Chapter 7 - A COLD DAWN IN WHITEHALL
The icy air of the underground root cellar hit us like a wall of bricks. We scrambled down the wooden ladder into total darkness, the smell of damp earth, stored potatoes, and winter apples filling our lungs. Above us, the muffled sound of heavy boots stomping across the cabin floorboards echoed through the joists.
"They're inside," Brie whispered into my shoulder, her grip tightening around my neck until it cut off my air.
"Hush, baby," I whispered back, my hand covering her mouth gently as I pulled her deep into the shadows behind a stack of wooden crates.
Callahan descended the ladder last, his boots hitting the dirt floor with a muffled thud. He pulled the heavy wooden hatch down until it clicked shut, dropping a heavy iron slide bolt into place just as a boot kicked the top of the door from above.
Thud! Thud!
"Clear down here! Nothin'!" a gruff voice shouted from inside the kitchen.
"Check the perimeter! They couldn't have gone far—the snow's too deep!" another voice barked from outside.
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We waited in the suffocating darkness for what felt like hours, the sound of our own breathing amplified a hundred times in the small space. Callahan pressed his back against the earthen wall, his hand clamped hard over his side to stem the bleeding, his face pale as paper in the pitch black.
Finally, the distant roar of truck engines revving in unison vibrated through the earth above us. The twin sets of headlights swept across the cracks in the root cellar door, fading slowly as the vehicles turned around and headed back down the logging road toward the highway. وThis interaction has reached its maximum length.
