Contact Page 20
I’ve seen computers like these before in the hospital. I think they’re heart rate monitors. But if so, what or who are they monitoring?
Curious, I step up to the first cabinet; its interior is dark behind the glass. I narrow my eyes, just making out the silhouettes of something on the shelves inside, cylinders the size of mayonnaise jars. There is something familiar about them—something not right. It comes to me just as I reach for the metal cabinet handle. The moment my hand comes in contact, a deep red light begins to glow, illuminating the inside of the cabinet. I step back, horrified.
Each of several dozen clear glass cylinders contains a fetus only four or five inches long. Tiny legs are folded up to their chests, little arms and hands held near their over-sized faces. A bundle of wires protrude out of each cylinder with one wire inside it attached to the back of the fetus’s head.
Jars of dead babies.
Jordan’s comment made in jest comes back to me with a wave of nausea. I spot a printed label on the upper corner of the cabinet door: 20 weeks. Each cabinet has a similar label: 10 weeks, 30, 38. I touch each handle and the lights come on. I am surrounded by a room full of human babies at differing stages of development. So this is what Jordan meant about eradicating mental illness once and for all. But where did they all come from? Are they post-abortive babies? Were they conceived in the lab for research?
I approach the cabinet with the 38 weeks fetuses. These are the largest specimens, fully grown babies in larger jars. If they weren’t on display suspended in fluid they would look like any other babies. I peer closely at one, its little cheeks plump and pink. Suddenly its leg twitches. And then its tiny fist unfurls to reveal five perfectly formed fingers.
“My god,” I gasp. “They’re alive!”
Bile rises in my throat, and my stomach churns. I have to get out of here. I have to tell someone. I will have to take my chances with the elevator. I stumble backward out of the storage room, my eyes locked on the horrendous collection of human lives. Stepping through the doorway, I collide with something behind me. I start to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth. Instinctively I bite down on a finger. My captor shouts, releasing me. Despite my injured ankle, I make a break for the elevator not daring to look back.
“Mira, wait! It’s me!”
I skid to a stop and spin around. “David!”
Holding his injured hand to his chest, he hobbles toward me on his crutches. I’m so astonished and happy to see him that I throw my arms around him.
“Thank God I found you,” he says, clutching me to his body.
I’m nearly giddy with relief. “How did you get here?”
“When you didn’t come back to the conference room I came looking for you. I saw Jordan and some woman force you into the elevator.”
“But how did you know I was here on the fourth floor?”
“I didn’t, actually. I watched the numbers light up above the elevator and they stopped at the fifth floor. I found a security guard and we went up together.”
David’s gaze drops and his voice gets quiet. “We found the woman.”
“Jordan killed her,” I explain.
“The guard went back for help. You can imagine what went through my head when I saw her. I’d have searched every floor until I found you. Where’s Jordan now?”
“I’m not sure—”
Crash! Crunch! The sounds of snapping and splintering wood resound through the lab. “I know you’re in there, Mira!” Jordan shouts, kicking and pushing at the pallets blocking the stairwell door.
I grab David and shove him back in the direction of the elevator. He doesn’t even bother with his crutches, limping as fast as he can beside me, but neither of us is fast enough. I glance back to see Jordan squeeze through a narrow opening in the door and climb over the stack of broken pallets. He takes aim with his pistol.
“Get down!” I pull David to the floor as a shot rings out. The bullet pierces one of the tanks near the elevator. A stream of high pressure gas hisses out of it, the white haze obscuring the path in front of us.
Another shot ricochets off the tile floor just inches from where David and I lay. We’re not far from the elevator, just a few yards, but if we try to make it now the chances of getting shot are all but certain. Instead we dive for cover behind the nearest work station.
I hear the sound of Jordan’s slow, methodical steps approaching. My heart palpitates wildly as I listen to him come closer and closer. The hiss of the gas and the sound of my own rapid breathing only heighten my fear. I wait until his steps are right beside us, then I motion to David to slide around to the side of the workstation.
