They shook and rattled as if some giant outside were swinging a wrecking ball against them. Bits of acoustic paneling and dust rained down from the ceiling, covering him in white flakes. He sat on the stairs to the second floor, his head bowed between his legs as if he were praying. Not that he was—he could probably count on one hand the times in his life he had actually prayed. It did seem a miracle, though, that he and Jones had survived the storm even this long. “Sir, top floor is clear,” Jones said from the landing above. “There’s nothing here. No sign of life, no cells, and no pressure valves. Nothing.” “I could have sworn I heard something,” Weaver said. He shook his head, his senses still rattled from the fall he took before Jones yanked him inside the building. Jones continued down the stairs and sat down beside Weaver on the step. They sat in silence for several moments, listening to the howl of the storm outside.
