TW: 9/11 Flashback, death, destruction
September 11, 2001
"A goddamned plane hit the World Trade Center!"
Haustin shook his head and chuckled under his breath. Abel was a sick bastard. He had the know-how to pull off the best pranks, delivering an epic line of bullshit without blinking an eye. Even now, he stood in the vehicle bay with pale skin, a sheen of sweat popping out across his plump cheeks and a bewildered stare. Abel should know better. After the bombing of the Trade Center in '93, an attack wasn't something anyone should joke about. Haustin opened his mouth, fully intending to tell Abel to grow up, but an alarm burst through the firehouse, killing the words on his tongue.
Taking a closer look at Abel's dazed expression, Haustin dropped the oxygen mask he was servicing and rushed outside to peer down the street. Usually, they had a decent view of the Twin Towers between a couple of buildings. Today, though, all he saw was a disaster unfolding. Smoke billowed from the top of the north tower, marring the otherwise perfect blue sky, and already, the cry of sirens assaulted his ears from every corner of the city.
"Shit."
His blood turned to ice and dread wiggled its way into his typically steel resolve. It was going to be a hell of a fight to get up there. Each building was over a hundred stories tall with a maze of elevators, offices and storage. Running procedures in his head and compiling a mental list of the tools they'd need, determination replaced the ice, giving his body life. Fire ... he lived for it.
"Haus, get your ass in here!"
Paulie's shout broke his trance, and he ran inside to throw on his bunker gear, shoving his feet into his boots and ignoring the flutters in his chest. Piling into Engine 12 with the crew, tension hovered thick and hot in the air, a big change from the dirty locker room jokes and insults usually flying around.
"Was it really a plane?" the new guy, Alex, asked, horrified.
"That's what I heard," Paulie confirmed, his lean freckled face flushed with anxiety.
Haustin added his own question. "A private plane?"
"Passenger jet."
Those two words kicked him in the gut, and his head spun. How many people were on one of those? A hundred? Two? And fuel. Were they full? Jet fuel burned at an incredibly high temperature, and if the building's chemical fire suppression systems were down, the department was going to need something stronger than water, like a miracle.
"On purpose?"
"Alex, don't be an idiot. I bet it was banking for an emergency landing." Doubt filled Abel's tone.
They remained uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the trip to the World Trade Center as traffic crept to a standstill, doubling their average ten-minute ride from the firehouse in Midtown. The truck blazed down Church Street and, as it passed the complex, Haustin pressed his face against the window, squinting up into the blazing nightmare. At least ten stories were on fire, orange flames swirling from the gaping holes in the sides of the tower.
The rig lurched to a stop as close to the scene as possible, near the corner of Church and Liberty, in the shadow of Building Four of the World Trade Center complex. Haustin jumped out and rolled open the bins containing their equipment, distributing tools, oxygen tanks and rolls of hose, all the while snatching quick glances at the blackness billowing above and trying to envision the conditions. Smoke would have filled the hallways, drop ceilings had likely collapsed, blocking exits, and elevator cables sliced by the plane would have sent cars crashing to the ground floor, killing anyone inside instantly. His hands trembled, and he shook the offending action from them.
Captain Welch walked into the middle of their tight, focused group and spoke, "Command Center is set up in the lobby of the north tower, tower one. They're getting calls from people trapped above and below the burning floors. All emergency services and fire systems are dead inside. We won't have any help internally."
So no additional fire suppression, just as he'd predicted. Wonderful. Haustin peered hard at the others, drawing comfort from their resolute expressions and catching Paulie's eye. He'd known the guy since high school and had never seen him as unyielding as he was now. Not even the rookie, Alex, showed a trace of fear. It would come. It was the first thing he'd learned in the two years since he joined up. Haustin might not admit it aloud, but today would be unprecedented, an event that would change their lives. He felt it in his bones.
"Concentrate on the fire. Distractions will kill you. Only chumps get burned while gawking at the scenery," he lectured in his head, a mantra his father had instilled in him and one he passed on to each new rookie he met.
This was simply another job, that was the mentality they had to cling to. They didn't have the luxury to dwell on the fact that tens of thousands of people came through these buildings every day. Tens of thousands of people with the potential to die. Haustin's pulse sped up, and he drew in deep breaths, forcing himself into that familiar place where everything faded, except for what was expected of him. It worked. The screams, sirens, and the roar of the fire sharpened his attention. He imagined it was how a soldier felt before going into battle; focused, scared, pumped up, and ready to kick some ass.
"Alright, let's go. Keep your heads up as we get close. Got reports of all kinds of shit falling."
The second the words exited the captain's mouth, a low droning sound penetrated Haustin's ears, and he turned to stone. Another plane. The noise grew louder, drowning everything else, and over the roof of Building Four, a flash of silver glinted in the sun.
"Get down!" he shouted, his body reacting before he finished.
Everyone ducked as a massive fireball burst from the north face of the south tower, almost directly above them, shooting flame and debris into the sky and scattering it onto the streets. Haustin couldn't draw air into his tightened chest as the ugly truth of the situation sank in. It had to be an attack. They needed to get their asses in there.
