The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 44

David Lencho rubbed his gloved hand against his turnout coat and swore quietly. The burn wasn’t that bad, but it would be several days before it healed properly. The reddened skin hurt and the salved edges of the burn itself were beginning to itch. Probably an allergy to the ointment; he had a history of them as far back as he could remember.

The fire had only blackened part of the sixteenth floor, that portion of it directly beneath the original site of the fire on seventeen.

Lencho and Fuchs and some of the other men under Captain Miller’s command were going through the corridor with pulldown hooks and pry bars, pulling away charred paneling and ripping up sections of scorched carpeting, searching for any lingering traces of the fire. When they found any glowing embers, a man with one-inch hose soaked them out of existence.

Mark Fuchs, just behind Lencho in the corridor, flashed his electric lantern around the hall, making sure they didn’t stumble over any debris. The men before them had pulled down partitions, chopped through studding, and stripped off wallpaper looking for the last remnants of the fire. Fuchs occasionally spoke into his walky-talky, giving a progress report to Captain Miller on the landing.

The air stank of fire, Lencho thought. The particular acrid quality of burned wood and cloth and seared metal.

The hall itself, except for the beam from Fuchs’s lantern, was completely dark. Occasionally they passed an office with a battered door hanging on a hinge or leaning against a wall. He could see the night through the office windows, a framed portrait in deep blacks and purples with flakes of snow whirling past the glass. He rubbed again at his blistered hand.

“You pick up more burns than any rookie I know,” Fuchs said. It was a flat statement, not a jibe; Lencho caught the irritation behind it.

“It could happen to anybody,” he protested.

“I know, but it always seems to happen to you.”

They moved cautiously down the corridor, constantly searching for smoldering sparks and embers. The previous cleanup crew had done a good job, Lencho thought; the floor seemed almost completely clean, except for an occasional glow that had rekindled after the other team had been through.

The corridor dead-ended and Fuchs said, “That wall marks the utility core; we’ve covered the whole floor.” He thumbed his walky-talky, then hesitated a moment. “Did you check that mop closet?”

He pointed at the last door on the corridor.

“Probably a utility room,” Lencho said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Fuchs spoke into the -walky-talky. “Captain Miller?

Mark Fuchs-it looks like sixteen is completely cl-” Lencho reached the door and turned the knob. He screamed suddenly in agony. The metal knob was incredibly hot. He pulled his hand back; part of the glove and the skin from the palm of his hand lay crisping on the knob. But the twist Lencho had given the knob was enough. The door swung open. There was an explosion.

The utility room was directly under the two heavy fire loadings on the floor above.

It hadn’t caught fire but the heat from above had driven the oxygen off. Stored waxes and solvents had burst their containers, then vaporized in the oxygenless, superheated air. The door was remarkably tight. Very little air from the corridor had seeped into the intensely fuel-rich atmosphere. Nor had the room been cooled appreciably by the hosing of the corridor outside.

For a Moment there was no sound but that of tile falling from the overhead ceiling, then the muffled sound of debris falling into the utility core itself where the explosion had ripped out the rear wall of the storage room. A quiet hissing followed and’then abruptly … a second, louder explosion.

The corridor immediately filled with steam.