Book II – Chapter 30: Stairwell

Posted On September 12, 2020

There was something about the dark, empty parking lot that felt like the end of the world. The last time they had been at Six Pines, there had been hundreds of cars— glowing lights, gamblers, and noise. Now it sat silent, like the foot of a mountain on a moonless night. Only a few vehicles were left near the entrance. Demos recognized Sal’s— he’d beat them there.

The lobby was just as quiet. Christmas decorations swayed beneath shadows, a hundred strings of lights hung dead above their heads. A few dark shapes stood huddled beside the reception desk, speaking in voices too low to follow.

“Gina,” Demos said. “I thought I told you to leave.”

She looked over, her face momentarily illuminated as she lit a cigarette. The orange glow flashed over her sharp features before folding as the lighter clicked off.

“I thought I do what I want,” Gina said. “Because I don’t report to you.”

This was another battle Demos would not chase. There wasn’t time to argue and, more importantly, she was right. Gina wasn’t part of the hierarchy— she didn’t report to anyone but herself.

Ferris struggled to focus his eyes in the dark. “You really did clear the place out.”

“We announced a gas leak,” Don said. He was standing beside Gina, his attention set on the bolt-action rifle he was loading.

“There were quite a few refunds to issue.” Don’s voice dropped.  “If you’re wrong about this, you owe us for every cent.”

The bolt clacked as he pushed it shut with his palm.

“I hope I am wrong,” Demos said. His eyes drifted toward the entrance. With an empty parking lot, there would be no element of surprise. The Marianis would know they were expected.

“No way, kid,” Sal said— a shadow with a voice. “I drove three hours for this shit. If I don’t get to shoot somebody, I’m shooting you.”

He laughed. The only one to join him was Gina.

Outside, there were engines. Headlights poured in through the glass entrance, casting long, black shadows patched with white. They were here.

It looked like Sal wouldn’t be shooting Demos, at least.

Gina stubbed out her cigarette before sliding the last rifle from the desk.

“Ferris,” she said.

He looked over, surprised to hear his own name coming from Gina’s mouth. Both her tone and her eye contact were unsettling— as dead serious as he’d ever seen her.

“Can you take Nadia somewhere safe?” she said.

Ferris’ eyes shifted from Gina to the woman beside her. Nadia hadn’t spoken since they’d arrived, only wringing her hands with an empty gaze. She hadn’t signed up for this. They couldn’t lose another civilian to the Marianis. Not her— not anyone.

Not to mention, Ferris still wasn’t armed. This was about as useful as he could get.

“Yeah,” Ferris said. “Come on.”

Just before stepping away, he paused. Demos had caught his eyes— there was something in his stare, something he was trying to say. The tightness in his eyelids, the faint crease in his brow, it came to him as clear as words themselves.

Be careful.

“Okay,” Don said. “Let’s go.”

Half a minute passed. The first shots were fired through glass. One after another, the panes of the entrance shattered, pierced by shells, raining shards down over carpet. The fragments glinted under the car headlights, still glaring white through the open space. A dozen men entered the lobby, their shoes crunching over scraps of glass.

The only thing to greet them was their own shadows.

The lobby was empty.

“Get out here, you fucking cowards!” It was Aldo’s voice. There was an echo to it, his rage bouncing off the darkened walls. No one responded. There was only the sound of rolling engines outside, of twelve men breathing. The temperature in the lobby began to drop as cold air mingled with warm.

A man at Aldo’s side muttered. “How did they know we were—“

Splatters of red cut his sentence short. Two bodies fell, toppling down over the broken doors. One floor above, a pair of security guards reloaded their rifles.

“They’re up there,” Aldo said. “Move! Fucking move!”

The next few seconds were blurry through the CCTV screen. Ferris leaned closer, his hands flat on the desk of the security office. Twenty screens covered the wall in front of him, flitting with static. Nadia was hunched in the chair at his side, her arms strung tight against her own chest. It was the safest place he could think of— at least on short notice.

“What were you doing up here, anyway?” Ferris asked. Maybe talking would help settle her nerves.

“She said I looked tense,” Nadia said. “Said the spa would help me relax.”

Nadia’s thousand-yard stare flickered in his direction.