Haustin watched hesitation cloud the captain's eyes and his mouth went dry. The man normally had unflappable nerves—old school and hard as granite. Captain Welch gazed around, stunned, but the indecision didn't last long. He bent, groping for his helmet which had been knocked to the ground, and faced his crew.
"Okay, we're still moving to tower one, to Command. I'm sure they'll send us into two, but we need to report in anyway."
Their superior led them around the front of Four, upriver against the panicked streams of people exiting both towers. Every face reflected terror, pain, and, most prevalent, vacant expressions of shock. The closer they drew to tower one, the worse the chaos grew. Thousands spilled onto the streets and the mezzanine, most too scared to stop and gawk. The second plane had upped the panic level, and desperation polluted the air, thick as the smoke, embracing everyone.
Haustin kept his fear at bay by concentrating on the facts, on what he needed to do once he got up there and the logistics of carrying the wounded down sixty to eighty flights of stairs.
"Can they land choppers on the roof?" he asked the captain.
"No clue. Visibility is shit. They may be worried about structural damage, too."
"Or another plane," Alex muttered.
Readjusting the sixty pounds of gear slung over his shoulder, Haustin repeatedly swallowed, his tongue already covered in ash, but the more he witnessed, the harder it became to keep his professional mask in place.
He glanced to the right and did a double-take. A body, missing an arm and leg and burned almost beyond recognition, nothing more than a chunk of blackened flesh, was still smoking. A little farther ahead lay a hand, just a hand in near perfect condition, fingers slightly bent and reaching towards the sky. Horrified, unable to look away from the gold wedding ring on the third finger, Haustin's steps faltered. When he faced forward, he mentally catalogued the injured exiting the buildings, the burns marring their skin, how their clothes hung off their bodies and the smell of jet fuel wafting off them.
One elderly woman, clutching her bloody arm, crouched near a trash can, tears streaming down her face.
"Ma'am, you can't stay here. It isn't safe." He pulled her to her feet and pointed across the street to a group of paramedics attending survivors. "They'll tell you where to go."
Watching her stumble off, a reverberating boom echoed not five feet away, shaking the concrete under his feet and he jumped forward, pivoting as he scanned the area. A bloody mass that once was a body painted the ground in brilliant reds. Innocent bystanders stood frozen to the side, covered in gore, disbelief clouding their faces. He'd seen a human body broken down into ash, into charred fragments solidified in intense heat. Never had he witnessed one reduced to a soupy puddle. Vomit tickled the back of his mouth, begging to be let out. Jesus, they weren't prepared for this, not on this scale. Nobody was. Closing his eyes, Haustin counted to five, concentrating on not losing his breakfast. Marginally better, he glanced around, and Alex shot him a pale, questioning look. Haustin explained it with one word.
"Jumpers."
The statement had a profound effect on the other firefighters. Shoulders tensed, feet danced in place itching to hurry up there and stop the people trapped from taking a desperate plunge. Alex remained rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the splatter. Haustin noticed a slight tremor in the man's hand as more bombs dropped from the sky.
He stepped close and, low enough no one could hear, said, "Take a long look and get it out of your system. We'll run into a lot worse before this is over. Lock it down. Save it for later."
Alex responded after a second and ducked his head, jaw clenching, gathering his wits before readjusting the hose slung over his arm. Looking back up, his eyes were clear.
Once inside, near the bottom of the escalators, Haustin kept track of their captain as he joined the other top officers and set his gear on the floor to give his shoulders a break. Several men pointed insistently to a diagram of the towers, a crude drawing someone had put on a whiteboard, concentrating their jabs at the upper floors. Others argued with red faces and traces of panic slipping through. The scope of the task was etched in the somber expression of each hardened vet. Anxious, Haustin shifted from foot to foot, keeping his breathing steady and calm.
Captain Welch returned after six agonizingly long minutes. "Alright, you guys are going to tower two. Got reports of people trapped on sixty-seven and seventy-one. Elevators are a no-go, so prepare for a hell of a hike."
"Why didn't they evacuate it before?"
The captain shot Alex an impatient glare. "It's only been half an hour, dipshit. Do you see the size of these buildings?"
"We'll get them now," Haustin told the rookie, giving him a hearty thump on the shoulder and lifting his tools and equipment again.
"Let's quit yapping and get to work," Paulie said as he led them out of the lobby.
Back in the fading daylight, the sun choked by growing clouds of smoke, they skirted what Haustin assumed to be a large chunk of the plane on fire, nothing more than a pile of twisted and melted metal. He thought of his kids, as he often did before running into a burning building, and sent up a quick prayer that he'd return home safely. His family was the most important thing in the world to him, and Lindsey's pretty face floated before him, smiling and teasing. He recalled the way she looked early this morning before he left, mussed from sleep, so damn sexy he'd been tempted to show up late. Maybe he should have. At least if he died, he'd die with the scent of her still on his skin.
Don't be so morbid, dickhead, he scolded himself. Wrong mindset for today.
Finding the staircase was easy. All they had to do was follow the horde of firefighters lined up waiting their turn to go in. There had to be at least a couple hundred, and who knew how many were already inside both towers. Haustin had never seen anything like this before, hopefully never would again.
