There's a solid, arrhythmic thumping on the wall to the left that Olivia is doing her best to ignore.
Taking a deep breath as she closes her eyes, her hand squeezes harder around the gun in her lap – a gift from Dad shortly after they arrived in the States.
Exhaling a steady stream of air, Olivia forces her eyes open and her body to relax. It's OK to be afraid, she tells herself, but she won't be afraid of the fear.
The pounding tapers off and Olivia stops breathing when the silence descends.
Hard to believe that just three days ago this place was a plethora of sounds as people scurried about trying to get to safety.
They're all gone now, or at least Olivia is fairly certain they all left.
She hasn't ventured outside the hotel room to check, but she’s heard nothing but the moans of the dead and her own breathing since her father's final lucid moment,
when he locked himself in the room next door, abandoned hours earlier by a frightened elderly couple, with his own pistol and her promise she wouldn't enter. The right wall is always quiet.
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