“There’s no use hiding, Sunshine,” Jordan’s foul voice makes the air toxic. “Why don’t you come out and—PLAY!”
Jordan leaps forward, expecting to catch us by surprise, only we’re not there anymore. We’ve already crawled past several workstations and left him behind. All that’s left is a quick dash across empty space to the stairwell door.
I look at David, his crutches lying beside him on the floor. How will he make it, I wonder? How will I make it? There is no way for David to get on his feet, make it to the door and down the stairwell fast enough to outrun Jordan and his gun. But if I can draw Jordan away from him, get him to chase after me, maybe David could make it to the elevator and get help.
I dare a peek around the corner of the workstation and see Jordan peering through the haze of gas, searching for us. I use the moment of distraction and sprint for the door.
“Mira!” David whispers after me, but there isn’t time to explain. I just have to hope he figures out what I’m up to.
Pain stabs at my ankle, but I reach the door and heave several pieces of the broken crates out of the way. Hearing the commotion, Jordan turns and fires. I feel it the same moment I hear it. A scream claws its way out of my throat as a searing pain tears into in my right thigh. And then, I hear David.
“Mira!”
Jordan spins and fires again, this time at the far corner of the room. The bullet strikes a light bulb, sending a shower of sparks into the air. In that single sliver of a second, Jordan realizes what he’s done and lunges head-first behind a workstation. The sparks ignite the gas that’s been filling the room. A red hot streak of flame zips through the air toward the white cloud hovering near the elevator. With a tremendous ‘BOOM’ the gas, tank and pipes explode. A massive ball of fire inflates like a balloon, briefly engulfing everything in the lab.
I jump through the stairwell door just in time to avoid the deadly assault. Seconds later I dare a glimpse into the lab. The fiery sphere has already retreated, though the ceiling of the lab is blackened, and much of the apparatus and computers are melted or otherwise destroyed. The wall near the elevator is engulfed in flame, and where the lower pipes once were is now nothing but a gaping, jagged hole of fire.
The pain in my leg sends my head spinning, but I fear the worse for David. Fortunately my fears are quickly alleviated when I see him crouching behind the workstation, which acted as a protective barrier from the explosion. He gives me a shaky thumbs-up, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me. I’m about to come back in, to go to him, when I see a dark silhouette rise in front of the flames.
“You’re not leaving already, are you, Mira? Why, the party has only just begun!”
Jordan, his face scorched and smeared with blood, tears after me with the speed of a jaguar. Ignoring my pain, I retreat to the stairwell.
The smoke hits me as hard as a solid wall. I glance over the railing and see orange flames undulate like reveling demons below. The explosion must have traveled through the pipes, spreading fire to the floor beneath us. I can’t get down that way, and I can’t face Jordan. I’d never survive.
Behind me, the door starts to open. I throw myself against it, trying to force it closed, but Jordan is much stronger than I am. Grunting with the effort, I brace my feet against a railing and use my full weight. Jordan pushes harder. There’s no way I can win this.
“I’m right behind you, Sunshine!” Jordan turns my fear into reality.
Instinct and self-preservation propel me on. Jordan starts to cough. The smoke is getting to him. It’s getting to me too, but I fight against my lungs’ natural urge to expel it. If I stay quiet, maybe he won’t be able to locate me. It’s far from silent, though. The roar of the fire below is deafening.
A shot rings out. I know I need to keep moving, but terror paralyzes me. My body shakes with silent sobs, and I cling to the stairs with a death grip.
Not far below, someone calls out my name.
“Mira? Mira, are you in here?”
“David!” I shout. The deep breath I take makes me cough. “David, go back! Don’t follow me—”
Jordan fires again.
“David? David!”
No response.
