The Commander could feel the sand in the air with every breath, and the effort of climbing stairs made it worse.

That was the job though, walking these emergency exit stairs, peeping into halls.

He looked at one such floor, the eighth floor he believed.

The work lights were set at even intervals and directed from one end of a hallway to another. Such that any doors could be seen open, and any figure could be seen crossing. There were smaller lights, hanging off the ceiling. These were all attached by yellow wires that ran from one generator to another. It was like this on every floor, at least when it came to guest residency.

It was like to everywhere except for the big floors.

Big floors; the poker hall, the ball party lounge, the sports arena (which had been exploded by the fight Apollo and Dion had) and the buffet were all granted a different stage setting. These rooms had hanging lights like the cocoons of a spider or some other creature.

They had spent thousands of dollars on generators. Well, Salome had at least. And all in all, it was most sophisticated given the short notice.

Cameras were put, hidden underneath wreckages, set in secrecy. A rotating security patrol (because they couldn't cover all fifty plus floors without rotating), all in the service to survey a threat. And the danger was here, but the surveillance was now defunct. Destroyed.

Now they had to do it the old fashioned way. The rifle of a gun smacked metal, the Commander looked behind him.

“Be quiet,” He told his partner who shuffled in place.

“Sorry,”

“This is what we’re going to do,” The Commander spoke to the twelve in front of him. They were all in the cramped narrows of the emergency exit stairs. The red signs and the yellow metal covered each floor. “We can’t cover all this ground this fast. We’re staying in pairs, no man goes off on his own. This’ll give us six groups to work with. Each us will cover ten floors, until the sixtieth. We know where he’s heading, we also know which doors are blocked off.”

“I don’t think that’ll stop him.” One of them said.

“Then we’ll stop him. Move out.”

He gestured at a soldier next to him (they all looked the same behind their helmets and masked faces).

So the men went off in stampede and thunderous roar. The confidence in their boots as they ran up the stairs in single file line. It was a comforting sound for the few moments it lasted. But it died off eventually, and soon the Commander was left with a single team member, and two flashlights on their shoulder that pointed at the doors of a new floor.

They went in and ran through the hall, their backs against the wall and their guns first to peek the corner. Nothing. Not on this one.

“I think it’s clear,” The partner said. So they made it back to stairs and so on, so forth. For three floors, nothing.

The Commander pressed down on his intercom.

“You find anyone?”

Static.

“Is yours working?” He asked the partner.

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Now of all times. Of course,” He chuckled. “Right…”

They stood in the open stairway, hands hanging over the guard rail. It was a spiral, one with a deep hole at center. Their light couldn’t reach the floor anymore.

He breathed.

“Let’s go.” The Commander removed his mask and walked up. The sweat had made it clung to him, and his quick jerking motions had made the fabric of his mask rub against him. There was a rash on his neck. He threw the balaclava to the side. And wiped the top of his bald head. They entered. Floor number nine. The door was already open.

“I told those idiots to start from floor ten.” He cursed.

They went down the hallway, through the suites. They stopped and pointed their flashlights down.

A doorknob laid destroyed, all the intricacies laid out on the floor. It looked crushed. Not kicked, broken through, shot at. It was crushed.

He nodded at his partner and put his shoulder soft against the door. He raised his hand and started a cue.

“One.” They pushed through. Their guns waved in the air, checking each corner in the darkness.

Their footsteps were weak, growing quieter as they moved carefully through. A static television played loud nothings in the living room. Black and white static. It lit up half the room. Only half. And on the other, darker portion of the living quarters, they found a blood trail. They stopped, leading their flashlight onwards to the direction of the red. The blood had been trickled, it fell in drops and large globs, leading out from the living room and towards the bedroom and bathroom.

They walked slow. The Commander shut off the television. The noise and light all went with it. And in that newfound silence, they could hear the dripping. Running water, too like the sound of gutters vomiting grimy water. He had to focus on steadying his hand just to make it still. The Commander made his way first, shotgun in front of his face. The blood stopped at the door. Once again, they waited, with their shoulders against the door, the sweat piling up on his forehead.

They kicked it in. The hinges snapped. Wood splinters flew everywhere.

"Oh my god," The partner said.

