Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [25]
In the stairwell I start using an old trick the Boy Scouts taught me, checking the heat by touching the fire doors on each floor. I loved being a scout. I’m an Eagle Scout and a member of the Order of the Arrow, Scouting’s honor society. Two million young men have earned the Eagle Scout designation, while only 180,000 have earned the right to don the Order of the Arrow sash, which recognizes cheerful service to others. Once an Eagle, always an Eagle.
Then, more panic. Overwhelmed by the burn victims, the smell of the jet fuel, and the overall terror, David Frank’s voice begins to quiver. “Mike, we’re going to die. We’re not going to make it out of here.”
My hand tightens for a moment on Roselle’s harness. She looks up at me, I know, watching my face and listening for a command. I relax my hand. I need to stay calm for Roselle. I cannot panic. I cannot let her sense any shred of fear in me.
“David,” I say quietly, so only he can hear. I use my best managerial voice. “If Roselle and I can go down the stairs, then so can you.”
I’m not afraid of the fire. If those burned women can make it down the stairs, so can we. Roselle is quiet and calm next to me. I know if the fire had gotten close, she would have become nervous and pulled at her harness. I’m not afraid of the descent; people are working together to evacuate, and it won’t be long before we’re out of the building and on our way home.
But I am afraid of one thing. I can’t banish this thought from my mind. It’s there, nagging at me. A chill runs across my back. What will I do if the lights go out?
6
DRIVING
IN THE DARK
A joke is a very serious thing.
WINSTON CHURCHILL
The stairwell is bathed in fluorescent light. Some of the fixtures give off a slight, comforting buzz as we continue down the stairs. I remember hearing that in the 1993 bombing at the World Trade Center, when a Ryder truck filled with 1,500 pounds of explosives was detonated in the garage of our building by a terrorist named Ramzi Yousef, people had to walk down darkened stairwells, and for some it took more than three or four hours to evacuate. What would happen if the lights went out? I keep pushing away the thought.
David, once right in front of me, has passed several people and moved about a floor ahead. He begins to act as scout, calling back whatever he sees. Every few floors, he calls back the number. “Sixty.” Then “Fifty-nine . . . fifty-six . . . fifty-four . . . fifty.”
I’m still touching the fire doors, but they are cool. The fire must be contained to the upper floors although the air is still foul. There is a hint of smoke as well.
As the traffic in the stairwell continues to build, the atmosphere warms. Bodies are closer together. Adrenaline is pumping. The acrid smell of sweat hangs in the air. The railing under my right hand feels warm and damp now, losing its original cool metal feel to the dozens, maybe hundreds, of hands gripping it on the way down.
I’m still timing my breathing to the steps, but Roselle is breathing fast. Today our partnership is working well. While guide dog training has prepared Roselle to confront new and dangerous situations, there is no way any dog could ever be prepared for something like this. “Good girl,” I say to Roselle. “You are doing a great job. I am so proud of you.”
I give her head a quick rub, and she lifts her head up against my hand. I slide my hand down around her left ear and stroke her throat. It’s damp. I bet her body is trying to flush out the stench of the fumes. I hope it doesn’t hurt her.
“Forty-eight . . . forty-five . . . forty-three,” David calls back. I touch my watch. It’s 9:05. While our pace is slowing, my anxiety level begins to ratchet up. We’re heading down the stairs at a steady pace. Roselle is doing her job. David is ahead, scouting. But the buzz of the lights brings the fear back. What if the lights go out?
As I walk, I mull over what I know so far. There’s been an explosion, and the building took a tremendous hit. The explosion rocked the building, blew