My god, did Jordan shoot him? The thought makes me sick. I manage to move up a few more steps to the next floor landing. My leg hurts so much I’m afraid I’m going to black out. I feel weak and lightheaded, not just from bullet wound. The smoke is so thick I can scarcely breathe.
Suddenly, my body is crushed against the stairs, solid right angles digging into my throat, my chest, my stomach. Something hard presses into my temple. Jordan’s pistol.
“C’mon, Mira,” he says between coughing spasms. “Be a martyr—for the greater good.”
Jordan’s full weight pushes down on me, but my hands are free. In a blind surge of desperation I reach back and grab Jordan’s wrist, twisting it away from my head. All of sudden, I feel the vibration of something striking Jordan’s body. A cry of pain erupts from his throat. I rotate just enough to see David land a blow directly on Jordan’s face. I try to wrench the gun from Jordan’s hand, but his grip tightens. I don’t know which direction it’s pointing when it goes off. I can hardly see more than a few inches in front of my face, and the terrible percussion of sound sends stabbing pains into my ears.
For a second I think it’s me that’s been hit, but then Jordan collapses on top of me, the skin of his face brushing against mine. I see a moment’s realization of pain and a flicker of memory as Jordan’s life ebbs away. I feel his body roll off me, and I turn in time to see his dark silhouette fall into the flames below.
I lay my face against the warm concrete step and close my eyes. Conflicting emotions churn inside me. I’m relieved that Jordan’s gone, that I’m safe from him now, but I also feel sick knowing what he’s done—and sad that the man I once trusted and cared about never really existed at all. I think of Mama, Dr. Walsh, Jackie Beitner, and David.
David…
Someone grabs me by the shoulders. In a sudden panic, I try to squirm away but the pain in my leg makes me cry out instead.
“Mira, it’s just me. We’ve got to get out of here.”
David wraps my arm around his neck and helps me to my feet. I lean on him as we make our way up the next few steps. Together, we burst through the door on the sixth floor landing. My chest burns, and I cough uncontrollably as we both hobble our way to the elevator. I press the ‘down’ button. Waiting has never been so hard.
My thigh throbs painfully. I look down and see that my pant leg is completely soaked with blood. David sticks his fingers into the small tear in my jeans and rips open the wet denim to inspect the wound. Blood oozes from the raw, tattered flesh on the outside of my thigh.
“It’s not so bad,” he says, smiling up at me. “The bullet just grazed you.”
I hadn’t noticed before, but David’s face and arms are splotched red with minor burns. Finally, the bell rings and the doors slide open. To our horror, however, the car is filled with smoke. If we take it down, we could descend into an inferno.
We let the elevator doors shut. David sets me down on a stack of concrete bags. We’re on a floor that is mostly steel girders. No walls yet or glass in the windows, just a concrete floor and ceiling with the same copper plumbing as the floor below. From up here through the building framework we can see the entire city.
David pulls out his cell phone and types in a number. “I’ll try 9-1-1,” he says, holding it up to his ear. A moment later he snaps it shut in frustration. “It worked earlier. But that was before the explosion, or something’s messing with the signal up here.”
He looks around, sizing up our situation. “The staircase and elevator are both useless. We have to find some other way down.”
I look around me but all I see is a stack of lumber, boxes of nails, and an assortment of pipes. Why couldn’t there be some rope in here? Or a ladder!
“What happened to your crutches?”
“My crutches?” He shrugs. “I lost them somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor landings. It’s kind of hard to climb stairs with them anyway.”
“I thought he shot you.”
He smiles. “Yeah, well, he didn’t. And I wasn’t going to let him shoot you again either. I was reaching for the gun when it went off.”
The ringing in my ears had subsided a bit, but now it starts up again.
“Do you hear that?” asks David, his voice turning hopeful. “It’s a siren. Fire engines!”
Helping me up again, we hurry over to edge of the floor and spot the crowd of onlookers below. Two fire trucks and an ambulance are down there. I wave my arms frantically.