They pointed their flashlights up, a few feet off the floor, to where one of their men hung from. Impaled, more like it. Through the back of his head, out his mouth, the water sprouted out, bloody and spilling on what appeared to be a clogged bathtub.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," The partner said.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Come on, work. Work!” The Commander pressed down on his radio.

"You shouldn't be so frustrated, Commander," A voice responded, through his radio set. With that voice came the sound of another man, breathing. And with that, came the loud, blunt noise of a skull being crushed in. Bone breaking, the rough surface of the killing-object being retracted from fleshy-goop. Then there was no breathing.

It was a voice so cold it seemed to chill the air. The blood depleted from his face.

"How the fuck are you talking to me right now?" The Commander asked.

"Your friends handed it to me." He said. "It was an offering. Or a bargain. I forgot."

“When I find you-” The Commander said.

“I’ll help you. Floor thirty-seven.”

He changed channels immediately.

"Anyone still alive?”

“Yeah. But-”

“Target spotted, floor thirty-seven.”

They left the corpse hanging. They ran out the doors and heading straight for the stairs. Midway, they crossed the elevator shaft and stopped.

“What’s that noise?” The partner asked.

The Commander felt a knot in his stomach, turning and tightening. He ran to the elevator doors and opened them, using his gun as a kind of crowbar. He saw the image, like a photo snap. Through the thin slits of the metal elevator doors, he saw a body falling. Screaming. Echoing his pleading.

Pop. The body fell.

“Fuck. Was that. That sounded like Trevor. That-” The partner said.

“Focus. We need to get the son of a bitch.”

It was easy for the Commander to move. Easier, at least. His partner, who went a limp pace behind him, wore on his face something different. It was the look in his eyes, a confluence between sadness and growing insanity.

Something worse than fear. Dread.

It’s not like either of them were sane men. Not as they dragged their flashlights up the emergency stairs. Not as they pointed at new-found bloody prints. Not as they followed the trail. Sane men, after all, don’t chase death.

The footprint continued for long stretches.

Each step felt longer than the last. Talking to his partner proved to be worthless, it was like he wasn't even there (his partner). His eyes were wide and beaming and blink-less. It was like he was staring at the sun, but the pain didn’t matter anymore. His partner misstepped. He almost tripped, but grabbed himself by the rails. His gun and equipment hit the guard rail, it produced a rattle.

"Shh," The Commander put a finger on his lips. They waited a bit. The leather straps, the metal making small noises as the silence filled the room and the last echo of their footsteps faded to obscurity. They looked at the center of the spiral stairs. Something was hitting the rails, falling. It wasn’t a gun. It wasn’t his teammate fucking up.

A body dropped.

"Fuck!" The Commander screamed.

It went speeding past him, down the center of the stairs.

They followed it down with their flashlights. And were nearly hit with the other half. It wasn’t two men being thrown out, it was two pieces of a man. Upper and lower half. The partner stepped back and hugged a wall.

"Hello?" The Commander pressed down on his intercom. "Is there anybody there?"

Static. He wasn’t sweating anymore. Sweat came with uncertainty, but there were no surprises left. Nothing, really left at all. He looked back.

"What's your name?" The Commander turned to the partner. His partner, whose gun shook and fumbled.

"Henry," He said.

"You ever been in war?"

"No,"

"I can tell. You don't look it." The Commander said. "How'd you get in here then?"

"I was in the army, but I d-d-didn't deploy."

"Oh," The Commander’s voice went soft. "Do you have anything you want to live for?"

"I'm not sure what kind of q-q-question that is, S-sir." Henry.

"Do you even have any idea what's going on?"

"Huh?" That was it.

Huh? As if the question itself had only just appeared in his mind and only then, here and now, did the partner (Henry. Henry, right.) get an opportunity to think on the subject. What was he doing here? Either of them? Money? A contract paid for? Loyalty? Revenge? Everything blended together, maybe, stuffed into the meat grinder and out.

"Is this worth dying for?" The Commander asked.

"Huh?" The Rookie said. His voice petered off, his mouth was agape, it stretched out his balaclava.

"How about you think about this one real hard then? Just this one question," The Commander pumped his shotgun. "Do you want to fight or run?"

