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[9]Chapter One
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."
I don't answer. I know it's a trick. Nothing about this can be
worked out now; we're all too far gone. There have been plenty of
chances to close my eyes and go back to the sleep of my life as it
was, but I haven't taken any of them. Do I wish now that I had?
It's hard to answer that question, as the wraiths move
closer.
"Six," he whispers.
"What?"
"You have six bullets left.
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