“Hey, we’re up here! Up here, guys!”
But everyone’s rushing back and forth, hosing down the flames, evacuating the lower levels. No one suspects anyone is on the upper floors. Why would they? This part of the building has been neglected for months now. But then I remember what David told me earlier about the security guard going for help. Maybe he’s told them about us. Maybe . . .
Behind us, smoke pours out from around the elevator and collects against the ceiling. With no outer walls to trap it in, the smoke curls up and around the steel girders, rolling out across the ceiling like an upside down river. David squats and places his palms against the floor.
“It’s hot enough to burn,” he says. “Won’t be long before the fire finds its way through, and there’s plenty of lumber in here to feed it.”
Heat radiates off all the metal—the girders, the pipes, the elevator doors. I swear I’m baking in an oven. Pulling my hoodie sleeves down around my hands, I grab hold of the steel building frame and lean outside a little. On the exterior of the building a loose sheet of plastic flaps against the waves of hot air pushing past me.
“Hey!” I shout at the crowd below. I’m starting to shake, whether from fear or desperation or both, I don’t know. “Please! Somebody look up here!”
And someone does.
People far below gather around, shouting and pointing up to where David and I are waving frantically. It seems like forever for the rescue worker to make his way up to us on a ladder rig. He wears a heavy yellow firefighter jacket and thick, soot-smudged gloves. I step into his arms and let him hold me close. I bury my face against his chest and smell the fire and ash on him. David climbs on beside us.
“Please,” I beg the rescuer, “there are more people on the fourth floor—babies!”
“Babies?”
“Yes! You’ve got to send someone to save them!”
I quickly explain where the room with the fetuses is located and give him the access code. The firefighter relays the information to someone below as we slowly descend to the ground.
Once we arrive, David and I are immediately wrapped in warm blankets. The air explodes with sound: the clamor of sirens, shouts of emergency crews, reporters and onlookers talking over the din. I feel lost amid the chaos, like a toy boat battered by stormy ocean waves. Through the blanket, my rescuer has me firmly by the arm, leading me toward the safety of a waitin
g ambulance. The pain in my leg reminds me that’s where I need to go, but then I realize David’s gone. We’ve been separated.
“Wait,” I say, hoping I’m loud enough to be heard. “Wait, please. My boyfriend was with me. Where is he?”
The stranger doesn’t answer, but keeps pulling me through the bustling crowd. A suit-clad reporter followed by a cameraman backs into us, nearly knocking me over.
“Excuse me,” he says, moving off in another direction.
I scan the crowd for familiar faces, but the throng of people is too dense to penetrate, and the frenzied activity all around me is far too overwhelming.
“David!” I shout. “David Valdez!” I call his name over and over, shouting until my throat is raw from the smoke and the strain.
A fireman in full gear hurries past, bumping hard against me. The force of the impact breaks the rescuer’s hold on my arm. I quickly dart away. I keep shouting David’s name, but no one answers or even notices me. And then, I see his face in the crowd.
“David!” I call again, pushing my way to him. He sees me, and soon I’m crying in his arms.
After a few moments, he pulls away and looks into my face. “Mira, you’re going to be okay. You need medical attention.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “But you’re leg—let them help you.”
I do feel a little woozy. Suddenly, my knees buckle beneath me. David catches me and lifts me into his arms. He carries me toward the ambulance where gentle hands lay me on a gurney. An EMT snaps an oxygen mask across my face. I hear people talking about the evacuation of patients to two other hospitals in different parts of the city. The EMT informs me I’ll be going to one of them.
I peer through the open ambulance doors to look at David. He smiles at me before stepping away. For a moment, I panic. I can’t lose him again. But then another face pops into view.
Papa.
He climbs into the ambulance. “Hey, Pumpkin,” Papa says in a shaky voice. He looks pale and worried. “Thank God you’re safe. You’re going to be okay, I promise.”