CHAPTER
8
Patrick shattered the glass to get the fire extinguisher. Yards away, the explosion had blown out storefronts and ripped open brick walls, yet here it hadn't left even a crack in the glass case that housed the fire extinguisher. He pulled the extinguisher's pin, ready to use it, but found only smoke, no fire. Still, he pushed his way through the gray mist, thick and wet like a fog on a humid summer morning. Again, he was going the wrong direction. He waited until a stream of shoppers shoved by, then he tried to move forward.
Over the intercom he heard the mechanical voice repeating the same calm message, "There's been an incident at the mall. Please remain calm. Walk, don't run, toward the nearest exit." The Muzak system was still playing holiday songs. No one noticed either.
Patrick stopped to help a woman who had gotten shoved to the side. She was wrestling her baby out of a stroller. The infant looked unharmed but was screaming. The mother was wide-eyed and panicked.
"Oh my God, oh my God!" she kept mumbling.
Her hands were shaking and jerking at the blankets and straps that kept the baby restrained inside the stroller. She stumbled and rocked back and forth, losing her balance like someone who had too much to drink. Patrick noticed she didn't have any shoes on. Her feet were already bloodied from the shower of glass that glittered the floor. He looked around and discovered the three-inch heels tossed aside. He scooped them up and offered them to her.
"Your feet," he pointed.
She didn't seem to hear him. She didn't even look up at him. Once she had the baby in her arms she ran for the escalators, leaving behind the stroller, a diaper bag, a purse?and her shoes. She didn't notice the trail of blood her feet left.
Patrick put out one fire, a kiosk of cell phones already charred from the blast. He recognized a couple of stores and knew he was close to the food court. It had to be just around the corner. The smoke was thicker here. Harder to see. He had to feel alongside the wall and watch his feet. Debris littered the floor, slick and crunchy. He worried the rubber soles of his One Star high-tops might not be thick enough to withstand the larger pieces of glass and metal. Through the smoke he saw a sign for the restrooms. It dangled overhead and he realized this was where he had last seen Rebecca.
Finally.
Only Patrick couldn't see the doorway. It was gone, replaced by a huge, ragged hole. The wall was buckled, lopsided and charred. Bricks bulged and hung loose like toy building blocks tossed and shoved out from the other side. Water seeped from one of the holes in the wall and a smell like rotten eggs, maybe sewage, flooded the area. He prayed that Rebecca wasn't still inside the restroom when the blast went off.
That's when Patrick tripped, slamming himself against the sharp bricks, ripping the palm of his hand open, but managing to stay on his feet. When he looked down he saw the long dark hair first and thought he had tripped over a mannequin. After all, the legs were twisted and knotted together like they were made of plastic and were stuffed into a garbage bag. But there was nothing plastic about the eyes that stared up at him through the tangled hair. Her jaw had been torn away, leaving a wide gaping smile. Patrick's first reaction was to reach down to help her up. Then he jerked back when he realized she must be dead.
He took a better look at the twisted pile of legs he had tripped over and for the first time his head began to swim and his knees felt a bit spongy.
The legs were no longer connected to the rest of the woman's body.