That Time in Rio

striking against wood, and he held his breath as the sound repeated itself.
Something rattled the wooden floorboards. Wolfgang saw a particular plank jump as a third set of blows smacked it from the bottom. Nails popped out on one end of the plank, then a moment later, the smacking resumed at the far end of it.
Wolfgang wriggled around, drawing back his legs in preparation to kick whoever or whatever appeared from beneath the house. The plank jumped again, then slid aside, exposing an eight-inch gap in the floor with the blackness of the crawl space exposed beneath.
Wolfgang tensed, ready to kick, and then a brown hand poked through the hole. It was small and childlike, and a moment later a head wiggled through. Wolfgang recognized the face. It was the boy they had saved in the alley, and when he met Wolfgang’s gaze, he flashed a wide smile.
Wolfgang lowered his feet and started to speak, but the boy held a finger to his lips, shook his head, and pointed to the door. Wolfgang followed his gaze and saw light spilling beneath the crack. It flickered every couple seconds, as if somebody were walking in front of it.
Or toward it.
The boy lowered his head into the hole and whispered to somebody in Portuguese. They grunted beneath the shack, then the boy slithered out of the hole with a pair of cutting pliers in one hand. He stepped quickly behind Megan and snipped away the wire ties, then moved to Wolfgang and repeated the procedure.
Wolfgang’s hands broke free, and he exhaled an exhausted sigh as his taut, cramping muscles loosened. He pulled his hands in front of him and tossed aside the cut ties, massaging both wrists with dirty fingers. The boy returned to the hole and dropped the pliers in, then motioned to an invisible friend beneath the house. The smacking sound resumed, and the plank next to the hole twitched.
Wolfgang looked back at the light beneath the door and saw it flicker again. Voices boomed from outside the shack. The gunshots had ceased, and panic rose in his chest. The second plank bounced free on one end as the nails gave way, then the boy knelt and lifted it with both hands, leveraging the other end free of the beam it was fastened to.
A sixteen-inch gap opened in the floor, wide enough for a full-size adult to slide through with a little manipulation. The boy beckoned, dropping through the hole and disappearing up to his chest.
Megan and Wolfgang hurried to follow as the voices outside the shack grew louder. Wolfgang was now sure that Brazilian John Cena was one of the gunmen approaching the shack, and he was also sure he didn’t want to be there when the crew of thugs arrived.
The air flowing out from beneath the house stank of garbage and mud, but Wolfgang dropped his legs in and stood. The floor came up to his waist, grinding against his hips as he dropped to his knees. Megan had already vanished into the blackness of the crawlspace, and the boy motioned for Wolfgang to follow as a chain rattled against the outside of the shack’s front door.
Wolfgang dropped to his hands and knees, squishing in the muck beneath the house. The boy reached back into the house and quickly slid the boards into place, covering the hole only a split second before the door swung open on rusty hinges.
Wolfgang held his breath as the boy knelt beside him with his finger to his lips, while Megan and a second boy—as skinny and ragtag as the first—hid in the shadows a couple feet away.
The floor creaked. Wolfgang remembered the bent nails scattered across it and prayed they wouldn’t be noticed. A Brazilian voice boomed overhead, filled with anger and confusion. More grumbling voices joined the first, and then boots pounded on the floorboards like a stampede of angry buffalo.
Wolfgang glanced down at the boy and was surprised to see his skinny face spread into a vengeful grin.
This isn’t his first encounter with the Red Command.
Wolfgang twisted onto his stomach to crawl, but the kid shook his head and grabbed him by the hand, motioning to the darkness behind them. Several milk jugs formed a pyramid beneath the center of the shack, leaned up against each other and gleaming a piss-yellow in the cracks of light that slipped between the floorboards.
The boy winked, then motioned to the back of the house. He led the way toward the rear of the crawlspace, crawling quickly on his hands and knees. Megan closed in behind him, and Wolfgang followed, beckoning to the second boy. The kid shook his head and waved Wolfgang on, and Wolfgang decided not to argue with him. He was more than ready to escape this place.
They crawled through a gap in the back wall of the house, which doubled as the side wall of the next house, then dropped into the next smelly crawlspace. The floor of this shack was lower to the ground, with barely enough room for Wolfgang to crawl without slamming his head into the base of the floor joists only inches above. Everything was muddy, and as he slogged along, he caught sight of more piss-colored milk jugs arranged in a pile beneath the center of the shack. This time their visual was joined with a distinct stench he would have recognized anywhere.
Gasoline.
Something shifted to his left, and he turned to see a third boy emerge from the shadows, dressed like the first two in ragtag shorts and a castoff T-shirt. Then a girl, a couple years older than the rest, with raven hair and bright orange plastic clogs, whispered something in Portuguese to the lead boy, who beckoned the growing group through the next wall.
They crawled that way for what may have been ten minutes or half an hour. The time was distorted by the muck and the growing crowd of children. There were ten of them now, tweens or young teens, all crawling