The knocking on the door grew heavier. Thuds turned to slams. More bodies piling in from the stairwell, shoulders and skulls adding wet, relentless weight. The thick metal groaned deep in its frame, bolts rattling in their sockets.
"Ladies first," I said. "Sherry, slope the ladder when you reach the top."
Sherry was already moving. Fingers hooked into the first hold with a soft scrape of skin on metal. Boots wedged into the chipped sockets. She climbed fast and clean, body pressed close to the concrete, muscles flexing in smooth rhythm under her shirt. The only person I would've sent first without hesitation.
May went right behind her. Her skirt rode high as she pulled upward, fabric bunching against her thighs, but she made the ascent look effortless—precise grips, quick shifts of weight, black hair swaying against her neck.
