by Orton, D. L.
Isabel. Christ, I hope she got out of the building.
On the other side of the restaurant, a woman shrieks, “Oh my god! Someone’s blown up the Brown Palace Hotel!” A few blocks away from us, a massive cloud of dark smoke rises into the fading light. Flames shoot out the windows of the distinctive triangular landmark, and I notice that a handful of other nearby buildings are on fire too.
Isabel is out there alone in those goddamn heels!
An alarm goes off in the restaurant lobby, and eighty people turn as one. Two young guys in expensive suits jog toward the exit, followed by what appears to be the kitchen staff. A moment later, there is a panicked herd pushing toward the elevators.
A woman in back waves her arms and yells, “I’m staying across the street from the Brown Palace, and my son is there with a babysitter! Please! Let me through!” The frightened crowd ignores her.
I jump up on my chair and almost on cue, the alarm goes silent. I whistle with my fingers and the crowd goes silent.“Please calm down! At the moment, we don’t seem to be in any immediate danger—at least not enough to justify someone getting crushed to death or shoved down forty flights of stairs.”
Out in the lobby, the elevator bongs, and the doors slide open.
The young mother repeats her plea, and then a deep and sonorous voice calls out, “Come on, people. Let her through.” A murmur passes over the crowd, and it parts for the frightened woman. A tall black guy is holding the doors. He nods at me and then adds, “Anyone who can’t make it down the stairs goes with her.”
An elderly man with a cane, a gangly teenager on crutches, and a pregnant woman come forward. The guy in the lobby motions toward their companions. “You folks too. Hurry up now. You can help them get home. Anyone with young children?” A couple with toddlers steps through, and the elevator fills up. “Room for one more. Any doctors or emergency responders?”
I consider lying, but can’t bring myself to do it, so I step down off the chair and help organize the rest of the evacuations as quickly as possible.
Seventeen long minutes later, the elevator doors open on a lobby full of irate hotel guests and their pajama-clad children. The air smells smoky, and panicked voices fill the cavernous space. I step out and push my way through the agitated mass of humanity, avoiding a fallen tree, two large golf bags, and a child asleep with his arms around a giant Stitch.
I stare down at the sleeping toddler, my insides all twisted up.
You should have told me, Iz.
The moment I get out the side door, acrid fumes accost me. The night sky is glowing orange, and sooty flakes fall out of the darkness, a surreal snowstorm. The fire has created its own gale, and great billows of smoke roll down out of the darkness, filling the space between the tall buildings with noxious gas.
I get my bearings and then start retracing our steps. Isabel must have parked near the law offices, somewhere close to the metal grate where she lost her shoe. Or did she take the light rail?
Go to where you first saw her and take it from there.
I start running, fear pushing me forward.
The streets are packed with vehicles, some half on the sidewalk, some going against the flow of traffic, some abandoned in the middle of the street. Motorcycles maneuver through the gridlock, weaving between people running every which way. I narrowly avoid getting hit by a white Lexus that runs a red light.
When I turn the corner, I see a gang of teenagers throw a heavy metal trash can against the window of a jewelry shop. The glass cracks, but doesn’t give, and a moment later, the alarm goes off. The guys glance over at me, wondering if I’m going to intervene, and when I look away, they hoist the can up for another try.
I cross to the other side of the street, jogging toward the center of the chaos.
When I get to where we saw the kitten, I stop and look around. The explosion happened on the other side of the building, and this end is still locked up tight. I run down to the end of the block and around the corner of the hotel, my side aching and my heart pounding in my throat, and then come to an abrupt stop.
The front of the hotel is littered with piles of rubble, and more fire trucks than I can count are spraying water into it and the surrounding buildings, but the flames are spreading fast. Police cruisers and ambulances are everywhere, their rotating lights filling the smoky air with eerie flashes of color.
Crowds have formed around the emergency equipment, people stacked ten deep watching the buildings go up in flames. Someone with a bullhorn is attempting to get the hordes to disperse, but he isn’t having much luck. A van from the local TV station is filming the chaos, and all around it, revelers partying.
I try to decide what Isabel would have done, but come up empty. The skyscraper across the street—the one with the treacherous sidewalk vent—is ablaze too, only the flames are half-way up the tall building. Just as I’m wondering how that fire got started, there’s the sound of breaking glass, and flames shoot out even higher up. A moment later, the congested street is showered with shards of plate-glass windows, and all hell breaks loose.
I force myself to think.
She hates crowds, and she’d be smart enough not to get caught up in this one. Shit, I hope I’m right.
I turn in a circle, taking in as much as I can. “So where the hell is she?” I pull out my phone and scroll through my address book, knowing that the chances of her number being the same are zero. Still, I push the call button, but the cell towers are so jammed that my phone shows no service.
Maybe there’s wi-fi at the Starbucks across the street?
I try a text message:
Isabel? Where are you? Please tell me you’re okay.
I push send and wait to see if it goes through. When it doesn’t, I jab the retry button and shove the phone into my pocket.
