~The Dead Of The Night~
~Thursday, the day before Halloween 4:29 p.m.
He stands there at the top of the stairs, gazing down at the meandering group beneath him. They wander through this closed down factory like shoppers at a flea market, picking through everything, touching every object they see, keeping some, tossing others back. Some waging a tug-of-war, the stronger willed winning, the weaker staggering off mumbling to themselves.
A strong contrast to the life he commanded on Wall Street only two years ago. His expensive suit is now worn with wear, the only item of value he wears is the crested ring on his right hand, with a king cut diamond in the center, surrounded by his embossed initials, R. D.. He softly taps the ring on the hand rail as he watches them...his family.
Someone pulls a board from a window, and the sun shoots into the room, piercing the dark like a spotlight, catching the dust rising from the floor, giving substance to the smell of dampness rising to his nostrils. His mind explodes back in time...the sounds, the smell, the smoke thickening to dust. Choking him...like the neck ties he used to wear...like his old life.
9/11 changed his life. It changed many lives...and ended many lives. Including his. He was in tower one when the planes hit. He had been on the thirty second floor. They were told not to evacuate. He waited...almost too long. He made the decision at that moment...to leave. Not just the building...everything. He realized he hated his job...he was suffocating in it. He certainly didn't want to loose his life over it.
He was on the last flight of stairs over looking the lobby, desperately trying to reach the exit, when tower two fell. His existence ended with a roar so loud, it made the building tremble beneath his feet. He sat on the stairs...terrified...holding the handrail for dear life. Too afraid to move. He watched in horror as tower two crash through the windows, reaching for him. Trying to crush him to death. Then, not giving up in it's failure, it instead tried to bury him alive. There was sudden darkness, followed by minutes of silence.
In those minutes, he saw the reflection of himself dying for a job that was killing him. How ironic. Then the agonizing sounds of hell. The moaning all around him in the dark. Desperate wails of people...trying to recover from an experience no one had encountered before. His mind processed all of this as death. What ever was happening...surly no one will survive it. Holding the rail, he stumbled through the dark in the direction he instinctively knew to be towards an exit, never expecting to find one.
He got to a door, but couldn't tell if he had reached the outside or not. He stumbled along slowly, stepping on and over things...arms stretched out feeling for...he didn't know what, but he finally heard someone calling to come towards his voice. He was then pulled into another building, where he could see through the dust. The zombie like sounds, were now taking shape. People standing...meandering around in shock...faces white with dust, lined with the tracks of tears as they ran down the ash on their faces, giving them and even eerier appearance.
After Tower one fell he walked out...wearing his death face...like ashes to ashes...and he never went back. He let himself be declared dead...a victim of 9/11, because, after all...he was. He spent the night in the basement of a building, and that has been his home ever since.
The building really has two floors of basement. The first one down is were the furnace, hot water heater, washer and dryer, and storage rooms are, for the tenants. The second basement below the laundry rooms, he found behind a door that had been padlocked and boarded up by the landlord. It was actually built for storing coal for the original coal burning furnace that had been replaced probably a hundred years ago. It is a damp, dirt floored room, that extends the full length of the building, and is kept warm in the winter from the water pipes running under the floor above.
He found he could access the room from the outside through the old coal shaft, with a metal stairs directly below it get out. After living there a week, he learned that the landlord had died on 9/11 and the building had been put up for sale. Before a new landlord could buy it and find his secret room behind the padlocked door in the first basement, he pulled a bookcase in front of the door, and nailed it permanently to the wall, covering it for good.
The sound of a car horn, pulls him out of his thoughts. He opens the door behind him and looks out at the street. Traffic is getting heavier. It must be getting near five o'clock. They need to leave. He looks down in the corner at the bodies laying there, bloodied and broken, to see if there are any signs of life. There is none. He whistles down to his family below.
"It's time to go." He calls out. Then he slips through the door and leaves.
Slowly they wander to the steps in groups of two or three. They also leave, and follow him to the coal-basement they call home. All of them, nine total, with a story similar to his, trying to make it in the working class, but for their own reasons they couldn't make it. All of them have mental health problems, and all of them are uneducated and can not hold a job, and ended up on the streets with no where to go. He hand selected just the right people to join his family. The ones he could teach... that are sane enough to understand the rules and smart enough to share...the ones that would be loyal.
