Aftershock by Jill Sorenson

way through the concrete layer, the bands of rebar
created an effective metal prison.
    He repositioned the higher square against a piece of rebar,
putting his weight on the loop to test its strength. This time, it held. Using
the loops as footholds was awkward and unfeasible. He needed to attach clips to
the loops, secure a lead rope to the wall and thread it through the clips as he
progressed.
    Frowning, he took a fifty-foot rope from his pack and attached
it to his harness. He’d have to ascend the wall, little by little. The only
problem was that he couldn’t anchor the other end of the rope.
    This was a two-man job.
    Don had greater upper-body strength than Lauren. Garrett called
him over. “Can you hold the line and give me slack when I need it?”
    “Be glad to,” he said, picking it up.
    Garrett realized that Don couldn’t handle his full weight for
more than a few seconds. He’d have to use another line for climbing. He attached
a clip to the upper loop and threaded a shorter rope through it, gripping one
end in his hands and attaching the other to his belt. This way, Don’s line was
just for safety.
    Leaning back, he braced his boots against the wall. At the same
time, he pulled on the shorter rope, climbing fist over fist. He made slow
progress, walking up the wall carefully. It was a hell of an upper-body workout.
He wished he wasn’t so goddamned heavy. Finally, his harness was even with the
upper loop. Grasping the rope with his left hand, he used his right to clip the
loop directly to his belt.
    “Hold the line steady, but don’t pull on it unless this
breaks,” he said to Don.
    “Got it,” Don replied.
    When he let go of the rope, his harness held tight, anchored to
the wall by a well-placed metal square.
    He exhaled a pent-up breath.
    Don gave him a nod of encouragement. They both knew he had a
long haul ahead of him. The safety line was no guarantee against injury. But,
unlike Lauren, Don didn’t belabor those details. He understood what needed to be
done.
    Working quickly, Garrett placed another metal square higher in
the crevice. He attached a clip, threaded the short rope through and pulled
himself up.
    His biceps were already burning, and he’d have to repeat this
process about ten times, or every three feet. Instead of focusing on the pain
and difficulty, he concentrated on the task and let his mind go blank.
    It was just like running ten miles or humping ninety pounds of
gear through the desert. You did it one step at a time, one foot in front of the
other. Unpleasant tasks were accomplished inch by inch, end over end.
    As the crevice widened, each metal square was more easily
placed. The climbing became increasingly difficult, however. By the time he
reached the top, he was shaking from exertion and dripping sweat.
    He couldn’t celebrate his victory, or even take the flag out of
his pack. Hanging from the ceiling, suspended by his harness, he rested for a
moment, waiting for the feeling to come back into his hands.
    Glancing over his left shoulder, he saw that Jeb’s corner was
still and quiet. He hoped it would stay that way.
    Lauren had joined Don at the end of the rope. That was good. If
he fell, they would both have to bear his weight.
    Although she didn’t say anything, he could read the concern on
her face. Garrett didn’t blame her. He’d made it all the way up here, and now he
didn’t know if he could hang the damned flag, let along climb back down.
    He took a drink of tepid water and tried to reenergize. At boot
camp, one of his instructors had stressed the importance of a healthy
imagination. He’d claimed that Marines who could visualize a happy place during
their downtime were better able to deal with the trials and tribulations of
deployment.
    Garrett’s favorite coping mechanism was fantasizing about sex.
There was no happier place than between a woman’s legs.
    He pictured Lauren writhing underneath him, her lips parted in
ecstasy.
    Then he took a deep breath and