Patrick Lee - Ghost Country

He turned and saw Bethany trying to work it out too.

"Everyone got in their cars and left," Travis said. "But not in a hurry." T hey returned to the stairwell and continued the search of the building, floor by floor. At the ninth level they walked out to the northeast corner, where seventy years earlier Paige had been held. There was nothing special about the construction there. Just more girders, and a concrete flooring section that hadn't yet surrendered to gravity.

Travis stared at the undefined space. Irrational as he knew it was, he couldn't help thinking that Paige was right there somehow, just feet away, but impossible to reach from here. He wondered what she was thinking. Wondered if she knew they were trying to get to her-that she wasn't as alone as she must feel. He thought about it for a few seconds and then forced himself to look away. Losing time here wasn't helping her.

They continued up the stairwell. They found nothing of interest on any of the floors through the fifteenth. Only one floor remained above that point, and it had just three of its concrete pads still in place. Of all the surfaces in the building these were the most exposed to rain and wind and sunlight. Looking up at the slabs, Travis put the chance of finding anything noteworthy on top of them right around zero.

Then they climbed the last flight, and he saw at once that he'd been wrong.

Two of the three pads were bare and bleached and scoured smooth by the elements, as expected.

On the third, halfway between the stairwell and the building's northeast corner, stood an executive office desk.

It was made of rich cherrywood. Its work surface was three feet by six. It was centered perfectly on its slab of concrete. It looked like someone had hauled it out of a showroom five minutes ago and put it there.

For the longest moment Travis could only stare. He and Bethany shared a look. Then they walked across the girders to the desk.

At close range it became plausible. It wasn't made of cherrywood. It was made of some synthetic material that did a hell of a job of looking like cherrywood. And it was lag bolted to the pad. Ice expansion cracks had grown laterally from the bolt holes in the concrete, wide enough in places that Travis could see the exposed and rusted mesh of rebar inside. Of all the floor sections he'd seen in the building, this one looked the closest to failing. By far. And that was without factoring in the weight of the desk pressing on it. It was a wonder the slab had held this long.

There were four drawers in the desk. Two on either side of where a person would sit. Shallow tray drawers above, deep file drawers below. All four were closed. Their front panels were made of the same synthetic material that had held up so well during the desk's long reign atop the decaying building. Travis crouched low on the girder at the point nearest the desk, and studied the drawers. They were tightly closed. They would be weighted to stay shut until someone gave them a good tug. The wind had never managed to do so: there was nothing on the drawers' faces to offer it any purchase. In the early years the drawers had also had the benefit of being locked shut, but that protection was probably nominal by now: Travis saw only rust-choked circular indentations where steel keyholes had once been.

Four drawers. Not sealed shut, but at least shut. No sunlight would've gotten into them. Not much ice, either. A trace amount of rain would've made it through, and all the humidity and mold and mildew in the world would've gone in like there was no barrier at all. Any paper contents would be a distant memory. But people kept other things in desk drawers. Credit cards. Engraved metal items.

All they needed was a name.

Travis stood upright again. He stared at the concrete pad, sagging in its frame. There was no way to reach the desk drawers without venturing completely onto it, and not just a step or two. Not any short distance from which you could turn and grab for the girder if the concrete gave without warning. To open the drawers would require going all the way to the middle of the pad, eight feet in from the edge.

"How much do you weigh?" Bethany said.

Travis shook his head. "You're not going out there."

"I weigh a hundred ten pounds naked. Mind averting your eyes and holding onto my clothes?"

"You're not going out there. I'm going."

She looked at him. "Is this really the time for sexism masquerading as chivalry?"

"Yes."

Travis unslung the shotgun and handed it to her. He stood there a few seconds longer, eyeing the cracks. He turned around and leaned a few inches past the other side of the girder-the open side-and looked down at the fifteenth floor. There was no intact concrete directly below to slow or hinder the fall of this pad, if it collapsed. There was nothing but open space all the way to a pad down on the twelfth floor, which would do about as much good as a big sheet of tissue paper stretched between the girders there. And after that it was smooth plummeting all the way to the foundation. Travis turned and faced the desk again.

"Maybe this was the CEO's office," Bethany said. It sounded like the kind of thing a person only said to drown out the internal scream of tension. "Someone important, anyway. We didn't see any other desks bolted to the concrete."

"Maybe the concrete pads with bolt holes in them all cracked through and fell a long time ago. Maybe this is the last holdout, just waiting for a dry leaf to land on it and send it crashing down."

"You're not helping."

Travis put one foot on the concrete. He shifted a fourth of his weight onto it. The pad didn't budge. Maybe it was stronger than it looked. He transferred another fourth of his weight. Still solid. He took a breath and stepped completely onto the thing. It felt fine. He looked at Bethany. She didn't look the least bit relieved.

"I know," Travis said. "The edge would be the strong part anyway."

"Don't die."

"Okay."

He took a second step. Then another.

On his fourth step something shifted. It was barely perceptible. A settling movement of the pad, probably no more than an eighth of an inch. He heard Bethany take a sharp breath behind him, but she said nothing.

Three more steps would put him right at the front of the desk, centered where its owner had once sat.

He set a foot forward and eased onto it. He felt no response from the pad.

Two steps to go.

He took the next one. Nothing.

Maybe he was flattering himself to think his presence mattered to this five-ton chunk of material that'd weathered a couple thousand blizzards with a two-hundred-pound desk on its back. Maybe he could do jumping jacks on it for an hour and not impress it.

He eased his weight off his back foot. Guided it forward and touched it to the concrete six inches from the desk. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and let his center of gravity slide forward until it was positioned evenly above both feet.

Then a piece of rebar snapped like bone and the middle of the pad plunged six inches, throwing Travis forward against the desk.

Bethany screamed.

It was all Travis could do to keep his body from pitching right over the desktop and slamming down like a dropped anvil onto the concrete behind it. Bethany was yelling something at him, but the bloodflow ringing in his ears made it hard to tell what it was. He checked his forward momentum, both hands pressing hard onto the smooth desktop, and suddenly the world went still and silent. He heard his own breathing. He heard Bethany's breathing too.

He turned and looked at her. The word pale didn't quite do the job. Her breath went in and out in little jerks. Her eyes stayed with his for a few seconds, and then they dropped and went to the right. He followed her stare.