The nearest stairs are used by the maids who keep the Tower clean. I see it in my head: Down the hall, turn right, fourth door on the left is the stairwell. I am to the turn as quick as conscious thought can recount the location. Dust and plaster fly up as I hurry along the hall. It is oddly preserved, like an old house, dusty and skewed, but largely intact. Footsteps stand out on the filthy carpet.
Calea’s apartment is on the eighteenth floor. I throw open the stairwell door, rush up the stairs. The steps are steep, the flight narrow. I ascend easily, up, up, but the passage is unnaturally bright. The lights are dead, so it must be the sun. By the sixth floor, I can see the scar above me, a slash that cuts the stairwell in half, opening the column to rooms on either side. I stop at the eighth. Beyond, the steps are twisted by the spasm that has compressed this whole area. Four floors are wedged together, collapsing into one another, but hanging delicately, waiting for a final tickle to destroy the balancing act.
I return to the seventh and exit. Students live on this floor and the one above. Or lived. I don’t know which, after today. I hear movement, talking, anxious sounds. The nearest classroom is packed with young girls, with three teenage mentors soothing them. The nearest sees me first. She freezes, then boldly asks, “Are you here to help us?”
“I have someone I need to find.”
“We need to get these children down.”
“Use the stairs.”
All the girls are staring at me now, wide-eyed and fearful. “Is it safe?” the first, the one who has decided to lead, asks. Lowering her voice, she says, “We heard screams. We’ve been waiting for someone to find us, to show us the way….”
“Yes, it’s safe.” I remember Essendr’s wound. “For now. Don’t stay here. Get to ground level. Get out of the Tower. The stairs are fine.”
Another of the older girls speaks up. “You’re looking for Guide Lisan.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I…I just recognized you.”
It is a strange thing to say. A bodyguard is not meant to be noticed. “How?”
She turns red. “I just… Guide Lisan lectured in our class one day. You were there. That’s all.” She is embarrassed for some reason. Teen girls are strange creatures.
“Can one of you power the elevator for me?” It’s a stupid question. They would have tried that first, if they tried anything.
“It won’t work,” the first says. “Not anymore.”
“Get out of here. All right?”
The three leaders nod their heads. So do all the little ones. I am anxious to keep moving. Mentioning the elevator triggered something. Farther down the hallway, the floor is badly damaged, one wall blown out and blocking my way. I work my way over carefully. To head to another elevator would take too much time.
The mass slips beneath me. The floor shudders. I pause, muscles tense. For a minute I wait. Nothing. I slowly shift my weight, take a step. I move more slowly now, placing each step carefully. Perhaps there is no floor beneath me, but only wood and steel wedged in a hole.
I am not quite over the mound when I reach the elevator door. I clear away enough broken material to slide through the opening. The lift is gone, probably in pieces on the first floor. Normally, there is a rope in the center of the shaft, a crude mechanism to prevent injury if some accident or error should happen while a Select manipulates the air pressure in the chamber. Any sudden jerk, and the rope locks up, halting the lift’s downward progression.
Light filters from above. The rope runs along the right wall. With the top levels of the Tower gone, what is holding the rope? Any number of things, certainly. It must be wedged tight somewhere. This is what I hope. I eyeball the jump. It’ll hold. It will. I launch myself. My calloused hands burn as I catch the rope. It slips a few horrible feet, then holds.
I do not look forward to the climb. Never again, I tell myself. I have muscle, but I am a heavy man. She will be happy to learn of my pain.
Hand over hand I pull myself, using my feet against the wall. Eleven levels. My muscles burn after seven. I do not stop to rest. Movement is life. My feet slip, but my arms hold. Eight levels. I have no thought, no emotion. Just pain and mission. Hand over hand. Ten levels. Hand over hand. I would go ten more if it would take me to her. My arms will not fail until I let them; I will not let them.
I work myself back and forth, pedaling the best I can against the wall, try to work up the speed to reach the shaft entrance. Back and forth, now, back and forth. I will get no closer than I now reach. I release and hang over the darkness for a moment. Then I crash into the door. It does not quite open at my impact, and I snatch the ledge of the threshold with my hand just in time. The bottom of the door is at my fingertips. One-handed, I try to push it open. Something is blocking it.
I consider. It would be wisest to drop down a level and try that door. Instead, I pull myself up, gripping now the inside frame of the door. Using toeholds and fingertips, I wedge my head into the opening, hoping to force the door with my body. I manage to bring one of my shoulders through. I can see around the door. A discarded suitcase is all that stops my entry, its spilt contents gathered beneath the door, shoes and clothes acting as a doorstop.
I let out a murmur of a laugh and bully my way through the tight space. She would laugh, too, to see me moving like a cat in a tight space.
I take a moment to rest on the other side, sparing the time to try the abandoned shoes on. My feet emerge from the old ones with a squelch of blood, but it’s worth it. The new pair is nearly perfect after the vise of the others. My feet are larger than the average man’s.
This is the elevator near her rooms. I could have pressed on and returned for the shoes. I am afraid to continue and almost unable to admit it.
Her apartment is demolished. Splinters of furniture and broken glass cover the ground. She is not in the foyer. I think I see blood, but I press on, looking for her body. The bedroom has collapsed into the floor below. I cannot see her in what remains. The living room is pocked with smaller holes, the floor bent like a half-closed book, her possessions collecting in the fold and weighing heavily. I wait, searching with my eyes. The room opens onto the balcony, the frames of the glass door empty. Smoke rises slowly from the city. It’s almost peaceful.
I retrace my steps before daring my way across the precarious living room floor. I examine the blood more closely. It’s a smear–a trail. Not much, but I can follow it. It leads out of the room.
She was alive, alive enough to crawl.
Don't miss a single word of stories as they are published! You'll also receive first notice of special sales and behind-the-scenes information.