Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [155]
Finney held tightly onto the Halligan, which he’d buried in the desk.
Balitnikoff, Finney, and the desk all began to slide toward the open window. Only Balitnikoff’s ankles and wrists were inside now.
“Help me,” Balitnikoff said, his words brushed smooth by the hissing from his displaced facepiece. “Help!” There wasn’t anything Finney could do but hold onto the steel bar with all his might.
When the tugging stopped, he turned his head in time to glimpse the soles of Balitnikoff’s boots as they rolled backward out of the building, the only sound the whispering of his facepiece as his body merged with the mist.
Finney peered over the lip of the open window in time to hear the body land in the street below. The composite air cylinder exploded.
Diana’s MSA cylinder had only six hundred pounds of air left, barely enough to get her back to sixty. She was finding that the lower she went in the building, the longer it had been since the fire had touched a floor, the more tenable that floor was. Sixty was dicey. Fifty-nine iffy. But fifty-eight was definitely inhabitable despite sparking wires in the ceiling.
She’d failed to contact Finney by radio and believed he was probably with the rescue team and in the process of getting a full air bottle. She certainly couldn’t squander any more of her air waiting for him.
Fifty-seven had so many missing windows she was able to conserve air by turning off her waist regulator. Midway through her exploration of the floor, she spotted a man dragging a large canvas package out of one of the elevators.
He wore a bunking coat and helmet with civilian trousers, along with a mask in stand-by position. It was G. A. Montgomery. When he looked up, she saw nothing but his smile.
“The elevators are working?” she asked.
“Just this one. I have to get this out, though.”
Helping him slide the heavy canvas-clad lump out of the elevator, she said, “Looks like a department tarp.”
“Am I ever glad to see you. We’ve been looking all over for you guys. Have you seen what the fire’s done to these floors? This is incredible.”
“I didn’t think the elevators were working,” Diana said. “If they are, we have a lot of people upstairs who need help.”
“I don’t know how dependable it is. I only just found it.”
“And you came up without full bunkers? Bring anybody with you?”
G. A. looked around. “They were here a minute ago.”
Waving her flashlight along the burned carpets so they could both step safely through the debris, Diana surveyed the floor. She noticed the doors on a second elevator were propped open, a gaping black hole showing—the elevator car was not on this floor. Before she could turn around to address G. A., a loop, possibly a section of curtain cord, dropped around her neck from behind. “Hey,” she said, as the cord tightened. “Hey. Cut it out.” She grabbed the cord and managed to get a glove under it before it tightened fully.
G. A. pulled the cord taut and then placed one of his feet between hers, jerking on her neck and tripping her like a cowboy roping a calf. Without realizing how it happened, she was on the floor on her hip. Oh, God, she thought. He’s one of them. He began dragging her across the floor by the cord. It took her a few moments to realize he was dragging her toward the elevator shaft.
“What the hell are you doing?” she gasped. “Are you crazy?”
Her free hand grasped frantically at the floor, but there were no handholds. She grabbed at the wall and caught a feeble purchase on the corner molding next to the elevator doors. They were at the shaft opening now, and she could hear the sounds of their movements echoing in the elevator well. She was on her back, digging in with her boots, anything to slow her momentum.
Pinpricks of white light had been rotating