“This is not relaxing,” she said.

“Yeah. No kidding.”

Nadia’s voice softened. “I like her, though. Gina. She’s been so kind to me.”

“She’s— she’s been what?”

Movement on another screen stole his attention. It was the casino floor. The surviving Marianis had swept deeper into the building. This time, they knew better. Their postures were guarded, hunching behind lifeless slot machines as they searched the pitch-black floor. Ferris would have to ask what imposter had been impersonating Gina some other time.

Back on the gaming floor, Demos’ fingers tightened on the rifle stock. He strained to listen for footsteps, for breathing, but his own cursed pulse overpowered every other sense in his body. Sal was crouched to his right, his figure obscured by a wide craps table.

Then, he heard it— a dull thump on metal. Someone’s foot had bumped a slot machine. Demos snapped sideways, firing two shots into the dark. A body fell.

That was when it started.

There was a clunk, followed by an electrical hum. Lights snapped on, machines trilled, and gunfire filled the air. From the second level, security fired on the now-blinded raiders. Bodies clanged as they collapsed against video poker machines, staining the already-crimson carpeting that ran across the floor. Demos’ stare flickered from one figure to the next, a focused search for a single target.

“Aldo,” Demos said through his teeth. There he was, beneath the crystal chandelier at the center of the room. Demos took a breath, then aimed.

His target swept from his vision in an instant. Aldo was gasping for air, weaving past black jack tables before running straight to a steel door beneath a glowing red sign.

Exit.

“Shit! Sal, he’s getting away!”

The two jumped to their feet, ducking beneath open fire. Bullets tore at video screens, shattering digital faces into silence. Sal’s body hit the door with all the grace of a boulder and the two tumbled into the bright, narrow space.

It was a stairwell.

Sal arched his neck, peering up at the ascending staircase. Somewhere above them, the sound of footsteps dissolved behind a slamming door. He’d gone onto one of the floors above.

“God, fuckin— ugh.” Sal was already panting— it had been a long time since he’d been full of youthful energy. “You check the third floor, I’ll get the second.”

There wasn’t time to argue. Demos only nodded, his grip tight on the rifle as he pushed up the stairs. Each step echoed through the tight angles of the stairwell.

The third level door was shut tight. Demos swallowed before reaching for the handle, praying it wouldn’t be locked.

It turned with a click.

He flattened his back against the wall, allowing the door to drift open without him. Demos closed his eyes. There wasn’t a sound— no movement, no life. With a single breath, he peeked past the door frame.

There was nothing. It was a long, deserted hallway lined with suite doors— the third floor of the hotel. He pivoted past the threshold, shoes noiseless on the ornate carpeting. Aldo couldn’t have gone into one of the rooms, he would have needed a key. There was a turn at the end of the hall, a 90 degree angle into the north end of the building. Had he—

Two gunshots— then a third. They were below him.

The second floor.

“God damnit, Sal.”

Demos raced back into the stairwell, his soles scuffing the concrete flooring. He gripped the railing around a turn, not slowing his pace until he was facing the door to the second level. It was open.

He stood in place, catching his breath. A wall light flickered over the only object in the entire hallway. It lay there, halfway down the center— a dark, motionless shape.

A body.

“Sal?” The word was dry in his throat.

Demos took a step closer.

He didn’t make it into the hallway. A shape cut into his line of sight— two bloodshot eyes boring straight back into his. Demos couldn’t think fast enough, couldn’t move as the figure’s fingers twisted into the front of his shirt, nails digging against buttons.

“No,” Aldo said.

Then, he pushed.

It was a cannonball in Demos’ chest. The floor, once so steady, withdrew from beneath him. All that was left was a sliver of heel tottering on the sharp edge of a stair. The breath he’d been holding abandoned ship, rising up as his body went down.

Wide eyes caught fluorescent lights rolling from one end of his vision to another. There was the crack of joints on concrete, the tumble of his brittle frame on steps and steel. There shocks of white, the smell of red, the pain of black fractures stealing through bone.

Demos hit the landing hard— a discarded schoolbag, blood spilling like books and pencils over the grimy concrete. He groaned.

