More gunshots clatter above, then shouting. My mind runs as I pry chunks from the doors until my fingernails break and warm blood spills down my hands. With only two rifles, a handgun and a box of cartridges, my family stands against a dozen well-armed men.

They don’t stand a chance.

I scramble down the ladder, falling off the last rung. I bang into a shelf, knock over something that smashes, but I don’t stop. Ethan, sobbing, reaches out for me as I run past. I shake him off. My hands scramble over the shelves, tossing out canned goods, changes of clothing, a jug of water. Dry goods tumble off the shelf as I fling them out of my way. I need something to wrench the door open, a shovel, an ax, anything. In the dark, my hands come up empty.

Overhead something explodes.

My sobs turn into keening that fills the cellar. I fumble for the ladder and pull myself up. Bashing my shoulder against the locked doors won’t help, but I can’t stop. I smash into the wood until I see stars.

Above, everything quiets. I stop bashing and press my ear to the crack in the door. The truck engines flare to life and rumble away.

Quiet. The only sound is my brother’s muffled sobbing and the throbbing of my heart. It’s over. Images of my family riddled with bullet holes dance in the darkness before me. I pound my fists into the boards and scream.

Eventually Ethan pulls me off the ladder. He leads me to the bench. I curl onto the wooden surface. In the dark, I can pretend I don’t exist. That I’ve died, too. The thought gives me a little comfort. When you’re dead, you don’t feel pain.

* * *

Little streamers of light trickle through the boards above. I open my eyes and watch the dust motes slide lazily through the triangles of light. Then I remember my family. The hurt hits my chest like both barrels of a twelve-gauge.

As my mind wakes, pain lights up my body. My shoulders feel like they’ve been run through a meat grinder. I lift my hands—shredded knuckles, splinters dug deep under my bloody fingernails. Ethan shifts next to me. We lie on the hard-packed earth, his back to my chest, my body curled around his. I brush his bangs off his face and swallow back the sobs. I can’t wake him. Maybe in his dream everything we love isn’t destroyed.

In the dim daylight, the storm cellar looks like a tornado hit. I’ve torn everything off the shelves. There’s the broken glass from a jar of peaches. Clothing litters the dirt floor where I flung them.

I stare up at the locked cellar doors, as fresh tears dampen the corners of my eyes. What’s up there? Part of me wants to crawl into a ball and never face it. A sob escapes my throat and Ethan stirs. Stop it, I tell myself. Even though my whole world’s been blown to pieces, I have to pull it together. For him.