Abattoir (21 page)

It had stopped.

The globe-like eyes of the cat froze, seemingly staring at the paper on which Anna drew . . .

In an instant, it no longer mattered. Su Ling lost sight of where she was.

She felt as if she were being sucked into a vortex. She was being yanked backwards, her ears assaulted by a deafening roar, her sight blurred by chaotic motion. She was a tumbleweed in a gale, buffeted out of control, the moorings of her reason trembling,
cracking
.

At some point—time seemed irrelevant—the roaring began to change, transforming into a deep, basso
whump
, repeated with metronomic precision—a heavy machine sound.

The sound of helicopter blades.

She felt the humidity and the awful heat, smelled the rank jungle reek, then she saw her destination. And when her vision began to return, she was somewhere else.

She recognized it immediately, felt the
newness
of it, as if she’d never seen it at all.

Saigon.

She saw the embassy roof as if she were in the helicopter hovering above it; every inch covered in a throng of desperate humanity. They clustered around the door of the big chopper the G.I.s affectionately called a “Jolly Green Giant,” fighting one another for a place. The lucky ones were already aboard.

They looked like survivors of a sinking ship, desperately awaiting rescue.

Amidst the throng, she saw one young girl: a tiny thing; long jet black hair, a look of absolute, childish terror on her face.

Somehow, Su Ling knew that she was looking at herself.
What a beautiful little girl I was . . .

And then she
was
that little girl.

Now she was looking upward, at the great belly of the thumping beast that appeared as high as the clouds.

She felt the jostling of the adults all around; pain as their feet trampled hers. Felt, saw and smelled their fear.

And her own.

The young Su Ling had no idea how she’d gotten here. She remembered that her mother and father were with her earlier in the day, pulling her frantically through crowded streets and markets. Panic was everywhere; people scrambling with whatever belongings they could carry. Others were busy looting stores.

At some point in that terrible day, she discovered that her parents were no longer by her side. She was standing on this roof, without them, crying, looking for them, calling their names. Understanding nothing of what was playing out before her eyes.

Someone behind picked her up firmly by the armpits and thrust her forward. She tried to look back, thinking that maybe one of her parents had rejoined her, but never saw who it was. She was thrust through the door onto the hard metal floor of the helicopter, already filled with men, women and children. They all seemed to be staring at her.

“No more!” she heard a male voice cry out, but did not understand the English words. “We can’t carry this many! Some of you have to get off! We’ll come back!”

There was pushing and shoving as the great blades above them began to pick up speed. She felt herself being pushed back toward the door and tried to grab something, anything, that would keep her steady.

She felt the helicopter slowly begin to lift itself away from the roof. But something was wrong. The entire ship, burdened with human cargo, was having difficulty taking flight. The rocking deck was making the people sway en masse. A few fell.

A heavy man in front of her began to lose his balance. She felt him press against her, forcing her back. Again, she grabbed for something to hold onto, but found only air.

The child fell from the ship, free-falling out the door for what seemed like eternity. But her hand, still desperately clutching, found something at last.

As the Jolly Green Giant continued its erratic ascent, leaving the chaos of Saigon forever, a little girl could be seen clinging with one hand to its starboard skid . . .

Cantrell saw it at the same moment. The tail of the ticking cat abruptly stopped. He looked at Su Ling to see if she’d noticed it as well, and froze when he saw her face.

Her expression was one of total shock.

But he didn’t have time to think about her. His own terror hit at the very same moment.

He was pummeled by an unseen force—a wind unlike anything he’d ever experienced. No papers flew, no curtains stirred, no tablecloth flapped, but the pressure was fierce and relentless. It attacked from behind, thrusting him through the room against his will, ultimately shoving him out the door and into the hallway of the second floor. He strove to resist, like a swimmer trying to escape a riptide, but his efforts were in vain.

Whatever it was, it wanted him here.

He stood on the balcony, looking down into the foyer. For the briefest of moments, everything appeared calm.

Then it began.

There were squeaks, sounds of straining lumber or joists, nails being stressed and loosened from their berths.

He looked at the elaborate staircase, its angles more distorted than ever before. Now it no longer vaguely resembled an expressionistic painting. It looked decidedly crooked, definitely warped. It made him dizzy to look at it.

Out of the windows, which were now off-kilter as well, he saw little to reassure him. The entire landscape appeared to be
rising,
the movement deceptively subtle, but there could be no mistaking it.

The distant buildings outside were rising from their foundations.

Then reality struck him. The other buildings weren’t
rising
. The Exeter was sinking.

My building is dying.
He felt the hard reality of that thought like a punch to the stomach.

Impossible.

As if
possibility
made any difference. It was happening, right before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The sounds were worsening. The building lurched, as if it were a ship that had struck a reef. The groans were growing into a cacophony of screams, as if every nail, screw, and joint were protesting together, in one awful voice.

The hair on Cantrell’s neck rose as the sounds took on another quality: that of animals in pain. Or in
fear
. About to die.

“Stop this!” he cried out into the empty foyer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You have no
right
. . . !”

In reply, the screams of the building intensified, along with the vibrations that shuddered its skeleton.

The building was now sinking at a rapid pace. Clouds of plaster dust spewed out of the walls, the chandelier rocked wildly, its glass crystals audible even above the other noises. Somewhere a window shattered.

The Exeter was disintegrating, beginning with its skin; the cosmetic surfaces Cantrell had contrived to mask the building’s original character.

The molding splintered from the walls and ceilings with a sickening crack, then curled into itself, as if it had suddenly gone soft. Wallpaper rolled off the walls, resembling discarded Christmas wrapping.

