Transparency

by Charles Royce

  Josh goes left, sees one of the security guards on the concrete basement underneath what looks like the sign coming through the ceiling.

  “Oh my God!” Josh yells. He sees a puddle of blood surrounding the guard’s head. He bends over, checks the pulse in the guard’s neck just to be sure. “Manny’s dead.”

  “You don’t wanna see this either, my friend,” he hears Tracy from the other side of the sign. “DonDon never had a chance.”

  Josh walks to her side. They both stare at the second guard, who’s on the floor underneath the sharp bottom corner of the “E,” his head almost completely severed. Tracy turns away, buries her head in Josh’s chest.

  They hear a creaking noise. The weight of the logo causes the compromised ceiling to give way just a bit, the logo sliding down a few inches in a startling jolt. After a swift duck, Tracy and Josh turn to each other.

  The lights go off, but the alarms stay activated.

  “Thank you, Agent Pillsbury.” Josh walks around.

  “Was that sarcasm?” Tracy shines the flashlight in front of them. The only other light is the miniscule amount of ambient moonlight coming through the hole in the ceiling.

  “No, I asked her to kill the lights.” Josh walks around the bottom of the stairs, now covered in cement fragments. He waves away the dust from in front of his face, almost tripping over the two dead federal agents. He continues further, almost bumping into the black box. “Here it is.”

  “It looks dead, like it hasn’t been activated.” Tracy is right behind him. “Don’t touch it!”

  Josh’s hands are already around the wires. “These wires are weird, like thick and meshy.”

  “Thick and meshy? You can’t cut that kind,” Tracy says, “even if we had something to cut them with.”

  “Or if we knew cutting the wires wouldn’t set this thing in motion.” Josh checks the other wires. “Maybe we should wait on the bomb squad. Oh, shit.”

  “What?” Tracy waves away the dust from her eyes.

  “One of the wires is loose.” He follows the wire, the hissing growing louder. “It’s caught on something on the floor.”

  “Well, thank God it’s only one of them.” Tracy can see him a little more clearly now. “Don’t pull on it! It might still be connected.”

  “I can see it. It’s not connected, it’s just caught.” He pulls gently until the wire comes loose, the pin almost hitting him in his face.

  “Well, there goes my second idea.” Tracy grabs the pin, studies it. A metal disc with a broken clip is fused directly to the thick, meshy wire. “I thought the pins could be untied from the wires.”

  “Shh.” Josh gets closer to the hiss. “Gimme your flashlight.”

  Tracy hands him her phone. “What’s happening?”

  “The gas pipe is still intact, only a sliver of a cutout in the pipe is letting off gas into the room.” He grunts, pushing himself into the maze of pipes against the wall. “Oh, I see, the pins are supposed to stop the gas from pushing into the pipes without permission.”

  “So only the one has permission?”

  “Looks that way.” Josh shines the flashlight on a white tag on the screeching pipe. “There’s a tag on the leaking pipe. It says it’s a main pipe that runs to the South Tower, servicing floors twenty-four through thirty-six.”

  “That’s what ArchEngine said. Aren’t those the floors with the condos that aren’t finished yet?”

  “About half of them aren’t finished yet. Floors twenty-four through thirty have people living in them.”

  C h a p t e r 7 1

  “HONEY, GET BACK here!” screams the man at the dining room table. He’s trying to compensate for the alarm, and the computerized voice telling him to evacuate the building.

  “The smell is getting worse.” The dark-haired woman checks the burners on the stove. “They’re all off, I don’t understand.”

  “Nobody cares,” says her husband from the dining room. He tips his red visor, gnaws on an unlit cigar, flips over the turn.

  “Check,” says the woman to his right.

  “I can’t see that,” says the young man to his left with white blond hair. “Nothing like Texas Hold ’Em in the dark.”

  “Eight of hearts.” The man with the red visor picks up a flashlight from the table, shines it on the cards.

  “Fold.”

  “You can’t fold yet.” The man in the red visor turns to his wife. “Honey, it’s an eight of hearts, do you remember what you had?”

