Free We All Fall Down by Eric Walters Page B

he normally did—in control, calm, cool.
    “Now we have to decide what we do.”
    “What
can
we do?” I asked. “We’re trapped.
    We’re above the fire.”
    “We’re above it, but that doesn’t mean we’re trapped.”
    From behind us, in the corridor, came sounds. There were people, dozens and dozens of people, the ones who had been in the office that refused to leave. I looked around for that smug, stupid man who had refused my father’s order to evacuate. If he’d listened they might be safe now—safe, or dead. How far could they have gotten? Maybe they would have just made it a few floors down and they would have been somewhere on one of those floors when the plane hit. They would have been killed instantly. At least here they were still alive … still alive, but trapped, the way those people in the other tower were trapped … the way those two people were trapped who chose to jump rather than wait to be burned alive. I felt numb all over.
    There were people standing in front of the elevator doors, madly pushing the button to try to call up the elevator.
    “The elevators won’t be coming,” my father said, “and even if they did they wouldn’t be safe. Everybody has to take the stairs.”
    Almost as one the people turned and started off down the corridor. We followed. There was a smell—a bitter, acrid smell—the smell of something burning … of course something was burning.
    The door was pushed open. There was smoke coming out and up the stairwell! And it was already crowded with people—people climbing
up
from the lower floors. There was no noise except for the sound of feet against the stairs. Those entering from our floor started to climb up as well. I started to join in when my father grabbed me and pulled me to a halt.
    “Wait,” he said. He stopped somebody who was climbing. “What is it like below?”
    “The way is blocked … smoke … fire … there’s no way to get past the fire. We have to climb up, get as far away from the fire as possible and wait until the firemen come and put out the blaze.”
    “Thanks,” my father said. “Thanks.”
    My father motioned for me to follow him out of the stairwell and back into the corridor. We had to move through the traffic trying to move inthe other direction. Despite the urgency, the fear, the desperation, everybody was quiet and polite and orderly. There was no pushing, no bad words exchanged—hardly
any
words exchanged. I followed my father back to his office.
    “What are we doing?” I demanded. “We have to get away from the fire!” I was feeling panicked. “We have to go up and get farther away from it!”
    “We might decide to do that, but it might not be the best way to get away from the fire. We have to see if there are any other choices.”
    I was struck by the strange image of those two people jumping. That wasn’t a choice.
    “That man said the way down was blocked,” I argued.
    “It might be or it might not.”
    “But I could see the smoke!” I protested. “We have to climb up before the fire reaches us here.”
    “The smoke travels a lot faster than the fire could. These buildings are designed to contain fires so they don’t spread from floor to floor.”
    I felt a little relief. “But shouldn’t we just do what everybody else is doing and go to the top?”
    “Doing what everybody else does isn’t necessarily the right thing. Do you know how many times I’ve done the opposite of what everybody else was doing? I bought when they were selling or sold when they were buying or—”
    “This isn’t some stupid business deal!” I snapped. “This is our lives!”
    My father placed his hands on my shoulders. “I know that. I’m not going to allow myself to panic. We have to take the time to make the right decision.”
    I felt like brushing his hands aside and rushing back to the stairwell and up and away from the fire. I didn’t. He looked so confident, so sure of himself. He was usually right about things.