Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [7]
Quickly, Finney traced the perimeter walls a second time, searching for another exit. He didn’t have the strength or the means to get the beam away from the door without compromising Cordifis, nor did he have the tools to lever Cordifis out from under the pile. It didn’t much matter. Even if he freed him, Cordifis weighed 265 pounds buck naked, and his protective equipment and clothing weighed an additional fifty. Finney was six feet, muscular, and in the best condition of his life. If he were uninjured, he just might drag Cordifis out of the building. But there was no way he could carry him. Not tonight. Not without help.
Breathing heavily, Cordifis said, “I talked to Smith.”
“He say who he was sending?”
“Everybody he’s got.”
“Tell them not to come through this door.”
Finney was in a locked room, had one good arm, limited air, a light, a Buck knife on his belt, and a service axe in a scabbard. For a few seconds he found himself incapable of productive thought. Death wasn’t the enemy. He knew that. Panic was the enemy.
They were both running out of compressed air. Any minute one or both of their five-minute warning bells would begin ringing.
Crossing to the wall opposite the doorway and placing his back against it, Finney swung the service axe one-handed down between his legs, using the pick-head side of the axe. He swung again, again. The concussion of each blow spewed pain through his shoulder. He broke one brick into pieces, chipping out the mortar around it. Then a second brick, a third.
Fortunately, this wall did not have the same solid planking at its core as the wall that had collapsed.
Even so, his five-minute alarm bell began ringing as he pulled out the broken bricks. On the other side of the bricks he encountered a layer of plaster and lathe and then an empty space about four inches deep, the back side of newer wallboard beyond that. When he punched that with his fist, he broke through to another room.
Using his axe, he chewed away at the edges of his escape hole until the opening was large enough for a man with a bottle on his back. Then he went back to Cordifis, reaching behind his back to muffle his own ringing bell so they could hear each other.
“I’m going for help. If they get here before I come back, don’t let them through that door.” As he spoke, the ringing bell behind his waist stopped and Finney found himself sucking on the rubber facepiece. It felt as if somebody were clamping his nostrils and mouth at the same time. His bottle was dry, and he might as well have had a plastic bag over his head. He loosened the chin strap, tipped his helmet back, and lifted the facepiece off his chin.
He’d forgotten how abrasive and gritty and putrid a lung full of hot smoke tasted. He knelt instinctively to get some of the better air near the floor.
“You okay, John?”
“Are you kidding?” Finney gasped. “I love this stuff.”
“Plug into my bottle. I don’t need all this air.”
“There’s no time. Listen, Bill. I’ve got a hole. I’m going out to find help. I’ll leave my PASS device outside that wall so when help comes, they’ll hear it and know you’re in here.”
“Here. You take the radio.”
“Quit offering me stuff. I’ll be back with help in a few minutes. Breathe slow, old man.” Finney stooped down, their faces glowing in the gray-yellow soup formed by the light of Finney’s battle lantern. It was important that he make eye contact before leaving.
Cordifis chuckled. “Have fun, kiddo.” Bill hadn’t called him kiddo in years. “And don’t go have a brain fart and forget where I am.”
“I won’t.”
After Finney had squirmed through the small opening on the floor, he found the next room was as smoky as the one he’d left. He reached back and pulled his MSA backpack into the room, along with the PASS device, which was designed to