Raven's Peak by Lincoln Cole Page B

expected having never heard a real gunshot, and he plugged his ears. His right arm felt wet as he closed his eyes.
    The gunshots dissipated after a few seconds, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. He screamed in pain.
    “Relax. It’s just a scratch.”
    “What happened?”
    “Shrapnel,” Abigail said. “Wood. Not a bullet. It isn’t bad. Come on.”
    She didn’t give him time to respond but began dragging him toward the door. All around him, the furniture in his apartment was torn to shreds from the explosion. The walls were covered in holes and fractured pieces of debris.
    He half stumbled and was half dragged to the front. The body of a skinny man lay across the entryway on his stomach, an enormous hole through his back. Blood and gore were all over the walls and carpet, dripping down the paint.
    Another man was in the hallway, his left shoulder drenched in blood with more dribbling out each time his heart pumped. There was a hole in the wall a few meters above him with a trail of blood streaming down to where he lay.
    This man wasn’t dead.
    Abigail dragged Haatim into the hall past the two, looking both directions. The dying man coughed and sputtered, whispering something under his breath in what sounded like Latin.
    “Are there stairs nearby?” she asked. From the look on her face, it wasn’t the first time she’d spoken to him.
    “Uh…”
    Haatim was staring at the man leaning against the wall, watching blood spurt out of his torn shoulder. The man was gasping and sputtering as he chanted, the words too low to make out. It was like a train wreck: Haatim couldn’t look away.
    Haatim felt himself being shaken. “Hey! Stay with me. Are there stairs near here?”
    “Um…” he said, thinking. He had lived here for four years and knew the building by heart, but right now he simply couldn’t remember anything. “Elevators are to the right.”
    “No elevators. We don’t want to get trapped. We need stairs.”
    He shook his head, forcing his mind to focus. “Down there, we take a left,” he said, pointing. Abigail didn’t hesitate; she took off down the hall at a quick pace.
    She let go of Haatim, holding her revolver at the ready. He stared at the dying man for a few more seconds, nauseous and terrified. He didn’t know what was going on and had no clue what he was supposed to do. Part of him wanted to go back into his bedroom, crawl under the sheets, and hide until all of this went away.
    But he knew it wouldn’t work. This wasn’t a dream. This was real, and if he wanted to survive he needed to act. He turned and sprinted down the hall, chasing after Abigail.
    This is crazy. This is crazy.
    The thoughts bounced around in his mind, and he felt like he was operating on autopilot. They came to the stairwell, and she threw open the door. He heard shouting from behind, back near the elevators, and then they were stepping onto the landing. Gunshots sounded in the distance, and he heard the crack of wood as bullets smashed into the wall behind him.
    Abigail ran down the stairs with impressive grace, hitting every few steps lightly and rounding each corner to the next landing. Haatim plodded along behind her, gasping for air and leaning heavily against the railing as he tried to keep up.
    “Where are we going?” he asked after they were down a few flights.
    “Your car.”
    “And then where?”
    “A safe place,” she said. “Stop talking and breathe.”
    Haatim did just that, frantically trying to maintain pace with her as they passed landing after landing. He lived on the twelfth floor, which meant they had a long way to go to reach the lobby.
    His entire body ached from exhaustion, and he quickly lost count of how many floors they had passed. It became claustrophobic and the air in the stairwell tasted stale. He focused on putting one leg in front of the other without tripping. It seemed like an eternity before they reached the ground level.
    The front desk was empty as they spilled into the