It’s dark in that awful way that allows you to make out objects but not the
black spaces behind them. My breathing comes ragged from exertion and fear. The
only person I trust in the world lies on the floor beside me. I lean into him
and hear that he’s still breathing but it’s shallow and hard won. He’s hurt, I
know. But I can’t see how badly. I whisper his name in his ear but he doesn’t
respond. I feel his body but there’s no blood that I can tell. The sound of his
body hitting the floor minutes before was the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
I feel the floor around him, looking for his gun. After a few seconds I feel the
cool metal beneath my fingertips and I almost weep with relief. But there’s no
time for that now.
I can hear the rain falling outside the burned-out building, its loud, heavy
drops smacking on canvas. It’s falling inside, too, trickling in through gaping
holes in the roof down through floors of rotted wood and broken staircases. He
moves and issues a low groan. I hear him say my name and I lean in close to him
again.
"It’s okay. We’re going to be okay," I tell him, even though I don’t have any
reason to believe this is true. Somewhere outside or up above us a man I thought
I loved, along with other men whom I couldn’t identify, are trying to kill us,
to protect an awful truth that I’ve discovered. I am hurt myself, in so much
pain that I might pass out if I didn’t know it meant dying here in this
condemned building on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. There’s something
embedded in my right thigh. It’s possibly a bullet, or a large spike of wood, or
maybe a nail. It’s so dark I can just barely see the large hole in my jeans, and
the denim is black with my blood. I’m dizzy, the world tilting, but I’m holding
on.
I hear them up above us now, see the beams of their flashlights crossing in the
dark through the holes in the floors. I try to control my breathing, which to my
own ears sounds as loud as an oncoming train. I hear one of the men say to the
others, "I think they fell through. They’re on the bottom." There was no answer
but I can hear them making their way down over creaking wood.
He stirs. "They’re coming," he says, his voice little more than a rasp. "Get out
of here, Ridley."
I don’t answer him. We both know I’m not leaving. I pull at him and he tries to
get up, but the pain registers on his face louder than the scream I know he
suppressed to protect us for a few minutes more. If we’re not walking out of
here together, we’re not walking out at all. I drag him, even though I know I
shouldn’t be moving him, over behind an old moldy couch that lies on its back by
the wall. It’s not far but I can see his face white and gritted in terrible
pain. As I move him, he loses consciousness again and in an instant feels fifty
pounds heavier. But I’ve seen all four of his limbs move and that’s something. I
realize that I’m praying as I pull him, my leg on fire, my strength waning.
Please God, please God, please God, over and over again like a mantra.
The way the couch is lying, it forms a crawl space against the wall just big
enough for the two of us. I pull him in there and lie on my belly beside him. I
pull an old crate over toward the edge of the couch and look through the wooden
slats. They’re closer now and I’m sure they’ve heard us because they’ve stopped
talking and turned their flashlights off. I hold the gun in both hands and wait.
I’ve never fired a gun before and I don’t know how many bullets are left in this
one. I think we’re going to die here.
"Ridley, please, don’t do this." The voice echoes in the dark and comes from up
above me. "We can work this out."
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