The Sanctuary of 17B

Chapter 5: Dividing the Dark

The darkness in the apartment wasn’t just the absence of light; it was a physical weight, a thick, suffocating velvet that pressed against Dimas’s eyes. He held Alina’s hand so tightly his knuckles ached, his thumb tracing the frantic pulse against her wrist.

"Don't let go," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m here. I’m right here."

"Dimas?" Alina’s voice was a jagged thread of sound in the void. "It’s so cold. Why is it suddenly so cold?"

"The power cut out," he said, trying to steady his breathing. "The central climate control, the residual heat from the appliances... it’s all dead. Keep your hand in mine. We need to find the flashlight. I have one in the desk drawer, top shelf, left side."

"I can't see a single thing," she murmured. "I feel like I’m blind. Is this how it starts? Does the memory loss happen when it gets dark?"

"No. We’re still here. I remember the desk. I remember the drawer. I remember exactly how many steps it is from here." He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to panic. "Stay put. I’m going to move slowly. Keep your hand on my jacket so you don’t lose me."

He eased himself up, his muscles screaming with tension. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot in the oppressive silence. He navigated by memory, counting the paces: three to the desk, one turn, reach out. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of the desk lamp, then fumbled for the drawer handle.

"Got it," he hissed, his fingers closing around the cold plastic of the tactical flashlight he’d bought for a camping trip three years ago. He pressed the button.

A beam of harsh, white LED light pierced the darkness, cutting a violent path through the dust motes. Alina let out a sharp, audible gasp, shielding her eyes.

"It’s okay," Dimas said, his voice dropping into a calmer, more clinical register. "It’s just light. We’re safe."

He swept the beam around the room. The apartment looked smaller, more claustrophobic. The barricade they had built against the door—the sofa, the stack of water bottles, the heavy crates—cast long, jagged shadows against the walls. The smell of copper was still there, but it was thinner now, diluted by the stale air of the interior.

"Okay," Alina said, her voice finding its footing as the light stabilized the room. She stood up, brushing dust from her jeans. "We need to set boundaries. We’re in this for the long haul, right? You have your bedroom, I have this corner. No crossing over unless it’s an emergency."

Dimas nodded, moving the light toward the kitchen. "Agreed. We need to inventory everything. If we’re going to survive this, we can’t afford to guess. We count every calorie, every drop of water."

"I'll take the pantry," Alina said, her tone suddenly professional, the assertive edge returning to her voice. "You take the fridge and the cabinets above the sink. Let’s make a list. Use a pen, not the computer. I don't trust the electronics right now."

Dimas watched her move with a newfound respect. She was scared, her hands were still shaking, but she was forcing herself to function. It was the same way he dealt with a losing streak—compartmentalize, analyze, execute.

"Five gallons of water," Dimas started, clicking his pen. "Twenty-four packs of instant noodles. Six cans of sardines. You had the peaches."

"One large can of peaches," she added, stacking them in a neat pyramid on the counter. "And I have a small jar of peanut butter in my bag. It’s not much, but it’s high-calorie."

"Twenty-four packs of noodles," Dimas calculated, squinting at his notepad. "If we eat two packs a day between us, that’s twelve days. We need to ration. One pack a day. A half-portion each."

Alina looked at him, her expression grim. "A half-portion? We’ll be starving within forty-eight hours."

"We survive, we don't thrive," Dimas replied, his jaw set. "If we run out of food, we’re forced to go out there. You saw what’s in the hallway. You saw what happened to Pak RT. I’m not dying because I wanted a full belly."

"You’re cold, you know that?" Alina sighed, though she didn't argue. "But you’re right. We stay inside. We stay quiet."

She began to organize the cans, her movements precise. The silence of the apartment started to feel less heavy, replaced by the mundane, rhythmic sounds of their inventory. For a few minutes, it almost felt like a normal night—until a sound broke the stillness.

It was soft at first. A rhythmic, high-pitched sobbing.

Dimas dropped his pen. "Did you hear that?"