He couldn’t tell which direction he was facing. Slow, intentional footsteps approached on the stairs, one at a time, a luxury he had been robbed of. Demos curled his fingers— the rifle was gone. It had fallen. Somewhere— where? He inhaled through a hiss, lungs pressing against split ribs. Pain razed up through him and he gasped.

The footsteps stopped.

“Where is his body?” asked the voice from above. It was fuzzy, barely audible over the rapid pounding in his skull. There was a heat present as Aldo crouched, straddling Demos’ broken frame on the stairwell floor.

Demos coughed. “What?”

“Sandro.” Aldo’s hands had found their way back onto Demos’ shirt, only now it was smudged with dust and bloodstains. Demos’ head hung back, limp as he was lifted by the collar.

Aldo’s voice rose— twisting in his throat. “Where is Sandro?”

“I don’t—“

The fist came before he could see it. The world spun once more as knuckles met the pale edge of his cheek, sending droplets of sweat against the wall. Demos could taste blood.

“Tell me!”

There was a second punch— a third. Demos could feel the hair on the back of his head twisting as Aldo yanked it backward, exposing his throat to the indifferent ceiling.

“Tell me where my brother is!”

Demos said nothing, only breathing— each intake stung, his skin throbbing beneath bruises. Blood trailed past his dry lips, a slow trickle until it cupped beneath his chin.

“You haven’t learned anything,” Aldo said. “Your actions have consequences. And you’re going to tell me—”

“Aldo.”

It wasn’t Demos’ voice.

Aldo’s eyes trailed upward just in time to see the bottom of a practical winter boot. The heel met his forehead with a low, reverberating crack, heaving his body back into the wall behind him. Aldo crumpled with a moan.

Ferris knelt, taking the man’s collar in both hands. He said nothing else, lips silent and eyes empty as he dragged the man up to his feet. There was a crack. Aldo’s skull chipped paint, bashed into the wall once— twice. He choked, grasping Ferris’ wrists.

It wasn’t over.

Aldo’s body twisted as he was thrown into the steel railing. His spine curved over the bar in a manner it was certainly not meant to, metal digging rivets into his back. Hands found Aldo’s neck. Ferris leaned in. He could feel his victim’s throat bob beneath his thumbs, jerking as he struggled to twist free. Veins bulged and Aldo’s face burned red. Ferris’ fingers dug deeper— hard, gouging lines, building pressure against his trachea. Blunt trauma with no window for escape.

“Ferris—“

Ferris glanced over. It was Demos— and a single, choked word.

Aldo’s body dropped with a thud.

The world returned to him as he knelt beside his friend. The stairwell came into focus— walls, steps, the long, white bulbs of the ceiling lights. Demos’ foot was twisted sideways, his ankle bent at an angle that was in no way natural. He wouldn’t be walking that night. Ferris met his eyes, reaching in to take Demos’ hand.

“Can you move your neck?” Ferris asked. He wasn’t sure why his voice was shaking.

Demos nodded.

“Okay,” Ferris said. “I’m going to pick you up.”

There were probably things to say, questions to ask, but Ferris could only think of one thing— getting him out of there. He moved automatically, one hand dipping beneath Demos’ knees as he lifted him from the ground. Demos’ body seemed cold— hollow. Why did he feel so light?

Demos tried to hold in a groan, but failed miserably.

“I know,” Ferris said. “I know it hurts. Just hang on, okay?”

He left the landing— left the rifle, Aldo, and every stain and crack on the concrete floor. None of it mattered. All there was, all that existed, was the small body in his arms— a pained shiver beneath mottled wounds, dark hair on a head that had wilted against his chest.

“It’s okay,” Ferris said. “I got you.”

The stairwell door swept shut behind him.

Nadia jumped when the two entered the security office, bumping back the rolling chair she’d been seated in. It took a moment of staring before she realized that the mangled mess in Ferris’ arms was a person.

“What hit him?” Nadia said. “A truck?”

Ferris knelt, easing his cargo onto the solid floor.

“About a dozen stairs. Can you help him?”

Nadia was already rolling up her sleeves— she didn’t have to be asked. She knelt in the cramped space beside Demos, feeling along the sides of his neck for injury.

