November 27, 2009

He swiped his card over the security access panel and waited next to her for the doors to open. It felt to her as though he was standing uncomfortably, but there was no real way for her to move away except forward into the closed elevator doors or completely out of the way. The latter seemed to be a bit obvious, so she mentally gritted her teeth, silently counting the chimes as the elevator car moved toward them.

She had reached thirteen when what should have been the next one did not sound. The doors slid open a few seconds later and the guard—Joel, she remembered—gestured for her to enter. For a moment, she thought he might just let her go alone, but he followed her inside, passing his card again over the inside panel. He reached past her and pressed for the level for her father’s office and then stepped back. Cynthia shot him a quick, insincere smile of gratitude and waited for the short ride to be over.

In that brief moment of eye contact, she caught him looking at her. She never before really understood the meaning of “undressing someone with their eyes”, but that was exactly what she saw in his. It might have been her imagination, or an alert expression he always wore, but it gave her chills inside. She was grateful that she had chosen to wear a coat against the autumn chill; she knew the sweater beneath did little to hide her feminine curves. Focusing one the glossy surface of the door in front of her, she did not allow her mind to consider what he might have been thinking then.

The doors finally slid open and she stepped out into the familiar corridors of her father’s level. Actually, she wondered if they might not all look equally familiar, for she could only recall ever being on one other floor and it had looked very similar to this one. She began heading in the direction of her father’s office and then stopped. Although she could not see him, she had the uncomfortable sense that the guard was watching her walk. He seemed to be only slightly older than she was, so could not even mentally consider him a dirty old man (and she had seen that look before as well). She simply considered him to be a pig and waited eagerly for the moment when he would leave.

His expression told her nothing as he walked past her and headed down the corridor. Cynthia narrowed her eyes in a quick glare before following him.

The route they followed pretty much matched the one she had thought they needed to take. There was an extra right turn near the beginning that she had forgotten about, but she was certain that she would still have managed to find it on her own. When they reached her father’s office, it was still empty. The desk lamp was on, telling her that he had been there at some point during the day. He was extremely conscientious about not leaving lights on; Cynthia had learned that growing up with him. Whatever had called him away from his office had evidently required more of his time than he had anticipated.

The guard ushered her into the office, after ensuring that it was, in fact, empty.

“Here you go, miss,” he said. His tone sounded completely professional, for which she was grateful. Had it come out any other way, she was not certain that she might not have reacted rudely.

Cynthia flashed him a quick smile, hoping that it carried absolutely no hint of warmth. The last thing she needed was him thinking that she was even remotely interested.

He seemed to get the point. “I’m sure your father will along shortly,” he said, giving her a quick nod before departing.

Cynthia realized that it said something about her father’s position here—or perhaps an overall attitude about this place—that he would have dared look at her that way without fear of reprisal. On the other hand, if she did complain to her father—and he took it seriously—what would she say? He looked at me funny?

Shaking her head with annoyance, she settled back in one of the two guest chairs and looked idly over the contents of the office. It was reasonably well-organized, but it was apparent that her father had been busy. Several items were stacked not quite nearly enough and there was a small pile of unopened mail in a tray on his desk. The rest of the room was much as she remembered it from her small number of previous visits. What physical reading material there was to be found in the small office consisted mainly of scientific reports and technical journals. She found an entertainment magazine that was only a few weeks old, so settled for that as a starting place to keep herself distracted until her father arrived.

#

Cynthia had not been waiting long when the overhead lights flickered. Not sure whether it had actually happened at first, she was certain when they dimmed again. She had convinced herself that it was simply some of kind power fluctuation when the alarms sounded. She was puzzled at first because they did not sound like any kind of fire alarm or any other kind of evacuation signal she had ever heard. There was a definite urgency about it, but was uncertain whether to stay put or head for the nearest exit.

Echoing from out in the corridor came the sounds of locks engaging on the doors from several of the other rooms. Cynthia looked up as the door to her father’s office disengaged from the magnetic clasp holding it open and began to swing closed. She hesitated for a moment and then, grabbing her backpack with one hand, darted through the narrowing gap. Slowing to a halt in the hallway, she heard the door close and the lock engage behind her. Looking in every direction she could, she discovered that she was alone in the corridor. Everyone else must have stayed inside their offices or headed for an exit, but then she recalled that she had not seen that many people in the area before the alarm had sounded.

The smartest thing to do, she supposed, was to make her way to an exit and try to get out of the building. If the building itself was sealed, she was certain to encounter someone who knew what was going on and would tell her the right thing to do, even if it was that creepy young security guard.

Her eyes searched the ceilings for an illuminated green exit sign, knowing those should show her the way out. She then remembered that, in most buildings, the elevators would be deactivated except for use by emergency crews. The only way down would be the stairways. Cynthia could not remember exactly how far down it was to the main floor, but she was certain that it was much further than she would ideally want to climb down. The alternative would be to wait until the alarms stopped and hope that she would all right. Since she had no idea what the klaxons indicated—or anyone to ask—it seemed the least wise of her possible choices.

Fine, she decide, the Hearst Castle Tour it is. The thought reminded her of a family trip to San Simeon to visit the legendary. She had been old enough to read, but did not understand why each of the tours that they could choose had the number of stairs in the description. Her father had chosen one of the shorter tours, much to her disappointment. It had seemed reasonable to her, at that young age, that if it cost more money, that they should be allowed to climb more of the steps.

The first exit door that she located seemed to be locked, which she was certain was a violation of several safety codes. It then occurred to her that the lockdown of the building might be intended to keep its occupants detained inside. In that case, the locked exit door seemed a reasonable enough action. It did, however, feed her slowly growing panic. She was trapped inside the building, with one else in sight, under security conditions that she did not understand. It would be nice, she thought irritably, is someone would just get on the public address system and explain what was going on. She paused for a moment. Did this building even have a P.A. system?

She continued searching for another emergency exit door, on the chance that the first one had really supposed to have been locked. She found it two corridors over from where she had started. The door on this one opened easily, almost as though the handle had been broken. She shrugged. It was a way out—and far better than roaming this floor alone in the hopes of finding someone who knew what was going on.

The narrow stairway was surprisingly well-lit. There were bright spotlights at key points along the way. This left small parts of the stairway in shadow, but not in any way that Cynthia considered dangerous. She risked a look down over the rail, but between the angles of the stairs and the lighting, she could only see about two floors below her. It was probably designed that way, she considered, so that frightened people forced to evacuate this way would not become more so because of either the height or the long distance downward that they needed to travel to presumed safety.

She started downward, hoping that the floors would be clearly marked from the inside so she would know when she could exit. From what her father had told her, there were several levels below that of the street. She had no intention of climbing any more steps than she absolutely had to.

#

The first door she found was indeed labeled with a floor number. It, however, refused to open for her. After several attempts, she finally noticed the security access panel partially hidden in the wall shadows. Oh great, she considered wryly. I’ve escaped from being locked inside an office to being sealed inside the emergency stairwell. At least the office had been comfortable . . . with chairs. She eyed the metal and concrete steps. Yes, she could sit and rest there for a bit if she needed to, but she was certain that it would be hard and uncomfortable, even with being able to rest her back against one of the walls.

She continued downward, pacing herself as she was certain that there were many floors to go. The next two doors she encountered also seemed to be locked. She moved on down to the next level to find that one locked as well. More than being simply worried about being trapped inside the stairwell, she now had to forcibly push aside the now-physical reminders that she needed to locate a bathroom.