Carl, Engine 12's oldest member, and certified health nut, honed in on those near him and said, "Take it easy going up. There's a shit load of stairs. Don't push it. We'll stop and break every five floors because we need to save enough strength to fight the fires once we get up there. Cramping muscles are a concern, so speak up before it gets bad. We'll have to find a way to stay hydrated."
"Whatever you say, Richard Simmons," Abel muttered, and Haustin ducked his head, smirking. If he had Abel's gut, he'd be a little more worried about the climb than cracking a joke.
Entering the stairwell, things moved at a steady pace. People coming down stayed to one side, crying and weeping in shock or offering encouragement to the firemen trudging upwards. Some passed out bottles of water from broken vending machines. Others simply whispered, 'thank you' in between sobs. The higher they climbed, the worse the injuries Haustin saw; skin burned and falling off, gashes, head trauma, a little of everything. And still, he knew it was only a sliver of the horrors waiting for them. His level of adrenalin increased, along with his heart rate, causing his blood to hum. A voice in his head kept saying he just needed to get up there, he just needed to get up there.
"You're doing great. Keep it up," Abel encouraged the survivors trekking down. "Paramedics and safety personnel are waiting at the bottom."
The stench of body odor, smoke, vomit, and jet fuel inundated the air, as well as the overwhelming scent of blood, making it impossible to breathe and tempting him to slip on his oxygen mask. He didn't, had to save it for later. As they rounded the next landing, he noticed an older fireman bent over, grabbing his chest. Sweat stung Haustin's eyes, and he felt the burn in his shoulder from the equipment on his back, but stopping wasn't an option. Not today. His pulse climbed with him, and his thighs and calves screamed in protest. He pressed on, determined to help, to be of use, to not give in to the fear breathing down his neck. Common sense told him to turn around, run away and never look back, but he ignored it as he always did.
One flight shy of the twenty-sixth floor, they came across McGuinn from 44 Truck.
"Got the order. They're calling for everyone to get out," he warned as he descended past them.
"What the goddamn hell does that mean?" Carl grumbled.
Haustin hovered in the landing, torn between following orders and continuing up. He smothered his frustration. They hadn't done anything. There were hundreds of people above them still. Were they expected to just forget them?
"What do you think?" Abel asked as he eyed the infinite stream of humanity.
"We should listen," Alex piped in.
"Yeah, typical rookie answer," Paulie said, his voice weak from trying to catch his breath.
Haustin processed the information, hearing the same order squawking over his radio from the Battalion Chief. He knew the guy, and he wouldn't yank crews from this kind of situation without a legitimate reason. Something had the brass scrambling, and the more seconds that ticked by, the more Haustin's feet itched to continue, but he also developed a prickling sensation along the back of his neck, as if Death himself were stalking him from behind.
"We go down," Haustin said with regret. "There might be another plane headed right for us. Fat good we'll do if we are dead. We regroup, see what's up."
"Then start all over again?"
"Alex, do what he says," Paulie warned.
The descent was slower as the crowds swelled and clogged the only way out. A trace of urgency pushed Haustin, a menacing threat he did not want to face. He rarely got spooked, but this turned his insides to a jumbling pile of mush. On the eighth floor, he came across an elderly Asian woman with gray skin and blue lips, a hand clutched to her chest.
"Let me give you some oxygen, ma'am."
He held his mask to her face, letting her pause for only seconds at a time. The fresh air revived her, and, with his support, she moved quickly down the stairs. Over his shoulder, he caught glimpses of the rest of the crew. Paulie lagged behind, rallying the exodus from half a flight to their rear, his booming voice echoing up and down the stairwell. Jesus, Haustin swore he even heard the guy laughing with survivors. Haustin respected his buddy's attempt to lighten the mood, but was beginning to wonder if he'd ever set foot on the ground again.
Finally, they exited the stairwell, and he exhaled in relief. It felt freeing not to have a hundred and six floors pressing down on him until he noticed how empty the area was, except for those pouring out behind him. Not a good sign. He assisted his save through the shattered lobby doors and handed her off to a paramedic he found on the Liberty Street side of the complex.
His crew scattered once they hit the lobby, lost in the crowds, and he craned his head to try and locate anyone from Engine 12. Catching a glimpse of Abel and Carl moving a group to safety, he prepared to go after them then paused. Remembering the vast crowds flocking down behind him, he changed his mind. There were still too many people inside.
Haustin pivoted, mind set on jogging to the stairwell when he heard a loud rumbling overhead, and his knees morphed into jelly. Looking up, he expected to find another plane, confirming his suspicion for the hasty evacuation. Instead, a giant gray cloud rushed at him. The wind hit his face, angry with heat and fury, forcing him into action. His eyes darted around, searching for a place to hide. Across the street, he saw a deli with a wide-open front door.
He took off, only to skid to a halt. Twenty feet away, a young woman stood mesmerized by the roaring terror crashing toward her, frozen in place, her brown hair swirling in a graceful dance.
Without another thought, he bolted in her direction.
So they meet.