“Are you numb anywhere?” Nadia looked from one eye to another, taking note of Demos’ pupils.

“No. I’m— nngh!”

Her hands had found his shoulder, or more accurately, the knob where it had shifted to. She paused in her assessment.

“How does that feel?”

Demos’ eyes screwed shut. “It— it fucking hurts.”

“He needs to relax.” Her attention shifted to Ferris. “Distract him.”

Ferris inhaled— a sharp swell of his chest as he became suddenly aware of his own presence in the small, dark room.

“Uh— okay. Right.” Ferris patted the floor until he found Demos’ hand. He clutched it, palm against palm. What was there to say? What could possibly take his friend’s attention away from the pain of what looked like a dislocated shoulder and a half dozen shattered bones?

There were holiday decorations at the edge of his vision— some lights, a mini Christmas tree on the desk. Holidays. Only one came to mind fast enough.

“Hey, do you remember, uh—“ Ferris scratched behind his ear. “Your first Halloween here? In the States?”

Demos groaned. “I hated it.”

“Yeah. I was a ghostbuster, so your aunt Vanni made you dress up like a ghost.” Ferris gave a light laugh. “You were so mad.”

The Italian narrowed his eyes, directing his glare up at Ferris. “You— you made me watch the movie.”

“Yeah, and you said it was unrealistic—  and that all of our American candy was garbage. You were such a goddamn brat.”

“Hey—“

“But then we found those kids egging that house.” Ferris smiled. “You wanted to join them.”

“You— ahia! Cazzo, figlio di puttana!“

Demos’ frame had seized as his shoulder was popped back into place. His hand clenched, a violent grip between Ferris’ fingers. Sweat stung as it trickled over a gash on his temple.

Somehow, Demos managed to laugh.

“You said no,” he said through a pained smile.

Ferris watched him for a while. Somehow, through flashes in his vision, he could see Demos back in the stairwell. There was Aldo’s face. Reddened, struggling, suffocating beneath his hands. Something seared upward in Ferris’ chest, that same shade of red, that same burn. He closed his eyes.

“You joined them anyway,” Ferris said.

“We didn’t celebrate Halloween back home,” Demos said. His words had trailed, as if there was more to the story that he had forgotten to say.

Ferris opened his eyes.

“This is your home.”

Demos’ gaze softened. He forgot, for that moment, that Nadia was compressing his sprained ankle. He forgot how much pain every breath brought in and how this particular outfit was much too stained and torn to ever wear again.

“That— that fucking whale book,” Demos said. “Moby-Dick. You lent me Moby-Dick.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Demos’ glare returned, dead-set on Ferris’ eyes. “That book is really gay.”

“I— what?”

“Your fucking book,” Demos said, “made me gay.”

Demos’ voice had grown weaker as the minutes passed. Shock, pain, and blood loss had mingled to create an intoxicating cocktail in the back of his head. His complexion was dull— clammy. Somehow, he maintained the tight grip on Ferris’ hand.

Ferris laughed. “No, I think that was all you.”

“Ferris.” Demos’ lips hung open for a moment. “Ferris, I—“

“No,” Nadia said. “No deathbed confessions, you’re not dying.”

There was a click behind them. The door to the security room cracked open, bumping Ferris’ knee. It was Gina. She glanced down at the mess of figures on the floor, but said nothing.

“He’s going to be okay,” Nadia said.

Gina let out a single, short breath.

“Aldo is in the stairwell,” Ferris said. “And Sal is on—“

“There was no one in the stairwell,” Gina said. “And Salvatore is dead.”

The room was quiet for a while. Ferris’ eyes dropped to the hand that was in his own.

His thumb ran slowly over scuffed knuckles. He could feel it, through his palm— Demos’ pulse, faint and ragged. Frame by frame, it returned—  the grinding of ligaments beneath his fingers— the sound a man made when struggling for air. He was gone. Aldo had gotten away and Demos had been left broken in his wake.

Ferris could no longer see the room. Figures went out of focus, swarmed by a single color. It was all he could feel— that rolling boil beneath his ribs. The burn that rose from somewhere in his gut, scorching through him like a forest fire. It was so simple, that color.

That deep, infinite tint of red.