The Bravest

VI

"Two total collapses. Both towers have fallen. I repeat, the North Tower has come down-"

"This is Captain Bowman, not all of my men are accounted for. I think I had guys in the tower. Oh God, they were still in there when it came down-"

"Mayday mayday mayday. We have thousands of casualties. Repeat, need all medical services immediately. I've got thousands of ten-thirty-sevens, multiple ten-forty-fives. Sending all those who can walk away from the towers-"

"This is Ladder 56, we're going back in. Could be hundreds trapped inside the rubble. Requesting all services to help-"

"Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God-"

Michael groaned, couldn't see anything, felt pulsating pain throughout his whole body. His radio was squawking with the transmissions of a hundred voices at once, some breaking through the others, clear voices, hints of panic, shock, pain. Michael realized he still had his eyes closed, tried to open them, felt a blinding flash of pain, burning, kept his eyes closed. He tried to roll over, his shoulder coming up, slamming hard against the undercarriage of the pumper, which he had momentarily forgotten about, more pain. He opened his mouth, couldn't speak, no cry for help, his mouth coated in thick dust, images of the wall of pulverized dust coming back to him now, the feeling of terror, the helplessness. He suddenly was overcome with a feeling of panic himself, couldn't tell if he was seriously hurt or just roughed up. He tried to move his fingers and toes, pain answering, the first time he welcomed that, evidence that he was still in one piece.

He tried opening his eyes again, this time made better progress, his eyes opening slightly, the burning returning, ebbing away slightly, the pulverized dust that must've been coating his face. He flexed his fingers again, stiff in his gloves, reached above him, fighting off the dull throbbing pain of the movement. He grabbed ahold of the undercarriage, starting pushing, felt himself moving, more pain, but he was making progress in getting out from under the truck. He came out now, more shock, couldn't see anything, the dust cloud all around him, engulfing him, so thick it blocked the sunlight, everything dark, covered in a pasty brown and gray. Still on his back, he looked up, up the side of the pumper, the lights still on, the colors reflecting back off the dust, an eerie flashing. The red glossy paint on the side of the truck seemed dull now, muted in the wall of gray, the dust coating everything it could stick to.

Using the truck for support, Michael lifted himself, rocked back and forth, unsteady, kept a tight grip on the pumper. He looked around, kept his eyes at a squint, didn't want any more dust getting in, was looking for something, what, he didn't even know anymore. The towers that his brain still tried to comprehend were still standing? Something... alive. For the first time in his life, Michael felt utterly alone. There was no movement except for the dust around him and the lights of the truck now at his back, no sound, even the siren silent. It felt like the world had stopped. Like the world itself didn't know what was going on. Was just as confused, shocked, as Michael. What now? Where do we go from here?

Michael felt a heave coming now, his body trying to fight back against the dust in his mouth, the tragedy around him. His brain had gone into overdrive, random thoughts, his house in Jersey, Sammy, his son, Ashley. But now the thoughts changed. The morning, the piercing blare of the siren in the firehouse, the split second before the second plane went into the South Tower, the roar as the South Tower had collapsed. And now came the faces, for another time in the course of the longest morning, the breath sucked from Michael's lungs. Warshek, Owens, Rodriguez. Doughtman. Clay. He saw the last image of Clay in his head, face hidden by the light and the helmet, staring down at the photo in his hands. They'd all been in the towers when they'd come down. Oh God, they were gone. No, it wasn't possible. No no no no no. Michael fell to his knees, felt a dull throb in his chest, his heart, no tears coming, just the pain inside. Doughtman had two kids and a wife. Owens had a beautiful girlfriend he was preparing to propose to. Clay had a one year old. Warshek was about to get his masters degree. He had been using the fire department as a job to help pay for college. He wanted to be a pharmacist. An honest to goodness pharmacist. But he was gone now. They were all gone now. Taken away in the blink of an eye, wrenched from this world in a thunder the whole world must've heard. Why? Why God? What the hell had happened? What had gone wrong? Michael looked up at the sky, nothing there, only the thick curtain of deep brown, drowning away every other color, and he let out a roar, deep, guttural, the pain echoing in his horrid plea of pain. He wanted to cry. He felt like throwing up. His mouth was dry, coated in a thick layer of grime. He didn't want to hear the sound of his own voice. Wanted to hear the others again, their voices, oh God, gone. In the blink of an eye. Michael was silent, kneeling on the ground, his face down, the pain eating away at him, horrid, indescribable.