which was a larger room than the actual kitchen. It had rows of shelving, again mostly empty, but not entirely.
And there it was—four full cases of spring water. Tasha tore open the heavy plastic cover. “I found the bottled water!” she shouted to Thomas. She grabbed, opened, and chugged, even as she turned to survey the rest of the supplies.
One shelf had an entire very-top-shelf-of-a-five-star-hotel-bar’s worth of gin, vodka, whiskey and more, plus mixers in every flavor. Another had paper goods—toilet paper, paper towels, napkins in all sizes, plus feminine products that were definitely leftovers from the 1990s, an extensive first-aid kit in a plastic container, and yup, a large supply of condoms, tucked neatly away behind the TP. Those were in new-looking boxes with expiration dates far out into the future, which was another rather large clue that her Ted had kept this place going as a... a... sex-pod long after his decadent Uncle Ted had died.
Which absolutely made sense, considering.
The last occupied shelf held drink stirrers and an actual package of little drink umbrellas. Ah! Jars upon jars of green olives and peanuts. Tasha cracked a peanut jar open and eagerly ate a handful, and then another. It was possible nothing had ever tasted so good.
“I’m not finding a lot of real food,” she shouted with