She sees us, and the look on her face is pure murder. “Go!” she spits. “Don’t look, just GO!”
We go.
The next corridor is longer, unlit. I can’t see my own hands, but I can hear Darius breathing, every inhale ragged and hard.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, gunpowder, and something even more primal, shit, piss, terror, all of it baked into the cinderblock walls.
We’re almost to the end of the hall when I slip again, this time going down hard on one knee.
There’s something wet on the floor; I don’t want to know what. My whole body shakes. I push up, teeth gritted, and see Darius’s hand waiting for me.
He doesn’t say anything, but his grip on my forearm is hard enough to leave a mark.
He doesn’t let go until I’m upright. I want to thank him, or maybe just scream at him for not letting me stay down, but there’s no air in my lungs for talking.
We lurch forward, together, like a two-man chain gang.
We hit the door at the end of the hall, slam through, and find ourselves in a utility room, the kind they use for cleaning supplies and ice bags.
The rest of the team is in here, a huddle of bloody, shivering shapes, all silent, all stunned.
We collapse into the crowd. The door slams shut behind us, and for a moment, everything is absolutely, perfectly silent.
Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.
I feel Darius’s breath on my neck, hot and unsteady. I look down at my hands; they’re covered in red, and I don’t know if it’s mine or Cap’s or O’Doul’s or just the byproduct of survival.
I hear a faint whimper. It might be me. It might be everyone.
And just like that, the world changes.
———
We’re packed so tight in the equipment room that I can feel every rib of Darius’s cage through our jerseys.
Sweat and fear mingle, making the air taste like copper and salt. The overhead light flickers, painting everyone in a sick, greenish tinge. Nobody says a word.
The first thing we do is barricade the door.
There’s no discussion, no hesitation. Darius and I drag the heavy canvas bags, weighted with spare gear, pucks, and what feels like bricks, right up against the seam.
O’Doul wedges a stick through the latch. The rest just press themselves against the far wall, a mess of knees and elbows and helmet hair, all eyes wide and unfocused.
Gunfire stutters from down the hall. Each shot is less a noise and more an impact, a pressure wave that rattles my teeth.
It’s farther away now, but every time it cuts out I flinch, waiting for it to return.
Someone starts praying, low and slurred, might be Raz, might be one of the juniors who got the call-up this week and now wishes to fuck he’d stayed home.
I look for Coach, but she’s not here, she must have doubled back, maybe trying to drag more guys to safety.
Darius still has his hand on my arm. It’s clamped so tight I can’t feel the skin beneath his grip.
He’s not looking at me, just staring at the door like he can will it to be bulletproof.
I try to control my breathing, but it comes in little yips, like a dog on a choke chain.
My whole body is shaking. I think it’s from cold, then realize it’s pure adrenaline, the kind that burns every thought out of your head.
