9:30 AM
Roger cursed vividly. His attempts to repair the dinky little radio had failed miserably, and he and Mimi really wanted to know what the hell was going on. Finally, they gave up, and left the loft entirely.
Mimi led the way, dragging Roger down the street. At every store they stopped in, the friendly salespeople had heard different rumors.
One said that the World Trade Center had been bombed again, like back in 93.
Another said that a commercial airliner had been hijacked and flown into one of the towers, and that the fire had spread to both of them.
Another said that there had been two hijacked planes, one per tower, but that the entire area had already been evacuated.
The last one darkly suggested that those folks who made the movie Independence Day had known about this the whole time, and that the aliens were undoubtedly responsible.
After that, Roger and Mimi gave up on store clerks.
* * * * *
Joanne and most of her colleagues were clustered around the TV that had been wheeled into a conference room. Over and over, they were shown the same footage of the second plane making its beeline for the second tower. And the grand explosion that followed.
I feel like this is a fucking movie, someone muttered. Fucking special effects.
Extra-special effects, someone else commented dryly. So special, they're real.
Joanne said, voice tight. Holy crap. I can't believe this is happening. She closed her eyes for a long moment.
For a few minutes, the TV droned on, as eleven drawn, nervous faces stared at it.
My wife works a block away from there, one man finally said, standing abruptly. I have to call her. I have to hear that she's out of there, that she's all right. He walked out of the room.
A few other people saw this as only sensible, even if they didn't have relatives so far downtown. Oh, fuck it, Joanne mumbled, pulling out her own cell phone and dialing a familiar number.
Busy signal.
Funny, Maureen shouldn't even be awake at this point, let alone on the phone. Joanne tried again.
Busy.
And, she realized, looking around at the eleven frustrated people she worked with, they're all having the same problem.
Busy signal.
Our cell phones are all down.
* * * * *
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Collins did not like the feeling in his arm. Removing it from its position covering his head, he examined it closely.
There was a largish patch of seared skin, right across the top of his forearm. Something small and very, very hot had apparently played ping-pong with his arm. That was not cool. Very not cool.
Fuck.
Nursing the arm, he looked around him. The worst of the falling rubble had passed, and again, Collins had been one of the lucky ones. In spite of an very sore arm. The dust was a bit thicker now. So was the soot. All in all, being lucky and being comfortable were apparently not related in the slightest.
More sirens. What the hell was going on?
It's was painful to look up, in the direction the soot was falling from, but he did. Both of the Twin Towers were now burning merrily, underneath the blanket of foul-smelling black smoke. The roar of flames was almost constant. Periodically, a sudden rumbling would indicate a chunk of Twin Tower that had come unattached.
Collins was pretty sure that there were more medical guys somewhere out there, who would probably tend to his arm very nicely, and stick him on a stretcher and drag him away. On the other hand, there were still a hell of a lot of people who were still in the World Trade Center. It wasn't too difficult a choice.
Collins decided to save his own skin and get out of there.
But on his way toward the sound of sirens, he stumbled over something -- someone? -- and fell, clutching his arm. A form loomed over him through the smoky air. He looked up.
Angel. It had to be Angel. He could practically hear that smooth voice in his ear again. You okay, honey?'
Angel...!
In that brief moment, a thousand things flashed through Collins's mind. The one that stuck was the image of Angel, playing nurse to Collins's bleeding knee. Angel, helping those tourists find their way around the big city. Angel, wiping Mimi's tears after she'd had a spat with Roger. Angel, who had devoted his painfully short life to helping others.
Collins knew that he couldn't run away now. Angel sure as hell wouldn't have. He'd have been in the thick of things, pestering the medical workers until they let him help out, making sure everyone got out of the building quickly.... No. Collins had to keep helping, until the firefighters physically dragged him away.
You'll help me, won't you, Angel? he thought, and reached his good arm up to his lover. Just help me up.
But it wasn't Angel who pulled Collins to his feet this time. It was Benny.
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