  She sniffs the air. “Seriously, this is bad, y’all.”

  “So that’s a check!” he yells.

  “Then I fold,” says the blond man.

  “Anyone else before I deal the river?”

  “I’m going out on the patio,” says the young blond man. “She’s right, this is bad.”

  “Careful, we tried that. It’s pretty windy out there.”

  The woman hears a knock at the door, sees light beams seeping through the threshold.

  “Who’s there?” asks the woman.

  “Ma’am? My name’s Charlie Hawthorne, I’m working security—”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  She opens the door, stands in the doorway, the number 2607 carved into the wood.

  A man in a suit wearing a headset stands in front of her. “Ma’am, my name is Charlie Hawthorne, I’m working security at the party in the Center Tower. I’m sure you heard the fire alarms. We need everyone to evacuate, there’s a possible gas leak in the—”

  Charlie’s eyes widen. He sees a young blond man at the patio doors, pushing open the glass door while raising a lighter to a cigar.

  “No!” Charlie screams.

  A slurping sound envelops the room just as the flame from the lighter ignites the air, catapulting the blond man through the patio doors and over the balcony.

  C h a p t e r 7 2

  THE HELICOPTER IS circling above the South Tower, about to make its fourth attempt to land on the roof of the Center Tower. Shawn and Mrs. Maddox are now fully seated, hugging each other in a crouched ball.

  “I have a bad feeling about this one too,” Shawn says.

  Boom!

  Boom! Boom!

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  “What the hell?” Shawn stands up, peers over the railing, just as a plume of smoke and fire rises from the South Tower to meet the helicopter, consuming it in a hungry cloud. “Dear God.”

  Shawn ducks behind the railing until the fireball passes, shielding Mrs. Maddox from the brunt. He hears the whirring of copter blades, then an engine sputter.

  C h a p t e r 7 3

  AGENT PILLSBURY WATCHES the monitors, which are showing random feeds as they suck leftover power from a struggling generator. Shawn is huddled with Mrs. Maddox on the rooftop, Josh and Tracy are standing next to the black box, the top floors of the South Tower are completely on fire.

  Agent Pillsbury shifts her focus to the external feed of an ailing helicopter whirling down from the roof deck. The chopper descends diagonally down the South Tower, down the Center Tower, heading for the courtyard just outside the atrium.

  “Holy—”

  She grabs her phone, runs out of the control room.

  The helicopter continues to fall.

  C h a p t e r 7 4

  CRASH!

  “What the hell was that?” Tracy turns behind her, looks up at the ceiling.

  “Watch out!” Josh leaps toward her as a giant pillar turns loose from the ceiling.

  The iron pillar falls on Tracy’s shoulder, cracking it, forcing her to the ground face first. The pillar rolls onto the ground with a bounce, then knocks into the black box, sending it sliding across the room.

  The pins pop out of their pipes one by one, the hissing becoming louder and louder. The metal pins fall to the concrete floor, pinging like piano keys.

  “Tracy!” Josh runs to her side, sits down, turns her over. Her white pearls are scattered all around her.

  He pulls her into his lap.


  Her eyes open. She struggles to talk. “Josh?”

  “Yes, Tracy, honey, I’m right here.” He brushes the hair out of her face. Her normally flawless skin is now knicked and reddened.

  “Something’s—” She holds her stomach.

  Josh unbuttons the bottom of her blouse where she’s touching. A small piece of metal is lodged in her stomach, just below her abdomen. Blood is seeping out of the gash. “Oh God.”

  “What?”

  Josh puts his earpiece on. He hears nothing but people screaming. He turns the channel, presses his ear. “Can anyone hear me? Pamela, Pamela, Josh. Agent Pillsbury? Shawn?” He turns the channel again, hears nothing but screams. “Chris, Chris, Josh.” Then again. “Jamal, Jamal, Josh. Please help us!”

  Tracy’s hand swats the earpiece off of his face. “Go.”

  He looks at Tracy’s face. Her dark complexion is now a milky mocha.

  “I’m staying here with you,” he says.

