Beneath the dull, flickering industrious lamp, buried within a dank concrete fortress that smelled faintly of mildew and piss, stood a child about twelve years old. With eyes like glaciers melting beneath arctic waters and hair the color of midnight, she was the mere spitting image of her father.

Lifting a bony chin, Pierce Wargrave peered out the mold-smeared window across from her in thought. Gray snowflakes fluttered in the breeze just outside the musty facility, swirling and dancing in slow, methodic circles like a throng of dancers at a Victorian ball. Twirling, dipping, exchanging partners again and again until they at last collided with the ash-laden earth below.

Sometimes Pierce swore she could still see the stars through the canopy of dust clouds and nuclear fallout that loomed overhead, but Samson, her good-for-nothing twin brother, always assured her that she was imagining things. Yet that did little to deter her from scanning the churning clouds each night, searching for a sign of life in the gloom.

Six years had passed since the warheads rained fire from above, flashing across the sky like summer lightning and plunging the world into a never-ending darkness as rolling tidal waves of heat devoured everything in their path below. Streetlamps erupted into flames, trees and flora were reduced to ash, and even the proudest skyscrapers were left leveled in a matter of seconds. All but this one haven—a partially underground military outpost her father had seized only days prior to the war.

Pierce frowned, pressing her hand against the glass and feeling the warmth radiating against her palm. Even after all this time, it was almost hot to the touch—emanating an eerie green glow from the rays it had absorbed in the blast. Maybe having a window in a fallout shelter wasn’t such a good idea.

A muffled whimper escaped the gagged man behind her, cut short by the sharp clang of the butt of Samson’s rifle slamming into his temple. With a heavy sigh, Pierce turned to face the two.

“Are you ready to talk yet? The Director doesn’t like waiting,” the girl muttered flatly. Samson in turn carefully removed the soiled gauze he’d stuffed into the emaciated man’s mouth so he could speak.

The survivor’s chapped, peeling lips quivered in response, barely concealing the rows of missing or broken teeth beneath. All things considered, he shouldn’t be alive. Not with that level of radiation poisoning.

“Just tell me where this secret village of yours is, and we’ll let you go,” Pierce lied calmly. Survivors were always so gullible around children.

“Or,” Samson chimed in, all but shoving his sister aside, “you can stay here with us, safe from the fallout. We have doctors here that can fix you up—you’ll live well into your 80s! With all the fresh food and clean water you could ever want and more. Come on, screw ‘em and take the gold.”

The man shrank back in his chair with a long metallic creak, shaking his head fervently. His hands knotted together behind him. Judging by the sweat popping out on the survivor’s palms and the way he absentmindedly pulled at his binds, he was seriously considering the offer. But with a hard swallow, he steeled his resolve and shook his head again.

“Forget it—he’s not going to crack,” Samson grumbled, turning his back on that unsightly wisp of a man. Adding more eagerly, he whispered, “let’s blow his brains out.”

Without waiting for an answer, he took out the pistol their father had given him for his seventh birthday and centered it on the man’s wrinkled forehead. The survivor’s eyes shot open in horror, stammered pleas for mercy spilling out of his blistered mouth faster than he could blink. Pierce scoffed in disappointment.

Typical.

“Sammie, remember what Father says: ‘don’t waste a bullet shooting at trash,’” the little girl warned. She turned back towards their guest expectantly. “Are you sure you don’t know where your village is?”

“P-Please, I have a family and a baby on the way!” he begged. So freaking typical.

Pierce and Samson exchanged a glance before the latter tucked his weapon away in its holster.

“Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Relief flooded the man’s features as he sat upright, sucking wind in between the gaps of his stained teeth. “I-I’ll stay here if you want! I’ll be a servant, or I’ll clean this whole place! Every day!”

Pierce couldn’t help but smile.

“I do love the idea of having another servant around,” she mused. The child’s fingers gently toyed with a remote on the wall beside her as her smile turned ravenous. “But sadly, there’s just no room.”

Pressing the large red button on the bottom, she let out a faint giggle as the furnace below his feet ignited. Flames rushed up from the vents, relentless and angry—roaring almost as loud as the man’s screams.

Almost.