Each sound, each rustle of the wind, sent waves of panic down his spine. He was out there. He could feel it. He was out there, somewhere behind him, moving through the dark with a speed and precision Jean-Baptiste couldn’t comprehend. His pulse quickened as his mind raced, replaying the events of the last hour – the ambush, the screams of his comrades, the sound of bodies hitting the ground. He hadn’t seen the man, not fully. But the others had, and they hadn’t survived long enough to even warn him.
Up ahead. A metal door. Jean-Baptiste’s breath caught in his throat: Hope. He rushed toward it without thinking. His legs barely holding him upright. His trembling hands fumbled with the handle. He yanked the door open. He threw himself inside. It slammed shut with a loud bang. The echo was deafening in the narrow space. His fingers scrambled to find the heavy bolt. He slid it into place with shaking urgency. The metallic thunk reverberated through the stairwell. A fleeting assurance that he had bought himself time – if only a few moments.
He turned and blinked into the near darkness. The stairwell was narrow, cold. A forgotten space in the city’s bowels. The air felt thick and damp. It smelled of rust and decay. Jean-Baptiste took a few shaky steps toward the stairs. His pulse thundered in his ears. His chest heaved. He fought to catch his breath. The oppressive quiet of the stairwell did nothing to calm him. He started to climb. His feet moved instinctively. Every step an agonizing effort. His body trembled with exhaustion. He tripped, barely catching himself on the railing. His knees buckled as he stumbled upwards, but he kept going. He had to keep going.
The top of the stairwell appeared ahead. A faint rectangle of light. Barely bright enough to see. The outline of a door. He shoved the door open. He stumbled out onto the rooftop, gasping for air. The cool night breeze hit his face, offering a moment of relief. He scanned the rooftop, desperate for a way out. His eyes darted wildly across the roof’s surface: old vents, scattered debris, and cracked concrete. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.
His eyes landed on a rusted metal pipe near the door. Gasping, he grabbed it with both hands, dragging it across the ground before wedging it under the door handle. He angled it at a sharp slant, using all the strength he had left to kick it into place. It held. Jean-Baptiste staggered back, his chest heaving as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt the panic begin to subside, just for a second. The pipe would hold. The door was sealed. He was safe.
He turned to scan the rooftop again, his breath beginning to slow. There was no other access to this roof. A sign of relief escaped Jean-Baptiste. Maybe, just maybe, he had lost him. His mind allowed itself a flicker of hope for the first time since the chase began. His vision blurred with relief as he let out another shaky sigh, leaning against a nearby vent to steady himself.
But the calm didn’t last. A voice, cold and calm, shattered the silence like glass.
“Do I seem like the kind of man who needs the stairs?”
Jean-Baptiste’s body froze in place, the blood draining from his face as every ounce of relief evaporated. Slowly, so slowly, he turned around. His eyes scanned the rooftop, searching frantically for the source of the voice, but he already knew. Deep down, he had known all along.
GJ Bishop 