The Stairs

Eddie Brennan ran for the aft hatch before he understood what he was doing, and when he reached the door frame where Tommy had disappeared four minutes earlier, there were no more stairs.

There was the door. The steel sill, with its high step you had to swing a leg over. The lamp on the ceiling, still burning, yellow, peaceful, as if nothing had happened. And under the lamp, where the iron steps had gone down a little while ago to the deck below, then the next one, then to Hold No. 4, there was a hole.

A square hole with twisted edges. A railing hanging over nothing, torn loose at one end, swaying gently with the roll. Smoke rising, gray, smelling of powder and burned paint. And all the way down, at a depth he couldn't measure, something black that moved and shone under the light.