Alina went completely still, her hand hovering over a can of sardines. "Tell me I’m hallucinating. Tell me that was the wind."

"There’s no wind in here," Dimas whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned his flashlight toward the ceiling. "It’s coming from the vents."

"A child?" Alina stood up, her face turning pale. "That sounds like a kid, Dimas. A little girl."

"Don't," Dimas warned, his voice rising in panic. "Don't you dare go near that."

"We can't just sit here and listen to a child cry, Dimas! What if they’re trapped? What if they’re injured?"

"What if it’s a trap?" Dimas shot back, his frustration boiling over. "Look at what those things can do! They mimic voices. They sound like me. Why couldn't they sound like a crying child to lure us out or make us open a vent?"

Alina stepped toward the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Because it sounds real. Listen to the texture of the sob. That’s not a recording. That’s pure, raw terror."

"It’s a lure, Alina! Think! If you open that vent, you’re breaking the seal. You’re letting whatever is in the pipes into our living space."

"If we don't check, we’re condemning a kid to die," she said, her voice hardening. "I thought you were the one who wanted to survive. How do you survive if you lose your humanity? If you turn into one of those husks?"

"I'd rather be a living husk than a dead hero!"

"Then you’re just as bad as the things out there," she hissed, closing the distance between them. She reached out and grabbed the flashlight from his hand.

"Alina, stop!"

"You want to survive?" she asked, her voice trembling but determined. "Then we don't give them an inch. We help the person in the vent, we seal it back up, and we continue our watch. We keep our memories, we keep our empathy, and we keep our lives. If we lose one, we lose the other."

Dimas stood frozen, his chest heaving. He wanted to scream, to shove the couch against the vent, to block out the sound of the world’s suffering. But looking at her—the way her jaw was set, the way she refused to let the darkness win—he felt his resolve buckle.

"Fine," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "But if I see anything other than a child’s face, I’m sealing it with whatever we have. I’m not dying for a trap."

"Deal," she whispered.

They moved to the kitchen, their footsteps heavy on the linoleum. The sobbing was louder here, vibrating through the metal slats of the kitchen vent. It was a thin, watery sound, desperate and haunting.

Dimas stood on a kitchen chair, his heart drumming in his ears. He reached up, his fingers brushing the cool, metallic surface of the vent cover. The smell of copper was overpowering here, an acidic stench that made his eyes water.

"Is it there?" Alina whispered, holding the light steady.

Dimas looked up. Through the narrow slats, he saw nothing but shadows. But the crying... it was right there, just inches away.

"Hey," he said, his voice cracking. "Is someone there? Can you hear me?"

The crying stopped instantly.

A silence so profound it felt like a vacuum filled the room. Dimas held his breath, his hand shaking so violently the screw holding the vent cover rattled.

"Did they hear you?" Alina asked, her voice barely a breath.

Dimas leaned closer, his eye pressed against the metal. From deep within the ventilation shaft, a voice—hollow, echoing, and entirely devoid of life—replied.

"Dimas?" it whispered.

Dimas recoiled, nearly falling off the chair. "That's not a kid."

"What did it say?" Alina asked, her face draining of all color.

"It said my name," Dimas breathed, his face ghostly in the LED beam. "It’s not a child, Alina. It’s waiting."

The crying started again, but this time, it shifted. It layered itself, a chorus of high-pitched, wailing voices that seemed to grow in volume, pressing against the thin metal of the vent.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Something began to bang on the inside of the shaft, right above the stove. It wasn't the sound of a fist; it was the sound of a heavy, jointed limb slamming against the steel.

"Seal it!" Alina screamed, grabbing a roll of industrial-strength duct tape they had pulled from the utility closet. "Seal it now!"

Dimas jammed the vent shut, but the metal began to warp outward, bowing under the immense, unseen force from within the walls. The sobbing shifted into a high-pitched, electronic screech, and the vent cover groaned, the screws stripping away from the drywall.

They weren't just being watched. They were being hunted from the inside out.