Chapter 8 - The Siege of Oak Street|
I hobbled down the narrow basement stairs as fast as my broken legs would allow, the metal cane clattering heavily against the wooden steps.
Behind me, the heavy steel security door at the top of the stairs slammed shut with a deafening metallic thud, locking automatically.
Down in the basement, the air was cool and smelled of concrete and old paper. Tucked behind a false wall of metal shelving sat a heavy, reinforced vault door—the panic room my father had secretly constructed years ago.
I ducked inside, my breathing ragged, my chest burning from the exertion. I reached for the heavy steel wheel on the inside of the door and spun it, driving three thick locking bolts into the steel frame.
Inside, the panic room was illuminated by soft LED lights. A bank of security monitors flickered to life on the desk, displaying live feeds from the cameras concealed around the perimeter of our house.
I stared at the screens, my hands trembling as I held onto the desk for support.
On screen four, a dark, unmarked van pulled up directly onto our front lawn, its headlights turned off. Four figures dressed in black tactical gear poured out of the side doors, carrying short-barreled automatic rifles.
They moved with terrifying precision, fanning out across the porch.
One of them stepped forward, holding a breaching charge against the front door lock.
BOOM.
Even inside the soundproof basement vault, the muffled shockwave vibrated through the concrete floor. The front door was blown off its hinges, splintering into a dozen pieces.
On the hallway monitor, I watched the four figures stack up and cross the threshold into the dark house.
Then, the lights on the camera feeds went out.
My father had cut the main power grid.
The house was plunged into absolute darkness, save for the green-tinted infrared feeds on my security monitors.
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And then, the quiet nightmare began.
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