They climbed to the third floor and stood for a second time in that bullet-shredded corridor, Abigail feeling trapped in some kind of repetitive fever dream, coming back again and again to this nightmare world. Their headlamps passed over the doors, the wood-paneled walls, the mounds of snow where the ceiling had failed. Lawrence limped a few steps into the corridor, stood there listening. They proceeded on, over the pockmarked wood where Isaiah had fired up at them through the ceiling, skirting that hole where Abigail had punched through and nearly fallen to her death. They reached what was left of the central staircase. “I don’t hear a thing,” Abigail whispered. “Me, neither. Look at that.” He pointed to where several dozen brass shell casings had rolled against the wall. “What was he shooting at?” They walked on, their headlamps aimed toward the end of the east-wing corridor, an occasional snowflake drifting down through the ceiling, a speck of bright white in their light beams.