He didn't say huh. Henry stopped and looked down the stairs and then up where the railings hung bits of intestines from the falling body. Like clothes left on a line to dry, the bowels of Trevor hung. It was an organ trail, leading all the way up to Salome. He looked at the Commander (not in the eyes, that was hard). He just kind of looked to the corner of the floor and then immediately turned. He ran down. His steps speeding up as he approached the floor.

After a few minutes, the Henry screamed. Then it was stifled, as if choked to an instant mute. A croak.

"So that’s how it is." The Commander said. He made his face stern. He couldn’t understand how he’d made it down so fast. He couldn’t understand anything past this simple fact: it was his turn next.

He slapped his own face, if and only if to summon what little savagery remained.

"I was in the gulf, facing deserts and wild men," He said. "I've seen carpet bombs and tanks lined up like a fucking firing line. Who are you? Hmm? You’re not as scary as that."

He tightened his grip. His heart palpitations rose in tempo.

"You're a fucking choir boy, that's it." He said. "A sick fuck, that's all. A rich-boy punk preaching this God shit."

He checked every knife and every bullet on his person. On his vest, he counted while cursing furiously at seeming darkness, as if the broadcast of his words were irrelevant now. And he inspected a pouch, one on his hips, a small one that carried nothing more than extra gloves and glasses. And from this pouch, he felt coarse sand. Black sand. Not a lot, not enough to notice in this stairway without light. But he saw it, and saw how slowly it rose from his pouch and went out and up. He chased it, upstairs, through a thin slit of a door.

"So that's how -" He had to breath. He felt hot in the cheeks. "That's it? That's how you've been finding us?"

He almost wanted to laugh. He kicked his feet through the doors and shined the light on the sand, the thin particles that suddenly dropped onto the floor.

"Where are you, huh?" He shined his light and saw the statues, giant women with urns in their hands pouring dry into an empty fountain. Long curtains stretched out midway, so that half the room was in light and the other half in darkness. He approached the windows. The design of which cut through the moonlight and made small squares upon the floor.

He saw a shadow pass.

"Come on, punk. Show yourself," He pumped his shotgun.

“Come on. Hit me. Go on.” Another shadow. He shot.

The hand of a statue was blown away into marble chunks.

There was a staircase? Oh. It was the hallway, the halls leading to each Wolfe’s room.

A noise. A flutter of steps.

“Hit me! I want you to do it, come you prick.”

He shot again. Into darkness.

"Do it. Show yourself. Do it!"

And the curtains drew back behind him. He shot at them, at the glass. It made small holes in the fabric, and larger holes into the glass. He could hear outside now, the wind that blew casually.

"How many sins have you come to suffer for?" A voice said. He turned. He shot at it. The statue face fell, it looked back at the Commander. Past it, deeper into obscurity, he saw green eyes. He shot at them. They disappeared. Then reappeared, in another corner. Closer. Closer now. "What have you come to confess, little lamb?"

"Fuck you, motherfucker.” Again. His barrel exploded, the flash briefly showing Ritcher.

Then nothing. Darkness returned. Like a photograph undeveloped. His heart was beating out of his chest.

“Show your face!" He screamed, more for himself.

"You're seeing it," Ritcher said. "You're seeing the face of God. Closer. Closer now, little lamb."

He pulled the trigger. He didn’t mean, it just slipped. Like he didn’t realize how hard he was pressing or something. Fuck. The butt of the gun hit his shoulder a way he wasn’t ready for. And his ammo was gone.

He was supposed to be experienced, right? A man tested of fear, right?

He looked in his pocket for a slug to put inside his shotgun. Fuck, fuck. He dropped it, and knelt.

The hot breath ran down his neck.

"Today you will repent."

That was it. His ticket, his turn.

He didn't know what it felt like, only that the touch was...cold...and coarse, like sand. A touch that did not last long.

He was thrown, though didn’t see where or understood how or for how long. Not at first at least.

The most painful part of defenestration, after all, is hitting the glass.

He felt that, the curtains wrapping around his body. The glass puncturing his body. Then wind. A steady stream of wind, hitting him and dragging the drapes like a cape.

Gliding, like a bird. It felt like...relief.