Douglas Preston - Relic

The lights dimmed a second time.

“Walden, is the emergency door coming down over the exit to the Rotunda?”

“Just a second.” For a moment, the radio buzzed. “Shit, yes! It’s halfway down and still dropping! People [331] are jammed into that door like cattle, it’s gonna crush a dozen or two—”

Suddenly, the exhibition went black. A dull crash of something heavy toppling to the ground momentarily overpowered the cries and screams.

D’Agosta pulled out his flashlight. “Ippolito, you can raise the door with the manual override, right?”

“Right. Anyway, the backup power should come on in a second-

“We can’t wait around for that, let’s get the hell over there. And, for Chrissake, be careful.”

Gingerly, they picked their way back toward the exhibition entrance, Ippolito leading the way through the welter of glass, broken wood, and debris. Broken pieces of once-priceless artifacts lay strewn about. The shouting and screaming grew louder as they neared the Hall of the Heavens.

Standing behind Ippolito, D’Agosta could see nothing in the vast blackness of the Hall. Even the votive candles had guttered. Ippolito was playing his flashlight around the entrance. Why isn’t he moving? D’Agosta wondered irritably. Suddenly, Ippolito jerked backward, retching. His flashlight dropped to the ground and rolled away in the darkness.

“What the hell?” D’Agosta shouted, running forward with Bailey. Then he stopped short.

The huge Hall was a shambles. Shining his flashlight into the gloom, D’Agosta was reminded of earthquake footage he’d seen on the evening news. The platform was broken into several pieces, the lectern splintered and shattered. The bandstand was deserted, chairs toppled over, crushed instruments lying in heaps. The floor was a maelstrom of food, clothing, printed programs, toppled bamboo trees, and trampled orchids, twisted and smashed into a strange landscape by the thousands of panicked feet.

D’Agosta brought the flashlight in toward the exhibition entrance itself. The huge wooden stelae [332] surrounding the entrance had collapsed in giant pieces. D’Agosta could see limp arms and legs protruding from beneath the intricately carved columns.

Bailey rushed over. “There’re at least eight people crushed here, Lieutenant. I don’t think any of them are still alive.”

“Any of them ours?” D’Agosta asked.

“I’m afraid so. Looks like McNitt and Walden, and one of the plainclothesmen. There are a couple of guard’s uniforms here, too, and three civilians, I think.”

“All dead? Every one of them?”

“Far as I can tell. I can’t budge these columns.”

“Shit.” D’Agosta looked away, rubbing his forehead. A loud thud resonated from across the Hall.

“That’s the security door closing,” said Ippolito, wiping his mouth. He knelt at Bailey’s side. “Oh, no. Martine ... Christ, I can’t believe it.” He turned to D’Agosta. “Martine here was guarding the back stairwell. He must have come over to help control the crowd. He was one of my best men ...”

D’Agosta threaded his way between the broken columns and moved out into the Hall, dodging the upturned tables and broken chairs. His hand was still bleeding freely. There were several other still forms scattered about, whether dead or alive D’Agosta couldn’t tell. When he heard screaming from the far end of the Hall, he shined his light toward the noise. The metal emergency door was fully shut, and a crowd of people were pressed against it, pounding on the metal and shouting. Some of them turned around as D’Agosta’s light illuminated them.

D’Agosta ran over to the group, ignoring his squawking radio. “Everybody calm down, and move away! This is Lieutenant D’Agosta of the New York City police.”

The crowd quieted a little, and D’Agosta called Ippolito over. Scanning the group, D’Agosta recognized Wright, the Director; Ian Cuthbert, head of this whole [333] farce; some woman named Rickman who seemed pretty important—basically, the first forty or so people who’d entered the exhibition. First in, last out.

“Listen up!” he shouted. “The Security Director’s going to raise the emergency door. Everybody, please step back.”

The crowd moved aside, and D’Agosta involuntarily groaned. There were several limbs pinned under the heavy metal door. The floor was slick with blood. One of the limbs was moving feebly, and he could hear faint screaming from the far side of the door.

“Dear Jesus,” he whispered. “Ippolito, open the son of a bitch.”

“Shine your light over here.” Ippolito pointed to a small keypad next to the door, then crouched and punched in a series of numbers.

They waited.

Ippolito looked nonplussed. “I can’t understand—” He punched in the numbers again, more slowly this time.

“There’s no power,” said D’Agosta.

“Shouldn’t matter,” said Ippolito, frantically punching a third time. “The system’s got redundant backups.”

The crowd started to murmur.

“We’re trapped!” one man yelled.

D’Agosta whirled his light onto the crowd. “All of you, just calm down. That body in the exhibition has been dead at least two days. You understand? Two days . The murderer’s long gone.”

“How do you know?” shouted the same man.

“Shut up and listen,” said D’Agosta. “We’re going to get you out of here. If we can’t open the door, they’ll do it from the outside. It may take a few minutes. In the meantime, I want you all to get away from the door, stick together, find yourself some chairs that aren’t broken, and sit down. Okay? There’s nothing you can do here.”

Wright stepped forward into the light. “Listen, [334] officer,” he said, “We’ve got to get out of here. Ippolito, for the love of God, open the door!”

“Just a moment!” said D’Agosta sharply. “Dr. Wright, please return to the group.” He looked around at the wide-eyed faces. “Are there any physicians here?”

There was a silence.

“Nurses? First aid?”

“I know some first aid,” someone volunteered.

“Great. Mister, ah—”

“Arthur Pound.”

“Pound. Get one or two volunteers to help you. There are several people who look like they got trampled. I need to know number and their condition. I’ve got a guy back at the exhibition entrance, Bailey, who can help you. He’s got a flashlight. We also need a volunteer to help collect some candles.”

A young, lanky fellow in a wrinkled tuxedo came out of the gloom. He finished chewing, swallowed. “I’ll help with that,” he said.

“Name?”

“Smithback.”

“Okay, Smithback. You got matches?”

“Sure do.”

The Mayor stepped forward. His face was smeared with blood and a large purple welt was emerging beneath one eye. “Let me help,” he said.

D’Agosta looked at him with amazement. “Mayor Harper! Maybe you can take charge of everyone. Keep them calm.”

“Certainly, Lieutenant.”

D’Agosta’s radio squawked again, and he grabbed it. “D’Agosta, this is Coffey. D’Agosta, do you read? What the hell’s going on in there? Give me a sit-ref!”

D’Agosta talked fast. “Listen up, I’m not going to say this twice. We’ve got at least eight dead, probably more, and an undetermined number of wounded. I guess you know about the people caught under the door. [335] Ippolito can’t get the fucking door open. There’s about thirty, maybe forty of us here. Including Wright and the Mayor.”

“The Mayor! Shit. Look, D’Agosta, the system’s failed totally. The manual override doesn’t work on this side, either. I’ll get a crew with acetylene to cut you guys out. It may take awhile, this door’s built like a bank vault. Is the Mayor okay?”