I am frozen in place, unsure of what just happened, or what to do. The acrid smell of smoke and dust fills the air. I can’t see the guards on the inside, but presumably they are taking cover or were injured by the bomb blast. The guards on the outside are still pointing their guns at the prisoners, but they are pacing, nervous, much less sure of themselves than they were a few seconds ago.
Compared to the second bomb, the first was like getting hit by a feather. The incendiary tears through the hotel above us, maybe through the exact room we are staying in—whether by coincidence or design—sending shivering tremors through the street below our feet. I lose my footing as a crack widens in the stone beneath me. I roll hard, narrowly avoiding falling into the widening tentacle in the street. I instinctively cover my head, metaphorically returning to my mother’s womb, curling up in the fetal position. Heavy chunks of stone shower down, battering my defenseless body. Some of the rocks are sharp, having splintered off dangerously, piercing my skin. If one penetrates my eyes I will be instantly blinded.
When the rubble shower ends a few minutes later, I sit up quickly, scanning my surroundings. Roc hasn’t fared much better than I, although he is sitting up, too, rubbing a nasty red bump on his head. His clothes and face are covered in gray dust.
“You okay?” I say.
He coughs and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I turn my attention back to the Pen. The guards on the outside are gone, their guns scattered haphazardly on the ground. The escapees are gone, too.
She is gone.
“Tristan!” Roc shouts behind me.
I turn, and then, seeing him gazing at the hotel above us, follow his line of sight. Several columns of heavy stones are wobbling precariously, on the verge of toppling.
“Go, go, go!” I shout, running hard toward the Pen’s fence line. I hear Roc’s footsteps pounding behind me, and then a dull, machine-gunning clatter as the stones collapse.
I whirl around, saying the quickest prayer of my life for Roc. He is fine, having escaped the impact zone just in time. With Roc safe, my thoughts go to her. But then I remember someone else: the deskman at our motel.
Without explaining to Roc, I rush back to the building, leaping heavy stone slabs and piles of smaller rubble along the way. The doorframe is mangled, but still holding itself up amidst the pressure of the collapsing floors above it. I slip through, rapidly locating the old man. Despite his seemingly innate ability to sleep anywhere and through anything, he finally met his match when the bomb hit, or perhaps when the roof partially collapsed.
I’m not sure what happened to his desk—perhaps it is splintered beyond recognition—but it isn’t there anymore. In its place: the old man—and a huge slab of stone that has him pinned to the ground. Finally, his head is up, his wild eyes looking at me, scared and helpless, begging me to save him.
The stone slab is far too big for me. Even with the adrenaline cocktail coursing through my veins, my first effort at lifting it is fruitless. It doesn’t budge, not even a little. It is like trying to lift the very earth on my shoulders, a feat only accomplished by Atlas—and I am no god. While my mind races, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is Roc, pushing me gently aside, sliding a thick metal pole beneath the stone. I have no idea where it came from, but I know exactly what he is doing—making a tool, a lever—and so I locate a good-sized roundish stone that I am able to roll over. Together we push it under the pole. Overall, I am the bigger of the two of us, so I push down hard on the end of lever, using my entire body weight to force it to the ground. The stone is massive, and even with the lever, it strains against me, trying to thwart my attempt. Eventually the lever moves down an inch, and then two, gaining speed as I gain leverage. I am straining so hard that I have to close my eyes for fear they will pop out of my skull.
I feel the pole drop suddenly beneath me and hear a loud crack and a thundering crash. Even with my eyes closed, I know what happened. The pole snapped in the center like a twig, releasing the stone. The man was crushed, broken beyond repair. I slowly open my eyes.
Roc is holding the man, who is not crushed, not broken—at least not beyond repair. Evidently I raised the stone a sufficient height for Roc to slide him out safely before the lever snapped. For that I thank God.
Roc is smiling, helping the man to his feet. The guy is clearly injured, so we each flop one of his arms over our shoulders and half-help, half-carry the man out of the cracking building. As we pass through the doorframe, the rest of the roof collapses, kicking up a cloud of dust around us as we escape.
We are lucky. The old man is even luckier.
I’ve never felt so unsure of what to do next. I guess because I’ve never been in such an unbelievably confusing situation. We hear booms echoing around the town as more bombs hit, presumably destroying other buildings. We start hearing shouts in the distance, both from the Pen and from other streets. Other people, probably just like us, trying to decide what to do, where to go, figure out what is going on.
“He needs medical attention,” Roc says, looking at the man.
“I’m fine,” he grunts.
“No…you’re not,” I say. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“It will have been bombed, too,” he says gruffly.
He has a point. Nowhere feels safe at the moment. But still, out in the open I feel like we are too exposed, like at any second another bomb might land at our feet. We have to keep moving.
Roc seems to be thinking the same thing. We both start moving, forcing the injured guy to come with us. We turn the corner, but stop immediately when we see the scene in front of us. Smoke, rubble, buildings collapsed and collapsing. People running. We skip that street and head another block down. The next street is more quiet, not yet hit by any explosions, perhaps not a target of the attack by…well, by whoever is attacking—I have no idea who.
We travel another half-block without event and then hear a noise as we are passing an old building on our right. “Psst,” a voice says.
A woman is waving at us from down a set of stairs, from inside a doorway. “Psst,” she says again.
“Yes?” I say, unsure of how to respond to such a strange greeting.
“Do you need help?” she says.
We do need help—desperately need help—so I say, “Please.”
She beckons to us with one hand. We make our way down the steps awkwardly, trying not to bang the man’s already battered legs on the stonework. The woman turns sideways and shepherds us through the door and onto a small landing. Below us steps descend into darkness.
Once we are all inside, the woman closes the door and says, “You’ll be safe down here.” She moves past us to the stairs, holding a long candle in a small ceramic bowl high above her head. We follow her down, carrying the old man between us. The stairway is wide enough for us to walk three abreast.
At the bottom is another door, which the woman opens. As she enters, she says, “I’ve got three more.”
We poke our heads through the doorway, into a small cellar. It is crowded. Not including us and the woman, there are eight others. Four candles identical to the one carried by the woman are positioned in each corner of the space, providing spheres of light that overlap in the center.
“Make yourself at home,” the woman says, before exiting back the way we came and closing the door behind her. We gingerly lower the old man to the floor, next to a couple of kids who are staring at us with wide eyes. They can’t be more than six years old.
“Thank you,” the man says, his voice cracking slightly. His demeanor has changed slightly, as if he’s been softened by our persistent willingness to go out of our way to help him. I wonder what made him so hard in the first place. Perhaps it was just the cruelties of life—the faltering economy, old age, living in a cave—but I sense it was something more specific. He wears a wedding band but hasn’t once mentioned his wife, out of concern or interest or anything. I guess that he’s lost her already.