Page 62 of Desperate Creed

“I can’t get a signal,” a woman said.

Then suddenly a stream of light hit Frankie in the face.

“Frankie? You okay?” It was Maggie O’Dell, though she couldn’t see the woman on the other side of the blinding light, she recognized her voice. Finally, the stream moved down. “Can you move?”

“I’m stuck,” Frankie said as she lifted her head to see what the light revealed.

It made her stomach lurch, and she tasted bile in the back of her throat. Her legs were pinned underneath one of the steel beams that had been holding up the basement ceiling. It looked like part of the building had also caved in on top of her. In a panic, she twisted and wiggled and tried to pull herself out.

“Hold on,” Maggie told her with a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, I need some help over here!” She yelled.

Frankie pointed to Maggie’s forehead, “You’re bleeding.”

The FBI agent swiped her fingers over the wound and wiped the blood on her jeans.

“I think it’s okay,” she told Frankie. “Probably just needs a couple stitches.”

The older man who Frankie remembered had been at the counter before the storm, was the first to respond. Except his jaw was bloody now, and his salt and pepper hair glittered with glass and dust. His white shirt with his carefully rolled up sleeves was torn and stained.

“Do you think we can lift it?” Maggie asked him. She didn’t wait for his answer. She was waving someone else over.

He crouched down and stared at Frankie as if it were important for him to know the identity of the person he was helping before he gave the beam a single glance. Frankie guessed he was in his sixties. Close up, his skin looked weathered from too much sun, and his hair was more salt than pepper. But his forearms looked lean and strong. And yet, Frankie almost sighed with relief when she saw the giant of a man over Maggie’s shoulder.

It was the truck driver who had helped her earlier. He had kind eyes and muscles that looked like he could lift a car off a person. But there was blood running down his arm and his shoulder hung at an odd angle.

“Wait a minute,” Maggie told him when she noticed his arm, too. “What’s your name?”

“Ronald.”

“Ronald, turn around.”

She pointed her cell phone’s flashlight at his back. Frankie saw the shard of glass, and panic quickly replaced any relief. A four-inch chunk stuck out of the top of his arm. It didn’t help matters when Frankie saw Maggie’s response. The woman looked visibly shaken. Was it the blood? It did look gross. But she was an FBI agent. Didn’t she see worse stuff?

“We need to take care of you, Ronald,” Maggie told the man. “You can’t help. You need to sit down.” She grabbed the edge of a bench and dragged it over. Then she turned back around and called out, “Hey, anyone know first aid? I’m talking major wound. And I need some muscle over here.”

“We’re trying to pry open the door,” a voice called back. Frankie thought she recognized it as Hank’s.

Maggie looked down at the older man who was still kneeling next to Frankie.

“What do you think?” she asked him. “Can the two of us lift this?”

“If it was just the beam. But all this other stuff. Maybe we should wait for the paramedics.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Friends call me Gus.”

“I’m Maggie. How about we give it a try, Gus,” Maggie told him.

Despite Maggie’s best attempt to hide it, Frankie heard the urgency in her voice, and it kicked up Frankie’s anxiety. Did she think they couldn’t wait until the paramedics arrived? The pain was almost unbearable now. She bit down on her lower lip. The beam had most likely broken at least one of her legs, if not both.

Gus shrugged then nodded. He examined the beam looking for someplace to put his hands. Maggie did the same.

“You ready, Gus?” Maggie asked. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”

The beam didn’t budge. It didn’t shift even a little bit. It simply didn’t move.

Frankie tried to concentrate on breathing. They were going to try, again. She breathed in. Then out. Another breath, in and out.