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.