Now what?
I glance back the way I came, trying to make some sort of decision.
She probably saw the fire and turned around, looking for a way to avoid the chaos. Probably.
There’s a muffled explosion inside the Brown Palace, and I feel a belated shudder of regret for the pets that are trapped in the back. Isabel’s spunky black kitten is probably dead from smoke inhalation.
I hope it was quick.
I start jogging back the way I came, trying to push the image of the dead animal out of my brain.
Wait a sec… She wouldn’t be THAT stupid... Would she?
I stop running, a cold fear forming in the pit of my stomach. I replay Isabel’s earlier interaction with the kitten.
Goddamn it.
I charge back to the front of the hotel and then run along next to the building, searching for a door or window that might have been used to break in.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to find it.
The glass panel in a side door has been smashed, and smoke is pouring out through the opening. I can see the rock she used inside on the floor, and next to it are two pale pink chunks of plastic. The heels from her shoes!
Oh you stupid, stupid woman.
Without thinking, I reach through the hole in the glass and turn the handle. The hot metal jerks out of my hand and the door whips open, slicing my arm. I recoil as a giant blast of super-heated smoke and ash surges out.
Shit.
I step back and take a quick look at the cut. It’s long, but not too deep. I apply direct pressure to the worst part and then remember Isabel’s napkin in my pocket. I tug it out and wrap it tightly around the gash, tucking in the end to hold it in place. Blood soaks through, but not a lot.
I kick glass shards out of the way, pull my jacket over my head, and crawl into the smoke-filled hallway. But I can’t go more than a meter or two before the heat and fumes are too much, and I have to back out.
Great job, Superman. Next idea?
I stand up and force the door shut.
; Find an entry closer to the animals.
I turn and race down the block to the entrance nearest the kitten. It’s locked, and the foyer is dark, but thin wisps of smoke are leaking out of the roof overhang. I kick the door, but the old brass locks are well made, and the wood is solid.
“Damn it all to hell.”
I hurry back to the kitten’s window, ignoring the stitch in my side, and put my palms against the thick glass.
It’s warm, but not as hot as the door handle. I peer into the shadowy interior, but I can’t see beyond the empty display.
If she’s not in there, I’m gonna get myself killed for nothing. But if she is…
I stand there with my hands on my hips, breathing hard, and look around for something to break the glass. The sidewalk is empty except for the trashcan on the corner.
I jog down and put my arms around the huge bin. It’s made of heavy steel and one of the legs is bolted to the concrete. I can’t even get it to wiggle.
A desperate idea forms in my brain, but it’s too absurd to take seriously.
Right, convince a pack of looters to drop the goods and help me rescue a crazy lady who broke into a burning building to save a cat.
Still, I gaze down the street at where I saw the kids smashing the jewelry store window. Shadows are moving in and out of the streetlight in front of a shop.
“I must be a lunatic.”
I start jogging toward the light when the cell phone in my jacket pocket vibrates, and desperate hope wells up inside me.
Isabel.
I stop and take it out, staring at her name. “For fifteen years, she’s been one button press away.”
I swipe the screen and read her text message:
Diego? The atrium wall collapsed and we’re trapped inside. I can hear a dog barking, but the smoke is getting bad. If you’re serious about starting over, you better effing hurry.
She sent it twelve minutes ago, and it just now arrived!
I tap in 911 and stab the call button, but my phone won’t connect.
“Shit.”
I press reply and type in:
I’m coming.
And then add:
Marry me?
I hit send and start running.
Most guys get down on one knee and offer a dozen roses, but Diego Screw-up Nadales sends a goddamn text.
I just hope I’m not too late.
I don’t know if it’s the panic in my voice, or my threat to kill every one of their girlfriends if they don’t help me, but a couple minutes later, the five looters and I manage to wrench the heavy trash bin off the sidewalk and throw it through the kitten’s window.
Smoke leaks out at the top, but no alarm sounds.
“You sure she’s in there?” one of the looters asks me.
“Yes,” I say. “And a bunch of puppies and kittens in cages.”
One of the guys starts kicking out the remaining shards of glass, but he stops when we hear muffled barking and then a faint cry from deep inside.
I jump up into the small display and yell out, “Isabel? Is that you?”
There’s coughing and an indistinct cry, and then more coughing.
“Hold on! I’m coming!”
The leader grabs my pant leg. “Cover your face with something wet, or you’ll die from the smoke before you get a chance to save her.”
I turn and stare down at him, uh, her. She’s thin and Asian, and her hair is cut short. In the dark, I hadn’t noticed her small breasts and beautiful almond eyes.
She glances around at her gang. “From the sounds of it, the pets are just inside. What do you say we try to get them out—or at least let them out of the cages?”
There’s a murmur of assent, and one of the guys asks her, “Did you bring your stuff?”
“Yeah.” She takes a wrinkled bandanna and a spool of string out of her back pocket. “You guys?”
There’s a chorus of assent.
