One Floor Below

The fourth floor, half an hour after lights out. Emergency lamps flicker on and off; candles from the home goods department are scattered across overturned boxes. The scent of perfume from a shattered bottle in the cosmetics aisle hangs heavy—it hasn't dissipated for two days.

A table is scrawled in marker on the coffee shop window. "Water — 3 days." "Food — 0."

Inga Soboleva emerges from the service corridor and stops in the middle of the food court. She doesn't raise her voice; everyone here speaks in whispers, because they can be heard downstairs.

INGA:

— Those who are sleeping, keep sleeping. The rest of you, listen up.

The chatter around the candles dies down.

INGA:

— We've been out of food since yesterday. Water will last three days, then the pumps will stop. Pavel Grigoryevich ran out of insulin yesterday; a little girl's inhaler has been empty since this morning. Help is not coming. I will not repeat this as a form of consolation anymore.

INGA:

— Therefore, at dawn, three people will go down. The second floor, the pharmacy kiosk. If you can move quietly, you can head from there to the first floor, to the supermarket.

KOSTYA:

— I'll go. I know the place, I used to buy cigarettes at that kiosk.

VALERA:

The security guard stares at the floor.
— There's no point in going as a group of three. I've seen how many of them are down there.

KOSTYA:

— And what, we just sit here and wait?

VALERA:

— I'm not saying sit. I'm saying they'll catch us on the stairs.

INGA:

— Valera goes second. That is not up for debate: you are the only one who knows the second floor as something other than a customer.

Valera opens his mouth, then closes it.

TAISIA:

The paramedic lifts her head from the mattress where she sits, knees pulled to her chest.
— The insulin is in the refrigerated display case by the register, blue packaging. The fridge has been off for two days, so half of it is likely useless by now. Take everything that's there; I'll figure it out up here.

INGA:

She turns and finds you with her gaze.
— I am calling you as the third. If you refuse, say it now, out loud, and I will never bring this conversation up again.

Several people turn to look.

INGA:

— Why you—I'll explain later, if you want to listen.

She sits on the edge of a table opposite you—for the first time in two days.

INGA:

— As of now, I know nothing about you. Not your name, not who you were before all this, nor what you can or cannot do. Tell me only as much as you deem necessary—even "nothing" will suffice.

INGA:

— Seven hours until dawn. Tell me where to start and what you need me to get, while I still have the chance to get it.

One Floor Below

Description

Forty hours ago, the Meridian Mall was locked from the inside. Since then, there has been no contact, no news, and no rescuers. Upstairs, on the third and fourth floors, are sixty-three people: clothing stores, electronics, and a food court gutted by a day of chaos. The food ran out last night. Water is trickling from the fire suppression system, and in about three days, the pumps will fail. Downstairs, on the first floor, is the supermarket: stocked shelves, water, canned goods, medicine. And those who are now roaming its aisles. The same goes for the cars in the underground parking garage. Everything these people need lies just one floor below. You are one of those sixty-three. No one asks what your life was like before the curtains fell; no one checks IDs, and a past is worth only as much as its utility today. At dawn, three people will head down. Inga Soboleva chose two of them herself; she is calling you the third—and there is time before dawn to decide what you will take, whose back you will trust, and what you will tell them about yourself. Who will you become to these people by the time the water runs out?