From beneath the trappings of renovation and design, the true essence of the Exeter finally unveiled itself—aged brick, exposed concrete, bare pipes and conduits—the stuff of industry and production, the mechanics of process.

“Stop this!”

But the noise drowned out his protests, the anger that fueled them fast fading to fear.

The nails and screws were giving up their fight, ejecting from the walls with violent force.

The balcony rocked violently, its motion uneven, like the seesaw sway of flimsy buildings in the midst of an earthquake.

The narrow platform began to buckle, as heavy chunks of concrete fell.

Cantrell lost his balance as the balcony leaned into the gaping space of the foyer. Instead of going down with it, he made a running leap. Suspended for two or three terrifying seconds in midair, his feet landed on the staircase.

But it was rocking too.

Moments later, he watched the entire balcony collapse, pieces of it striking the tree, breaking off limbs, then collapsing into a monstrous heap below. The rising cloud of dust choked him and burned his eyes, but he managed to hold onto the wrought iron railing, like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

And then the house began to consume itself.

Below him, the foyer floor rumbled, then erupted. Tiles separated from each other in sharp edges, flying everywhere. A great hole appeared in their place, outlined with jagged shards of broken wood, tile, steel, mesh and pipe.

The ragged maw proceeded to chew the bottom steps of the ornate staircase and the linden’s trunk, steadily climbing upward.

Cantrell retreated as the Exeter sunk into itself,
ate
itself. The steps below gave way amidst clouds of sparking debris.

He rose to the third floor, the fourth, the fifth.

There was nowhere else to go . . .

Her hand was perspiring. She was slipping, losing her grip on the chopper’s skid.

The helicopter rose clumsily but rapidly from the embassy roof, providing a terrifying vision of what lay below: Much of Saigon was on fire. Smoke billowed out of buildings, cars were aflame—all of it receded as the chopper climbed.

As it passed through a plume of black smoke rising from a burning building, little Su Ling coughed, instinctively rubbing at her eyes with her one free hand.

It was only a matter of seconds now; she couldn’t hold on much longer . . .

But something was changing.

It felt as if the metal were changing shape beneath her grip,
morphing
.

The tubular metal twisted itself into something she vaguely recognized. There was an undeniable design to it; strangely ornate.

And through it, from a place she could not see, came an outstretched hand . . .

The ravenous mouth below Cantrell was only inches from his feet. As it rose—or as the stairs sunk, he couldn’t tell which—it made a horrifying noise; smashing wood, pulverizing plaster, crunching broken glass. He had no doubt what would happen when it reached his flesh.

But a new noise reached his ears, even amidst the surrounding roar; a
machine
of some type, rhythmically whirring and thumping.

Then he saw it:

A huge helicopter, rising through the din and dust of the demolished foyer, hovering level to where he stood. It was military green, festooned with a large white star, and filled with people whose look of terror mirrored his.

And someone else—a kid hanging below the chopper, clinging to its skid for dear life.

Even though she was only a child, he knew who she was.

The Exeter and all of its rabid self-destruction faded. He could no longer hear its noise, feel its vibrations, or see the hungry mouth below. All of his intent, his entire being, was suddenly focused on saving the woman he loved.

He held out his hand.

She lost her grip.

Their hands somehow found each other.

Su Ling’s weight, suspended in midair, pulled Cantrell violently into the metal railing at the top of the staircase. He felt the impact on his shoulder and his arm socket screamed in pain.

She fell . . . then stopped, jarring to a halt in midair.

She felt herself swaying, five stories above the floor of the Exeter.

A familiar voice called out to her, echoing in the foyer.

“Grab my hand!”

She saw the outstretched hand, grasped for it. He held on so tight she felt the bones grinding in her fingers.

He brought his feet to the wrought iron railing for leverage, then pulled, discovering in that desperate moment that he had far more strength than he ever imagined.

He felt great pain as he exerted, but was oblivious to it. He felt great fear, even contemplated the failure of his mission, but ignored that fear.

Somehow, after a length of time impossible to measure, he brought her to a position where she could bring her feet to the edge of a stair. Then, with one desperate tug, he hauled her over the railing.

The two of them landed in a heap.

They said nothing as they took in their surroundings.

Su Ling looked up and saw the starry night sky through the skylight. No longer was the tropical blue of the Saigon sky visible above, nor were the flames of the burning city visible beneath.

Nor was the Exeter consuming itself in a mad feeding frenzy.

Just the foyer—quiet, peaceful.

The lovers, still panting against each other’s chests, knew better.

18

“Ssssh . . . ”

Su Ling placed her finger over Cantrell’s mouth.

“Do you hear it?”

He looked at her, confused.

“The clock, in Anna’s room. It’s ticking again.”

He smiled.

“Does that mean it’s over?”

“God, I hope so,” she said.

They sat on the living room floor like two animals tending to each other’s wounds. Cantrell had already cleaned and bandaged the dozen or so cuts and scrapes on Su Ling’s arms and legs. She was finishing the same for him.

He winced as she applied hydrogen peroxide to a lacerated forearm.

They’d stumbled back to Su Ling’s apartment after the terror on the staircase, relieved beyond words to find Anna sleeping peacefully in her room, as if nothing had happened.

They were hurting and still frightened, but enough time had passed to allow them to talk.

“Did you see the same thing I did?” Su Ling asked at last, her voice still quivering.

“I saw a lot of things, Su. It was a nightmare, but it was real, especially at the end, with the helicopter. God, I can still smell the fumes.”

She nodded.

“Alex, I could feel the wind from the blades against my face, it was so
loud
. I only saw it for a few seconds, but it was
real
.”

“Yes. Everything was falling apart, the walls were collapsing. My building was dying.”