Nobody.
I didn’t want to think about that yet.
I followed my father as he rounded the corner and we continued down the stairs. He was right to keep moving. We were past the fire floors but we were still a long way from being out of the building.
We hit seventy-six. No heat, no smoke, but the fumes were still strong. In the corner of the landing the emergency light was shining. We turned the corner and headed down again. Floor seventy-five was just below. There, on the landing, a single fluorescent bulb glowed out a welcome. I couldn’t help but smile. Again, there was no hint of fire. Down below at the next landing the lights were all on and working.
“I guess I don’t need this now,” my father said, and he turned off the flashlight. “Or this.” He pulled the bandana down around his neck. I followed suit and took a deep breath. The air felt good going into my lungs.
“The stairwell … it’s empty … nobody … not even the sounds of anybody from below,” I said. “Why?”
“I think that anybody who was on the floors below the impact zone got out right away, and anybody who was on those floors … well …”
He didn’t need to finish that thought.
Strange, we were just a few floors below where it all happened, and if it hadn’t been for the water still flowing down the stairs along with us there wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary. Other than the smell and the water there was nothing that even hinted at what was happening just above our heads and all around us. It seemed just like the trip we’d made down from the Observation Deck that morning.
I looked at my watch. It was eighteen minutes after nine. Less than ninety minutes after we had been up there on the Observation Deck, staring down at the city on a beautiful, sunny September morning. Not a cloud in the sky. Less than thirty-five minutes since that first plane hit and that brilliant blue sky was stained by billowing black smoke. Less than twenty minutes since the second plane rocked this building, changing everything. We were no longer just watching the drama unfolding through the window and on the television screens; it had pushed right into our world, almost killing us. And now, here in the stairwell, we’d dodged that bullet, passed through the fire, and we were free, we were fine, we were alive!
My father stopped as we came to the next floor. There was a big number seventy-four onthe back of the door.
“I was thinking,” my father said, “about those people who climbed up instead of going down.”
In the rush of emotions and fears, and then the relief I’d felt when we’d gotten through it, I hadn’t thought about them at all. How many people had decided to move up the stairs instead of down? It had to be dozens and dozens … maybe hundreds.
“If they knew that this way was passable they could get down,” my father said. “If only they knew. If only somebody could tell them.”
“But anybody who knows has already gone down, like us, and there’s no way they’d go back up and …” I stopped myself. He couldn’t be considering what I was thinking he was thinking.
“I thought that maybe I should go back up,” my father said.
I gasped. “You can’t be serious!”
He shook his head. “I thought about it, but, no. Those floors that we passed were burning badly, and the fires were getting stronger, fast, judging by the way the smoke was getting thicker. Just because we got through then doesn’t mean people could get through again in thirty or forty minutes.”
“Forty minutes!”
“It would take me at least that long to climb up thirty floors, find them and convince a crowd of strangers—a crowd of frightened strangers—to follow me down and through the fire.”
“If you could convince them at all,” I said.
“You’re right. Maybe I couldn’t. Besides, they might not even be there now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. In my mind I saw again those two people plummeting by the
I didn’t want to think about that yet.
I followed my father as he rounded the corner and we continued down the stairs. He was right to keep moving. We were past the fire floors but we were still a long way from being out of the building.
We hit seventy-six. No heat, no smoke, but the fumes were still strong. In the corner of the landing the emergency light was shining. We turned the corner and headed down again. Floor seventy-five was just below. There, on the landing, a single fluorescent bulb glowed out a welcome. I couldn’t help but smile. Again, there was no hint of fire. Down below at the next landing the lights were all on and working.
“I guess I don’t need this now,” my father said, and he turned off the flashlight. “Or this.” He pulled the bandana down around his neck. I followed suit and took a deep breath. The air felt good going into my lungs.
“The stairwell … it’s empty … nobody … not even the sounds of anybody from below,” I said. “Why?”
“I think that anybody who was on the floors below the impact zone got out right away, and anybody who was on those floors … well …”
He didn’t need to finish that thought.
Strange, we were just a few floors below where it all happened, and if it hadn’t been for the water still flowing down the stairs along with us there wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary. Other than the smell and the water there was nothing that even hinted at what was happening just above our heads and all around us. It seemed just like the trip we’d made down from the Observation Deck that morning.
I looked at my watch. It was eighteen minutes after nine. Less than ninety minutes after we had been up there on the Observation Deck, staring down at the city on a beautiful, sunny September morning. Not a cloud in the sky. Less than thirty-five minutes since that first plane hit and that brilliant blue sky was stained by billowing black smoke. Less than twenty minutes since the second plane rocked this building, changing everything. We were no longer just watching the drama unfolding through the window and on the television screens; it had pushed right into our world, almost killing us. And now, here in the stairwell, we’d dodged that bullet, passed through the fire, and we were free, we were fine, we were alive!
My father stopped as we came to the next floor. There was a big number seventy-four onthe back of the door.
“I was thinking,” my father said, “about those people who climbed up instead of going down.”
In the rush of emotions and fears, and then the relief I’d felt when we’d gotten through it, I hadn’t thought about them at all. How many people had decided to move up the stairs instead of down? It had to be dozens and dozens … maybe hundreds.
“If they knew that this way was passable they could get down,” my father said. “If only they knew. If only somebody could tell them.”
“But anybody who knows has already gone down, like us, and there’s no way they’d go back up and …” I stopped myself. He couldn’t be considering what I was thinking he was thinking.
“I thought that maybe I should go back up,” my father said.
I gasped. “You can’t be serious!”
He shook his head. “I thought about it, but, no. Those floors that we passed were burning badly, and the fires were getting stronger, fast, judging by the way the smoke was getting thicker. Just because we got through then doesn’t mean people could get through again in thirty or forty minutes.”
“Forty minutes!”
“It would take me at least that long to climb up thirty floors, find them and convince a crowd of strangers—a crowd of frightened strangers—to follow me down and through the fire.”
“If you could convince them at all,” I said.
“You’re right. Maybe I couldn’t. Besides, they might not even be there now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. In my mind I saw again those two people plummeting by the
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