He organized them. He taught them there is safety in numbers, but also, for them there is danger in numbers. If they gather in a large group, they will stand out as a pack. They will look to be a threat. They will not be unnoticed. The authorities will take action against them. So he taught them to work as a group, but travel in pairs. Be far enough from each other so they don't look together, but close enough to come together if one pair is threatened.
They take care of each other, sharing everything they find. Some are designated to find food, visiting dumpsters behind different restaurants and diners. Others spend their days searching for discarded items, and bringing them back to their fortress. They steal from other street people, raiding the many havens, hidden all over the city, because they are easy to rob and no one will miss them if they have to kill for what they want. They keep the items they need, and things they don't need, he takes to pawn shops, bartering for cash, to buy them liquor, drugs, smokes and an occasional meal.
He walks down an alley way, secure in knowing that not far behind him is his family, because ahead of him in the alley are two men sharing a bottle and watching him approach. He works his way to the opposite side of the alley to pass them, but one of them calls to him.
"Hey, can ya spare a buck?" The man steps into his path.
He slows his pace a little. "No...I have nothing." He puts his head down and tries to walk past, but the man puts his hand out and stops him.
"C'mon man...you must have something. Help us out."
"No...I don't. I can't help you." He notices the second man walking closer, holding a board.
"I believe you...but my friend here doesn't."
The second man steps close, slapping his left hand with the board in a threatening gesture. He keeps his eyes on the board, and raises his hands in a surrender pose, as the first man starts searching through his pockets. Behind the men he catches a glimpse of his family approaching silently.
"You've got nothing. I'm afraid you're in a world of trouble boy."
The second man raises the board to strike him and is instead slammed in the back of the head with a pipe. He falls forward against the wall, and before he reaches the ground he is struck again on the back. The first man turns to see five people behind him, all wielding weapons, and encircling him. Shortly there are two more homeless people, and then three more, and soon, he is surrounded by nine angry people.
"Hey...c'mon...we weren't really gonna hurt ya buddy. Really." His eyes are wide with fear. "Call em off man."
RD steps over the downed man and says, "I believe you...but my friends here don't."
As he walks away, he hears the man scream, above the sound of flesh being bludgeoned. The screams end by the time he reaches the end of the alley, and as he turns out of the alley, the group starts to disperse three at a time, and follow.
***
***
~Thursday, the day before Halloween 4:29 p.m.
He stands there at the top of the stairs, gazing down at the meandering group beneath him. They wander through this closed down factory like shoppers at a flea market, picking through everything, touching every object they see, keeping some, tossing others back. Some waging a tug-of-war, the stronger willed winning, the weaker staggering off mumbling to themselves.
A strong contrast to the life he commanded on Wall Street only two years ago. His expensive suit is now worn with wear, the only item of value he wears is the crested ring on his right hand, with a king cut diamond in the center, surrounded by his embossed initials, R. D.. He softly taps the ring on the hand rail as he watches them...his family.
Someone pulls a board from a window, and the sun shoots into the room, piercing the dark like a spotlight, catching the dust rising from the floor, giving substance to the smell of dampness rising to his nostrils. His mind explodes back in time...the sounds, the smell, the smoke thickening to dust. Choking him...like the neck ties he used to wear...like his old life.
9/11 changed his life. It changed many lives...and ended many lives. Including his. He was in tower one when the planes hit. He had been on the thirty second floor. They were told not to evacuate. He waited...almost too long. He made the decision at that moment...to leave. Not just the building...everything. He realized he hated his job...he was suffocating in it. He certainly didn't want to loose his life over it.
He was on the last flight of stairs over looking the lobby, desperately trying to reach the exit, when tower two fell. His existence ended with a roar so loud, it made the building tremble beneath his feet. He sat on the stairs...terrified...holding the handrail for dear life. Too afraid to move. He watched in horror as tower two crash through the windows, reaching for him. Trying to crush him to death. Then, not giving up in it's failure, it instead tried to bury him alive. There was sudden darkness, followed by minutes of silence.
In those minutes, he saw the reflection of himself dying for a job that was killing him. How ironic. Then the agonizing sounds of hell. The moaning all around him in the dark. Desperate wails of people...trying to recover from an experience no one had encountered before. His mind processed all of this as death. What ever was happening...surly no one will survive it. Holding the rail, he stumbled through the dark in the direction he instinctively knew to be towards an exit, never expecting to find one.
