“I can’t do it,” I say, pushing against Barclay and trying to get back up. I’m not claustrophobic, but I’ve never had to fit into such a small tight space. A space that will effectively trap us here.
“You have to,” Barclay says.
“We should run.” My legs twitch at the thought.
“There’s nowhere to go,” he says. “Just for once, do what I tell you.”
He knows this apartment—and this world—better than I do. I suck in a deep breath, my lungs burning.
I’m almost completely prone when I pause and sit back up. I brought more evidence of my existence here than just myself. “My backpack, the coats!”
“Fuck!” Barclay says, jumping out of the hole. “Lie down and leave as much room as you can. I have to get in there with you.”
He rushes out of the closet, and I lie down, flat on my back. I cross my hands over my chest, like a dead body, but I can’t breathe right in that position. I switch to my side, and even though I don’t know where to put my arms, I tell myself this is better. If I press my back up against the side of the compartment, we’ll have more room for him to be in here with me, though not much.
I hear two more beeps, and Barclay is back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him put my backpack up on the top shelf, then throw both our coats in the hamper. Then he’s climbing into the hole with me.
He pulls a string connected to the floorboards, and they fall over us, snapping back into place. We’re lost in almost complete darkness, and Barclay lies down on his side facing me. I put my hands against his chest, and he drapes an arm over me and turns my face into his collarbone.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers. “Don’t even move. If they find us here, we’re as good as dead.”
I don’t know what I’d say to that if I had the chance, but it doesn’t matter, because at that moment, I hear the front door click open and someone says, “Hey, anybody home?” followed by a thick chuckle. Like this is some kind of game, like it’s funny.
The door slams.
A different voice says, “You want his neighbors to narc on us when he gets home?” It’s gruff. Annoyed, even.
There’s an exchange of words, but they’ve lowered their voices and it’s too muffled to hear over the pounding of my heart.
I need an escape strategy. That will calm me down. How will we get out of here if we’re caught? Maybe there’s just two of them. I hope. Maybe Barclay has his gun on him and another one nearby. If they do find us down here, we’ll have to come out swinging. So far they’re at least both male—I can come up with a strike to the balls and maybe somehow get the upper hand and get away.
At least that’s my plan right now.
If these guys are IA like Barclay thinks, and they find us, there’s only one place I’m going—prison, to be detained and then executed. Barclay would be going there too, and since we’re hiding with the blueprints to the prison, there’s no way we’d be able to escape.
I remember what Barclay said about Elijah. I don’t know how injured he is. I wonder what they did to him, and what they’re likely to do to both of us, if they find us now. Maybe being executed in four days wouldn’t even be the worst of it.
“Let’s just hurry up and get this done,” someone says. I think it’s a different voice than the first two, but I can’t be sure.
I close my eyes. My left leg twitches again, and I can feel my calf starting to cramp up. Barclay shifts slightly next to me and my left knee slides in between his. I can feel the soft cotton threads of his shirt under my fingertips, the tense muscles tight underneath the fabric. And I can feel his heartbeat thumping in his chest.
Outside dishes clatter in the kitchen, drawers open and slam shut.
I wonder if the IA will trump up fake charges to put on my execution papers or if they’ll be honest and cite that I’m a means to an end, something that doesn’t matter. I wonder if they’re allowed to just dispose of me since I don’t live here.