There, half-buried in the mud and wet leaves, was a heavy iron crowbar.

I dropped to my knees and grabbed it.

It was cold and heavy, covered in orange rust that stained my hands.

I jammed the flat end of the bar between the lock and the iron frame, leaning my entire weight against it.

The metal groaned, but the lock did not budge.

Behind me, the sound of gunfire erupted again, louder and faster this time.

The sharp, metallic rattle of a submachine gun echoed through the tunnel.

I heard Vincent fire twice in response.

“Come on,” I sobbed, throwing myself against the crowbar. “Please.”

The rusted iron of the grate creaked.

A flake of rust flew off, striking me near my eye, but I barely felt it.

I repositioned the bar, leveraging it against the concrete wall.

With a loud, snapping sound, the weld on the old hinge gave way.

The grate swung outward an inch, scraping against the mud.

“Vincent!” I screamed. “It’s open!”

There was no answer from the darkness behind me.

Only the sound of more footsteps splashing through the water, coming closer.