The Space Between Words by Michele Phoenix

Author:Michele Phoenix
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2017-07-12T04:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

“AMÉRICAINE?” THE STRANGER ASKED.

My tears had ended. There was no room for them—the terror was too deep. Too numbing. My body ached with tension. We’d sat behind the pile of equipment for what felt like hours. It was probably only minutes.

“Yes,” I answered, my voice unsteady. “American.”

He ventured out from behind our protective barrier, crawling far enough to get a look at the other side of the stage. His jaw was set when he returned.

He seemed to search for the English words. “The exit,” he finally said. “It’s on the other side.”

“On the other side of the stage?” Despair gnawed at my courage. “But . . . how can we get there?”

He shrugged. It was such a French gesture that it almost elicited a smile from me. Then the enormity of the risk set in. We could either wait in the dead end of the wings and hope that no one would come looking, or we could try to escape across the stage, exposed to the killers, and find the emergency exit on the other side.

From the sounds reaching us, I could only imagine the horror still playing out in the Bataclan’s concert hall. Mingling with the screams and agonizing groans, the distinct voices of the terrorists spoke to each other between bursts of gunfire—one of them tense, while the others sounded calm and measured. There were fragments of sentences I understood. Something that sounded like, “Tell this to your president” and “Now you know what it feels like.”

The pleas of victims. “I beg you. Please.”

“Allahu Akbar.” Softly spoken. Followed by two shots and a laugh from somewhere in the room.

A protracted, high-pitched scream broke through the stupor in my mind. A shiver crawled down my spine as my lungs spasmed over constricted breath. The stranger leaned out from behind our precarious shelter and froze. I leaned out too.

A young man moved into my line of sight, crawling from the stage toward the door of the dressing room where dozens of people waited for death or deliverance. He used only his arms to drag his limp body. There was blood spatter on his face, a look of disbelief and terror in his gaze. I heard steps following him. He looked forward, into the shadows of the wings, and saw me cowering behind the sound equipment.

“Aidez-moi,” he mouthed as his eyes shifted to my rescuer. Help me. “Aidez . . .”

A shadow stepped into sight, outlined by the lights still streaming from the stage. The young man looked back—slowly, agonizingly. “Non,” he begged. His eyes skimmed over me as he turned forward again and tried to crawl farther with his arms, the lower part of his body lifeless.

I heard a metallic click. He inched a bit farther. “Aidez-moi,” he begged of no one in particular, his voice hoarse and breaking.

Another metallic sound. Metal against metal. An arm came out in front of me and pushed me farther into the darkness. Two quick shots and the sound of a slumping body.

I began to scream, but the stranger covered my mouth before any sound escaped.

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