  “You have to go.”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Josh.” Her breathing is labored. “The gas.”

  “Shh.” Josh rubs her forehead.

  He looks around the room. The ceiling is creaking. The pipes are whistling. The black box is still dark, inactivated, but the wires are all loose around the floor. Four lifeless bodies lie scattered around them.

  Red lights start flickering through the ceiling next to the sign. Water starts seeping down the cracks of the opening. He hears the muffled sound of men yelling.

  “We’re down here!” Josh yells. “Hey! We’re down here!”

  Josh supports Tracy’s head with his hand, waves at the opening with his other.

  “They can’t … hear you.” Tracy shakes her head.

  “In the basement! Down here!” Josh begins to wave frantically as if someone can see him.

  They can’t.

  He tries to move Tracy’s head from his lap.

  “Go,” she says.

  “You’re coming with me.” He scooches a little more.

  “It’s too late.” Tracy is expressionless. “Go.”

  Josh takes Tracy’s head in his hands. Her face is paler, her lips more purple.

  He looks at the tiny ceiling opening next to the sign, shards of cement and rebar poking through. He looks back at Tracy, who is struggling to breathe. The alarm, the computerized evacuation procedures being heralded over the speakers, the fire trucks outside—all the noise and lights and confusion begin to fade away.

  The tension in his body subsides.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Josh places her head back in his lap. He crosses one foot over the other, and exhales a deep, surrendered sigh.

  Tracy closes her eyes. She grunts as she breathes. “Please, dear Jesus. Please help me.”

  Josh lays there, silent. He closes his eyes. He prays. Tears begin to pour, forging streams of dust down his face and onto his wrist. He starts twirling Tracy’s hair with his fingers.

  Tracy takes a deep, rattling breath.

  Josh can feel her moving. He opens his eyes, looks at Tracy. Their eyes lock. They smile at each other.

  Tracy’s face is different. Content. Resolved. She breathes in another breath. “My article … came out today.”

  Josh continues to look deeply in her eyes. “Yeah?”

  “My … best work.” She coughs. “People … are talking about it.”

  “That’s incredible, Trace.” Josh holds her tighter. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Tracy nods. “It’s time. Go upstairs. Let me go.”

  “No.”

  Tracy closes her eyes. “I’m proud … of you too, Josh.”

  Josh laughs and cries at the same time. “Why?”

  “You’re not … panicking.” Tracy lets out a chuckle, a little blood sprays on her lower lip. “White people … problems.”

  “White people problems.” Josh laughs, then sniffles. He rocks Tracy back and forth. “Shh, shh.”

  Tracy shivers. Her face crumples. “I’m scared.”

  Josh holds her tighter. Rocks her. Back and forth, back and forth. “Once there was this girl. A lady. The prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.”

  “No. Not one … of your stories.”

  Josh smiles. “She used to be a model, adored by millions of people all over the world. When she grew up, she said she wanted to do something bigger, something better for the world. She became a writer, she became a voice for the underdog, a hero for the abandoned.”

  Tracy lets out a laugh. “I like this one.”

  She shivers again.

  “And if that wasn’t enough …” Josh keeps rocking her. “… one night, when a big bad building was about to come down and crush all the people inside, she did everything she could to make sure everyone got out. She called the hotel where people stayed, she called the restaurants where the people ate, she called the buildings where people lived. They listened to her. Then the people that stayed in the hotel, that ate in the restaurants, that lived in the buildings, they all started running out the doors to safety. They started living their lives again, never knowing about the beautiful Tracy Heissman, and what a wonderful gift she’d given them.”

  Tracy takes a deep breath. She doesn’t move again.

  Josh kisses his finger, places it on her lips. “She was gonna change the world. She ended up saving it instead.”

  Through blurry eyes, Josh finds a place to gently lay her head. He takes off his jacket, lays it over her face.

  “Josh!”

  He hears a voice.

  “Josh!”

  The voice is louder, coming from the opening.

  “I’m down here!”

  A chubby hand waves at him through the opening. “We’re coming to get you guys!”

