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around me, leaving myself exposed from the knees down.  As I step down into the cellar, I can hear a growing roar in the distance. 
    I step carefully into the coon shit and muck of the cellar.  I can see a simple hook and eye latch on the inside of the closed cellar door.  I grab the edge of the open door and pull hard to bring it shut.  I flip the hook into the eye just as something heavy lands on the door.  It occurs to me that I could become easily trapped in here, pinned in a cell of my own choosing.
    I carefully move down the last couple of steps and put my back against the wall.  The wind pulls upwards and the little flashlight dims to nothing before going out.  I shake it but nothing happens.  “You gotta be kidding.”
    I reach out from under the tarp and feel the sandstone surface of the wall and use it to guide myself further into the cellar.  I step on something metal and lose my balance, falling around a corner into what feels like shelving.  My shoulder sends a bolt of pain and I start to gasp but a noise cuts my agony short.  A low howling moan.   My heart stops and my eyes open wide in the pitch black.  I hold my breath and listen for the source of the howl.  It comes again in the same place and I feel the air in the room move against my face.  My mind races. It has to be the wind pushing through the cracks in the floor above.  I know it is the wind.  It has to be.  But my god, it sounds like… I crouch down against the wall and hold the rifle with my knees.  I pull the cleaver from its sheath and hold it at the ready.  Jesus Christ, I hope that moan was the wind.  If there’s a Zed down here…
    My ears pop as the pressure drops and the storm hits.  The sound of small rocks spraying against the house is joined by heavy impacts of tree branches pummeling the dilapidated building.  I duck my head and pull the tarp around me.  If the cellar doors fly open, it will be the proverbial shit storm down here.  Something brushes my arm and I swing the cleaver out from under the tarp but find nothing but air.  The floor above shakes hard and dust fills my nostrils.   I pull my bandana up and breathe through my nose.  Something very big slams the house and the floor shudders again. 
    Then just as quickly, all is silent.  I hold my breath and listen.  My ears are ringing as another low moan comes from the corner of the basement and I hold the cleaver in front of me like a crucifix.  Something above me breaks with a loud crash.  A heavy board lands flat on the floor upstairs with a jarring smack.  I keep my grip on the cleaver, my ears straining in the dark.  I hear no footsteps.  I hear no breathing.  The moan is silent.  But the goose bumps continue to run over my skin in wave after wave.  I have to get the hell out of here.
    Holding the cleaver in front of me, I try to retrace my steps in the dark.  My body spasms involuntarily as I remember the feeling of something touching me earlier.   I swing the cleaver back and forth just to make sure.  My right foot dances forward feeling for what tripped me earlier.  My grip tightens on the cleaver handle, ready to deliver as much force as possible without swinging it.  The tarp wrapped around me falls off.  I leave it where it lands. 
    My toe finds the first step and I start going up.  My breathing is fast and shallow as I tell myself over and over again, ‘ Nothing here, nothing down here,’ I take another step and reach up for the cellar door.
      Dayli ght comes from between the gaps in the cellar doors illuminating the cross piece of the latch. With the back of the cleaver, I flip it open and push.  The door swings halfway before hitting on something outside.  I hold it open with my shoulder and lay the rifle on the closed door and toss my pack out behind it.  With a quick shove, I wriggle through the opening into the devastation above.  I feel something brush against my foot and I land on the cellar doors, pushing