“Now’s not the time for I told you so’s,” Russell replied, short and curt.
“Shut it and keep walking,” the thug trailing Russell said, shoving him in the back. Russell fell forward onto the steps, then peered over his shoulder.
“Get up and move,” one of the thugs said.
Clyde grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. They continued up the flights of stairs toward the roof. “So, what are we going to do?”
The two men leading them walked a good five or so paces in front while the other two held back about the same.
Russell shrugged, then said in a whisper, “I don’t know yet, but we’re not dying on this rooftop. I can tell you that much.”
They traversed the remainder of the stairs. The narrow corridor led to the rooftop door. Light shone under the door and around the jamb. The two men ahead of Russell and Clyde advanced up the stairs. A loud thud echoed from far below.
“What was that?” one of the shorter, stout thugs standing in front of Russell asked. He turned around and shone his light at the two men trailing the pack.
“I’m not sure,” the skinny tattooed man behind Clyde answered, shrugging. He glanced at his partner, then both men turned and faced the railing. They trained their flashlights at the bottom floors and listened.
The report of gunfire filled the stairwell, then went away as if it had been silenced.
“Something’s wrong on the lower floors.” Tattooed man peered back over his shoulder. “I can’t see or tell exactly what, though.”
“You two go check it out.” Stocky pointed at Russell and Clyde. “We’ll take care of these two and head down shortly?”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. We can handle this,” Stocky replied.
Tattoo nudged his partner’s arm, and nodded toward the staircase. “Come on. Let’s get back down there and see what’s happening.”
Both charged down the steps.
The door up top cracked open, flooding the corridor with an abundance of sunlight. Stocky stepped off to the side and motioned with his piece for them to move. “Get moving. We need to wrap this up fast.”
Russell took the lead with Clyde behind him. They passed through the doorway and by the other pudgy thug who stared at the two of them from under the bill of his Eagles ballcap.
The light assaulted Russell’s eyes. He shielded his face from the sun, blinked a few times, then cracked open his lids.
Fires burned in the distance. Smoke plumed into the sky. It looked like hell on earth.
Stocky skirted past Russell and Clyde, heading toward the back side of the building. His pudgy cohort pushed them along with his piece.
Russell skimmed the rooftop, trying to figure out how they were going to get out of their predicament alive and back down to Cathy. He spotted no fire escape or other means to get down other than the stairwell they came up.
“All right, turn and face the ledge, here.” Stocky pointed at the brick lip that encompassed the roof’s edge.
Russell inched closer to the side, then looked at the ground below. A large, green, steel waste container sat at the bottom with both black lids lifted up. Bags of trash or other waste filled the inside.
“Shit,” Clyde muttered, craning his neck and staring at the waste container. He backed away, but was stopped by Pudgy.
“Move forward.” Pudgy pressed the barrel of his piece into the middle of Clyde’s back.
The wind picked up, blowing against their backs. Russell could feel Stocky mere inches behind him. The barrel of his piece brushed against the back of Russell’s skull. Pudgy thumbed the hammer back. Russell gulped, then looked over at Clyde’s wide eyes and trembling lips.
“Enjoy the express way down,” Stocky said with a snicker.
The wind caught the open door and slammed it shut. Both thugs flinched and turned toward the sharp, abrupt noise.
Russell spun on his heels and grabbed Stocky from behind. His arm slipped under Stocky’s neck and he pulled back. His pudgy partner trained his pistol at Russell, searching for a shot.
A single gunshot fired at close range. The sharp sound made Russell jump. The bullet struck Stocky’s foot as Clyde wrestled for control of Pudgy’s gun.
“Ah, damn it,” Stocky shouted and favored his injured foot.
Russell grabbed the barrel of his gun, turned around to face the edge of the roof, and jerked. Stocky elbowed him in the side, then leaned forward with his hands still grabbing the grip of the pistol. Russell tugged harder, ripping the weapon free of Stocky’s hand, then fell backward.
Stocky stumbled and stopped just shy of the edge. He turned about and faced Russell.
Clyde rammed his shoulder into the pudgy man he battled, then flung him at his partner. Both men collided and dumped over the side of the roof, vanishing from sight. Their screams faded fast. The faint noise of their bodies slamming into the waste basket made Russell cringe. Clyde didn’t venture a peek. He held Pudgy’s piece, breathed a sigh of relief, then helped Russell to his feet.
“Was that part of your plan?” Clyde asked, breathless.
Russell shook his head. “No, but it worked just the same.”
Clyde ejected the magazine from the pistol, looked it over, then slapped it back into place. He turned to the rooftop door. “What do you think that shooting was about?”
“I don’t know, but we need to get back to Cathy and the others before it’s too late.”
Russell charged the door with Clyde at his side. He wrenched it open, then peered at the blinding darkness before them with the pistol trained ahead.
Clyde felt his pockets, then pulled out his flashlight. He thumbed the switch and trained the beam at the black void before them.
Russell patted his coat, then the pockets of his