He got to a door, but couldn't tell if he had reached the outside or not. He stumbled along slowly, stepping on and over things...arms stretched out feeling for...he didn't know what, but he finally heard someone calling to come towards his voice. He was then pulled into another building, where he could see through the dust. The zombie like sounds, were now taking shape. People standing...meandering around in shock...faces white with dust, lined with the tracks of tears as they ran down the ash on their faces, giving them and even eerier appearance.
After Tower one fell he walked out...wearing his death face...like ashes to ashes...and he never went back. He let himself be declared dead...a victim of 9/11, because, after all...he was. He spent the night in the basement of a building, and that has been his home ever since.
The building really has two floors of basement. The first one down is were the furnace, hot water heater, washer and dryer, and storage rooms are, for the tenants. The second basement below the laundry rooms, he found behind a door that had been padlocked and boarded up by the landlord. It was actually built for storing coal for the original coal burning furnace that had been replaced probably a hundred years ago. It is a damp, dirt floored room, that extends the full length of the building, and is kept warm in the winter from the water pipes running under the floor above.
He found he could access the room from the outside through the old coal shaft, with a metal stairs directly below it get out. After living there a week, he learned that the landlord had died on 9/11 and the building had been put up for sale. Before a new landlord could buy it and find his secret room behind the padlocked door in the first basement, he pulled a bookcase in front of the door, and nailed it permanently to the wall, covering it for good.
The sound of a car horn, pulls him out of his thoughts. He opens the door behind him and looks out at the street. Traffic is getting heavier. It must be getting near five o'clock. They need to leave. He looks down in the corner at the bodies laying there, bloodied and broken, to see if there are any signs of life. There is none. He whistles down to his family below.
"It's time to go." He calls out. Then he slips through the door and leaves.
Slowly they wander to the steps in groups of two or three. They also leave, and follow him to the coal-basement they call home. All of them, nine total, with a story similar to his, trying to make it in the working class, but for their own reasons they couldn't make it. All of them have mental health problems, and all of them are uneducated and can not hold a job, and ended up on the streets with no where to go. He hand selected just the right people to join his family. The ones he could teach... that are sane enough to understand the rules and smart enough to share...the ones that would be loyal.
He organized them. He taught them there is safety in numbers, but also, for them there is danger in numbers. If they gather in a large group, they will stand out as a pack. They will look to be a threat. They will not be unnoticed. The authorities will take action against them. So he taught them to work as a group, but travel in pairs. Be far enough from each other so they don't look together, but close enough to come together if one pair is threatened.
They take care of each other, sharing everything they find. Some are designated to find food, visiting dumpsters behind different restaurants and diners. Others spend their days searching for discarded items, and bringing them back to their fortress. They steal from other street people, raiding the many havens, hidden all over the city, because they are easy to rob and no one will miss them if they have to kill for what they want. They keep the items they need, and things they don't need, he takes to pawn shops, bartering for cash, to buy them liquor, drugs, smokes and an occasional meal.
He walks down an alley way, secure in knowing that not far behind him is his family, because ahead of him in the alley are two men sharing a bottle and watching him approach. He works his way to the opposite side of the alley to pass them, but one of them calls to him.
"Hey, can ya spare a buck?" The man steps into his path.
He slows his pace a little. "No...I have nothing." He puts his head down and tries to walk past, but the man puts his hand out and stops him.
"C'mon man...you must have something. Help us out."
"No...I don't. I can't help you." He notices the second man walking closer, holding a board.
"I believe you...but my friend here doesn't."
The second man steps close, slapping his left hand with the board in a threatening gesture. He keeps his eyes on the board, and raises his hands in a surrender pose, as the first man starts searching through his pockets. Behind the men he catches a glimpse of his family approaching silently.
"You've got nothing. I'm afraid you're in a world of trouble boy."
The second man raises the board to strike him and is instead slammed in the back of the head with a pipe. He falls forward against the wall, and before he reaches the ground he is struck again on the back. The first man turns to see five people behind him, all wielding weapons, and encircling him. Shortly there are two more homeless people, and then three more, and soon, he is surrounded by nine angry people.
"Hey...c'mon...we weren't really gonna hurt ya buddy. Really." His eyes are wide with fear. "Call em off man."
RD steps over the downed man and says, "I believe you...but my friends here don't."
As he walks away, he hears the man scream, above the sound of flesh being bludgeoned. The screams end by the time he reaches the end of the alley, and as he turns out of the alley, the group starts to disperse three at a time, and follow.
***
***