I drop to my belly. Cold sinks through my clothes as I slither through mud and weeds to the edge of the pit. My line of sight is hindered by dead vegetation and trees that have taken root. Cursing, I look around for a way get into the pit, but it’s dark and raining and I can’t see shit.

“Pickles! Where are you?”

“Bitch … got me.”

Choking back a swell of emotion, of hope, at the sound of his voice, I crawl in the direction of the sound. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Bad…”

“Can you get out of there?”

“Negative.” The word is followed by a groaned, “Shit.”

“Help’s on the way.”

“Chief…”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything more. “Pickles?”

I’m on my belly and elbows on the east side of the basement, facing west, toward the shooter’s last position, but I see nothing. I don’t know if she’s moving to a new location or if she’s running. All the while, I envision Pickles slipping beneath the water.…

Calling out his name, I wriggle closer to the edge. The ground falls away beneath my elbows as I draw near. I risk using my Maglite and flash it on and off into the pit. I get a snapshot of black water that’s thick with foliage, rotting wood, and trash of indiscernible sources. A slick of blood two feet away. Pickles facedown in the water.

I slide my legs over the side and jam my fingers into the mud. I try to lower myself slowly, but my fingers plow through mud and I plunge into four feet of icy water. I manage to keep my Maglite above the surface. My feet sink deep into mud and God only knows what else. When I move toward Pickles, I trip over a submerged object and nearly go under.

I lunge toward the place I last saw him. My right hand makes contact. His skin is cold to the touch. He’s trembling, thrashing weakly, trying to keep his head above water. “I’ve got you,” I say.

He tries to speak, but he’s choking and sputtering.

The crack of a gunshot rings out over the din of rain. I look around wildly, spot movement on the other side of the pit, a silhouette against the sky. I raise my .38 and fire once, conserving ammo, but in the process I drop my flashlight. Cursing, I drag Pickles through the water, stumbling over debris and squeezing through saplings and brush. He’s conscious and cries out several times, but there’s nothing I can do to ease his pain. My leg hits something solid. When I reach out, I realize I’ve found the stone steps that were probably part of the original house and led to the basement.