Steven Konkoly - The Perseid Collapse

He jogged across the empty student lounge, searching for the central hallway spanning all three towers. He’d made this trip once before, but the monochromatic image cast by his night vision goggles looked alien, giving him no recognizable visual cues. He knew the hallway was located beyond the student union, so he kept moving until he approached the far wall and found several sets of doors leading into the long, empty passage to Fairfield Tower.

The green image darkened as he reached the end of the corridor, indicating a complete lack of light in the area. He flipped his goggles up and triggered the rifle-mounted flashlight, bathing the hallway in light. Small piles of concrete fragments lined the corridor at scattered intervals, the walls above them deeply cracked. He shifted the light to the ceiling, exposing a twisted puzzle of metal gridwork and warped ceiling panels. All bad news for the long-term survival of the building.

Thick streaks of mud swerved out of the hallway into the empty elevator lobby, ending at a door marked “stairs.” He switched back to night vision and entered the stairwell, which felt ten degrees cooler. He paused for a moment to examine the long fissures in the cinderblock-wall enclosure. The concrete landing and stairs leading to the next floor appeared undamaged. He took the stairs cautiously, clearing blind corners and paying close attention to the doors leading to each floor.

By the time Alex read the sign “Sixth Floor,” he couldn’t hear his own thoughts over his heartbeat. Fighting every instinct to yank the door open and run to room 622, he put his back against the wall next to the door and tried to steady his breathing. Once his breathing hit a slow, rhythmic pattern, Alex pushed down on the door handle and tried to nudge the door inward. It didn’t move.

He leaned into the metal door with his left shoulder and gave it a hard push, shifting the fire door a few inches.

“Someone’s trying to get in,” a voice hissed.

“Stab him in the face!” yelled a woman.

“Just shut the fucking door!”

Alex pulled a rifle magazine out of his vest and wedged it through the opening at the bottom.

“I’m trying! It’s jammed. Can you see who it is?”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“I’m here to find my son!” yelled Alex.

“What did he say?” said the female.

“I don’t fucking care! Shine a light, and see what’s blocking the door!” said the male.

“My son is in room six twenty-two. Ryan Fletcher. I’m here to bring him home!” added Alex, flipping up his NVGs to avoid being blinded.

“Does anyone know Ryan Fletcher?” said the female.

More voices joined them in the hallway, and several flashlights shined through the crack in the door.

“He’s got it jammed at the bottom with—fuck, get away from the door! It’s a machine-gun mag,” said someone.

“Isn’t there a roster or something? Ryan Fletcher lives in room six twenty-two. He’s my son. Doesn’t anyone know him?” said Alex.

A hand fumbled with the rifle magazine at the bottom of the door, and Alex stuck his foot against it, pinning it in place.

“Someone stab his foot!”

Alex backed up in the tight stairwell and front-kicked the handle side of the door, driving it back several inches. Screams erupted inside the hallway. He hit the door again, opening a two-foot gap.

“He has a gun!”

Alex triggered his rifle flashlight, scattering the students. One of the large couches from the downstairs lobby sat against the wall, several feet down, covered by a sleeping bag and pillow. He squeezed through and pulled the door shut, directing the light into a tangle of wooden chairs pushed against the wall. A male student in jeans and a mud-stained yellow polo shirt lay curled up under the chairs, shielding his eyes with one hand. The other arm was trapped under the chairs and looked hyperextended at the elbow. Possibly broken.

“Dude. Is this a rescue?” said the kid, lowering his hand slightly. “Are you, like, Special Forces or something?”

“I’m not Special Forces or the military. Where’s room six twenty-two?”

“Six twenty-two is locked,” he said. “It’s the only one we couldn’t get into.”

“Where is it?” he said.

“Around the corner. At the end of the hallway. You’re not with the military?” he said.

“How many times do I have to tell you? My son lives on this floor,” he said, stepping over him.

Alex flashed his light around the corner, seeing the door to six twenty-two directly ahead. Everything was starting to look familiar again. He knocked first, calling out his son’s name and trying the handle. Nothing stirred beyond the door. More students wandered into the hallway, muttering about the military.

“Does anyone have a spare key?” said Alex.

“The RAs took off when the bomb hit. We searched their rooms, but didn’t find any,” said a boy from the dark.

“He kind of disappeared,” said another kid.

“What do you mean?” Alex asked.

Someone muttered, “I wouldn’t say any more.”

“You want to see my driver’s license?”

“That would be a start,” said one of the girls.

“Shouldn’t all of you be hiding in your rooms? I am still holding a rifle, right?”

“Nobody’s come up here with a specific name before. You might be legit.”

“Might be legit?” said Alex. “Strong SAT scores apparently don’t translate into strong survival instinct.”

Alex removed a red chemlight from his vest and snapped it, throwing it to the floor. A crimson glow illuminated the weary students. He shook his head and opened a small pouch on his vest, tossing his identification at the young woman who appeared to be in charge.

“He’s totally military. Look at the gear,” uttered a voice.

“Ex-military,” said Alex.

“He could be a merc. Paid to rescue whoever that kid is.”

“You guys play way too much Call of Duty,” said Alex, pounding on the door while several students examined his license with flashlights.

“He checks out—for now,” said the girl, handing his license back.

“Thanks for the endorsement. So where’s my son if he isn’t here? Can I get the young man who spoke up earlier?” said Alex, knocking on the door again.

“I remember seeing him here late Sunday night. Around eleven maybe? A bunch of us were hanging out in the hall, and he came by. Said something about a girlfriend at Boston College. He was gone after the blast.”

“I saw him heading for the far stairwell right after the shockwave hit. He had a backpack and some kind of bucket,” volunteered another student.

Alex knew exactly where to find his son.

“Is there a second lock on these doors, maybe above the handle?” said Alex.

“No. Just the handle” said someone.

Alex kicked the door, causing everyone to back away a few steps. The door didn’t budge.

“You should shoot the door,” stated one of the kids.

“Good idea. Clear the hallway!” he yelled, pointing the rifle at the door and activating the visible red laser.

While the students broke into pandemonium, tripping over each other to get clear, Alex steadied the laser and fired three bullets into the space between the handle and the doorjamb. The hallway fell deathly silent after the last shot, everyone frozen in place.

“Holy shit. Did he really just shoot the door?” said a kid on the ground to his left.

“He totally shot the door! Dude, your silencer doesn’t work for shit!” yelled a student hidden in one of the rooms.

Alex kicked the door, knocking it against the interior wall. He took a step and stopped. The room smelled like Ryan. Like their home. Alex deactivated the Surefire light and stood there, remembering everything the way it had been—before. He felt like a distorted time-traveller. The past forty-eight hours expanding over eternity.