She motions with her chin toward my bandaged arm. “You can use that cloth, but piss on it first.”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“Get it damp, you halfwit mooker.” She nods at one of the guys, and he crumples the bandanna in his hand, urinates onto it, and then hands it back to her. She ties the damp rag over her nose and mouth like a bandit.
I try not to cringe as I watch the others do the same.
She hops up next to me, amused by my look of disgust. “Haven’t you ever been in a fire before?”
I shake my head and then follow her example.
She waits for me to tie the cloth over my face and then says, “Okay, let’s go!”
I step across the display and jump down into the murky room. The smoke is thick, but nowhere near as bad as it was up front. Still, it’s impossible to see more than a foot or two into the gloom.
“Isabel?!” I shout and then listen. All I hear is feeble barking.
Please let her be alive.
I half-expect the gang to go back to their looting, but they don’t. When I drop down on my hands and knees, they follow me into the burning building.
A minute later, my head strikes something sharp, and I recoil. “Crap.” I put my hand up to my forehead, and it comes away wet.
The girl crawls up next to me. “Use the light on your cell phone, Sherlock.” She shines her light on my forehead. “Doesn’t look too bad, but you’ll probably need a couple of stitches. Who are you trying to save anyway? Your wife?”
I wipe my hand on my pants. “Actually, I just asked her to marry me fifteen minutes ago.”
She laughs. “I hope she didn’t run in here after you popped the question.”
I take out my phone and use it as a flashlight. Bright red drops of my blood are visible on the newspaper lining the bottom of a metal cage. A small tongue reaches out and licks them off the faded headline: War and Peace. I shift the light and see a black and white puppy lying on a thin, ragged towel. The girl puts her hand on the cage and peers inside. “Yo, Tolstoy. We’ll get you out of there in a minute.”
His tail thumps once.
I shine my light around. The black kitten is on the same cart with Tolstoy. She gives a squeaky meow when I reach up to her. “Could you make sure that black kitten gets out too, please? She’s going home with me.”
“Will do. We’ll get out as many as we can before the smoke gets too bad.”
Another guy comes up next to us, adding his light to the search. “These are some damn lucky pets, if you ask me.”
I pull a thin plastic sign off the kitten’s cage and use it to fan the smoke away.
Golden eyes glow back at us out of the gloom. There must be fifty cages stacked on five or six rolling pallets.
At least they’ll be easy to get out.
I call out to Isabel again, but there’s no response.
The leader wraps kite string around her shoe and then holds the spool out to me. “Here. Take this with you. It’s tied to the trashcan outside.”
I hesitate.
“You’re going to look for your fiancée, right?”
“Yeah.” The word catches me by surprise, but I like it.
“Put it in your pocket and keep unrolling the string. You know, like Theseus in the labyrinth.”
“Ah. Right.” I take it out of her hand and stick it in my jacket. “Thanks.”
She starts searching for wheel locks on the cart. “We’ll get the beasties out. If you need help, yell and tug hard on the string.”
“Okay.” I notice that she has her cell phone wedged in her bandanna so that her hands are free, and I copy her. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome, Sherlock. Stay low and keep the bandanna wet. And you better hurry.” She looks up at me, keeping her light out of my eyes. “On the bright side, if you manage to get her out of this, she’ll have
to say yes.”
“I hope so.” I edge around the cages and crawl deeper into the building, paying out the string as I go. When I come to a wall, I try to remember which way the voice came from, but my sense of direction is shot. “Damn it.”
I force myself to calm down.
We must be in some sort of conference room off the atrium. Find the doors.
I turn right and drag my hand along the wall. The smoke becomes thicker until my eyes are stinging. When I come to a corner, I stop and follow the wall back the way I came, grateful when the smoke thins out again.
A minute later, I find the door and press my hand against it, testing to see if it’s hot.
It’s not, and I feel a surge of hope.
I reach for the door handle and discover that there are two doors, and the left one is already open. I crawl through, pulling the string behind me.
The carpeting gives way to a marble floor that is damp and gritty beneath my hands, but the smoke isn’t quite as thick.
I must be in the atrium.
I take a deep a breath and call out, “Isabel?! Can you hear me?” I force down a cough and listen for a reply.
A distant roar is coming from the far side of the building along with the faint whine of sirens. I can hear the pop and crackle of flames spreading far above me, but no voices or coughing.
And then I hear notes played on a piano.
What the hell?
I rush toward the sound of someone still alive, scrambling over piles of metal railings and plaster rubble, spooling out the string and searching for that damn piano.
And then I see it. On the other side of the atrium, the legless black behemoth has been flattened by a massive piece of fallen staircase. A single foot is sticking out from beneath it, the rest of the body crushed by the immense weight.
Panic closes off my throat until I realize that dead people don’t play Beethoven.
There must be someone else.
I scramble closer and shine my light into the dark triangle made by the fallen staircase. There’s lots of rubble covered in a thin layer of white dust. And then I see bright red blood seeping out from beneath the piano.
“Oh god, no!”