Flames

Words: 509

The helicopter was a bad idea.

The flames, which had climbed to the second floor, got sucked upward by the vortex and were now destroying the fourth floor. The people trapped on the sixth-floor terrace felt the heat increase beneath their feet. The pilot understood what had happened and did an about-turn in mid air - getting closer would do more harm than good.

I heard about it from my uncle, who was one of the people trapped in that burning building. It was a miracle he lived to tell the tale. This was before the days of mobile phones, and the trapped folk couldn't 'text' loved ones. They scribbled notes on any scraps of paper they happened to have on them and threw the notes to the watching crowd below.

The firemen were arranging a rescue from the next apartment building. They managed to get a long, sturdy ladder and make a bridge from the sixth floor of that building to the terrace where the people waited.

There being no children present, someone calmly said, "Women first" and one of the ladies was hoisted on to the ladder, where she tottered precariously before getting her footing and managing to walk the rungs to safety.

But it would take a long time.

My uncle didn't know if he'd get his turn in time. He closed his eyes and said a mental 'goodbye' to his wife and two children. 'I love you,' he told them. He opened his eyes to find himself staring into the eyes of a man he hadn't noticed before.

"There is one staircase clear," the man told him. "If you prefer, you can wait, or if you like, you can try going down. It's that way."

My uncle went the way he pointed, expecting that he would follow. But, though two other men followed, the one who had spoken to him didn't.

It was difficult to find their way through the smoke, but the man was right - that part of the building wasn't actually damaged yet. They held hands to make a chain of three human beings and groped their way to the iron staircase. They could feel the heat through their shoes, but they persisted.

Coughing and sputtering, they heard the cheers of the crowd and felt hands pulling them outward as they emerged from the doorway. Someone gave them water. Then, they joined the crowd to watch the rescue operations.

There were no casualties.

Everyone on record as being inside the building was accounted for, alive, either via the ladder or the staircase.

My uncle looked for the man who had spoken to him, telling him of the way out. He couldn't find him. In vain, he described him - described him to the people who had been on the fateful terrace, to people in the crowd. Nobody had seen a man like that. The security guy's register, with the name of every entrant, had no extra name on it.

My uncle closed his eyes again. He turned his face to Heaven. "Thank you," he said.