Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

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.

“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.”

He paused, caressing the back of her hand.

“Did you see me?” he asked.

“Not at first, but I felt you; your hand grabbing mine. Then I heard your voice. I didn’t see you until you were pulling me up… until you saved my life.”

She began to cry again. He did what he could to comfort her.

“What did you see before the foyer?”

When her weeping subsided, she told him of the whole experience; her terrifying journey through the streets of Saigon, the chaos on the embassy roof, the terror of falling.

He, in turn, described his own experience. He left nothing out, the trembling of the structure, the nails and screws firing out of their places like bullets, the collapse of the balcony, the horrific image of his building violently consuming itself.

They stared at each other after their stories were told, wondering how they could possibly believe the other’s if they hadn’t lived through their own.

“Alex, it was so real. So real… ”

He told her that it was just as real for him; that he had no doubt the building would have consumed him as well as itself.