Nothingyet3

One.
The winds tore through the third floor landing on and off, sometimes still enough to seem like it'd stopped and sometimes strong enough the send plant pots scattering. It brought bits of snow it picked up off the ground, pelting her face with freezing drops. She pressed her scarf up her face, burying her nose in it, and turned the lock. After it clicked, she turned it back again.
Two.
Once more, the deadbolt slid home, and with her free hand she yanked up her jacket zipper some more, shuddering despite its protection. Perhaps it was because of the cold, or, more likely, because of what she was doing.
Three.
Again, the lock thunked into place, and her eyebrows knit together as she thought more about it. Would she really be safe there? Would they even let her in? After all, she'd turned down their first offer. Honestly, she'd barely stopped herself from laughing in their faces.
Four.
Again with the lock. But there was no other option. They were the only ones she could think of that might help. She could only hope their invitation still stood. She pulled at the edge of the scarf, tightening it around her numb face.
Five.
Surely they'd understand? She could hardly have been the only one to shoot them down and hide from them every time after that, ducking into the corner by her window so they wouldn't think she was home. They weren't the first group to insist the world was ending.
Six.
They were the first to be right, though. And how was she supposed to know that? Know that this would be the group to believe? She didn't have to join the cult, surely?
Seven.
She hoped they'd offer her the protection they'd promised, shelter her from the disaster felling thousands, no millions, left and right.
The news had suggested a plague the first week. A sudden, unpredictable plague, and 'scientists are on it, gathering research and combining theories for how to combat it'.
The second week "survivors" told interviewers how they'd watched friends collapse with sudden heart attacks, or drown in open air because their lungs stopped working, or scream unending as their hands and legs and faces rotted and their skin and muscle fell away until they were nothing more than bones. They'd seen their loved ones touched by death, but what she'd come to realize was that there were no survivors. Anyone afflicted died; these "survivors" had merely watched.
The third week, the news stopped coming on. In fact, no channels aired anymore.
The sixth week, the radio broadcasts stopped.
All the while she'd stayed inside, pushed her sofa against the door, her bookcases against the windows, stuffed rags into vents and any other openings she could think of. Remaining cooped up was no issue for her. It was something she was used to.
What she wasn't used to was not knowing. The worry gnawed at her constantly, until she couldn't stand it anymore. She need to do something, take action.
Unfortunately this was the only course she could come up with. Her steps rang out into the silence as she descending the metal staircase but were quickly swallowed by the layer of snow coating the courtyard. Eighteen stairs, nineteen steps. Upon reaching the last on each flight, she stepped up once more and then back down. Twenty-one steps each. Good.
She continued, wrapping her hands around the straps of her backpack, head down against the bitter cold. Cults were never good from what she'd heard of them, which admittedly mostly came from scary stories and tabloids.
But when they'd come to her apartment and insisted danger was just around the corner, that soon Death himself would come to claim the living world, well... honestly, how was she supposed to not take that as insane. She'd been scared of them because of the intensity of their belief, because of how outlandish they were.
She was still terrified, but now the fear that they'd been right outweighed the fear of them.
Leaving the complex, she gave one last glance around, noting the broken door screens, the boards nailed over windows, the eerie stillness. Were there others still hidden within their homes? Or was it as empty as it seemed?
Her feet crunched on the snow, and she noted how smooth it was. No footprints, animal or person, as far as she could see. Even the street was devoid of life. She passed cars pulled off on the side of the road, apparently forgotten, and even cars that had been ditched in the middle of the street. Perhaps they'd run out of gas?
She stopped only briefly at a couple, brushing snow from the windows and trying to peer inside. She thought she should be thankful those she chose were empty.
As she continued, the quiet weighing on her ears just as though she were in a noisy stadium, she flipped out her wallet. Inside she checked that her license was there. A black-and-white version of herself stared back at her, her name, "Dyranora Velasquez" stretched out beside it. She thought she'd need it to prove they'd invited her.
Yra checked her ID six more times before she was satisfied enough to stuff it back into her pocket. She let her hand stay with it, trying to let it warm up inside her jeans to no avail.
Not too far, she told herself.
You can do this.