  He hears Agent Pillsbury yelling at the men outside. Something about a ladder, something about help.

  A few seconds later, a loose rope ladder dumps itself in the middle of the opening.

  “Can you get that?” Pillsbury asks.

  “I think so.” He maneuvers the ladder around the sign, starts climbing up through the shards of concrete and rebar.

  “Not much for chivalry, huh?” Agent Pillsbury grabs his hand, pulls him up to the sidewalk. She yells down into Sublevel One. “Tracy!”

  Josh grabs her shoulder, turns her around. He shakes his head.

  “Oh, honey.” She sees the tears well up in his eyes. She grabs him, throws her arms around his waist.

  They start to walk out of the atrium, into the courtyard toward the FBI van on the street. Agent Pillsbury picks up the pace.

  “How is everyone?” Josh asks. “Are they out?”

  “They’re still trickling out of the stairwell, but you saved a lot of people tonight, Josh.”

  “Tracy. Tracy saved a lot of people.”

  Suddenly, Josh turns around. “Shawn!”

  Agent Pillsbury points to the roof deck.

  C h a p t e r 7 5

  WITH HIS ARM around Mrs. Maddox, Shawn guides her toward the stairwell. “We’re trying this.”

  “It’s eighty floors.” She limps the best she can. “I can’t do it.”

  “You don’t have a choice!”

  Just then, they hear the whirring of blades. They turn around to see a second helicopter hovering. An FBI logo is emblazed on the side.

  An older man in a flight suit screams from the fuselage. “Somebody order a chopper?”

  Shawn smiles and nudges Mrs. Maddox. She steps onto the landing skids. The older man lifts her inside, places her in a seat, wraps a seatbelt around her.

  Just as he reaches for Shawn, they hear another explosion. Then another. The force of the explosion causes the front of the helicopter to lift up, throwing Shawn off balance. He falls.

  Another explosion.

  “Sir, come on, we need to get out of here!” The older man extends his hand. “Come on!”

  Shawn hops back up. He jumps for the man’s hand, grabs it. He enters the chopper and sits down nex
t to Mrs. Maddox.

  The pilot lifts off, just as another explosion sends a veil of smoke that covers the entire roof deck. The helicopter leans west toward the Hudson.

  From Shawn’s viewpoint, he sees each of the South Tower’s bottom floors begin to explode downward from the floors already on fire, gaining speed as giant fireballs force themselves through exterior glass.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The blasts reach the foundation. Through the open door of the fuselage, Shawn hears a colossal rumbling, the crowd in front of the building screaming. Manholes surrounding the building begin to rupture like popcorn, sending torches into the air. People run like fire ants away from the building, then fall into emerging crevasses in the sidewalk.

  Shawn grabs Mrs. Maddox’s hand. They watch in horror as both the North Tower and the Center Tower floors begin to simultaneously detonate in layers, cascading upward in horizontal bars of yellow and orange fire, as if someone were adjusting the volume on a volcanic eruption. The Center Tower continues to explode floor by floor until the roof deck is consumed.

  Mrs. Maddox looks away, burying her face in Shawn’s shoulder.

  Shawn hears another rumbling, deeper, hungrier than the first. He watches the ground beneath the building crumble, devouring the toppling towers in a giant gulp, spitting mushroom clouds of debris and dust into the air. The sounds—the cries, the roars, the sirens of the police cars surrounding the building—all dissipate in an instant, leaving only the whirring of helicopter blades.

  Shawn feels the hand of Mrs. Maddox on his chest. He places his hand on top of hers.

  C h a p t e r 7 6

  JAMES WEST FEELS a hand on his shoulder, followed by cigarette breath. He winces.

  “Sir?” A hooded man snaps his finger in front of West’s face. “Sir, you okay?”

  West shakes his head, familiarizes himself with his surroundings. “This is my block.”

  “You did it, sir.” The man limps beside him as they walk down the street. “All the evidence is destroyed.”

  “What?” Outside his condo building, West sees an FBI agent looking the other direction. West turns back to the hooded man in front of him. “It’s over, Billy.”